Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Svetlana Vetrova, Original Characters, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Science Fiction, Alternate Universe, POV Alternating, if you love shane's parents this is NOT the fic for you, putting that warning out there right away, very brief discussions of suicide

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-03 Completed: 2026-08-26 Words: 20,340 Chapters: 11/11

the adoration of shane hollander

Summary

Shane Hollander got in a terrible car crash just after Montreal drafted him, and one season later he’s back, better and stronger than ever. People are calling it a miracle recovery.

But is it?

Something isn’t right. And it seems like Ilya Rozanov is the only one who can tell.

(Alternate summary: author read The Adoration of Jenna Fox as a kid and is now writing a fanfic about it)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Ilya Rozanov had one of the best rookie seasons in NHL history. The last players to have put up the numbers he did had played back in the seventies, when helmets weren’t required yet and goalie pads were smaller. 

People who didn’t even live in Boston were buying his jersey. Teams that never sold out their arenas were always over capacity when Ilya and the Bruins came to town. The season should’ve gone down in history as the season of Rozanov, the emergence of a true superstar playing at the highest level while showing consistent promise to get even better. 

But instead, the season went down in history as the one where recent number two draft pick Shane Hollander was so badly injured in a car crash that no one expected him to ever play hockey again. 

At first, Ilya had felt bad for Hollander. He’d seemed nice enough, and pretty cute too. Ilya hadn’t gotten to know him outside of playing against him in the world junior tournaments, but they’d been pitted against each other from the very moment they’d stepped out onto the same sheet of ice, and maybe even before that. There’d even been a few moments where Ilya had caught Hollander looking at him weirdly, almost as if he… Ilya had to wonder. 

But it didn’t seem he would ever find out. 

The Montreal Canadiens brought Hollander’s never-worn number twenty-four jersey to every game, positioning it to be in the background of every filmed coach’s speech. Boston, as a show of good sportsmanship, had asked Ilya to film a video wishing Hollander well, which he did in three takes after an overworked social media intern had written a script for him to read off. 

Privately, Ilya thought the whole thing was overkill. He knew Hollander was good- he’d played against Hollander several times, and knew he would’ve been a star in the NHL alongside Ilya- but he’d never played a single NHL game before the accident. He hadn’t officially even made the team yet. Were they going to mourn every last would-be star like this, or just the ones who had almost made it? Ilya could think of plenty of Russian athletes that had been stopped in their tracks by one tragedy or another, and no one had really given a shit. 

And yea, he was a little resentful. He was a teenager playing the best hockey of his life thus far, leaving excellent and well-established players in the dust. He wanted to be recognized in the way that far worse players had been. And instead, all anyone wanted to ask him about was the absence of Shane Hollander. 

But he figured, they wouldn’t keep this up forever. Eventually, Hollander would fade into the background, and Ilya would be getting named league MVP and winning Stanley Cups. 

At least, that’s what he thought would happen. 

Instead, Hollander was suited up by the following preseason, ready to play. 

People, to put it lightly, lost their fucking shit. Hollander was suddenly a “miracle,” making a recovery that no one thought possible. 

What was more, he wasn’t simply skating with the team to show that he had beaten the odds and could in fact play hockey again- he was actually good. Fans cheered in elation the first few times he controlled the puck, and then they exploded when he scored. And then he scored again. Just a year after he’d been deemed a Montreal tragedy, he was shaping up to be the team’s best player. 

Ilya watched the highlights in disbelief. How the hell was this possible? It was the kind of thing he needed to see for himself. 

And he would see it for himself, during Boston’s first game against Montreal. 

“Ready to go against Hollander?” 

Marlow’s question made Ilya want to roll his eyes. “Are you a journalist now?” He hadn’t been able to so much as walk into the locker room without a thousand questions about Hollander getting shouted in his direction. He’d ignored them all. 

Connors, who was sitting on Ilya’s other side, leaned over. “I heard his parents have him under lock and key.” 

Marlow’s face twisted in annoyance. “Young rookies usually have overbearing parents. They coddle them so fuckin much these days.” He glanced at Ilya. “Except for this guy. You’re the only cool one, Roz.” 

Ilya gave a half smile. His own father had been just as obsessive about hockey as any other high level player, but he was far away in Moscow, where no one could hear him ranting. He knew what Marlow meant, though. Some North American parents took it a step further, acting as managers or even agents to their kids. 

What a fucking nightmare. He wondered whether Hollander had to deal with that, on top of the scrutiny invited by his comeback. 

“No, no.” Connors managed to look conspiratorial as he strapped on his knee pads. “This shit’s crazy. I used to play with a guy on the Canadiens, and he said they moved to Montreal so they could live with him this season.” 

Ilya’s eyebrows rose. That was weird. If Hollander was able-bodied enough to play hockey, it was unlikely he needed his parents helping him out all the time. 

But there was more. “They’re at every game and every practice.” Connors looked over his shoulder. “They’re probably here tonight. My friend said they’re always taking notes.” 

Marlow made an incredulous sound. “That’s fuckin crazy, dude.” 

Connors laughed. “It is. I guess a bunch of the guys are really annoyed that they’re always around so much. But no one’s said anything because of the accident.”

“What, do you think they’re in the locker room and shit?” Marlow was holding his skates but hadn’t put them on yet. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Connors shrugged. “If anyone did that here I think I’d ask for a trade.” 

Ilya tried to tune out the rest of their conversation so he could focus on tying his skates. Despite his annoyance at pretty much anything Hollander did, it was hard not to feel a little bad for him, hearing about his parents. If they really were hovering around him all the time it was probably hard for him to make any friends on the team. 

But his sympathy for Hollander only lasted until puck drop. 

“What are you going to do to contain Hollander next time?” 

“How are you going to adjust?” 

Ilya was going to fucking scream. He was still dripping with sweat from the game, the one he’d spent the entirety of chasing Hollander around. He’d gotten one of the lowest percentage of face-off wins in his entire career. He’d had a handful of scoring chances that had evaporated as soon as Hollander appeared in front of him. 

It had been one of the most frustrating games of his life. Hollander had been stronger, faster, and better with his hands. He was even better than he looked in game film, because up close Ilya could see that he was barely breaking a sweat. 

Connors had pointed out a couple sitting behind the Montreal bench, scribbling away throughout the whole game- those were Hollander’s parents, and they looked almost smug, watching their son make quick work of defensemen and forwards alike. 

For the majority of the night, Ilya was angry with himself. How had he let Hollander get the jump on him so many times? He hadn’t felt this helpless in years, not since he’d first gotten moved up an age level back in his club league in Russia. That was truly the last time anyone had ever managed to intimidate him on the ice. 

It was only as he tried to fall asleep, too preoccupied stewing over his own play to really relax, that something occurred to him. 

He called Svetlana. “Do you think Hollander is using drugs?” 

“Are you sure you weren’t just really bad tonight?” Svetlana never let an opportunity to humble Ilya pass by. 

But Ilya wouldn’t let it go. “I played against him before. This was…”

“Different, yes. He’s much better now.”

“Isn’t that weird?” 

“I guess.” He heard Svetlana’s sheets rustle as she shifted in her bed. “If it’s drugs, they’ll eventually test him. He might have some kind of treatment from the accident now, but he can’t do it forever.” 

“Then he shouldn’t be allowed to play,” Ilya grumbled. 

“Someone’s jealous.”

“I’m not-”

“Liar. We don’t even know that. We just know he’s good. Really good.” 

“Too fucking good,” Ilya muttered. 

Svetlana just laughed. “You need to play against someone better than you. Otherwise your head gets too big.” 

Ilya hung up, no closer to falling asleep than he’d been before. 

Call him arrogant (and people did), but he knew he was good. And he knew that the other players he was better than were good too. And Hollander, who had been injured for an entire year, was suddenly better than all of them. He was far better than he’d been at the world juniors tournament. 

No one seemed to care about how suspicious it looked, because they were too elated at the miracle they were witnessing in real time, night after night on NHL Network. 

But Ilya Rozanov?

He wouldn’t be giving up his status as the top NHL player without a fight. 

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Another week, another road trip. Shane fiddled with the suitcase his mom had packed for him as he waited his turn to get on the bus. He would never admit it out loud, but sometimes he preferred to be on the road. It gave him a little breathing room. 

He loved his parents more than anything, and he never would’ve made a full recovery without them getting him on his feet every day, drilling him on stick handling using a synthetic plastic pad before he was ready to get back on the ice. They’d made all his meals and called all the doctors, leaving Shane with nothing to worry about aside from getting better. 

But they could also be a lot. Shane thought it would all start to change after his first few games of the season, when he proved that he was back and better than ever. He wasn’t some fragile injury risk out there- he was just as strong as the other players on the ice.

But, no. Now they wanted to analyze every moment. They wanted to know how hard Shane had tried to shoot the puck on specific plays- if he’d been giving it his all, or if he was on his back foot and just trying to get a shot off. They wanted to know if he felt sore at all when he was hit hard, or if he had any bruising when he blocked a shot. 

They pretty much wanted to know everything. And Shane had a feeling that if they had it their way, they’d be next to him on the team bus too. 

Every time he tried to tell them to back off, or give him a little more time to himself, he just remembered that first day, when he woke up. The first faces he’d seen were his mom on his left, his dad on his right. Their eyes had been filled with tears, though their foreheads had been pinched in concentration. 

“Do you know your name?” His mom had asked. 

For a moment, Shane hadn’t known. He’d searched for an answer and he’d found… nothing. Fear had pulsed through him, and he saw the faces above him freeze. But then, there. Like a light switch flicked on. He knew.

“Shane. My name is Shane.” 

And at that, his parents had broken down and cried. 

They were headed to Boston this time. This was one of the teams his parents really obsessed over- all day long they’d talk about Ilya Rozanov and how Shane measured up to him. Namely, how much better Shane was than him. Shane had a better shot, and he was faster, and he was stronger on the puck. 

It was weird. Shane remembered Rozanov being much more evenly matched with him when they’d played each other before the accident. And Rozanov was a really good player. 

But, as his parents and coaches reminded him, Shane had worked harder than anyone to rehab and come back. He’d done everything the doctors had asked of him and more. He’d passed every deadline and milestone. 

Meanwhile, Rozanov apparently didn’t work hard at all, relying on his talent alone to carry him through. Shane’s mom had told him that she’d heard through the grapevine that he smoked, he didn’t eat right, he partied too hard, and he wouldn’t be able to keep up with a similarly talented player who did all the right things. 

Shane knew at least one part of that was true- he’d caught Rozanov smoking outside at the World Juniors tournament. As for everything else, it was possible Rozanov was letting loose a little too much as a teenage millionaire. Maybe Shane, despite the accident, was working harder than him now. 

Whatever it was, he was clearly besting Rozanov at every turn. 

He was continuing his ongoing point streak against Boston with a goal, an assist, and a whole period left to play. Shane was lining up for the face-off opposite Rozanov, who he’d practically undressed in the neutral zone one shift ago with a couple of expert dekes. 

Shane gripped his stick, knowing his parents were going to analyze his face-off win percentage against Rozanov later. Not that he had anything to worry about. 

Rozanov was clearly frustrated. He was breathing hard and studying Shane with a serious look, far from the playful yet fiercely competitive approach Shane remembered from before. He angled his stick with a subtle hand, clearly hoping the ref would miss it. 

Shane crouched a little lower. He figured he was due another point this period. 

That’s when he heard Rozanov muttering, just loud enough to be heard over the music in the arena. “Are you fucking cheating, Hollander? What is it? Drugs? Doping? Enhancement? Do you really think you’re going to get away with it?” 

Shane reared back, face-off forgotten. He shoved at Rozanov, making him stumble back in surprise. 

“What the fuck?” 

Rozanov didn’t respond, looking at Shane instead in confusion. 

Shane shoved him again. “I’m not on fucking drugs, asshole.”

 Now, Rozanov’s jaw dropped open. 

“Maybe you’re just worse. Have you thought about that?” 

Still, Rozanov said nothing. Shane was about to ask him if he only chirped people who he thought wouldn’t chirp back, when he realized why Rozanov was still looking at him like that. Not accusatory, but bewildered. Maybe a little intrigued. 

Rozanov had been speaking Russian. 

