Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Original Female Character(s), Shane Hollander & Original Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Exploration, Internalized Homophobia, Homophobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Anal Sex, Boys Kissing, 69 (Sex Position), Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Angst and Feels, Fluff and Angst, Smut is late in the game, Sorry if you wanted it sooner we’re here for PLOT, Eventual Smut

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-21 Completed: 2026-06-20 Words: 44,845 Chapters: 13/13

"Do you love me now?"

Summary

Title inspired by the lyric in Season 2 Weight Loss by Harry Styles. Post inspired by a prompt I saw on Twitter from @mcgee_lives. "Tuna melt scene, but it's Shane that whispers Ilya's name, Ilya freaks out and makes Shane leave. Few months later, he's seen dating a model (if she looks like Shane, that's between Ilya and God). They date a little over a year, maybe. Ilya breaks up with her after he hears rumors of Shane dating a man."

May deviate a bit from the prompt. This is my first time ever writing/publishing a fic but the prompt was too fun not to try. Criticism is welcome as long as it won't make me cry!

Chapter 1: You want a piece or nothing at all

“Ilya”

It was barely audible, nothing more than a breathless whisper. Shane was still coming down from the high, still holding onto both himself and the man whose lap he was still straddling. The man, whose first name he has never said out loud before. Shane was frozen, his mind racing with excuses. But before he could react, or brush it off, he opened his own eyes and saw two wide, green ones staring back at him with fear.

Ilya cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, which knocked Shane off balance, forcing him to twist off Ilya’s lap, back onto the couch where moments ago they had been peacefully cuddling and watching the game. Shane vaguely heard the commentators’ voices in the background, but louder still was a strange ringing in his ears. They both were frantically pulling their pants back on. 

Why did he say it? He let his guard down a little too far. It was the damn ginger ale, and the fucking tuna melt. And Ilya’s – no – Rovanov’s soft golden curls brushing against his chin as he looked up at Shane, asking him to stay. So he got overly comfortable. God damn it, he promised himself he wouldn’t do this again! Not after the last time he felt like this, on the elevator back to his hotel room, when he realized how much he craved Ilya’s –NO– Rovanov’s lips on him. How much he relied on their infrequent meetings to keep him going through the season. After that day, Shane vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let himself get attached to the idea of Ilya Rozanov. 

People had casual hookups all the time. He would be chill and let this be what it always had been — casual sex between two people who just needed an outlet. He clung to that facade for the last few years, and he was almost able to pretend that this fucked up arrangement between them was manageable. Another part of his life that he could control. But leave it to Shane to misread a social cue and now he was watching the fruits of all that careful control rot before his eyes. 

And now the silence stretched out between them, and Shane was hyperconscious of the fact that Rozanov hadn’t said his name back to him. 

Why should he? Does Shane seriously believe that just because Rozanov had invited him to stay the night that it meant anything more than what it was? He had said that he “wasn’t done” with him yet, and that was the only reason the invitation was extended. And of course he couldn’t let Shane starve while he was here, so why should it have meant anything when Rozanov had cooked for them?

Shane was terrified to look at the man next to him but curiosity got the better of him. He tilted his head to try to meet Rozanov’s eyes. But they were positioned towards the television, not truly watching what was on the screen but resolutely fixed at one point. Shane felt as though there were ropes being tightened around his stomach, making him feel nauseous. Rozanov started to shake his head, slowly at first and then more vigorously, as if trying to shake the thoughts out of his skull. He was agitated and stood up, starting to pace. 

“Listen, I’m —”, Shane started to say.

Rozanov dragged a hand over his face, sharp, like he was trying to wake himself up.

“We—” he starts, then stopped. He shook his head.

“No. This—”

He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused in it. 

“You should go.”

Shane’s heart clenched. The knots in his belly started to tighten even further as his eyes tracked Rozanov who had begun pacing the room again. 

“I don’t—this is not… ” Rozanov gestured vaguely between them, like the shape of it was obvious but impossible to say out loud.

“I said stay, I shouldn’t have said that. That was—Chyort ”

Another shake of his head. Harder this time.

“Doesn’t matter. Just—forget it, okay?”

Shane’s face started to flush with heat. Rozanov was giving himself too much credit! Shane had done this before. He could tamp down these “feelings”, whatever they meant, back into the small box that he usually kept them in. This didn’t have to mean anything. Unless Rozanov wanted them to mean something. Then maybe Shane could consider letting them. Maybe. 

But clearly that was out of the question because before Shane could even argue his case, Rozanov was cleaning up their plates, stacking them into a neat pile. He bustled into the kitchen where Shane could hear dishes clattering and the sink running. Rozanov walked briskly back into the room and found Shane still sitting on the couch. He looked around and found Shane’s t-shirt which had been haphazardly discarded onto the floor earlier and picked it up, thrusting it into Shane’s face. Shane stared. Rozanov refused to look into Shane’s eyes, his face fixed towards the ground. 

After what feels like an eternity, Shane was able to move his limbs. He lightly took the t-shirt out of Rozanov’s outstretched arm and rose to stand, face to face with him. He was still not making eye contact with him and Shane could feel tears starting to prickle behind his own eyes. Before Rozanov could notice them, Shane turned his head away, making for the front door. He shoved his feet into his sneakers, not caring to pull the backs over his heels. He would regret that later when they were all creased and dug into his ankles. But he couldn’t bring himself to fix it right now.

Before he reached out for the doorknob however, he turned back around. 

Rozanov finally looked up at him from across the entryway. Shane felt as though he was staring at him from across a vast ocean, treacherous and unreachable.

Rozanov muttered something in Russian, his tone almost apologetic. But he didn’t make any movement toward Shane. He looked down sheepishly at his feet.

Shane looked down at his own feet, blinking away tears that were forming even more rapidly than before. He looked up one more time at the Russian man, a single drop falling free from his eyes, and sprinted out the door.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Ilya was cold.

He stood in front of his open fridge, the alarm beeping at him, urging him to get a move on. But he couldn’t move on. He could never move on. That always seemed to be his problem when it came to Shane fucking Hollander.

Hollander. Ilya shivered, but not just from the chill that was escaping from the open door. His eyes were fixed on the box of ginger ale, only one can missing from its neat, tidy rows. But he wasn’t truly looking at the ginger ale. He was replaying the moment in his mind’s eye. 

Hollander’s eyes filled with water, never letting the tears fall. He knew that look well. It was the look that always made him cave. It was the look that Hollander had given him in the bathroom all those years ago at the MLH awards. Ilya knew he was being cruel back then too. He knew he had no right to ask Hollander to keep playing this twisted game with him. Not when he couldn’t give him anything meaningful. And he knew Hollander deserved something meaningful and real. Yet every time he saw those beautiful eyes, framed by a spattering of delicate freckles, Ilya couldn’t help himself. He was selfish. His father had always made sure to remind him of that. So he kissed Shane Hollander in that dirty bathroom and promised to touch him, to make him feel good, to make sure those tears would not fall. 

He should have kissed him this time too. He should have just said his name back. Why didn’t he just say it back? Hollander had said it so softly, so sweetly it made Ilya’s heart seize with longing. But all he could think about was his father’s voice, the one who had been screaming at him in a confused panic minutes prior. And all Ilya could remember was that there was no way he could survive wanting Hollander this badly. This earnest, beautiful man whose face, and body, and voice always betrayed himself for Ilya. 

So Ilya had to save Hollander from him. The only way he knew how. By the time Hollander had made it to the door, the guilt had already begun to eat away at Ilya. And as Hollander took one more look at him, Ilya felt a dam open in his chest.

“You could have so much better than me”, he murmured in Russian.

Hollander, of course, did not understand him and hurried out the door, leaving Ilya to deal with the ginger ale.

The fridge beeped at him again, finally succeeding in snapping Ilya out of his reverie. He hauled the box out of the fridge with one hand and shoved the whole thing into a garbage bag. Then he went up to bed, despite it being barely past noon.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Shane braced himself to enter back into the hotel room. He had attempted taking a few laps around the hotel to pull himself together, but with every step he took all he could hear was his own voice whispering “Ilya”, “Ilya”, “Ilya”. What an idiot.