He went to a late dinner with his parents at the hotel after the game. They always had his food waiting when he sat down, which he appreciated. He was often way too tired to sit and wait to order himself. This time, though, he was so distracted he wouldn’t have cared whether he ate or not. 

“My Russian’s gotten pretty good, I guess.” 

His mom smiled from across the table. “Really? That’s great.” 

His dad laughed to himself. “I wish I could say the same.” 

They’d gotten him a language program to work on while he was recovering. It had Czech, Swedish, Russian, Finnish, Slovakian, and more. All the languages commonly spoken among NHL players. His dad had hinted that a lot of NHL captains could communicate with all their teammates, and it was worth using the time available to be prepared when Shane’s day to become captain arrived. 

Learning the basics of these languages had come surprisingly easy to Shane. He had some knowledge of both French and Japanese, and figured having a solid handle on a couple languages made learning others easier. He had to have a general knack for languages too- he was able to remember just about every word or phrase the language programs introduced. 

But he’d never actually put any of that knowledge to the test- he’d only been learning all those languages for a year. Even a fast learner would have troubles hearing unfamiliar words spoken quickly by a native speaker. 

Yet, Shane had understood everything Rozanov had said. 

“Rozanov was chirping me on the ice in Russian today,” he said as he looked between his parents, “and I knew what he said. He looked really surprised.” 

His parents exchanged a quick glance before turning back to Shane with a smile.

“Oh, yea?” His dad had a sly grin. “What was he saying?” 

Shane shrugged. “Just the normal stuff.” He didn’t want to tell his parents Rozanov had been accusing him of doping. He was in absolutely no mood to find out how they might react to that kind of thing. Besides, he was still ruminating over the fact that Rozanov hadn’t actually intended for Shane to know what he’d been saying. 

His mom gave an approving nod. “You’ve been working hard, Shane. The program said you’d see results if you worked at it. Just like with your game.” 

Shane frowned. “I guess.” If neither parent seemed surprised at how fast Shane had picked up Russian, he supposed he shouldn’t be thinking about it either. It wasn’t like there was anything to do about it, anyhow. If he was some kind of gifted genius he certainly wasn’t going to stop playing hockey to pursue learning languages. 

Movement over at the entrance to the restaurant caught his eye. Was that…? 

“I think Rozanov is here, actually,” his dad said, following Shane’s gaze. His mom turned to look too. Rozanov made eye contact with Shane, and started to make his way over to the Hollander table. 

Anxiety coursed through Shane in seconds. Rozanov wouldn’t accuse him of doping here, in front of his parents, would he? Would he understand that this kind of accusation would not be taken lightly?

But before he could he think of anything to say to Rozanov, his mom was up and striding over to interrupt Rozanov’s path. Shane couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but Rozanov was surveying his mom with narrow eyes, as he looked past her head at Shane. Finally, he turned on his heel and left. 

Shane’s dad watched him go. “You know her,” he commented to Shane, “she doesn’t like when people interrupt dinner.” But he looked tense, and so did Shane’s mom as she rejoined the table. 

“Did he want to talk to me?” Shane pressed. Had Rozanov brought up doping to his mom? 

But his mom just rolled her eyes. “It didn’t sound like he had anything important to say. I told him to send you an email.” 

Shane was equal parts relieved and nervous- it was very unlikely that Rozanov would send him an email. 

But it was very likely that Rozanov would try and talk to him again. 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Ilya didn’t get another chance to talk to Hollander until the all-star game. Hollander’s mom had essentially shooed him off that night in the hotel, and they hadn’t stopped buzzing around Hollander since. 

“He doesn’t need you getting in his head,” Hollander’s mom had said, already nodding her head in the direction of the door Ilya had just walked through, “I would hate to have to tell your team that you’re harassing him.” 

Harassing him? Ilya had just wanted to talk. He’d tried to say as much too, but Hollander’s mom had left little up for debate. Hollander’s dad had seemed equally unreceptive from where he was sitting at the table- Ilya knew he’d get nowhere trying to talk to Hollander like this. 

So, he’d left. But his mind had been buzzing ever since. Hollander had been freakishly good in the game again. And now he… spoke Russian? It had to be a new skill- there was no way Hollander had spoken Russian when they’d met at World Juniors. Not after that weird pantomiming attempt to get Ilya to stop smoking. 

Even Svetlana agreed it was weird, and she continued to remind Ilya that his suspicions were likely still founded on not much aside from jealousy. 

So when Ilya realized that he’d be able to get to Hollander without his parents in the way at the all-star game, he knew he had to take advantage. 

He swapped places with another player on the bench as the skills competition went on, sliding next to Hollander with an audible huff. Across the rink, he could see the Hollander parents both giving him the stink eye over their notebooks (that they were still taking notes in, during the fucking skills portion of the all-star weekend, jesus), but he ignored their glares as he finally made eye contact with Hollander. 

“Do they teach Russian in Canadian schools?” He decided to cut to the chase. 

Hollander glared at him. “Fuck off, Rozanov. I’ve been learning more languages recently. So I can be captain one day. To communicate with my team, and stuff.” 

Ilya raised a brow at that. “Hmm. Nobody asked me to learn more languages.” 

“Maybe they don’t want you to ever be captain.” 

Ilya only snorted at that. Boston very obviously wanted him to be at least an alternate captain in the coming years, if not more. 

He switched to Russian. “But I think you understand me very well. How long have you been learning?” 

Hollander stiffened next to him and didn’t answer. But Ilya could tell- he understood. 

He kept going. “Have you been able to use your new skill to make more friends?” He sped up his speech, watching carefully as the comprehension in Hollander’s eyes never faded. “Or do they all avoid you since you won’t go anywhere without Mommy and Daddy following you around-” 

“Shut the FUCK up.” 

Ilya had really done it now. He could see how badly Hollander was shaking, even through his equipment. But he just leveled a stare back at Hollander. “Wow.” He pretended to look impressed. “What do you use? Rosetta Stone? You should be their spokesman.” 

Hollander turned to face him all the way. “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but you need to back off.” He would’ve looked scarier if he’d been looking Ilya in the eye, but his gaze was fixed on a point just past Ilya’s ear. “So what if I speak Russian? And leave my parents out of this. I owe them everything.” 

Ilya jerked his head over towards where they were sitting, watching Hollander and Ilya converse with what looked like unwarranted intensity. 

Hollander followed Ilya’s line of sight. “They just care about me, okay?” He paused, then added, “Not that you would know anything about what that’s like.” 

It was probably just Hollander’s clumsy attempt at a chirp. He couldn’t know much about Ilya’s actual parents. But it made Ilya’s blood boil anyway. He wondered what the rules were for getting into a fight at the all-star game, and whether the punishment was worse if you fought your own teammate. It would be so satisfying to land just one punch to Hollander’s smug face- just one. 

He might have actually done it too, if a shout hadn’t gone up near him, someone yelling “Watch out!” He hadn’t been looking at the ice at all, choosing instead to focus entirely on Hollander next to him, and now a puck was flying at his face, heading right for his nose and mouth at a damaging velocity. 

There was no time to react. There was hardly even time to flinch. 

But the puck never hit him.

 He stared in disbelief at Hollander’s gloved hand, which had somehow shot out and caught the puck before it smashed the vulnerable parts of his face into a pulp. 

Hollander hadn’t been paying any attention to the happenings on the ice either. 

That night in his hotel room Ilya watched the replay of Hollander’s catch again and again. Everyone was calling it the “play of the weekend,” and lauding Hollander for both his fast reflexes and his willingness to save Ilya from injury. 

But it didn’t make any sense. In the video replay, Hollander seemed to react to the shouts and get his arm out in almost the same millisecond. But in the very moment before, Hollander had been concentrating on Ilya, probably waiting to see how he would respond to the jab about his parents. 

It seemed physically impossible for Hollander to have reacted that quickly, yet he’d done it. 

He probably wasn’t going to get the chance to interrogate Hollander about it either. After he’d caught the puck, Hollander had dropped it in Ilya’s lap and said, “Say a word about my parents again and I’ll make sure it hits you next time.” Then he’d shoved another player down the bench aside so he wouldn’t have to sit next to Ilya anymore. 

It was far from the start of a beautiful friendship. 

But there was one more Hail Mary pass to throw.

Hollander was having dinner with his parents after the all-star game again. Ilya had to wonder- did they all do this after every game? Did every hotel that hosted NHL teams keep a standing reservation for the Hollanders whenever they were in town? 

Ilya knew better than to approach the table this time. Trying to reason with the Hollander parents was clearly a losing battle, and getting Hollander himself to talk to him after what had happened the day before seemed like an attempt doomed to fail. 

Which was why Ilya was going to try a more avant-garde approach tonight. 

He’d confirmed his suspicions yesterday when he saw how Hollander’s eyes flicked to his mouth and lingered there for just a second too long, before fixing on a single point beyond Ilya in what looked like a determined refusal. Lots of guys Ilya met had exhibited a similar look… at first. 

He lurked in the hotel lobby, pretending to check his email and relying on the fact that the hotel staff probably recognized him and were too intimidated to tell him to move along. Just as he was starting to give up, he spotted Hollander coming through the restaurant door, making his way to the bathroom. 

Finally. 

He counted to twenty before following Hollander behind the door. 

Hollander was bracing himself against the sink, breathing heavily as he stared at his own reflection. He startled when he saw Ilya before his face morphed into an expression of anger. “Are you fucking stalking me or something?” 

Ilya gave what was hopefully the sexiest smirk he had in his arsenal. “Enjoying dinner?” 

“Jesus christ. Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Ilya cocked his head and stepped a little closer. “I don’t think that’s what you want.” He raked his gaze over Hollander’s body, taking his time drawing his eyes to Hollander’s face. 

Hollander’s cheeks were pink. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of an asshole?” 

Ilya grinned, and then shrugged. “Maybe.” He used two fingers to slide a slip of paper out of his pocket and held it out to Hollander.

Hollander just looked at Ilya’s hand for a moment. “What’s this?” 

“My number.” 

Hollander’s cheeks got even pinker. “On paper? Kind of old school, isn’t it?” 

Ilya shrugged again, stretching his arm out farther. 

Finally, Hollander took the slip and gazed at the number written there. 

“If you ever want a break. From, you know. Your supervisors.” He said the last part in Russian. 

Hollander’s eyes narrowed as his face hardened. “Oh, fuck you.” His hand closed into a fist, crumpling the paper along with it. He tossed Ilya’s phone number in the trash and shoved Ilya up against the wall. “I told you not to fucking talk about my parents.” 

He’d had something with garlic in it for dinner, but Ilya didn’t flinch away as Hollander’s breath washed over his face. Despite how mad Hollander looked, Ilya couldn’t help but notice that his eyes kept dropping down to Ilya’s mouth again. He laughed to himself. “I was talking about your managers, Hollander.” He pretended to gasp in realization. “Or are you managed by your parents too?” 

Hollander practically growled as he shoved Ilya harder. “Next game, I’m gonna embarrass you.” 

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Promise?” 

That finally sent Hollander barging out the door. 

Ilya let out a long breath. At least he could say he tried. Maybe he could’ve been a little more personable… but it had been so fun to make Hollander angry. Who could blame him? 

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Shane did his best to embarrass Rozanov the next time Boston came to Montreal. He did a decent job of it too, ending up with a four point game and successfully killing three penalties. 

Rozanov, for his part, didn’t say much to Shane at all, not even in Russian. Sometimes, however, Shane could feel eyes on him from across the ice or coming from the bench. 

Shane should’ve been happy that Rozanov had finally backed off. The things he’d said about Shane’s parents had made Shane’s blood boil. He’d be pleased if he never had to talk to Rozanov again. 

But this time…

Shane could hardly even admit it to himself. All season, he’d repeated again and again what he’d heard his parents, his doctors, his physical therapists, his coaches, and his teammates all say. His hard work was paying off. He’d been blessed with a miracle. He wouldn’t squander this second chance at what the accident almost took away. 

Still, there were things that didn’t make sense. After his fight with Rozanov, he’d downloaded War and Peace in its original Russian. He’d read it all. He looked up books and articles in the other languages he’d been learning- he understood everything. 

At night, he tested his reflexes by kicking a hacky sack up with his foot and keeping his eyes closed, opening them at the very last second and trying to catch it. He caught it almost every time. 

Something held him back from talking to his parents about it, though they still insisted upon watching everything he did on the ice, and were heavily involved with everything he did outside of hockey as well. He was growing more and more uneasy about the way they’d casually dismissed his mention of understanding Rozanov’s Russian chirps, or how they kept encouraging him to keep doing the daily mobility exercises he’d started in the weeks after he woke up- he hardly felt as if those were still necessary. 

It was all kind of weird. And as much as it pained him to realize, Rozanov was the only person who seemed to agree. 

Part of Shane actually did want Rozanov to confront him again. But when he didn’t, Shane made the potentially stupid decision to do something about it himself.

I’ll just talk to him. I can always tell him to fuck off and leave me alone after that.

“Who is this?” 

That was another thing. Shane’s ability to memorize had skyrocketed. He still remembered Rozanov’s number from when he glanced at it in the bathroom. 

“It’s Shane. Hollander. Please don’t hang up.” 

All Shane heard in response was silence, but the line didn’t go dead. 

He took that as an invitation to keep talking. “Listen I have a-” he paused. How the fuck was he supposed to explain everything over the phone? He sighed. “Do you think we could meet? Maybe in your hotel room?” 

He heard Rozanov’s intake of breath. “I can tell my roommate to stay away.” 

“Okay. Um-”

“What time?” 

Shane did some mental math. He was going to have to sneak away from his parents. His loving parents, who had done nothing but help him. “Maybe in an hour?” 

“I will be ready.”

Shane stalled at the rink for as long as he could, wondering if his parents would eventually give up and tell him to meet them at home. When that didn’t work, Shane simply slipped out. He made his way to the hotel address Rozanov had texted, messaging his parents in the meantime with a quick, “Had to go out for a bit. See you later!” 

Then, he’d silenced the chat.

He tried not to think about how worried they probably were. He hadn’t done anything like this since the accident. If he was being honest, he hadn’t done anything like this before the accident either. 

He would apologize to them… after. 

He had a litany of excuses ready for if he ran into any Boston team members on his way to Rozanov’s room, but he didn’t have to use a single one. Maybe everyone went out. They surely hadn’t all gone to sleep just yet. He texted “here” to Rozanov and the hotel room door opened. 

The room was dim, with only a single lamp in between the beds doing the bare minimum to illuminate Rozanov’s face. He stood before Shane in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, his arms crossed. His face was stern as the door clicked shut, but a small smile danced across his face as he looked Shane up and down. 

“Well?” 

Shane sighed. Rozanov was probably going to be obnoxious this entire time. But he had to power through. “I think I need to-” he faltered. Was he really willing to scrape the bottom of the barrel like this by telling Rozanov everything? 

He needed something from Rozanov in return. “How do I know I can trust you?” 

Rozanov’s face didn’t change at Shane’s question. “Why are you here if you don’t trust me?” 

Shane ignored that. “Tell me something about yourself. Something no one knows.” 

Rozanov rubbed at his chin for a moment, likely waiting as long as possible to say anything. Then, he looked Shane straight in the eye. “I have sex with men.” 

Good grief. Shane refrained from rolling his eyes. “Funny enough, I figured that one out myself.” 

That made Rozanov grin. “Yea?” 

“That’s not why I’m here.” 

Did Rozanov look at little disappointed? Did Shane want him to be? He tried to shove the thought away. He had more important things to think about. He studied Rozanov’s face again, wavering between the desperation of needing to talk to someone who might actually listen to what he had to say, and the irreversible step of actually sharing it. 

“My mom killed herself when I was twelve.” Rozanov snapped Shane out of his indecision. 

“What?” 

“You asked for something no one knew.” 

Shane just stared. Rozanov’s mouth was set in a line, with all hints of his previous smile gone. 

Rozanov stared back. “What did you want to talk about?” 

“I, um,” Shane tried to collect himself. “I think you noticed that something isn’t right. Um, with me.” His voice was shaking as he said it. But as soon as he spoke the words aloud, he could hear the truth of them as they evaporated into the space between him and where Rozanov was standing. 

Rozanov’s face didn’t change much, but he gave a small nod. “Go on.” 

“Since the accident, things have been-” Shane looked down at his feet, “I don’t think I’m supposed to be this much better than you. It doesn’t make sense.” Especially now that Rozanov was standing in front of him, looking very physically fit and far from the out of shape slacker Shane’s parents seemed to think he was. 

Thankfully, Rozanov didn’t take the opportunity to say anything along the lines of of course not, waiting quietly instead to let Shane finish talking.

“I think I’m fluent in a bunch of languages.” Shane looked back up at Rozanov, whose eyebrows were raised. “Not just Russian. And my memory is really good now.” Shane took a breath. “I don’t think anyone else has noticed anything. As long as I’m playing well, it’s not, uh, a worry, I guess. And my parents-” he cut himself off. He didn’t want to talk about his parents to Rozanov. 

Rozanov sat down on the bed behind him, patting the spot next to him. 

Shane hesitated for a moment. As soon as he sat next to Rozanov, the conversation would go from something liminal to something real- a problem he really did need a solution for. But when Rozanov looked back up at him, Shane sat down. 

“Do you remember the accident?” 

Rozanov’s question made Shane tense up before he remembered to exhale. He wasn’t used to anyone being so direct with him- he suspected his parents had shielded him from those types of questions. But this was why he’d sought out one of the few people he knew wouldn’t handle him with kid gloves. 

“Not really, no.” 

“Do you remember anything from after?” 

“I remember waking up.” He’d been disoriented but not in much physical pain. “There were all these doctors around, asking me questions.” 

“What did they ask?” 

“Stuff about my memory. What I could recall from childhood, school, hockey teams, if I recognized pictures.” 

“Did you remember it?” 

“Yea. I passed all the tests. But-” he felt his heart start to race. “Don’t act weird about this, okay?” 

Rozanov turned his head enough so Shane could see the exasperated look on his face. “You did not think this was weird already?” 

“Shut up.” This was weird, even compared to everything he’d already said. “I felt like I was remembering something I’d watched in a movie. Like it didn’t happen to me. I asked the doctors if everything I remembered really did happen, and they said yes. My parents showed me pictures, too. But I couldn’t help feeling like-” he scratched at his arm, “like I made it up or something. Or that it was more like- a dream.” 

Rozanov leaned back, putting his weight on his elbows and tilting his chin towards the ceiling. “It would be easier if you were doing drugs.”

“I’m not doing-” 

“I know.” Rozanov angled his body towards Shane, his spine curving slightly. It made Shane want to lie down next to him, to gaze across the small expanse of the bed and see Rozanov’s pensive eyes looking back. He forced the urge out of his mind, sitting up a little straighter instead. 

“What do you think I should do?” He couldn’t believe he was asking this question to Ilya Rozanov, of all people. But he really didn’t see another way. He couldn’t go on like he’d been, pretending everything was normal. 

Rozanov flopped all the way back on the bed, and Shane again had to not think about what it would be like to climb right on top of him. “I don’t know.” 

Shane rubbed a hand over his face as Rozanov kept talking.

“But I will help you. I can ask someone- a friend. She can maybe help.”

“Really?” 

“I don’t know if she-” he sighed. “Can I call you? Or text?” Are your parents watching your phone? At least Rozanov was gracious enough not to say it. 

“Yea.” Shane kept his eyes focused on the opposite side of the room. 

“Good.” Rozanov let out a small laugh, and Shane hated how much he liked it. “You are too good at hockey, Hollander. We have to do something about it.” 

“Glad you find this funny.” 

Rozanov pushed himself off the bed, sliding a hand past Shane’s thigh as he did so. Shane’s skin burned through the clothes, and he tried not to gulp down the extra saliva that had collected in his mouth. But Rozanov didn’t make any other kind of move towards Shane, and Shane had to wonder if he had done it on accident. 

“I will check the hallway.” 

It was a clear dismissal, and Shane kept a safe distance from Rozanov as he followed him to the door. 

But before Rozanov reached out for the handle, he turned to face Shane. “I am glad you’re alive, Hollander.” There was no playful demeanor in his features, nor were his eyes pinched in contemplation like they’d been before. He was just looking at Shane, like he really meant it. 

“Um, thanks.” What was Shane supposed to say to that? “And, uh, thank you. For this.” 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Rozanov winked, and Shane was speed walking down the hotel room hall as fast as he could before he did something insanely stupid like turn around and rip Rozanov’s clothes off with his teeth. 

He opened his phone outside to find about a hundred messages from his parents. He felt bad for stressing them out, but… he knew they wouldn’t be much help. Not for this. Not when he didn’t even know what this was. 

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

“I don’t know if it’s even worth pursuing, but it’s the only thing I could come up with.” Svetlana’s voice was hushed and subdued, though there were likely no other Russian speakers lingering over a coffee in the Back Bay café they’d met up in. “I don’t even know if it’s an exact comparison.” 

“I think he would find anything helpful.” Ilya sipped at his coffee, though what he really wanted was a cigarette. He knew Svetlana had quit smoking recently, however, and he was trying to be a good friend. 

“I barely even remember him. I was a kid when it all happened.” Svetlana ran a hand through her hair. “Do you remember Valeri Bilyaletdinov?” 

Ilya started to shake his head, when he remembered. “From the KHL, right?” And then he remembered the headlines, the flowers at the rink, the hockey sticks placed out as memorials. “Didn’t he-” 

“Die in the plane crash with the rest of his team?” Svetlana wasn’t one to wait for him to put the pieces of his own memory together. “Yes.” 

Of course. An entire hockey team, gone in an instant. It had sent shock waves through the league and through all of Russia. 

“Or,” Svetlana continued, “I thought he did.” 

Ilya frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It must have been a few months after the crash. I couldn’t sleep one night, and I heard voices downstairs. I wasn’t used to hearing two men talking so late in the house- I wanted to see who was there.” 

She grimaced, and Ilya grimaced back. They both likely got the same type of punishment for sneaking out of bed as kids. 

“My father was friends with Valeri. I knew who he was, before. So I recognized him immediately, when I saw him standing in the kitchen. I ran away when they both saw me.” 

Ilya leaned forward. “Did you ask your father about it?” 

“He said I was sleepwalking. Or maybe I saw a ghost.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I think it was him.” 

It was intriguing- the thought that anyone on that doomed team had not only survived, but had come out able to walk and talk again. Whether or not he could still play hockey was another question, but it was the closest lead they had. But there was one problem. 

“Do you have any idea where he might be now?”

Svetlana nodded eagerly, as if she’d been anticipating Ilya’s question. “That’s the thing. You know… my father owns a house on the Cape.”

That took Ilya aback. He was surprised she’d never taken him there- it was the kind of thing she would do. “Really?” 

She leaned across the table and flicked him in the arm. “I can’t use it, asshole. I know what you’re thinking.” 

Ilya could never get much past Svetlana. “You can’t use it?” 

“No. Father told me not to. But-” she lowered her voice even more. “I don’t think it’s empty.” 

“You don’t?” 

“I was having a summer fling in Provincetown- oh, shut up,” she added when Ilya began to snicker, “And I swear. Ilya, I would not lie to you. I swear I saw Valeri in a bar on Commercial Street.” 

The laughter practically evaporated out of Ilya immediately. If Svetlana was right... that was less than three hours away. 

“I didn’t say anything to him. It would’ve been too weird. And I didn’t want him to see me with- well, you know.” She shrugged, and Ilya nodded. He did know. 

“Do you think he’s-” 

“In my father’s Cape house. I don’t know why, and I don’t know for sure, but,” Svetlana sighed. “I think it would be worth finding out. Given what you told me about Hollander.” 

“Will you come with me? When I go and try to find Valeri?” 

Svetlana grinned. “Aren’t you going to bring Hollander with you?”

That was enough for Ilya to text Hollander, telling him if he could get away after their final game in Boston then they could all try and talk to someone in Cape Cod who might be able to relate to him. Ilya tried to keep things as vague as possible- he didn’t want to give Hollander any kind of false hope. 

Sure enough, Hollander was at his door after the game with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and a baseball cap pulled low over his head. 

He’d seemed perfectly focused during the game, but Ilya couldn’t help but notice how stressed he looked as he found his way to Ilya’s kitchen.

“How did you get away?” Surely Hollander couldn’t have snuck out from under his parents’ noses a second time. 

“There’s a yoga and meditation retreat in Wellfleet.” Hollander looked around, but didn’t put his bag down. “I told them I was going to it. We have a couple optional practices, so. It worked out.” 