He knew he probably looked like a mess and Hayden would notice. He tried to come up with a story but nothing seemed convincing enough so he was just hoping that he could sneak into the bathroom to clean himself up before Hayden noticed him. Shane took a deep breath and fixed his face into something more neutral and passive, tapped his key card onto the doorknob handle and saw Hayden sitting on his bed, directly facing the door. Well, there was no avoiding his gaze now.

“Hey bud— woah you alright?” So much for neutral and passive. Shane stood awkwardly in the doorway trying and failing again to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he looked like shit.

“Did something happen with Lily?” Hayden asked.

Shane wracked his brains for an excuse but nothing was coming up. Dejectedly, he nodded once.

Hayden sat up and swung his legs around the bed, bounding over to Shane. Wrapping him in an embrace, awkwardly patting Shane’s back. 

“I’m sorry buddy, that really sucks. There’s gotta be a way you can fix it.”

Shane shook his head softly. “No. No. There’s no fixing it. I don’t–” He looked into Hayden’s eyes, filled with concern.

“I don’t think I should fix it, even if I could.”

Hayden blinked at him. “Are you sure? I know you liked her.”

Shane nodded again, more feverishly than before, pressing his eyes closed so as not to let Hayden see the tears threatening to form again.

“It just, it was never going to work out.” Shane said, opening his eyes again.

“Well, good for you for moving on then. Fuck her. Or— no don’t fuck her. Opposite of what you should be doing. Forget her! You’re Shane fucking Hollander! There are chicks lining up to be with you.”

“Don’t say chicks, Hayden.”

“Well it’s true! Trust me you’re going to forget all about this Lily in a few weeks. We are going out every night until we get back to Montreal and we’re going to find you a totally hot babe and Lily will be history!”

Shane didn’t feel like doing any of that. At all. But he couldn’t help but crack a smile at how Hayden was trying to cheer him up, so he just said,

“Yeah, for sure. Thanks Hayd.”

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — —One Month Later — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Shane was tired of being dragged around from party to party by Hayden and JJ. Most of the time he sat in a corner nursing a ginger ale, while his friends tried to get him to interact with various women. He knew they meant well and that they were just trying to help him move on. So when JJ invited him to yet another party, this time at his friend’s restaurant, he let himself be taken.

“Shane Hollander”

Shane whipped his head around and found bright blue eyes staring intently back at him. The person’s hand was outstretched, waiting for Shane to shake it.

“Rose Landry, I’m a big fan.”

“I— Wow, hi, I’m a big fan too. It’s nice to meet you.”

The rest of the night passed easily. For once since Boston, Shane found himself able to relax. Rose was easy to talk to. She didn’t push, or pry. She just let him meet her where he was. Maybe this was what he needed. Someone who was actually here with him, real. Not someone who could only give him a couple stolen hours in between hotel checkouts and flights. Maybe this was the answer. He could choose the easier thing, the correct thing. He always knew he would end up with a woman in the end. It’s what was expected of him. Maybe he could let Rozanov just be a blip in his otherwise perfect life. So he let himself be swept up in the wake of Rose’s warm, inviting presence.

They kept their relationship quiet. Shane told her, vaguely, that he needed to take things slow. And Rose hadn’t questioned it, just nodded like she understood more than what he said out loud. 

They fell into an easy rhythm. They spent their evenings together, after Rose was done shooting, at quiet restaurants around Montreal. It was soft, simple, filled with laughter and lightness. It should have been something that worked. Which was why, on their third night out that week, Shane reached across the table and took her hand.

“Do you want to come back with me for a drink?”

Rose’s face lit up softly. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

It was—

Shane pressed his face into the pillow to stop himself from groaning.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Hey,” Rose’s voice was gentle and kind as ever. “It’s okay.”

He nodded once, still not looking at her. Maybe it was okay. He could make this work, he was just nervous and tired.

The problem was that it happened again later that week. And then a third time the week after.

It was horrible. And awkward. And embarrassing. God what the hell was wrong with him? Shane stared at the ceiling in silent horror, while Rose’s sleeping body lay next to him. She was absolutely perfect. Beautiful, funny, kind. Patient in a way he felt like he didn’t deserve. 

But he just felt nothing towards her. Worse than nothing. He felt like he failed. Yet again. Was he that messed up? Could he only perform if he knew that he could never have the person he was having sex with in their entirety? That pleasure could only be possible for him if it were mixed with complete agony? Or maybe…

Maybe it was that other thing, finally rearing its head. The thing Shane had been ignoring this whole time. The reality that maybe there was no perfect woman for him. That maybe a woman wasn’t the answer at all. He told himself that the situation with Rozanov was a one off, that he just liked sleeping with him because of the danger of it all. One day he would meet the right girl and all of that would melt away. But the right girl was here and Shane still couldn’t stop wishing for something else.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

“Hey. This is starting to feel like I might be on a date by myself”

They were sitting at the back of another restaurant together. The soft candle light illuminated both their faces.

Rose’s hand landed lightly on his hand, which was resting on the table between them. He flinched before he could stop himself. Her hand stilled. Then slowly pulled back.

Shane swallowed. 

“Rose, I’m—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was soft, but firm. “Don’t apologize.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, more to himself than to her. “You’re—this should—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening. Rose didn’t fill the silence right away. She just watched him, like she was waiting for him to finish the thought, but Shane just continued to stare into his lap. Rose traced the rim of her glass, watching him carefully. Finally she decided to prompt him.

“We both know this isn’t working. I wish things were different, but I just don’t think we should keep trying.”

Shane felt frozen. He couldn’t meet her eyes or come up with anything else to say.

“Can you just be honest with me?” She asked. He nodded once.

“I know you wanted to take things slow, and I had a feeling it was because you were getting over someone else,” she said. It wasn’t accusatory but Shane’s still fingers curled slightly against the table.

“That’s not—” Rose shot him a pointed look. He had promised to be honest.

”You’re wonderful, Rose. I like talking with you, I like being with you. It’s just—“ He took another breath.

”It was complicated,” he said finally. 

“Yeah,” Rose said. “When isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter, that’s over now and it was my fault. I’m just sorry I messed this up too.”

“It does matter if it’s affecting you. And you didn’t mess this up. We just don’t fit. I think you know that.”

Shane exhaled loudly, rubbing at his eyes which were threatening tears.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Rose said. “But you do have to stop pretending.”

His throat tightened.

“I’m not pretending.”

Rose didn’t argue this time and that was what did it for Shane. Because if she had pushed, he could have pushed back. If she had told him what he was, he could have denied it. But she just… let it sit there.

“Like I said, it was complicated,” Shane said quietly. “With this person, with this—”

Shane met her eyes and he knew that he had to just say it.

“With this guy.”

Rose didn’t react.

“I thought it was just—circumstance,” he continued. “Or… I don’t know. The situation. The fact that it couldn’t be anything real, was what made it exciting. But I think—”

His voice faltered.

“This need… for something else… it’s not going away.”

The words felt heavier once they were out. More permanent. Rose’s thumb brushed lightly against his hand.

“Yeah,” she said softly.

Shane let out a breath that felt like it had been stuck in his chest for months.

“I think—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I think I’ve been lying to myself.”

Rose’s expression softened.

“Most people do, welcome to the club.” she said.

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“But I do think it’s time you let yourself find something real.”

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Maybe if the call had come before his talk with Rose it would have gone differently. But Shane was resolute, sitting on his couch after his night out with Rose. She was right, he had punished himself for too long. He had to let go of this sick twisted thing between him and Rozanov. He had finally come to terms with what he wanted. He knew that trying to fit into the box that the MLH, the fans, even his parents probably expected of him wasn’t going to make him happy. Shane was determined to go after what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let old patterns catch up to him.