“Surprised they didn’t want to join.” 

Hollander scowled at that, and Ilya made a mental note to back off. He’d probably said enough about Hollander’s parents already, and they had to make it through two three hour car rides together. They’d have Svetlana there too, but still. 

Ilya soldiered on. “I made up the guest room. Did you eat?” 

Hollander nodded, but looked at Ilya curiously. “You would make me dinner?” 

“I would order you something.” He was too afraid Hollander would take one look at anything Ilya cooked and throw it out the window. 

He led Hollander to the guest room, and to his surprise, Hollander only tossed his bag on the bed before turning back to Ilya. 

“Are you gonna tell me about who we’re going to find?” 

Ilya shrugged as he walked over to his couch. Hollander followed him and sat on the opposite side. “I told you. We don’t know a lot. Svetlana remembers a family friend who got badly hurt in an accident and was okay afterwards. We will try to find him.” 

“And if we don’t?” Hollander’s face was focused on the blank TV. 

“We can try something else.” 

“That’s-” Hollander scratched at the back of his neck. “Thank you. For doing this.” 

“You can thank me later.” Hollander’s earnest proclamation made Ilya uncomfortable- it wasn’t like he was doing this entirely out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted to know, probably almost as much as Hollander did, what had possibly made Hollander so much better than him. 

Ilya flipped through the channels of his TV, stopping when he found a superhero movie- it seemed entertaining enough to focus on if Hollander wanted to, and mindless enough to pretend to watch, like Ilya intended to do. 

They were both quiet for minute, as a bunch of guys on the screen threw some cars around and jumped out of exploding buildings. 

Finally, Hollander spoke. “Do you think any of these actors are on steroids?” 

“Yup.” Ilya let his lips pop loudly on the “p.” 

“Hmm.” Hollander started rubbing at his eye. “Do you think there’s, I don’t know, some kind of mega-steroid out there?” 

Ilya turned to face Hollander. “Mega-steroid?” 

“One that works on the brain too?” 

“Hollander.” He winced as he took in just how distressed Hollander looked at the thought. Had he caused this spiral? He’d been the one to initially accuse Hollander of doing drugs, after all. “I have no idea. But you would know, yes? If you took drugs all the time?” 

Hollander didn’t pull his hand away from his eye. “I guess.” 

“You would have to take it every day, probably. And you,” he nodded at the TV, “do not look like them.” 

Hollander just snorted. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ll try to be more ripped next time.” 

“Oh, no. You are much hotter than they are.” 

Oops. Ilya tried to fight off the blush creeping across his face and up his neck. “Or, I think so, anyway.” 

Not better. Not even remotely better. He could feel Hollander’s eyes on him as he kept his eyes on a meaningless fixed point on the wall. He tried to think of something, anything to say that would effectively change the subject. 

But Hollander beat him to it. “You’re, um, pretty hot too.” 

Ilya’s ears were probably on fire. He said, “I know,” at the same time Hollander added, “But you already knew that.” They laughed sheepishly together, and Ilya finally let himself look back at Hollander, to find that his eyes were dark, and wide, and raking their way over Ilya from across the couch. It made Ilya want to stretch out and give Hollander more to look at. 

Eventually, Ilya thought to reach for the remote. “We can watch something else.” 

“That’s okay.” Hollander waved off Ilya’s concern, though he looked incredibly tense. “This is fine.” 

“Okay.” Ilya set the remote back down. 

They were quiet for a moment, until Hollander spoke again. “You, um. When you said you have sex with men.” 

Jesus christ. Ilya should’ve just gone the fuck to sleep when he had the chance. He looked back over to Hollander. “Did you not understand?” 

“Fuck off.” At least Hollander was blushing too. “I’m just- was it other players?” 

Ilya coughed. “No.” There had been a couple of times where he’d wondered whether it could’ve happened. He’d had his money on a small handful of older players that had been not-so-subtly eyeing him when they ran into each other off the ice, but no one had directly asked him anything. 

“So how do you… find people?

Now Ilya looked directly at Hollander, who was clearly squirming at the question, but powering through to ask it anyways. Huh. “Do you need me to set you up on a date, Hollander?” 

“You’re such an asshole.” 

“I will do it.” 

Hollander just shook his head and looked down at his lap. 

“It just happens.” Ilya decided to be merciful and actually answer. “Not often. But sometimes.” 

“Sounds fun.” Hollander’s voice was flat and unenthused, but Ilya detected something else there too. Was it jealousy? “Are you ever scared of getting caught?” 

“No.” 

“Oh.” 

Someone on the screen ripped the arms off a monster and flung them away. 

“What do you think is going to happen if we find something tomorrow?” 

When Ilya looked back at Hollander, his face was intense, focused, and… scared. He looked terrified. 

“It would be what you want, yes?” He spoke slowly, wondering if he wasn’t thinking enough about the implications of what they might find in Cape Cod or anywhere else. 

“You wouldn’t, um, tell anyone?” 

“What, that you are on, what did you call it, ‘mega-steroids’ without knowing?” 

“Fuck off. I mean it.” Had Hollander moved towards Ilya on the couch? 

“I would not tell.” 

Hollander raised a brow. “Even if it meant I’ll always be better than you at hockey?” 

Ilya smirked, though internally he acknowledged that Hollander was making a decent point. “Yes. I would not.” He thought for a second. “I would not want your life, Hollander.” 

Hollander’s face shifted. “What the fuck did I say about-” 

“Okay, okay.” Ilya raised his hands in the air. “Your life is perfect. I want to be you.” 

Hollander rolled his eyes, and slid a little closer to Ilya. “Liar.”

Ilya stood up before Hollander could end up directly next to him. “I should go to bed. We will leave early tomorrow.” 

Hollander looked up at him with a stung expression that made Ilya’s head swim a little. “Oh. Um, okay. I should go to sleep too.” 

“You saw your towels?” 

“Yea.” 

Ilya exhaled as he turned and practically ran to his bedroom, shutting the door as he entered and leaning against it. It would’ve been so easy to not move, and to let the puzzle pieces fall into place. But was it a good idea? Of all the people he could let pin him to the couch and kiss him senseless, was Shane Hollander really the choice? 

He had definitely seemed into the concept. And Ilya wouldn’t lie to himself and say he wasn’t interested.

But it wouldn’t be your usual one night stand, the rational side of his brain argued, you promised you would help him. 

Maybe Ilya would circle back to Hollander after they solved as much of this mystery as they could. But for now, it would be too much of a distraction. 

Or, that was the lie he told himself to justify not running over to Hollander’s room and telling him he’d changed his mind. That he wanted Hollander to use Ilya in any way he wanted. That he wanted Hollander to be the one player who moved beyond glances across the room. 

He took deep breaths in bed, willing himself to fall asleep. He needed to reset, to start back at a neutral place with Hollander tomorrow. He needed to be able to face Svetlana’s knowing stare without letting her read his mind instantly. 

He might have succeeded at all of this, had there not been a knock at his bedroom door. 

He opened it, knowing that he only possessed enough self-discipline to walk away from Hollander once. 

Hollander stood before him, looking more comfortable in his pajama pants and t-shirt, yet still just as tense as he’d been before on the couch. “Hey,” he said, looking up at Ilya with the kind of trusting expression one could only get from this kind of insane expedition, “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and-” 

Ilya wasted no time, reeling Hollander in with an arm around the waist and catching his lips in a bruising kiss that Hollander immediately responded to by fitting his hands on either side of Ilya’s neck, his fingers stretching up to Ilya’s jaw to lightly guide Ilya’s movements. 

They pulled each other closer as Ilya wondered whether he’d look too eager if he ripped his own t-shirt off, regretting that he decided to wear a shirt to bed at all. But Hollander, as if reading Ilya’s mind, pulled away from Ilya’s mouth for just a second to toss his own shirt aside before looking impatiently at Ilya. 

Okay, then. Ilya followed suit, and their mouths were back on each other in almost the same second. Ilya bit at Hollander’s lip, resulting in a deep moan that sent sparks shooting along Ilya’s spine. 

“Sorry. It’s, uh, been awhile.” Hollander’s face was already bright red. 

Ilya guided his hand to the front of his own pajama pants, which he was hoping with every passing moment that he’d be able to take off and throw aside soon. “I like how you sound.” 

Hollander went even redder. “Um. You too.” 

Ilya would have laughed out loud, if he wasn’t mourning the loss of Hollander’s mouth on his whenever they separated to say something. He kissed Hollander again, letting his hands drift up along Hollander’s ribs and press on the places he knew most people were more sensitive, getting an instant gasp from Hollander when he did so. 

It was only when he raked his nails across Hollander’s back and felt the muscles there- bunched and hardened from the tension they’d been carrying- that he kissed along the defined trail of Hollander’s jaw until his lips were at Hollander’s ear. “What do you want?” 

“I, um,” Hollander’s nails dug into Ilya’s arms, “I didn’t get that far with a strategy. I just, uh, knocked.” 

“I’m glad you did.” 

Hollander sank to his knees, shoving Ilya’s pajama pants down and out of the way as he did so. 

It was all Ilya could do to stay upright as he felt Hollander’s mouth on him, noting that Hollander’s arms wrapped around his thighs were doing much of the work to keep him from falling over. 

“Fuck. Your fucking mouth. You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this. Your mouth, and your hands, and-” he cut off as he felt Hollander still. He’d forgotten. Whenever he hooked up with someone who wasn’t Russian, he tended to ramble during sex, finding that speaking whatever filthy thoughts crossed his mind out loud while his partner was none the wiser was fascinatingly sexy to him. 

But he’d forgotten that Hollander understood Russian. “Um.”

Hollander looked up at him, saliva already smeared across his face. 

“Sorry.” 

But Hollander looked anything but freaked out. “That was hot.” 

Thank god. But Ilya wasn’t planning on saying anything else. Who knew which obscenity he uttered could send Hollander running away? 

“Do you want me to keep going?” Hollander traced a vein on the softest part of Ilya’s thigh, leaving a fiery trail in his wake. 

“Yes, but.” Ilya hauled Hollander back up to his feet and led him in the direction of the bed behind him. “Here, maybe.” He made to push Hollander back onto the bed before noticing the hesitant look in his eyes. He paused. “Um, Hollander? Are you-”

“I’m fine.” 

Ilya raised a brow. 

“Really. It’s just- like I said. It’s uh, been a while.” 

Ilya hadn’t given it much thought when Hollander had said that before, but now he remembered the type of life Hollander was living, with his parents at every away game and the attention of the entire NHL on most things he did. “How long?” 

Hollander’s mouth turned down as he looked at Ilya, and Ilya had a feeling he knew what Hollander was going to say. “Since before the accident.” 

Ilya tried not to look shocked. Plenty of people went that long without having sex. Not him, but still. Damn, though. He grinned at Hollander, trying to lower what suddenly seemed like higher stakes than he thought. “Did you forget how to do it?”

“You’re such an asshole-” Ilya cut Hollander off with another kiss, before he let Hollander push him back onto the bed with enough force that he bounced a little. He kicked his pajama pants off from where they were bunched at his ankles, giving him more freedom to bracket Hollander’s body with his knees as he swam in the feeling of Hollander’s mouth on him once again. 

He was trying to prolong this moment as much as possible, though he wondered whether Hollander’s athletically superior body had some kind of enhanced stamina as well. He considered asking, but Hollander did something different with his tongue that made Ilya forget how to speak. 

He’d already shoved Hollander on his side and was giving him a slow, dirty kiss before he regained any type of coherence, and even then he wasn’t all too concerned with anything other than returning the favor, kissing along the curve of Hollander’s stomach and stopping to leave a hickey whenever Hollander gasped and pulled at Ilya’s hair. 

He seemed… normal to Ilya in the realm of sex, aside from understanding any of the Russian expletives that Ilya let slip out. Ilya felt a little guilty for even thinking about the ways Hollander had clearly changed since the accident, but he was certain Hollander was thinking the same thing. 

Or, he had been thinking the same thing, until Ilya got his mouth on him and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Works every time. Hollander had seemed like he needed this. And it wasn’t like Ilya had the self-control to refuse. 

They lay there in silence, after Hollander hauled Ilya back up to kiss him again, their mouths barely working as they simply breathed together in a mix of tongues and teeth before Ilya rolled off and stared at the ceiling. 

At first, Hollander didn’t seem like he even planned on moving off of Ilya’s bed. But just before Ilya drifted off to sleep, he spoke. “Are you gonna sleep in here? The sheets are kind of sweaty.” 

Ilya was too tired for this. “It’s fine.” 

Hollander shifted beside him. “You can sleep in my bed if you want. It’s your bed anyway.” 

“What, and you will sleep in the sweaty sheets?” Ilya cracked an eye open to look at Hollander, and immediately realized his mistake. 

Hollander had been asking Ilya to move beds with him. Now that the euphoria had faded, he was back to where he’d been before, about to investigate a mystery that he seemed moderately afraid to solve. He didn’t want to be standing on that precipice alone. And the look on Hollander’s face was telling Ilya that he couldn’t stand to admit it out loud. 

Ilya decided to have mercy, for once. “Okay.” He rolled off the bed and looked around for the pajamas he’d discarded, throwing them back on and looking over to Hollander. “Do you want your pants?” He held out the second pair of pajama pants, the ones that weren’t his. 

Hollander’s face made little movement as he slid off the bed and put his own pajamas back on before making his way to the guest room. Ilya followed. 

He settled into the guest bed on the side Hollander wasn’t in, noting that the foot or so between them seemed more like a mile, despite the sweat still cooling on the skin behind his ears and at the crease of his elbows. He tried to take deep breaths in an attempt to bring his heart rate down and have any hope of getting to sleep. Next to him, he knew Hollander was doing the same. 

After what felt like an hour, Ilya couldn’t take it anymore. His hand found Hollander’s in the dark. “It will be fine.” 

Hollander’s fingers threaded through Ilya’s. “I hope so.”

They fell asleep like that. 

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

One look at Svetlana’s cocked head and narrowed eyes and Shane knew that she could immediately tell what had happened between him and Ilya the night before. (Was he Ilya now? Really? Shane didn’t want to think about it.) Luckily, she didn’t comment on it, not even in Russian. 

Svetlana had volunteered to drive out to the house, and Ilya took the passenger seat, leaving Shane in the backseat like a chauffeured celebrity or a third wheel. 

But the drive was quiet. Shane had never actually been to Cape Cod, though he knew some NHL players spent their summers there. It wasn’t quite summer weather yet in Massachusetts, however, and he guessed the beaches were pretty empty right now. 

Not that he really gave a shit about the beaches. 

He listened to Svetlana hum along to the pop song on the radio as he gazed out the window at the monotonous tree line of the highway. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Ilya was scrolling through his phone. 

“We’re coming up on the bridge soon. Anyone want to stop at the IHOP?” Svetlana was clearly joking, but Shane was a little tempted. After endless “recovery meals” from his parents and perfectly curated restaurant orders, Shane would’ve happily gone for a pile of decadent, sugary pancakes. He’d even appreciate blaming the food later if he got any kind of a stomachache. If he found something that he should’ve left alone. 

“Will you stop being so fucking casual about this?” Ilya’s tone was bordering on scolding, though he glanced nervously back at Shane as soon as the sentence left his mouth, having evidently forgotten again that Shane knew Russian. 

It almost made Shane let out a fond laugh. Outside of hockey, Ilya was kind of a mess. But Shane  appreciated that Ilya had grasped the gravity of the situation. Maybe it was nothing. But if it wasn’t… at least Ilya knew to be prepared. 

Svetlana flicked Ilya on the shoulder and guided the car across the bridge as both Shane and Ilya took in the gaping canal and the handful of boats meandering through the current. 

They still had almost two hours left in the drive, yet the landscape was already changing, with the leafy brush along the highway transforming into the scrub pines more fit for the ocean air. Shane wondered what had driven this family friend of Svetlana’s out here- did he want to be surrounded by the ocean? Was he really into fishing? Or did he just want to be so far out of the way of anyone who knew him that he could guarantee he would spend most of his days by himself? 

There was no traffic, and Svetlana zipped through the rest of the cape, barely slowing down as the highway ended. She pointed out a haunted hotel (“a woman was murdered there. It was on Ghosthunters,”), and the sign for the town of Wellfleet (“this is where you’re supposed to be right now, Shane), and was waxing poetic about a popular bar situated on the top of a beach dune before Ilya nudged her and suggested they could hear about the tourist hits on the way back instead, if at all. 

Again, Shane was grateful that Ilya seemed to be able to tell how nervous he was.

They’d woken up with their arms around one another and Shane’s head pillowed on Ilya’s shoulder. To Shane’s mortification, Ilya had woken up first, giving Shane no opportunity to roll away and pretend he’d been on the opposite side of the bed the entire night. But Ilya had threaded a hand through Shane’s hair and whispered, “Hey,” gently guiding Shane back to the waking world, and waving away every apology Shane tried to throw at him. 

The air had grown incredibly awkward as Ilya shuffled out of the guest room to get dressed and make coffee, while Shane stuffed his pajamas to the very bottom of the suitcase, as if shoving them out of sight would help him forget the  spur of the moment decision making from the night before. 

He couldn’t even define what had come over him, aside from a panicked intuition that everything could change, and that he might as well see if Ilya was feeling the same electricity between them that Shane was. 

But he hadn’t thought about anything that might come after, like the upcoming car ride or the knowing looks of Svetlana. He hadn’t even properly talked with Ilya in the light of the new day, and he hadn’t been able to stop his mind from racing throughout the trip. Would Ilya do it again? Did he regret it? More importantly, would any future hook up between the two of them only serve to bring them back to this moment now, as Svetlana pulled up to the address she had for her father’s house in Truro?

It was more of a cottage than a house, perched on the edge of a dune that didn’t seem particularly stable- from where Shane sat, it looked as if a few sturdy gusts of wind could send the whole thing toppling over the side of the cliff. But he had to admit, the view of the ocean was gorgeous, appropriately accompanied by the faint sound of the waves crashing on the shore mixed with the breeze rustling the beach grass that rippled like the water against the house’s walls. 

“Let’s see if this is it.” Svetlana hopped out of the car and approached the door, while Shane and Ilya lingered behind her. Shane exited on the passenger side, locking eyes with Ilya in the few seconds Svetlana couldn’t see them behind the car. 

Ilya looked like he was about to say something, before seemingly deciding against it and shutting his mouth. 

Shane just nodded in response. There really was nothing to say. Either he’d find someone else who had been through a traumatic accident like he had, or he wouldn’t. Either he would find out something that explained the ways in which he’d changed in the past couple years, or he’d be just as clueless as he was now. It was too late to think about what any type of discover or lack thereof might mean.

By the time they both made their way to the door, Svetlana was facing away from it and looking at both of them. “There’s someone in there, but he’s not answering. I don’t know if I should-” 

But Ilya was already frowning, approaching the closed door. “Valeri Bilyaletdinov?” His voice boomed, but there was no answer. “Please. We are friends.” He switched to Russian. “We do not care about any business you may have out here. We are discreet, and we will leave you alone.” He glanced at Shane. “Svetlana and I have a friend here with us, and he-” 

Shane stepped up beside Ilya. He could already tell from the thin walls and the way the wind had quieted down that whoever was inside could hear them. And if it was who Svetlana and Ilya said, he needed to hear from Shane. “Valeri, my name is Shane Hollander. I was in a terrible car accident about two years ago, and I made a full recovery. Since the accident, I have been able to speak in Russian and several other languages. I am much better at hockey now, too. I don’t know why.” He took a breath. “Please, if you can hear me, all I’m looking for is answers about myself.” 

At that, Shane heard a click of a lock turning, and the door creaked open. 

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Svetlana gave a muted gasp behind them. “It’s definitely him.” 

Ilya would have guessed as much without her confirmation.Valeri Bilyaletdinov was tall, broad shouldered, and still had a decently athletic build. Everything about him screamed “former hockey player,” from the hair he clearly hadn’t gotten cut in a while, to the ratty workout shorts he’d probably owned for twenty years. His t-shirt had a colorful logo Ilya didn’t recognize, but guessed was a brand of beer. His eyes shifted between Shane and Ilya before landing on Svetlana. 

“Svetlana Vetrova?” 

A sweet smile took over Svetlana’s face. “It’s been a while, Valeri.” 

Valeri snorted. “No shit. Last time I saw you, you hadn’t started your English classes yet. You came up to here.” He pointed to the bottom of his rib cage. “Now you are in America.”

“Yes.” Svetlana stepped up right behind where Ilya and Shane stood. “So are you.” 

Valeri looked back at Shane. “I heard about your accident.”

“They told me about yours.” Shane kept the conversation in Russian.

“You have very good friends.” Valeri stood aside so they could enter the house. 

“Oh, um, we’re not-” Ilya elbowed Shane in the side as hard as he could without Valeri noticing, “Ow! Uh, yea. I do.”

Valeri ushered them all to the kitchen table, clearing off stacks of paper and tossing them into a pile on the nearest armchair. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company. Tea?” 

“Yes, please.” Svetlana answered, while Ilya took in the house. It wasn’t the living space of a total hermit like he’d been expecting- it looked lived in, a little messy, but clearly cared for.

What he did notice, however, was how everything in the house was set up to accommodate only one person. There was a couch in front of the TV, half covered with sweatshirts and hats that had evidently accumulated there. The kitchen table had only a single place mat. Even the back deck, which Ilya could see through the kitchen window, had a single chair angled toward the ocean view. 

Shane sat in the chair next to Ilya, perching on the edge of the seat like he wanted to be ready to get up at any moment. His back remained in a perfect line as he took deep, audible breaths. 

Ilya snuck a hand to his knee and squeezed. Shane lifted a corner of his mouth in response. 

“Okay, Shane Hollander.” Valeri joined them at the table, one eye on the water heating on the stove. “You got in an accident. You woke up, and what? Everything was better? You were better?” 

Shane scratched at his cheek. “I guess, yea. I was better at hockey. I could remember something after looking at it once. I started being able to understand all these languages I didn’t know before.” 

Valeri drummed his fingers on the table. “Has anyone been tracking what you can do? Maybe a doctor, or a therapist?” 

Shane paused for a moment, then said, “No. No one’s tracking me.” 

Ilya shot Shane a look, but Shane’s face remained a careful mask. Someone- well, two people, actually- had been tracking Shane every single day. Did Shane realize? Ilya started to open his mouth before Svetlana glared at him, and he shut it again. We’re not here for me, he reminded himself, as he felt Shane grow more tense next to him. 

Valeri didn’t question Shane’s answer. “What did your doctors say? I assume you had many.” 

Shane shrugged. “They said I was recovering well. That my hard work got me where I am.” He swallowed hard. “Everyone said that, actually.”

Valeri let out a long sigh, scanning Shane up and down. The water behind him started to simmer. “Maybe I will tell you what happened to me.” 

“I’d been in the KHL for a few years. I was a strong player with a lot of promise. I’d received attention from some NHL scouts too, but I had too much national pride to consider it.” At that, he glanced at Ilya, though Ilya didn’t sense much judgement from him. 

“I don’t remember the plane crash at all. All I knew was that one day I had a good career, plenty of fans, and a future in Russia, until the day I woke up and discovered my entire team was gone.” 

Svetlana’s chair creaked as she shifted in her seat and made eye contact with Ilya. 

“For a while, I wondered why me. Why did I get to still be here, when my teammates didn’t get the chance? To me, it was a privilege just to be opening my eyes in the morning.” He sighed. “That was why I didn’t question anything at first. I thought I didn’t deserve to. I was lucky anything was happening to me at all.”

“It was like that for a while, but then I began to wonder. I wasn’t in the type of hospital I was used to- it was a military hospital, full of people in uniform and chaperones when I left my room. Every day, another general of some sort would come in and give me tests- they asked me questions about mathematics and engineering, and had me write out equations.” 

He looked right at Shane. “They tested my reflexes, too. They asked how much I could lift. I went to rooms filled with weights and did what one man instructed as a small group with clipboards watched. After, they would take my blood and ask me more questions. They’d test my recall, which was above average. They’d measure my muscles. They’d take urine samples.” 

Now, he shifted his gaze over to Svetlana. “I don’t know how your father managed to come in to see me. Maybe his status in Russia overrode the secrecy they were keeping me behind. But it was when I saw him that I realized I might not be in recovery at all. That I was an experiment. That everyone thought I was gone with the rest of my team, and would not come looking for me.”