That was when his phone lit up. Lily.

He stared for a good while at the illuminated screen. He stared so long that the screen went dark and then lit up again, showing a missed call.

It must have been a mistake. Rozanov had made it very clear what their relationship was to each other, and they never called each other, even before Boston. But if it was a mistake, why had his phone lit up with the name “Lily” again?

His thumb hovered over the screen, his chest tightening. He could just let it ring. He should let it ring.

“Sha— Hollander? Hollander are you there?”

Shane made a soft “Mmm” sound into the microphone.

“Hollander. Hollander, I—” Rozanov took a deep breath on the other line. His words were slurring, Shane knew he was drunk.

“I was thinking—no, not thinking—I —this is not—”

A breath.

“I made a mistake I— I shouldn’t have kicked you out. I’m bad host.” He paused.

“Actually I am very good host. You know I bought all that for you? The ginger ale, and the tuna—” he hiccupped. “The tuna melts. I wanted you to stay. I had whole plan. I wanted you to sleep over. I want—”

This fucking asshole. Shane took a breath, about to jump in.

“We can just—” Ilya said quickly.

 “We don’t have to make this… bigger than it is. We just—”

He trailed off.

Shane felt something in his chest snap.

“Rozanov. I don’t care what you want anymore.” Shane’s face was hot. And it was getting hotter by the second. The audacity of this man. Of course this annoying ass Russian man was going to ruin his night. The night he finally returned back to himself. It was as if Rozanov had a radar for when Shane was starting to pick up the pieces of himself. Knew when to swoop in and throw his whole world off its axis again.

“No Hollander I know. I know I don’t deserve— but that’s why I did it. Because I don’t deserve— And you are just so— and I don’t want to ruin it. So I ruin it yes?”

“Yes, you don’t deserve. For years we’ve played by your rules. Years. And I told myself I could deal with it. Because I didn’t think I would be able to find this anywhere else. But that’s not true. I’m done being scared of what this thing between us means. I’m going to find what it is I want and you will not get in the way.”

There was silence on the other end of the call. Shane steeled himself and finally said the words.

“Ilya,” he said, steadying his breath.

“I’m gay.”

Silence again, and then stifled laughter.

“Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”

“Fuck you, Rozanov. I mean you asked me that day, if I like girls. So I’m telling you now. I just confirmed that I definitely do not. So how about you?”

“How about me?”

“Are you going to say what you’ve been hiding too?”

“Hiding? I’m not—Hollander, what are you talking about?”

Shane took a deep breath. 

“I know it’s different for you. That your circumstances are different. But if you can’t be honest with me about this, admit to me that things have changed between us. Then I can’t keep doing this.”

“I— Hollander. You know I can’t—”

“I know. Goodbye, Ilya.”

“No wait, Sha—”

Shane didn’t hear the rest of Ilya’s protests. He threw his phone onto the couch and exhaled loudly. His hands were buzzing, his chest still tight. He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing. The room felt different. Not lighter. Just… quieter.

Chapter 2: Too many things for you to analyze

Chapter Summary

Very Ilya centric chapter today! Ilya reflects on his drunken phone call to Shane and resolves to keep it pushing, running away as he tends to do. That is until he meets Nora Aldrich, a beautiful model, who rescues him from a sticky situation and feels familiar to him in a way he can't quite put his finger on...

A heated voice speaking rapid Russian was echoing around the almost empty Boston house.

“No Papa, I am not ignoring you. I was just not home last night, I only saw your call this morning. No— I’m sorry it is just very early here— Here. In Boston. Remember, Papa, I am not in Moscow right now. I will be back in a couple months.”

Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was killing him from the night before. He shouldn’t have let Marleau convince him to go out last night. Now he was nursing a raging hangover, trying to manage his father’s emotions through the phone. The sound of his grating voice increased the intensity of the thumping in Ilya’s temples.

“Papa, I am going to text Alexei. He should already be there to help you. Papa please, just give me a few minutes.”

He hung up on his father and pulled up his messages.

He typed furiously.

“Alexei, we cannot keep doing this. Don’t expect my payments if you can’t get your shit together enough to be with Papa a few hours a night. You know he is the worst before he goes to bed. He will not stop calling me. Get your coked out ass over there now!!”

He hits send and flings his body back onto his pillow. 

"Gryobany ublyudok!”

He fidgeted absently at the crucifix around his neck, trying to let the smooth, familiar edges ground him back to his body. His body— here, physically in Boston— but so consumed by the daily minutia back in his homeland. He glanced at his phone, whose screen was still glowing blue against the darkness of his bedroom. It was still open on his messages app and he couldn't help but scroll down to Jane’s name. 

There hadn’t been anything sent between them since their last game. The last message from Jane read, “Be there in 15”.

Based on just that text, it would seem impossible that anything significant happened that day. In the last couple months since that fateful day, Ilya was finally able to admit that what had happened between him and Hollander had indeed been significant. 

How could it not have been? He had let himself make plans for that day. Stupid, domestic, embarrassing plans. The kind a person makes when they forget to be careful. The kind someone with a sick father and incompetent brother should not ever dare to make with his arch rival fuck buddy.

But for Hollander to demand that he say it out loud?

“Are you going to say what you’ve been hiding too?”

It was an unreasonable demand. Hollander didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. He thought this was something simple he could ask of Ilya. Something you could just speak into the universe and make real. But Ilya knew better.

Why did he always push Ilya like this? The sex— he could navigate, but Hollander always had a way of forcing Ilya to take a hard look at himself. At the mountain of emotion that was always accumulating in his chest. Didn’t he understand that if he kept pushing Ilya, that there would be a catastrophic avalanche and Ilya wasn’t sure he’d be able to protect Hollander from it? There were already too many things in his life that depended on him not falling apart. Hollander didn’t get to be another one.

But last night, with his sixth or seventh shot sliding easily down his throat, he couldn’t help but to recall the feeling of Hollander’s thighs wrapped tightly around his waist, as his taut muscles clenched with every motion of his hips. Of the sound of quiet, wanting moans being exhaled into Ilya’s ear. Of soft lips brushing against the moles on Ilya’s chest. His alcohol addled brain rationalized that he could smooth this over, that this didn’t have to be the end. 

And soon his phone was against his face with the dial tone ringing in his ear and he was babbling incoherent excuses into the speaker.

Ilya groaned, remembering the sharpness in Hollander’s voice. The finality. 

“Goodbye, Ilya.”

That was probably the last time he would ever hear Shane say his first name. He wished he hadn’t called. It was stupid and selfish, just like Ilya always was. But more than that, if he hadn’t called, maybe he could have let the last time be the one on his couch.

Soft. Careless.

Real.

Anyways, there was no point dwelling on it. Hollander had made his conditions clear.

What was done was done. Ilya had destroyed yet another beautiful thing. So he did what he always did in the wake of his destruction— and decided it would be better to throw his frustrations with himself into practice.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

It was like any charity function that Ilya was required to attend with his team. Ilya liked coming to these things. It wasn’t about the opulence of it, or the fancy food, and endless drinks. And it definitely wasn’t the part where he had to schmooz up to the stakeholders in an effort to get them to donate. He always found those conversations difficult. Rich Americans seemed to speak a version of English that only they could understand. With strange phrases and subtle manipulation that made Ilya feel like he had to navigate a minefield to get them to open their wallets. But he liked the fact that he was being useful, that just his mere presence was allowing for some good in the world. And lately he had been feeling like his presence was always doing more harm than good.

He was in the middle of a conversation with yet another donor. He could tell he was trying to get something out of Ilya, maybe a partnership or brand deal? He knew he shouldn’t agree to anything without his agent there but the man just kept throwing words at him like quid pro quo, leveraging your platform, mutual optics, synergistic brand alignment. Ilya was sure that the last one didn’t even mean anything.

“So, Mr. Rozanov, what do you say? Do you think we could draw up an agreement together?”

Ilya blinked at the man, trying to piece together exactly what this man was trying to get him to do.

Suddenly, a woman appeared by his side. Her long dark hair fell in a curtain on her back. Her fingers were delicately wrapped around a champagne flute. She looked at the donor with a sort of sharp intensity, not unkind or harsh, but enough so that the donor faltered. 

“Ah Mr. Davis, trying to enlist yet another player to your cause? Is this really the appropriate environment to be recruiting? Tonight should be about the children after all.”

“Yes. Yes. You are right Miss. Aldridge.”

“And you know any good partnership conversation would need to go through proper channels. You know, just to ensure full alignment on deliverables and brand integrity before anything moves to the agreement stage. You understand how it is.”

“Oh, well of course. And may I say you look lovely tonight. I should—” The man trailed off and bustled away with his tail between his legs.

“He tried to pull one over on me a couple years ago when I first started modeling. The contract was all over the place, you don’t want to get involved with someone like him, trust me."

She extended her hand gently towards Ilya, "I’m Nora, by the way.”

Ilya took her hand into his. Soft, warm, inviting.

She looked up at him as their hands met. She didn’t use the same hard look she used for Mr. Davis. It was softer, more curious.

“You did not need to do that”

He hated the fact that after all these years he still struggled with his English. He was tired of needing to have people help him through conversations. He vaguely recalled another similar incident. Cameras in his face, a long wordy question, a tap of a foot under a table. He lightly shook his head to push the memory away.

“It was no problem, really.” She smiled at him lightly.

"No I mean—" he glanced in the direction Davis had disappeared. "You enjoyed that a little too much I think."

The woman smiled, but didn’t deny it.

"Maybe a little."

She was quite beautiful. Almost doll-like, with soft, dark brown eyes, pouty lips and a slight tan. He studied her face a little closer. Maybe he was imagining it, but Ilya could see the trace of a few stray freckles underneath her airbrushed foundation. He looked away quickly, not letting himself dwell on that for too long.

He was used to gorgeous women approaching him. But something about this woman seemed different, maybe even comforting and familiar. She had a quiet confidence in the way she stood, her back straight and her eyes, still studying Ilya.

“Maybe I can thank you by getting you another glass of champagne.”

“Thank you Mr. Rozanov, I would like that.”

“Please, call me Ilya.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — —Two Months Later — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Hmm?”

Nora had her fingers tangled in Ilya’s curls, while his head rested on her stomach. He had been mentally calculating how much to send to Alexei for the month. His father’s health was deteriorating rapidly, more rapidly than before. He had been in and out of the hospital for the last couple weeks. Ilya was constantly on edge, the soft buzz of his phone always sending a bolt of panic rushing through his body.

“I said Sveta wants to go shopping tomorrow. Do you want to come with us?”

Ilya tried to ground himself back into the present moment, failing miserably. He mustered up enough presence of mind to mumble out a response. 

“You just want me to come so that I will buy everything for you two.”

“Well I won’t demand it of you but Sveta might.” She giggled.

Ilya rolled his eyes but replied, “Yes, that sounds nice.”

She beamed down at him and Ilya weakly returned her smile. He looked back down at his hands and got lost in his thoughts again.

Nora had been a comfort to Ilya these past couple months. She was a model in New York but grew up in the Boston area. Since the charity gala, she had decided to spend some more time with her family while she was in between marketing campaigns. She insisted that Ilya had nothing to do with her decision, but Ilya was glad for the company.

It had been refreshing to be with someone who didn’t yet know the worst of Ilya. 

In the beginning, Ilya had hopes that maybe this time he could get things right. Nora was genuine and self-assured, so very much unlike him. And she was here. This was not something he had to chase fleeting moments of, behind the closed doors of hotel rooms. They could just be together. And for whatever reason, she wanted that too. So Ilya tried for her.

He showed her the best version of himself he knew how to be. Took her to dinners. Bought her dresses and jewelry so she could accompany him to more team events. Learned the details of her life—her family, her plans, the way she spoke about the future like it was something she could build with her own hands, a concept that felt far out of reach for him.

And it wasn't as though he didn't care for her. He did. He was sure of it. She made him laugh in a way that surprised him sometimes, caught him off guard when he had forgotten to be guarded. He liked the way she moved through his apartment like she belonged there without ever demanding that she did. He liked that she was good and honest and asked nothing of him that he couldn't give. 

He told himself that was enough. That caring for someone, showing up for someone, was what love looked like in practice. That the quiet comfort of her presence was not a consolation prize but the real thing. He had convinced himself of this almost completely.

Almost.

But there was a shift a couple weeks ago. They were spending a night in, with takeout boxes scattered on the coffe table.

“You haven’t told me anything about your family. What was it like growing up in Russia?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. He averted his gaze from Nora’s curious eyes. 

“Family is fine. Normal. Nothing special.”

“Do you visit them often?”

“Just in the summers.”

“Hmm, I’d like to meet them one day. Maybe I can come visit you this summer”

“No.” he snapped quickly.

“Umm— no. I think maybe not a good idea. We can plan to do something else together okay? Maybe I take you on trip? We can go somewhere… what is word? When it is near ocean, warm?”

“Tropical?”

“Yes I take you somewhere tropical. See you in hot bikini, yes?” He put on his best version of a devilish smile, hoping Nora wouldn’t notice his breath still settling from his moment of panic.

Since then, Nora hadn’t pried again. But she knew that she had maybe touched on a sore spot.

Now, he often avoided her eyes when he sat back on the couch or bed with her, after quiet, tense conversations in Russian in the other room. And he tried not to dwell on the way she cocked her head slightly, brow furrowed as she watched Ilya shoot off messages, throwing his phone to the side, with a touch more aggression than necessary. 

Ilya thought Nora would eventually broach the topic again. That there would be an eventually. In which maybe she thought Ilya might hand her the full picture and trust her to hold it carefully.

What she didn't know was what he was capable of. What cruelty he could throw into someone’s face when he feared they caught a glimpse of how truly weak he was on the inside. Or seen what happened when Ilya decided something was too important to risk. When he looked at something real and good and decided the kindest thing he could do for everyone involved was to dismantle it before it had the chance to dismantle him. 

She hadn't watched him do it. Didn’t know how quickly he could make tears form in someone’s eyes. He had learned from the best, after all. He had a catalogue of words and phrases bestowed upon him as inheritance from his father, specifically designed to never allow another person see inside of him. 

She didn't know how efficient he was at it. How practiced.

She could never know that there was someone out there who had been made to witness all this. Someone who had seen exactly what Ilya was capable of and despite it all, had looked at him like Nora looked at him now. With tenderness. That was, until Ilya had made absolutely sure he never would look at him like that again.

He stayed with that thought for exactly as long as he could stand it. Which wasn't very long at all.

Then he did what he always did. He shoved it down and put it somewhere dark and out of the way. Just as he had been doing his whole life.

He shifted slightly against her, sinking into the familiar weight of her fingers in his hair, bringing her other hand up to his lips and kissing it softly.

Tomorrow, he would take her and Sveta shopping. He would take care of her and make sure she never had to bear witness to the darkness that he held inside his chest. He would answer Alexei’s calls in another room. He would keep everything exactly where it belonged.

He was very good at that.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Shane stared at the picture of the couple on his phone. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Rozanov’s fingers draped gently on her waist, an unreadable expression on his face as they posed for the camera. He couldn’t help but notice that she had dark hair, which was in a delicate up do and brown eyes, a lighter brown than his own, but brown nonetheless. He pushed the half-form comparison from his mind. It didn’t do him any good anyways. 

He thought he should maybe feel more jealous, feel more possessive. But instead he felt like he was looking at a stranger. He looked at the hands wrapped around the woman’s waist again. He faintly recalled how those hands used to cup his chest, caress his face. How the eyes looking into the camera used to scrunch with concentration as he focused on taking Shane apart, watching him with wonder as he succeeded in doing so. Those memories felt so far removed from the individual on his screen now.