It was hard not to notice the way Shane’s hands were starting to shake, though they were clasped together under the table. Ilya was starting to feel nauseous himself. “What did he say?” His question came out scratchy. 

“I think he could tell I felt trapped right away. Thankfully, I didn’t have to say much to him. All I had to do was talk about the types of exercises I did every day. I will never forget the face he made when I asked about hockey. I mentioned I was stronger than I’d been, but he dismissed me immediately. He knew I was never making a comeback. It would’ve been too much for everyone.” 

“How did you get out?” Svetlana had gone a little pale as well. 

“I’m not sure. Your father showed up again, with more uniformed men, maybe from a different division of the military. He brought me home with him and helped me get another identity, one that I could use to get to America. He told me about this house. He promised no one knew about it.” Valeri spoke that last part to Svetlana, who just shrugged. It wasn’t the first time someone had written off the knowledge of a young girl. 

“I was surprised to hear you all call me Valeri today. My official name is Alexander Segundus- that’s what it says on all my documents. I introduce myself as Alex, now.” 

There was silence at the table. 

Finally, Shane spoke. “That- that is awful, Valeri- I mean, um, Alex.” 

“Call me Valeri.” He stood and poured out the boiling water into mugs for the tea, though Ilya didn’t feel much like drinking anything.

“Okay.” Shane took what looked like a measured breath. “I see some, uh, similarities, I guess. I felt stronger, too. And I knew more things.” He looked around at the group. “But I was never kept in a hospital like that. I just went home. I was never an experiment.” 

Valeri raised a brow as he sat back down. “No? You don’t think playing NHL hockey every day is its own experiment? It doesn’t provide recordable data?” 

Shane squinted. “But- no one told me to-” 

“No one has to tell you anything. They just have to observe.” 

Now, Shane was biting at his lip in frustration. He was digging his hands into the tops of his thighs so hard Ilya was surprised there wasn’t blood yet. Despite everything Valeri had said, Shane didn’t seem to be getting the answers he wanted. “I think we’re missing the point,” he said, his voice adopting what Ilya recognized as a false confidence. “I want to know, if you know, the circumstances of your survival. Did you ever find out what your original injuries were? How did you get like-” he gestured over to Valeri, “like this? Like me? Which part of the healing process do you think was, uh,” he gave a small cough, “tampered with?”  

Ilya looked to Valeri, expecting an answer along the lines of “I don’t know.” How would he? How would anyone know? It suddenly seemed like this mystery wasn’t worth solving. 

But Valeri’s face broke apart as he leaned towards Shane. “Shane Hollander, you are not understanding.” 

Oh no. Ilya’s stomach twisted as it all clicked. Please, no. 

“I never survived the plane crash.” Valeri’s eyes flicked to the ceiling before settling back on Shane. “I was killed.” 

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Shane tried to fight off the trance-like state he couldn’t help but fall into as he heard the rest of Valeri’s story. 

How the Russian military selected Valeri as a candidate within the appropriate age range and physical makeup they were looking for to recreate as an enhanced version of himself. How though they kept the experiment a secret, Valeri suspected that this kind of thing happened all over the world in varying degrees. How revealing too much to the subjects messed up the results, as had happened with Valeri. 

How much easier would it be to never claim that a subject had died? To simply reintroduce them as a miracle recovery? 

“I have to talk to my parents.” Shane kept muttering the phrase over and over, even as Ilya guided him out of Valeri’s house and back to the car. He sat next to Shane in the backseat this time, while Svetlana drove. 

Valeri’s parents hadn’t been in the picture, making him the most likely choice for the experiment at the time. But now, maybe the Canadian version of the experiment warranted parents who were too involved, who would provide the type of observation that had previously been left to scientists and doctors. Shane’s parents might have thought they were just helping him recover, in their own overbearing way. Instead, they were collecting a different set of data.

Which led to another question. Could Shane bring himself to tell his parents about Valeri? About what might have really happened to him? Could he stand to break their hearts like that? 

Tremors rippled through his body in a way that was almost fascinating. That had never happened before the accident either- though he hadn’t ever felt quite like this before now. 

Ilya, unable to hide the worried look on his face, kept brushing his fingers over Shane’s arm before retracting them, stuck in a limbo between wanting to comfort Shane, yet having no idea what to say. Eventually, Shane made the decision for him and collapsed into his arms, burying his face in Ilya’s chest and listening to the quick heartbeat there. 

What heart was in Shane’s chest right now? Was it the same one he’d been born with? Was it someone else’s? Was it even real? Valeri hadn’t known those kinds of details, and Shane wasn’t even sure if he wanted them. But he couldn’t help but wonder. 

They made it back to Boston, though Svetlana pulled off at a gas station once to make both Shane and Ilya drink some water. Shane swallowed a few sips before turning back to Ilya, who shook his arms out with a look of relief. Shane winced, realizing he’d made Ilya hold onto him almost the whole way back. He tried to reorient once he was back in the car, but Ilya waved off any of his attempts to claim he was okay, that he didn’t need anything. 

He was glad no one tried to talk during the ride. 

It was only when Svetlana parked the car that she said, “Ilya is taking you back to Montreal.” 

Shane and Ilya both looked up sharply at that. 

“You don’t have to.” But Shane wasn’t making a strong case, with the way he couldn’t stop his voice from shaking or how he couldn’t sit up straight without folding his arms across his middle in some kind of delayed protection. He could already tell Ilya wasn’t going to buy it. 

But Ilya looked a little hesitant too. “How will we explain why I’m there?” 

Svetlana was ready with an answer. “Tell the truth. That you were the only person who noticed. That you met Valeri.” She looked between them. “You don’t have to tell them everything.” 

Ilya sighed. “I will drive.” 

Soon enough, they were back in the car. Ilya had mentioned the option of flying, which Svetlana had shot down immediately, trying to subtly point out that Shane was in no condition to navigate an airport. Shane tried to look like he didn’t know what she was talking about, but it was no use. 

Ilya drove even faster than Svetlana did. Shane studied his features, remembering what he’d looked like the day they were both drafted. 

Or, what someone else remembered from that day. 

“Ever wonder why your memories from before the accident feel a little off?” Valeri had asked, “Those are memories pieced together from other people. Science can only go so far putting the human brain back together. Something else has to fill in.” He’d scoffed. “I think they got ahold of my childhood friends. But still,” he looked at Shane, “I realized after a while, those memories didn’t come from me.” 

So the picture of Ilya in his mind, posing with his jersey and the Boston management team, originated from somewhere else. It was hard to know exactly where, or how there were so many memories in Shane’s head when supposedly this type of experiment was kept a secret. 

“How did you know I was into you?” Shane missed how far away Ilya was, now that he was driving. 

“It is a skill I have,” answered Ilya, his voice slow and careful, but no less honest. “I could tell from the look in your eye.” 

“Did I have that look at the draft?” 

A smile slipped across Ilya’s face. “You had it before that. At the world juniors tournament.” 

Shane closed his eyes and tried to remember. Could he actually recall being attracted to Ilya before the accident? He couldn’t tell. He dug his nails into his forearms until Ilya snaked a hand off the steering wheel and pried his fingers away. 

“What am I going to say to them, Ilya?” He wished he didn’t have to say anything. Part of him wanted to ask Ilya to take him far, far away. 

“I don’t know.” Ilya switched lanes to pass another car. 

Shane thought it would’ve been impossible, but he somehow managed to sleep during the drive. Maybe it was the low hum of the car engine, or the knowledge that Ilya was there with him, in the same way he’d been the night before. 

He offered to take over upon waking back up, but Ilya refused, electing instead to get a caffeinated soda at a gas station. 

“I’m sorry you have to do this.” The guilt had been building up in Shane’s chest the whole way, and he’d ultimately lost the battle in shoving it back down. “This shouldn’t be your problem.” 

Ilya coughed. “I made it my problem.” Shane supposed that was true, though he’d have known something was off, with or without Ilya drawing attention to it. 

But that wasn’t the point. “I just-” Shane steadied himself yet again. “I want to make sure you don’t have to do anything, uh, different after this. You can go back to your life.” 

It was starting to get dark out, but the headlights from the opposite side of the highway kept Ilya illuminated. “Is that what you want?” He had a wide grin, but his tone was serious. “Me to ignore you?” 

“I don’t know.” There was a tingling in Shane’s palms. No. He absolutely didn’t want Ilya to ignore him. He couldn’t stand the idea of Ilya forgetting about him as soon as this little adventure was over. But he had no way to say that out loud without sounding so over attached that he risked scaring Ilya off. 

“You are too good at hockey to ignore.” Ilya’s response was matter-of-fact. “And you have too good of a mouth.” 

Shane blushed, grateful that Ilya’s eyes were on the road. Despite the nearly incomprehensible stress of the day, he still had the capacity to think back to the feeling of Ilya’s skin against his, how their mouths had pressed together. 

Would Ilya even want to be with Shane in that way again, knowing the truth about what Shane was? Shane didn’t want to ask. 

At long last, they pulled up to the house where Shane lived with his parents- where Shane had focused on one goal: to be able to play at the highest level of hockey he possibly could. Where the endless support from his parents helped him towards that goal when they could’ve been out doing anything else. 

There was a light on in the living room- his parents were probably still up, watching TV. 

He looked over at Ilya. “You should come in with me.” 

“Are you-” 

“Please.” 

Ilya nodded as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Okay.” 

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

The door opened before Shane and Ilya got to it. 

There were Yuna and David Hollander, wrapped in robes and slippers, staring in shock at their late night visitors. “Shane?” Yuna addressed her son, though her eyes were on Ilya. 

“You’re not in Cape Cod.” David looked equally confused at the scene before him. 

“No. I was there, though.” Shane followed the gaze of his parents over to Ilya. “This is, um, Ilya. Rozanov. He was helping me with something.”

Both parents narrowed their eyes as they looked at Ilya, and he wondered if it was too late to turn around and go back to the car. 

“Can we sit down?” The Hollanders evidently heard the distress in Shane’s voice just as much as Ilya did, because they beckoned both Shane and Ilya into the house without further question, though they did continue to side-eye Ilya. 

Soon enough, Ilya was sitting next to Shane at yet another kitchen table, watching Shane try to take slow, deep breaths as he continued to unravel the thread of his life since the accident.

Shane’s eyes met Ilya’s as he started to speak. “Rozanov was with me in Cape Cod. He, um, noticed a few things this season. I don’t think anyone else really did.” 

Yuna interrupted. “Was it your Russian? Shane, we told you-” 

“Yes. And other things.” Ilya cut in, but didn’t elaborate after Yuna gave him a withering look. 

“I hope you’re not accusing Shane of anything.” 

Ilya was shaking his head as Shane jumped back in, “No, he’s not. Will you guys just listen?” 

But David was looking over at Ilya too. “Shane, you know it helps him more if you doubt yourself, right? Can’t you see how Rozanov would want you to think something is-” 

“I should go.” Ilya shoved his chair back from the table. He knew coming in had been a bad idea. The Hollanders thought he was the enemy- they thought the same thing Svetlana had, the first time he’d complained about Shane over the phone. And maybe they were right. Maybe Ilya wouldn’t care so much or have even noticed at all if he hadn’t been so bothered about Shane besting him at every turn. 

“Ilya, please. Stay. Please.” It was only the strain in Shane’s voice that kept Ilya where he was, though a significant part of him still wanted to bolt. Shane looked back at his parents. “I asked Rozanov to come with me. I asked for his help. He’s not gonna say anything.” 

The Hollanders still looked suspicious. “Did you ask him to sign a-” 

“Oh my god, Mom. Come on.”

“Okay, okay.” Yuna flipped her hands up as she glanced at David. “Fine.” 

“So.” David’s eyes were still on Yuna, though his question was to Shane. “You were in Cape Cod?” 

Shane sighed. “Yes.”

And then he told them about meeting Valeri, leaving out no detail as he recounted the tale he and Ilya had heard earlier. 

The Hollanders listened with rapt attention as Shane relayed the entire story. The room was quiet was he spoke, with even the faint creak of Ilya shifting his weight in his chair threatening to interrupt.

But Ilya saw, possibly before Shane did. How Yuna’s hands clenched into fists at the mention of Valeri’s plane crash and recovery. How David’s face fell when Shane told them Valeri had, in fact, died. 