But he knew now what the cost of having those hands on him were. What he would have to erase within himself to be able to feel that pleasure again and Shane could not bring himself to do it. 

Maybe this woman was able to do what Shane had been unable to do. Maybe she got a version of Ilya Rozanov that Shane never could, the one that he had craved for so long. 

But he doubted it. Rozanov would always find a way to keep moving forward, running from reality, into the next person’s arms. Shane’s problem was that while Rozanov was running, Shane had stood in place waiting for Rozanov to come find him again. After their phone call, he knew that standing still was no longer an option.

No, this was for the best. It was time to go find himself instead. Shane put his phone face down on the nightstand and instead picked up a book, hoping to redirect his mind towards something more productive.

Chapter 3: You're steaming in, swinging with your eyes closed

Chapter Summary

Shane takes a big step with his parents, finding relief in owning his truth. Ilya continues to run from himself, until he's forced to confront the worst of the worst.

Sorry for the delay, bit of a shorter chapter but didn't want to overwhelm since our boys are going through a lot right now!

— — — — — — — —  —  — — — — One Week Later— — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Shane’s knuckles were white, clutching at the steering wheel in front of him, as if he were in the middle of a high speed pursuit. Shane felt like he was in a high speed pursuit, being chased, hunted. His heart was in his throat, stomach churning, palms moist with sweat. But he was not being chased. His car was not even moving. It was parked in front of his parents house, as it often was on Sundays, when he would come up to Ottawa for dinner.

 

This Sunday was different from past ones. This was the day Shane would finally come out to his parents. He wasn’t sure what finally made him ready. Yes, finding out that a certain Russian center had a new girlfriend may have affected his mindset about his relationship with his sexuality. But it was more than that.

 

It had been a little over two months since his dinner with Rose, where he was finally able to reckon with the fact that he would never be attracted to women in that way. And in being able to admit that fact to himself, he felt like a small weight had been lifted off his shoulders. One he had always been peripherally aware of, but once it was removed he found that he could stand a little taller, walk more confidently. As he had time to adjust to his new posture, he found he wanted to share this new version of himself with the two people he loved most in the world.

 

But that didn’t mean Shane came to the decision lightly. He had a plan. He always did. He would sit them down after dinner, when the table was cleared and everyone was comfortable. He would tell them clearly, no dancing around it. He was gay. He had known for a while. He was okay. More than okay actually. He just needed them to know.

 

What came after that was less clear. When he had planned out this day, he often had to force himself to not imagine the worst case scenario. His mother was crying, maybe even his usually stoic father. Their opinion of him changed, disappointment written all over their faces as the plans the three of them had so carefully created together slipped through their fingers with his words. None of those thoughts were helpful to him. And he knew he had to do this. There was no way Shane would fully be able to be himself without his parents’ support.

 

So he would say the thing and then he would let his parents be his parents. He was trying to trust that would be enough.

 

Shane took a deep, steadying breath. He rubbed his hands onto his shorts, in an attempt to dispel the moisture on his palms, and slowly walked up the steps towards the door of his childhood home.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Dinner was rather uneventful but Shane couldn’t stop shaking his leg underneath the table. As his mother cleared away their plates and continued her recap of a conversation she had had with Rolex that morning regarding a new campaign, he tried to breath slowly so his heart would stop pounding so violently in his chest. She came back with a bottle and refilled her glass of wine.

 

“So anyways, all of that to say we’re going to set something up for next week so keep your evenings free after practice, okay sweetie?”

 

“Yeah, for sure mom. So— umm— I have something to tell you guys.”

 

They both looked up at him mildly.

 

“Umm— I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while— I mean, not a while. It’s only been a week since— well no, more than a week since I knew. Well not knew, I knew but since I really knew. But since I knew I wanted to tell you it’s only been a week. And I just—”

 

He could tell his parents were trying hard to follow his ramblings, and the longer he fumbled the more concerned their faces grew. This was not part of the plan. He needed to stick to the plan. He took one more breath.

 

“Mom, dad. I’m gay.”

 

A silence. Not malicious. Not horrified. Just silent. And the fact that Shane couldn’t read what the silence meant, made him panic.

 

“But, it’s okay I promise! I’m still me. And I know you worked so hard on this new campaign with Rolex, mom. And I know this makes things more difficult. And I don’t want this to be difficult, or for things to change. But I just needed to tell you both and—”

 

Shane’s mom gently put up a hand, a motion that put a stop to his babbling.

 

“Honey, I frankly do not give a shit about Rolex right now.”

 

His heart seized. Oh god, was she angry? Was she angry with him? Did the plan not work? Should he maybe have waited a little longer, until she had one more glass of wine. Or maybe he said it too plainly. He knew he should have had a longer speech prepared.

 

“Shane, son,” His father started, “We just want to know if you’re okay.”

 

Shane’s lip trembled, and his mom reached out a hand and placed it gingerly on top of his.

 

“Oh, sweetheart. Baby, thank you so much for telling us. You are so brave, and so strong. And we love you so much. You have to know. You’ve got to know that— nothing…” her voice broke.

 

“Nothing could ever change how much we love you.” His dad finished for her.

 

Shane looked down, desperately trying to blink away his tears. His breath shook as he exhaled. He felt the weight of his dad’s hand land on top of his other hand. And that did it for Shane. He couldn’t hold back anymore and took a sharp, shuddering inhale as the tears finally fell.

 

“Oh baby.”

 

Shane didn’t even get time to process the scraping of the chair across the floor before he felt his mother’s arms wrapping him in a tight embrace.

 

“You know I tried. Doing the whole dating-girls thing. But I just— I couldn’t do it. And I know this isn’t what you probably expected.”

 

“Shane, sweetheart, look at me.”

 

Shane kept his head down, trying in vain to stop the flow of tears falling from his face. His mother gently grabbed his chin and tilted it up towards her, so that he was forced to meet her gaze.

 

“I’m so sorry that you thought you had to do that. I’m sorry you felt as though you couldn’t tell us. We don’t care who you end up with. We just want you to be happy. That’s all we’ve ever wanted for you. I know that I— I push you. But if I ever, for a second, knew that you were in this much pain, I would have burned every campaign and every contract without a second thought. We can still do that. If you want.”

 

Shane shook his head.

 

“No. You’re not wrong. This is what I wanted. I don’t want anything to change. I just— needed to stop lying to myself. Lying to you two.”

 

His father squeezed his hand tightly.

 

“You weren’t lying kiddo. You just weren’t ready. And now that you are, we are so happy you wanted to share it with us.”

 

Shane met his father’s eyes and gave him a small smile. And they all stood there like that for a moment, his father’s hand still resting on his own, his mother gripping his shoulders, stabilizing him. He took in one more shuddering breath and released it slowly.

 

His mother gave his shoulders one last squeeze and removed her hands slowly, giving him a small smile. She walked back around the table and slowly sat back down, reaching for her wine glass and taking a measured sip, the way she did when she was collecting herself. Shane watched her set it back down very carefully, aligning it precisely with the ring it had left on the tablecloth. She looked up at him with eyes that were still slightly wet., but she blinked them away quickly

 

“Well how do you want to do this then?” 

 

This version of his mother he knew well and he smiled lightly at the familiarity of the rise in her voice as she started working on a new plan.

 

“I don’t want to say anything. At least not yet. I don’t want to suddenly… be the brand ambassador for… you know. Being… gay. I just want to keep playing hockey, for as long as I can.”

 

She took a pause, as if she were trying to piece together the best way to frame her next question.

 

“But what if you meet someone?”

 

“We can cross that bridge when we get there.”

 

Another pause.

 

"So…" A small breath. "Is there anyone… special?"

 

Shane looked away and recalled, very briefly, the smell of tobacco, the glint of a crucifix reflecting off of the light of a dimly lit room. 

 

“No. No. Not right now”

 

“Hmm.” His mother paused.

 

She looked at him for a moment in the way she sometimes did when she knew there was more to a story than what he was telling her. Shane held her gaze carefully, giving nothing away. She looked like she wanted to ask more questions but his father shot her a small glance and she pursed her lips.

 

“Okay sweetheart, we will do this however you want. For now we’ll continue on, business as usual. But the second you meet a nice man you tell me and we will figure it out. Together.”

 

Shane smiled at that. 

 

“Okay mom, I will.”

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Ilya was sprawled out on Nora’s couch, enjoying the end of a surprisingly good weekend. Actually, it had been a surprisingly good few weeks, and Ilya’s body could feel the difference. His shoulders weren’t as tense as they normally were. His chest, which was usually bursting with pressure, had felt like someone had let the air out of it. His hands, which were always primed to grab his phone at a moment’s notice, were resting carelessly above his head.

 

His father had been doing better. The doctors back in Russia had started him on a new clinical trial and it seemed to be taking well. Alexei’s panicked calls came less frequently, and it seemed like he had actually started showing up to their father’s apartment without Ilya having to prompt him everyday. 

 

His father seemed calmer too, less likely to fly into a rage when he spoke with Ilya. Ilya had actually started enjoying speaking with his father on the phone now. It seemed that he didn’t really know who Ilya was, just knew that he was someone he kept in contact with often. He talked to Ilya as if he were an old buddy from the police academy, casual, charming even. Ilya started to understand why people were so drawn to his father. His cruel demeanor was reserved only for those he allegedly loved. To others, he was charismatic, funny and engaging. It hurt Ilya to know that his father was always capable of this, but chose to treat Ilya the way he did. With icyness, with force, with fear. To push Ilya to be better, to force Ilya to perform greatness for him and the family name. He hated that he saw this nature in himself, how he could be so harsh to the ones he cared for, but seemed so able to manage a crowd of strangers and have them eating from the palm of his hand.

Nora came around the corner with a bowl of chips, tapping Ilya’s legs to signal him to lift them, which he obliged. She sat down on the couch with him and pulled his feet back down onto her lap. At least he could feel better about the fact that Nora didn't see the cruelest parts of himself. And maybe, if someone so good and honest and true could look at him the way she did, he had a shot at happiness too.

 

He eyed the chip bowl for a moment and before Nora could react, sat up quickly and shoved his hand into the bowl, scoring a handful of chips. Nora jerked the bowl away and feigned annoyance, pouting slightly.

 

“Hey! I asked you if you wanted some and you said no, these are mine!”

 

“Yeah but they taste better when I know I had to win them from you.” He grinned smugly, throwing a chip into his mouth. He sat up again and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

 

Nora rolled her eyes and threw a chip at him. But she also couldn't stifle the smirk forming on her lips.

 

Things were going well for Ilya, but he wasn’t naive enough to think it would last. If there was one thing Ilya knew for certain, in life the other shoe would always drop. The clinical trial would only help for so long and eventually Alexei would get tired of playing the dutiful son and go back to his old ways. But for now, Ilya could enjoy this sweet slice of domesticity he had cut for himself and his girlfriend. 

 

Ilya let his body sink further into the couch. Let himself enjoy the feeling of Nora’s arms resting atop his feet. He chuckled softly as she complained loudly about the two reality stars arguing on the tv screen.

 

“Oh my god, why can’t they just learn how to communicate? This is ridiculous!”

 

Yes, it was all going well. So of course, it was at that moment, that Ilya’s phone rang.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

“Ilya, I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I just came to check on him tonight and he wasn’t breathing. They don’t know what caused it. He’s just. Gone.”

 

Ilya was silent on the other side of the phone. He felt as if he were outside of his body. Like his body should still be on the couch with Nora, watching bad reality TV. But he wasn’t on the couch. He was standing in the doorway of the living room. He normally would have waited to take the call once he was securely in the next room but it was as if his subconscious knew this would be the call. And the selfish part of himself needed someone to witness it. Even if he didn’t deserve her comfort, he needed Nora to know something was wrong. And the fact that he could feel her eyes staring into his back seemed to keep him rigid, unmoving. He could not fall apart in front of her. And as long as he stood here, he would not. 

 

Alexei was still babbling on the other side of the phone. Ilya vaguely heard something about the funeral being in a couple days. How Ilya would need to catch the next flight home. Ilya tried to lift his feet but they felt like lead weights. He knew the second he tried to leave this spot he would have to confront the reality that his father had died.

 

His father had died.

 

Suddenly, he felt two hands on his back. He jumped at the contact.

 

“Ilya?”

 

He couldn’t open his mouth to respond. He had to stay perfectly still. He wasn’t ready to jump into action just yet. He couldn’t face her until he had control over his emotions. Until he could control the way his blood was rushing into his ears and stop his vision from fading in and out of focus. He tried to use the pressure from Nora’s hands to center him. He hated that it was working. That he had to use her to calm himself down. He should be able to do that on his own. He could do this on his own. He just had to focus

 

Luckily, Alexei’s voice was still rattling on, demanding his attention. Yes, he had to get a move on.

 

“Ok Alexei, yes. I will let you know what time I will be getting into Moscow. Yes, send me all the details, I will coordinate with the funeral home.”

 

He finally hung up the phone and braced himself to face Nora. He slowly turned around with his head down. He inhaled once and finally lifted his gaze to meet her eyes.

 

Her brows were knit together. The light freckles on her nose, distorted by the concern that was spread across her face. He felt something in his stomach twist.

 

“I have to go back home. To Moscow. My father. He— He was sick. Very sick. And he is dead now.”

 

It was the first time he said the words out loud. They felt strange in his mouth, as if someone else had spoken them.

 

“Ilya— I— Why didn’t you— Well I’m coming with you, obviously.”

 

“No.” He said it sharply, which made Nora flinch slightly.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t go alone. It’s not a problem I can just—”

 

“No, Nora. You cannot come with me. This is not your problem. I have to do this alone.”

“Not my problem? Ilya you’re my— this is definitely my problem.”

 

“No, I can’t do this. I can’t let you— I’m going to go. I have to pack and get to the airport.”

 

He kissed her on the cheek before she could protest any further, grabbing his T-shirt, wallet and keys and sprinting out the door. 

 

Slamming the car door, his white knuckles gripped onto the steering wheel and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment to quell the stinging in his eyes. Then turned on the ignition and back out of the driveway.

Chapter 4: It's hard to tell when the thoughts are my own

Chapter Summary

Ilya flies back to Russia for his father's funeral, determined to handle this on his own. But someone throws off his carefully laid plans, forcing him to confront himself.

Shane hears about Ilya's father passing and decides if he should reach out.

Ilya stood by the window, staring without blinking out into the square that his Moscow apartment faced. His thumb traced the rough ridges of the crystal glass in his hand as he ran through his mental checklist again. 

 

He spoke to the florist for longer than he expected. His father would have wanted white flowers and only white flowers, anything else would have been vulgar, beneath the family name. But he also would have wanted them everywhere. Lining every pew, banked around the casket, crowding the entrance so that no one who came to pay their respects could mistake the magnitude of the man they were honoring.

 

He made sure the cemetery manager knew to bury the casket by the family plot where his father’s parents were buried. Partly because he knew that was what his father would have preferred, and partly because he didn’t want him anywhere near his mother’s grave. He could not damn her to an eternity next to the man who caused her so much pain.

 

The reading of the will was set for tomorrow but Ilya wouldn’t be attending. He didn’t want anything from his father. Didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing he added anything to Ilya’s life other than harsh words and the memory of bruises etched into his back. No, he would forfeit it all to Alexei.

 

Speeches were organized from his father’s colleagues at the station, the pominki was ready for after the service, a car had been scheduled to pick up Polina to bring her to the church at noon. 

 

Yes, it was all ready. But Ilya kept running through the list. Over and over and over and over. Like a mantra. Flowers, funeral director, the will, speeches, food, cars.

 

It kept him from dwelling too much on the way he had left things with Nora. He knew she was upset, she had texted him repeatedly for the next few hours after he had left her house. Eventually, the messages had stopped and Ilya hadn’t heard from her since. 