He should’ve stopped it all, somehow. 

But Shane had caught them up on the whole expedition, and now he was looking at his parents with a question in his eyes. “I know this might be hard to think about. But if you can think to the… the accident. Was there anything you can remember that seemed, uh weird? Maybe the way I looked or the people around? Anything like what happened to Valeri?” He blinked quickly a couple of times. “Anything that would make you think I actually d-” he faltered for a second, “died?” 

The dread only built in Ilya’s stomach as he looked at the Hollanders. Yuna’s eyes were bright with tears that hadn’t yet fallen. David’s mouth was turned down at the corners in what could almost be a look of concentration if Ilya didn’t see it immediately for what it was: impending grief. 

“Shane,” Yuna started, “listen to me.” 

But that was enough. Shane pushed back from the table immediately, though he didn’t get up. “No.” 

“Please. You haven’t heard our-”

“You didn’t.” The heels of Shane’s palms pressed into his forehead, revealing just how much his hands were shaking. “You knew. You can’t have known.” He was very nearly gasping for breath. “You knew this whole time?” 

Ilya tried to reach a hand out to comfort Shane, but he flinched away. 

“You’re still you.” Tears were running down David’s face. “You’re still our son.” 

“How could you?” Ilya would take a thousand pucks to the face over watching Shane get this upset. “What the fuck did you do? What did you do?” His last few words came out in a moan. 

“What would you do, Shane?” Yuna pressed her hands onto the table. “What would you do if you lost your only child? If you thought that the person who meant the most in this world to you was g-gone?” She wiped at her eyes. “If you got the worst news you could ever receive in your life, and then someone offered you another chance? Wouldn’t you do anything to get your child back?” 

She bent down until her forehead was on the edge of the table, gripping at her own mouth to stifle her sobs. 

“They told us they were looking for victims just like you,” David continued, “Young, athletic, and easy to observe. They wanted to see if they could take someone who was already skilled and make them stronger.” 

Shane had gone still next to Ilya as he looked at his father. “You said I was good because I worked hard.” 

“You did.” Yuna lifted her head a little to look back up at Shane. “You worked so hard.” Ilya could tell she was trying to pull herself back together enough to say something, anything, to her son. “Your brain and body had to figure out how to work together. You made exceptional strides, Shane.” 

“I thought I was working hard enough to be that-” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, I am so fucking stupid.” 

“Please don’t discount-”

“What about the languages?” 

Ilya was still wondering about that too. But he really, really didn’t want to hear the answer. 

David sighed. “They… asked us, if we maybe wanted to, uh, change anything.” 

Ilya’s stomach plummeted. “Shane,” he tried to mutter, “maybe we should just-” 

“No,” But Shane’s voice was breaking with almost every word, “I want to know.” He turned back to his parents. “What did you want to change?” 

“No, Shane. We didn’t want to change anything. We were trying to help you.” Yuna looked even more panicked than Shane did. “We thought you might want to be able to talk to all of your teammates. This was just a little… shortcut.” 

“I…” Shane didn’t look any more pleased about it. Ilya could imagine why. Having a physically stronger body was one thing. Having a mind full of new knowledge with no process of having actually acquired it was quite another. It was getting at something deeper, something more fundamental. Something Shane would always have, even when he retired from hockey. 

To Ilya’s shock, Shane leaned away from his chair and buried his head into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya brought a tentative hand up to stroke Shane’s back, and Shane leaned into it more. He snuck a peek at the Hollanders, who were watching the scene before them with looks of complete shock. 

The fact that Shane had brought Ilya to this house and begged him to stay even when the conversation quickly turned into what Ilya would confidently define as private family business. The fact that in this moment, when he needed comfort, he was turning to Ilya. As if there weren’t enough revelations happening tonight. 

“Shane,” he started, before switching to Russian, “I think your parents are maybe connecting some dots about, uh,” he trailed off, and though he wouldn’t have thought that it was possible for Shane to tense up even more, he was proven wrong as he felt Shane freeze under his hand. 

“That’s impossible,” whispered David, as his eyes lingered on Ilya. 

Yuna recovered faster. “Are you two… dating?” Her voice was quiet.

Ilya wanted to die right there. What the fuck was he supposed to say? We hooked up once. Do you want the details? He needed to get out of this house. 

“No.” Shane didn’t lift his face from where it was angled into Ilya’s shoulder. “We’re not dating. But I am, you know. Gay. If you wanted to know.” 

“Oh.” Yuna, at least, seemed to take the information in stride. “Okay.” 

David, on the other hand, still looked surprised. 

Shane noticed. “Why would it be impossible?” 

David squinted. “What?” 

“You said ‘that’s impossible.’ Why?” 

There was silence. And then Ilya knew. He knew that if the Russian military had been doing this kind of thing at the time of Valeri’s plane crash, they would’ve at least tried to make sure all their subjects complied to their list of standards. He wondered if they’d tried it on Valeri. 

Obviously, the attempt hadn’t been successful with Shane. Maybe it failed every time. Maybe this was something that, despite the ability to recreate a person anew, that technology could never really change about anyone. 

If you know what’s good for you, Ilya pleaded in his mind, you won’t say it. Please, please don’t say it. 

But the Hollanders were, at their core, honest people who had been put in an impossible situation. Ilya wondered if either of them were relieved that it was all coming out now, that they could finally talk openly about the decisions they made in the wake of losing their son and getting him back. 

There would be no secrets after this. 

Yuna’s face twisted as she looked at the tears on Shane’s face. “Shane. We didn’t do anything out of- we love you no matter what.” 

Ilya watched as Shane’s jaw fell open. “You didn’t.” 

David was wringing his hands. “They offered it as an option, and we noticed things hadn’t gone so well with your girlfriend… and we knew it would be harder for you. If- you’re a star hockey player, we thought it would be easier if-” 

“Yea.” Shane stood up from the table. “I bet it would be easier. I bet a lot of things would be easier.” He walked around the kitchen, then into an adjacent room with two couches and a lot of shelves. 

Both of Shane’s parents got up and followed him, and Ilya trailed behind. 

The Hollanders had only ever had one child, and they’d clearly loved him beyond what the framed graduation picture and photos from childhood vacations displayed on the living room shelves expressed. There was a collage of Shane playing hockey at various ages, and a tiny hockey stick hung on the wall as decoration. 

Loving someone to that degree and then losing them blocked out an entire way of looking at the world, traded instead for the bitter truth of all the ways in which every good thing could disappear in an instant. 

Would Ilya have changed anything about his mother, if he’d had the opportunity to bring her back? Was it even a fair comparison?

Shane whirled around to face his parents. “Did you see the body?” 

“Shane…” 

“No, Mom. Answer the question. Did you see it?” 

But Yuna just buried her face in her hands again. Instead, David stepped up. “Yes. We did.” 

“What happened to it?” 

Yuna and David glanced at one another, leaning into each other as if neither would be able to stand otherwise. Finally, Yuna spoke. “It-” she coughed, “was cremated.” 

The pause from Shane was terrifying. “Do you still have it?” Every word was over-enunciated, devoid of emotion. 

“Maybe that’s enough for tonight,” David tried, but Shane shook his head. 

“I need to see it. Now.” 

Ilya watched helplessly as Yuna approached a white cabinet, nestled under three shelves that boasted all of Shane’s greatest hockey moments. She drew out a small box, marked with an ornate carving on the top of it and latched with a single pin. She held it to her chest in a way that made Ilya’s own heart splinter, and then she handed it to Shane. 

Shane turned the box over in his hands. It was strange, how calm he looked. 

Too strange. In fact, Ilya should’ve known to do something. But by the time he realized, it was too late. 

Shane spiked the box on the ground. The latch flew open, and the bag inside that held the ashes burst apart, sending a layer of fine dust across the rug. “This is your son! He’s here. He’s gone. He’s fucking gone, okay?” He ground his heel into the box, breaking it into two pieces. 

Ilya watched the entire thing as if in slow motion. How Yuna bent over like she had been shot in the stomach, and how David lunged towards the ashes and frantically tried to scoop them back up, his fingers turning gray as he scratched desperately at the grooves in the rug. How Shane collapsed to the ground, shoulders heaving but not really crying, instead finally shutting down, ceasing to take in or send out anything more. 

Ilya finally managed to choke out, “I think we should go,” before scooping Shane up and carrying him out of the house. Shane barely reacted, though he did wind one arm around Ilya’s shoulder in what seemed like an attempt to make himself easier to carry. 

He plopped Shane in the backseat before easing the car out of the driveway and blindly turning in any direction that would take the both of them far enough away from the house that both of them could finally breath again. 

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Shane woke up in a hotel he didn’t recognize with no memory of how he got there. What was more alarming was the amount of space he had in the double bed, all to himself. He stretched his arms out as far as they could reach, nearly brushing either side of the bed, unimpeded. When he craned his neck to either side, he saw no other bed in the room. 

He frowned. Was he alone? 

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around, seeing nothing but an empty chair in the corner until he heard a small cough coming from the ground next to his bed. 

He peered over to find Ilya, still in his clothes from yesterday, sleeping on the floor. 

He’d taken one pillow off the bed, at least, but that was it. He’d curled up on the likely unwashed hotel carpet while Shane hogged the entire bed. 

“Rozanov,” Shane hissed, loud enough to make Ilya crack one eye open, “What are you doing on the floor?” 

“Didn’t wanna disturb you.” Ilya’s words were slurred with sleep. 

Shane’s ears grew hot. “Just get up here.” 

Ilya pulled himself up off the ground, rolling onto the bed as Shane shifted off to one side. He started to reach an arm out towards Shane before drawing his hand back and letting it rest on the comforter.

 Shane reached out instead, taking Ilya’s hand and brushing his lips across the callused skin of Ilya’s palm. “Thank you.” 

Ilya sighed. “No problem.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“What?” Ilya shifted close enough for Shane to feel his body heat. 

“That was…” Shane couldn’t even find the words to define it. A lot? The worst fucking day of Shane’s life? An identity-pulverizing series of events? 

Ilya wrapped an arm around Shane’s waist. “I want to take you somewhere, later,” he murmured, his eyes already starting to close again. 

“Okay.” Shane would probably go anywhere Ilya wanted. 

They fell back asleep for a few more hours, wrapped in each other once again. 

After they woke back up and checked out of the their hotel, Ilya drove them to a lake. He pulled all the way up to the edge of the boat launch, empty and not recently used in the chilly spring weather. 

Shane kicked off his shoes and socks and joined Ilya in the ankle deep water as they gazed across the glassy surface of the lake, taking in the mostly empty summer cottages and bobbing buoys dotting the scene in front of them. 

“I really don’t know how I’ll ever make this up to you.” This, above all else, was what occupied Shane’s mind the most. He couldn’t think about the other stuff too deeply just yet- how he would ever talk to his parents again, wondering who he really was, knowing that he was some sort of middle ground between the Shane Hollander that had died and the one that his family thought he’d become. 

But he could think about the man before him, who had embroiled himself in the mystery that had formed Shane’s own doubts without realizing how vital his presence had been. He could think about how he really didn’t want Ilya to go back to being just another opponent. How he didn’t want to break ties with Ilya at all. 

Ilya hummed, and then turned to Shane. “You do not have to make it up to me.” 

Shane traced the edge of Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya let him. He slid his arm next to Ilya’s and let their fingers intertwine. Ilya squeezed his hand in response. 

“I know we… barely know each other, really.” 

Ilya snorted.

“We know some things. But maybe not the important ones.” 

Ilya turned towards Shane, still holding onto his hand. “I think we know some important things.” His face grew serious as he spoke. “But- what do you want to know?” 

Shane felt the blush return to his cheeks. “Like… who are you when you’re alone?” Ilya raised an eyebrow, and Shane kept going. “How do you choose your friends?” He looked down at his feet in the water. “What do you hope for, outside of hockey?” 

Ilya nudged Shane’s face back up, so they were looking each other in the eye. “I don’t- I can’t answer. I don’t know.” 

Shane inched his face a little closer. “Maybe there’s not one answer to any of those. They’re the kinds of things you find out when you spend more time with someone.” He probably sounded too hopeful, but he couldn’t help it. 