 

He knew it was too good to be true. He had tried twice to let another person get close. Once, he had wanted too much. Once, he had tried to want something safer. He had ruined both.

 

He thought he could keep these parts of his life separate. Be able to have someone while also protecting them from the chaos that came with his life and his family. Even with his father gone now, Ilya still had to reckon with the wreckage he had left in his wake. His brother, his stepmother, the sadness that his father had infected his mother with – that she carried so quietly and for so long – that Ilya hadn’t recognized it growing in his own chest until the pressure felt like it might crush him. 

 

No, he couldn’t afford to be selfish anymore, dragging more people down with him in the tragedy that was his life. These were his burdens and his burdens alone. At the end of the day he would only ever have himself and the sooner he could internalize that the better. He brought the glass up to his lips and allowed for the vodka to coat his tongue and relished in the familiar burn in his throat.

 

A knock came at the door which broke Ilya out of his reverie. He looked down at the watch on his wrist, it was only 10 AM. The car wasn’t supposed to take him to the church until 11:30. Alexei and his family were traveling there on his own. Ilya hadn’t wanted to have to interact with anyone until he was at the church. He groaned slightly, it was probably someone confirming more funeral minutia with him. He set his glass down and crossed the room to the door.

 

Two brown eyes met his, steady and entirely unsurprised. Nora pushed past him before he could say a word.

 

“What–”, Ilya said as Nora pushed past him into the apartment.

 

She rolled her suitcase across the floor and stopped by the dining table, plopping herself into one of the chairs. 

 

“Nora, what are you— How did you— How do you know where I live?”

 

“Sveta.” Nora replied, simply.

 

“But— why— why are you here? I told you—”

 

“Ilya, you really are an idiot sometimes. Your father died.”

 

“Yes, but—”

 

“You really thought that I was going to let you go to your father’s funeral alone?”

 

“Well, yes? This doesn’t have anything to do with you I told you—”

 

“Ilya, don’t make me yell at you today, of all days. You didn’t even tell me anything was going on. I had to hear it all from Svetlana. She told me your father has been sick. For years now. And that you’ve been dealing with it all by yourself.”

 

“But that’s just what I have to do. It’s not for you to—”

 

“And I asked you about it. Months ago. There were so many chances for you to tell me. Why didn’t you? Did you think I couldn’t handle it?”

 

“No it’s not about that. Please Nora, there is so much I have to do before the funeral. I can’t have you here.”

He pushed by her, picking up his cellphone. He mentally went through the list again. Flowers, funeral director, the will, speeches, food, cars. Was he sure the cars were scheduled? Maybe he should call one more time just to make sure. And his suit. He should probably iron it before the car got there.

 

“Then let me help. What can I do?” Nora was up on her feet again.

 

“No, Nora please. You can stay here. Stay while I go to the funeral. I can buy you a flight back to Boston once I come home. You just shouldn’t have to deal with—”

 

“Have to? Have to? Ilya, did you ever think that maybe I would want to? You keep deciding for everyone what they can bear. But maybe I know my own limits better than you do”

 

Ilya stared, his mouth open slightly with a response that got caught somewhere in his throat.

 

Nora took a steadying breath.

 

“I’m sorry to barge in. I’m sorry I got mad. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to add anymore pressure on you today. I just don’t understand. Why won’t you let me be here for you? Please. Can you explain it to me?”

 

Ilya looked down at his feet. How could he possibly begin to explain? How could he explain that her mere presence here made him want to crumble? That her being here meant facing the fact that this was all overwhelming him, consuming him and rotting away at him from the inside out? And that if he faced that fact he would have to admit that he was weak. That his father had been right about him. That accepting any comfort from her risked having the poison that ran through his veins slowly seep in through her skin, corrupting her as well?

 

He’d seen it happen before. Another pair of soft brown eyes, another constellation of freckles scrunched in frustration and concern. Hollander had gotten dangerously close that day to getting Ilya to open up about his family. And the worst part was that Ilya wanted to. He wanted to have Hollander stroke his back as he talked about his father. Ilya wanted to admit how guilty he felt that he actually liked that his father was sick, not because he wanted him to suffer but because the dementia made him forget to be cruel. Let Hollander brush away his tears while Ilya explained how disconnected he felt from his family, knowing they were all suffering and he was not there to help them. 

 

But when Ilya had returned from his phone call with his father and saw the troubled look on Hollander’s face, that was put there undoubtedly because he was able to hear the panicked tone of Ilya’s voice from the other room, Ilya had known he could not tell him about any of it. That wasn’t Hollander’s baggage to carry and Ilya just had to buck up, on his own. 

 

But of course, Ilya was a weak man when it came to Hollander. Ilya had succumbed, he let Hollander touch him, ground him, take him apart. Until he realized he had taken it too far. When those beautiful lips curled around the letters of Ilya’s name, Ilya knew he had to end it. Then and there. Before he sank deeper into Hollander’s enticing embrace. But it was already too late, the poison had already infected Hollander and Ilya knew he had hurt him anyways. No, he could not let Nora experience that as well.

 

Ilya hadn’t realized he had been gripping his phone. His knuckles were white and his palm was going numb. It wasn’t until Nora had strode over to him and gently pried his fingers off of it that he processed the sensations. She took his phone and placed it back onto the table. She took his hand and led him to a chair, making him sit down. She took her own seat again across from him and didn’t say anything. Just waited for him to meet her gaze. His resolve crumbled and he finally looked up at her.

 

“Please. Explain.”

 

“I— I don’t know how to do this.”

 

“I know. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I need you to do this.”

 

“It is— dark. My life. My world. It’s too much to ask anyone to understand. It’s too much for me to understand most of the time.”

 

She waited for more.

 

“My relationship with my father was not good. Same with my brother. It is easier for me to deal with it all on my own. No one else should have to share this darkness with me. It is not fair to them.”

 

“Hmm.” She paused lightly, thinking. Ilya looked away from her. He couldn’t bear the silence. He knew this would be too much. Suddenly, she burst into speech.

 

“When Connors’ wife went into labor, you looked after his little boy. When my dad had to jump his car, you met him with cables when Triple A said they would take over an hour to get there. When Sveta twisted her ankle, you had her go in to see the team doctor and made them see her even if they weren’t supposed to treat people outside of the team. And me. All you ever do is help me, take care of me. All you ever do is take care of everyone around you.

 

Ilya’s eyes snapped back to hers, puzzled.

 

“Really. You are not all darkness Ilya. You are so good to me. You are so good to Sveta. You are so good to your teammates. No listen—” She hushed him as Ilya tried to protest.

 

“You think you're the darkness Ilya but I've been watching you and that's not what I see.”

 

Ilya’s lip trembled slightly. He could feel his eyes stinging but he still couldn’t let Nora see the tears shed. Nora gingerly reached for Ilya’s hand.

 

“You’re making me sound like I am a lot better than I really am.”

“Trust me Rozanov, I’m not one to make your giant head even bigger with unnecessary compliments.”

 

That got a slight smile out of Ilya, which emboldened Nora.

 

“Please. You do not have to tell me everything today. You do not have to fall apart if you don’t want to. But you are not doing this funeral alone. You’ve already done so much for your family. Whatever will happen today will happen. Now the only thing to do is take the time to say goodbye. You said your relationship with your dad was complicated but you need to take this time to close this chapter. You do not have to solve any of this today. But you do have to be there.”

 

Ilya took a deep breath. He didn’t know if she was right. He only knew he didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. 

 

But, she was right about one thing. He had been so focused on everyone else’s experience at the funeral, he had forgotten to think about what he would feel like standing in front of his father’s casket. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t give his father that satisfaction. But maybe he would let himself grieve for the younger version of himself. One who desperately wanted to be loved the way that he gave out love. One who hadn’t yet learned how to cut people off and instead chased after their affection despite constantly being pushed away. The version of himself that had been beaten anytime he asked for more than what was already given to him. Maybe that version of Ilya deserved a little bit more compassion.