He closed his eyes, feeling the brush of Ilya’s lips on his before he leaned back enough to take in Ilya’s features from this close angle- the unnatural bump on his nose, the faint scar over his upper lip- both probably from an errant stick or puck. 

The corners of Ilya’s mouth turned up. “I would like to spend more time with you, then.” 

Shane kissed him again, a little more forcefully. He leaned his forehead against Ilya’s. “I should be dead.” He laughed to himself. “And I should be straight, apparently.” 

Ilya laughed softly, and quickly kissed Shane again before his eyes grew serious. “I told you, about my mother.” 

“Yea.” Shane didn’t raise his voice above a whisper.

“I am like her.” Ilya swallowed loud enough for Shane to hear. “I have wanted to kill myself. A few times.”

“Ilya-”

“Let me say this.” 

Shane nodded.

“The closest I came wasn’t when my life fell apart.” Ilya’s gaze went back out across the lake. “It was when something… good happened. When my team won a tournament. When I was drafted.” He wiped at his eye. “That is when it is most possible. When I get what I wanted and… I am not happy. I feel nothing. That is when I think about it.” He exhaled. “If some things had been… different,” he whispered, “I might have died, too.” 

Shane gripped Ilya’s hand harder and kissed his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Ilya pushed a strand of hair behind Shane’s ear. “I’m glad you are too.” He kissed Shane’s cheek and kept his mouth close to Shane’s ear. “Maybe since we are here… we can enjoy it, yes?” 

“Yea.” Shane hovered his lips over Ilya’s. “I guess we can.” 

They didn’t talk for a while, until Ilya pulled back from Shane’s lips, though his hands stayed massaging the back of Shane’s neck. “Shane?” 

“Yea?”

“We met before your accident.” 

Shane would’ve stepped back if not for Ilya’s hands, hot on his skin. “We did.” 

“But I did not know you, really. Not until after.” 

The wariness that had been growing in the back of Shane’s mind halted. “I guess not.” 

Ilya looked down at Shane’s mouth again. “I mean that… I like you. This you.” He brought one hand to Shane’s shoulder. “You are the person I know.”  

The sincerity in Ilya’s voice made Shane tear up. He tried to blink the tears away, but Ilya dipped in and kissed the corner of his eye.

 “I like you too.” It probably didn’t mean the same to Ilya, but Shane still wanted him to hear it. 

They stayed there, feet growing numb and mouths growing warmer with every meeting of their lips, until the sun reached its highest point in the sky and started to make its way down.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

There was another ambulance going by. It had to have been the third one in as many mornings, or maybe Ilya was just being dramatic. He groaned and shoved his head under his pillow, trying to drown it out. 

Before he could get back to sleep, the mattress dipped next to him, and a hand snaked up under the pillow to gently scratch at the back of his neck. Ilya pretended to ignore it for a few seconds before giving up and tossing his pillow aside, turning his head to look at Shane, already completely dressed and ready for the day. 

“I’d feel worse for you if you shouldn’t already be up.” 

Ilya flipped him off. “Why are you up? I thought you didn’t have class until later.” 

“I have to get some work done at the library before that.” 

“So studious.” Ilya exaggerated his Russian pronunciation because he knew it made Shane mildly annoyed. “I am so lucky to have such an intelligent, hard-working boyfriend, who will make an amazing and sexy doctor one day.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “If you’re trying to get me back into bed it’s not going to work.” But he did dip his head down and kiss Ilya anyway. 

Shane was in the final year of his undergraduate degree at Boston College. His plan was to try and get into a one or two year program that would further his knowledge and skills before he took the plunge and applied to medical school. He’d explained to Ilya that he saw himself helping trauma victims one day, or even patients who suspected they had CTE. “Or maybe,” he’d mused, while hunched over his computer choosing classes for his sophomore year, “people who just feel… wrong, in their bodies. I could help them.” 

Ilya had wondered in awe how the hell he’d ended up with someone kind enough to throw himself back into the proximity of an experience that had upended everything he knew, in the hopes that he could be a source of comfort for others. 

After finishing out his single season in Montreal, Shane had stepped away from hockey, publicly stating that lingering injuries from his accident had made the sport unsustainable for him. 

At the time, Ilya had begged him not to. 

“You deserve to play,” he’d said in Russian, not trusting his English vocabulary to communicate everything he truly wanted to say to Shane. “You were drafted to the team. Please don’t deprive yourself of this.” 

But Shane hadn’t wanted to hear it. “I’d spend my whole career thinking about how it shouldn’t… be like this. I’d try to make myself worse.” He’d smiled at Ilya through a single tear. “I made it to the NHL. I scored some amazing goals. Maybe I’ll come back to hockey one day. But for now,” he’d kissed Ilya on the cheek, “I’ll cheer for you, from afar.” 

Ilya could tell it had been a harder decision than Shane was letting on. But he kind of understood. Navigating an NHL career could get complicated sometimes, but the only simple thing about it was being able to put in your absolute best effort, day after day. What would it look like for someone like Shane, who wouldn’t be able to let go of all the ways his own body had been specifically engineered to be superior?

Instead, Shane was forging an entirely new path. He, like Ilya, had only thought about college briefly throughout his high school career, before realizing that he would be good enough to get drafted without having to play college hockey. He hadn’t cared all that much about school either- what use would most of that education be for an NHL star?

But now, Shane was discovering that he liked school. There was something very gratifying, he’d told Ilya, about walking into a classroom with a vague understanding about the topic and a curiosity piqued by the class description, and walking out with the puzzle pieces complete alongside a thirst to learn even more. 

He hadn’t been that much older than his fellow freshmen when he started, but he’d negotiated a spot in a dorm with upperclassmen. He’d made friends, some of whom Ilya had met. After freshman year, he’d moved into off-campus housing with some roommates, until he finally decided to move in with Ilya.

“Do you really want to get woken up by late night study groups all the time?” He’d asked, when Ilya had brought up moving in the year earlier, “Plus, maybe we shouldn’t, you know, rush things.” 

Ilya had, in truth, agreed with Shane, but the thought of having Shane around him all the time was incredibly tempting. 

They’d tried to dial down the intensity of their relationship after the tumultuous way it had started, though they never really managed to go on casual, low stakes, getting-to-know you dates. It was always a post-season reunion, or a stolen night together while Shane was looking at colleges, or a dramatic make-up after a fight where Ilya told Shane he shouldn’t limit himself to only colleges in Boston and Shane had wondered aloud if Ilya didn’t want him around as often, because there had to be at least thirty options within just the city limits alone. 

They’d attempted some normal things within all of that, though they often wound up sitting across from each other in the booth of a pizza place, looking down at their paper plates because if they let their eyes meet they’d have a hard time resisting the urge to leap across the table and pull the other in. 

Ilya had been asked in interviews about being seen in public with Shane, and he’d winked, saying, “We are friends now. But he still roots for Montreal,” with an exaggerated frown. The questions had pretty much died down after a while- other Boston and New England athletes got more attention than Ilya did, and most hockey fans didn’t follow what Shane did after he left the NHL. 

Meanwhile, Shane was making progress in repairing his relationship with his parents, who, as he’d admitted to Ilya one night in the dark, he still wanted in his life, despite it all. 

Ilya had understood immediately. 

Shane had lived with another Montreal player for the rest of his season, and then had started the process of moving to Boston. He’d stayed away from his parents for a while, though he’d called them to let them know that he was okay, and that he would be open to talking again when all three of them were ready. It took some time and a couple of false starts before they all could truly start mending things. 

The Hollanders had eventually told both Shane and Ilya (they’d welcomed Ilya into their home with open arms once Shane had introduced Ilya as his boyfriend) that they hadn’t thought about how they needed to grieve the Shane that they lost, and that doing so helped them to see what the Shane they still had really needed from them. Instead, they’d thrown themselves into the project they’d been given, tracking Shane’s progress and reporting back to the military unit that had made it all happen in the first place. 

They hadn’t let themselves acknowledge the horrifying experience they’d been through, and they hadn’t put together what it all might mean for the son they still had- the one they hadn’t done a good enough job of loving yet. 

With the clarity that this time, communication, and understanding between parents and child had given them, they’d apologized to Shane for how badly they’d hurt him, and for all the ways they’d tried to change him. Shane, with his heart of gold, had accepted the apology. He’d even laughed a bit as he admitted that all those languages he knew would come in handy when he became a doctor one day. The Hollanders had both gripped Shane tightly in a hug and told him that they would be endlessly proud of him, no matter what he chose to do. 

Maybe the relationship wasn’t all the way perfect and the trust wasn’t all the way there, but they were a family that would always be there for one another from now on. Ilya had even given Shane permission to tell the Hollanders about his struggles with depression, knowing it would likely come up between them if his relationship with Shane kept going for as long as he wanted it to (which was forever). He didn’t know if Shane had, but he knew that his network of loved ones to lean on when things got hard was growing more every year. 

Now, despite Shane’s claim that he wouldn’t get back into the bed with Ilya, he gripped the side of Ilya’s cheek as he deepened their kiss and let Ilya maneuver him to lay the two of them side by side. 

“Will you miss me? While you are working?” Ilya bit at Shane’s bottom lip. 

“Obviously.” Shane toyed with the edge of his own shirt until Ilya kissed him even harder, and he finally leaned back to shuck it off and toss it aside. “This better be good. That’s gonna have wrinkles now.” 

Ilya groaned, both out of exasperation for Shane’s concern over his clothing, and because he was really turned on. He crawled up over Shane and pressed him into the mattress, letting every inch of his body move against Shane’s before leaning back onto his knees and kissing along the skin beneath Shane’s collar bone. 

Shane was already tense beneath him, but he still elicited a gasp whenever he dug his teeth into a more sensitive spot. 

“You’re gonna- have to- hurry up,” Shane panted, though the hand carding tenderly through Ilya’s hair wasn’t screaming urgency, “I have so much to do, and-” 

“Don’t worry,” Ilya looked up so Shane could see what was likely a wicked glint in his eye, “I will be quick.” 

“Not too- jesus fuck.” 

Ilya had to wonder why Shane even bothered getting dressed before waking Ilya up- it really always was a completely wasted step. He pushed into Shane a little harder than usual, knowing Shane would appreciate the memory of this moment while he was in class later.

Shane dug his nails into Ilya’s back in a deadly grip, moving his hands whenever he wanted to change their position, and making sure to avoid an old bruise from where Ilya had been checked into the boards at a weird angle and proceeded to pretend it didn’t hurt.

It was too sappy to put into words, but Ilya cherished every single time he and Shane got to have each other like this. That he could feel Shane’s body, warm against his skin, and whisper his thanks to whoever was listening that he’d gotten the chance to know Shane at all. That they’d had the courage to make it through those early challenges, and ultimately cement themselves in each others’ lives. He would never, ever, get tired of it. 

When they collapsed back onto the bed, both panting despite Ilya being in the best shape of his life and the artificial enhancement that had made Shane so much better at hockey, Shane left one more kiss on Ilya’s neck before rolling out of bed. 

“I have to shower again.” He didn’t look particularly annoyed about it.

“Have fun.” Ilya didn’t move. 

“Ilya.” 

Ilya raised his head to see Shane standing with his hands on his hips and an extremely transparent look on his face. 

He grinned, and pushed himself off the mattress to join Shane in the shower. It was certainly the most dependable method to get him out of bed. 

“You still want to come to the Cape this weekend?” He managed to lather his hair while not ripping his eyes away from Shane for even an instant. 

“Of course.” Shane pretended that he wasn’t aware of every angle of his body, every move he made for Ilya’s enjoyment. “As long as I can sneak away for a bit to get some work done.” 

“Only if you can resist me for that long.”

“Okay, asshole.” 

Ilya just gave Shane a wet kiss in response. 

“It’ll be good to see Svetlana.” 

Ilya hummed, kissing the corner of Shane’s mouth. 

“Is Valeri joining us for dinner?” 

Ilya nodded, his nose brushing Shane’s cheek. Shane finally turned so their mouths met again. 

“I’m gonna be so behind.” But Shane was making no moves to get out of the shower. 

“I think you will still get perfect grades.”

“No thanks to you.” 

That was probably true. But as Ilya closed his eyes and embraced the love of his life, letting the warmth sink into his skin wherever their bodies met so he could return to this moment while Shane was off getting one step closer to his new dream, he couldn’t find it within him to regret any of it. 

Chapter End Notes

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