 

“Okay.” He said, finally.

 

“Okay. Good. Thank you.” She squeezed his hand gently and rose from her seat.

 

“Go take a shower. Start getting ready. I’ll be here.”

 

Nora pulled him up by his hand and gave him a quick peck and ushered him away.

 

By the time Ilya had gotten back, he found his suit already pressed and ironed, waiting on his bed. Nora was standing in front of the mirror in a simple black dress and was fixing her hair into a loose knot on the back of her head. Ilya quickly got changed but faltered at tying his tie. He realized his hands were trembling. He quietly walked up behind Nora who met his eyes through the mirror. He sheepishly held up the tie and she smiled softly and turned to help him. 

 

Ilya watched curiously as her fingers worked the tie into a neat knot. She straightened it and tightened it, finally smoothing out his lapel and meeting Ilya’s gaze. She cupped his face and smiled up at him and something in Ilya broke as he stared into her warm eyes. He closed his eyes and tilted his head further into her palm. He felt her thumb lightly graze his cheek. He felt her lips meet his.

He had been here before. Not here exactly. But close enough that something in his chest recognized the feeling of someone's hands on his face, steady and warm, asking for nothing from him. He had wanted this then. He had been so close to letting himself have it.

He let himself lean, just this once.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

The funeral was a grueling affair. Ilya was made to shake hands with every Russian diplomat known to man, somberly accepting their condolences, as they pretended they knew the man they were all there to bury. They spoke of his patriotism, his unyielding nature, the way that he exemplified everything a good Russian man should. 

 

But Ilya knew the truth. He knew that his father’s patriotism came from a place of hubris, not pride in his country, a way for him to exert superiority over others. That his unyielding nature extended past his reputation in the force, into his home, as he beat his children and wife black and blue for the slightest indication that they may disobey his orders. That this “good Russian man” was everything Ilya feared he himself would become. 

 

But Ilya couldn’t dwell on any of this. This was the last thing that Grigori Rozanov had requested of him, the last time he would have to bend and twist to his will. Ilya would not give him the satisfaction of not meeting his expectations, being a disappointment for the last time. So he shook hands, he bowed his head, and he mumbled his thanks. He prayed while the priest preached in front of the coffin. He kept his mouth shut while Polina pretended to be distraught, wailing in the front row. As if she hadn’t abandoned her husband the second he got his diagnosis. He avoided eye contact with Alexei, so as not to provoke him into a brawl in front of all these people.

 

And through it all, he clung to one small, strong, hand. He forced himself to not jump at her every touch. He allowed himself to find comfort in her caress as she occasionally rubbed circles into his back, let it ground him back into his body and drown out the voices around him. It was uncomfortable, letting her witness him at this moment. But he had told himself that he would let Nora take care of him today. At least a little bit. So he would not fight it.

 

Svetlana on his other side, joined Nora too. Resting her hand on his shoulder briefly, squeezing it tightly. He looked up, shooting her a small, tight lipped smile that she returned.

 

At last, it was time for the final kiss. It was customary for the members of the deceased’s family to give a kiss, on the cross that was placed on their chest. They all lined up, Polina first still wailing. She, conveniently, had a veil over her head. So onlookers couldn’t tell if there were actually tears on her face. She flung himself over her husband’s body and desperately kissed his chest. Ilya fought his every impulse to roll his eyes. She was saving face. People knew that Polina had not been in Moscow for a couple years now, but she had an image to uphold. And she thought that if she didn’t appear to be sufficiently devoted to her husband, her inheritance would be in question. His sister-in-law gently pried Polina off the corpse, quickly kissed the cross and moved them both along back to their seats. Next, his brother. He stared solemnly down at their father’s face, arms crossed and bent down to kiss the cross as well. Ilya averted his eyes as Alexei turned and glanced at his face. 

 

All too quickly, Ilya was at his father’s side. He looked down at the man in front of him. He expected to feel… he didn’t know. Sadness? Definitely not. Anger? Maybe there was some of that somewhere. But no, it was something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

 

He wasn’t sure if he believed in the ideas of heaven or hell. Or if there even was an afterlife at all. All he knew was that his father had gone somewhere Ilya couldn’t reach him anymore. And more importantly, where his father couldn’t reach him. 

 

He finally bent down and kissed the wooden cross that rested on the man’s chest. He felt Nora’s hands wrap around his bicep again, steering him back towards his seat. As they sat down, she ran her hand up and down his arm and gently kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder. He tilted his head down, letting it rest on top of hers and gently closed his eyes. 

 

The rest of the ceremony moved quickly. The casket was lowered into the earth and the guests stood to leave the cemetery. Ilya turned his head to Nora. 

 

“Go to the car, I’ll meet you there.”

 

She looked at him skeptically.

 

“I promise, I’m okay, I just need to do something before we go.”

 

“Okay, I’ll have the driver bring the car around.”

 

He watched as she blended into the crowd that was jostling each other to leave, until he was alone amongst the headstones. He threw once more glance over to the mound under which his father now rested before walking further into the cemetery. He took a turn that led him to the edge of the church’s property, until he found what he was looking for.

 

Irina Rozanova

December 17th 1971 - September 29th 2003

 

The headstone was mostly cleaned off. Once Ilya had been drafted, he made sure that someone was paid to take care of the grave. He knelt gently in front of the stone, reaching out to touch the smooth face of it, lingering over his mother’s name.

 

“Hi Mama. I’m sorry I have not been here to visit in a while. 

 

Papa is here now. I made sure he wouldn’t be near you. I think that is what you would have wanted. At least I hope so.

I’m trying to figure out what it is I am feeling. I am not sad he is gone. I am sad that I never got to show him who I really was, what I really made of. I don’t know if he would have liked what he would have seen. But I wish I could have at least shown him.

I thought I would feel relieved. And maybe I do, a little. He was a horrible man. And he was so horrible to you. Thinking about how he treated you makes me so angry, Mama. He didn’t deserve what he got today. He didn’t deserve to have so many people thinking he was so important and good. 

The anger is there. But it is always there. I don’t think that’s what this is…”

He sat for a while. Trying to put words to this feeling that was caught in his chest, asking to be heard and understood.

At last he said—

"Cheated. I think that is the word. Towards the end, he forgot who I was. Forgot to be ashamed of me. And it was sort of nice. He was still horrible. He was mean spirited and cruel to anyone he didn’t think was good enough. But since he forgot to be mean to me, I got to see what other people see in him. But for some brief moments, I was able to talk to him without feeling like I was being crushed. And I wonder how different things could have been if that weight had never been on me at all.

And then seeing him lying there today, he was so tiny. So insignificant. He could demand flowers, and speeches, and the presence of every high ranking official he knew. But at the end of the day he is nothing. Just a body. And I keep thinking about all the time I wasted being afraid of him. All the ways I made myself just as tiny so he wouldn't have another reason to be disappointed. 

I should have taken care of him myself. At the end. I kept sending Alexei, kept sending money, kept managing it from so far away. I told myself it was better this way. But I think I was scared. I think I didn't want to come back here and have him recognize me again. To feel that pressure back on me.

Would you have told me to come? Do you think I should have?”

The only answer Ilya received was the wind rustling through the trees on the outskirts of the cemetery. He hesitated before continuing. 

“There was someone. I don't know why I'm telling you this now. There was someone and I— I heard Papa's voice in my head. The one that makes me feel oh so small. The one that told me I was too much. Too dark. Too much for anyone to carry. And I believed him. I hurt someone because I believed him. Someone who— he was—”

He exhaled. His breath shook a little.

“He deserved better than what I gave him.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You deserved better too, Mama. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. I was just a boy. I know I was just a boy. But I have spent a long time punishing myself for not being able to save you from him. For not being enough to make you— make you stay.”

His voice broke slightly on the last word.

“I think it is time I stop doing that. I think you would want me to stop doing that. There is a girl now—”

He hesitated, steeling himself.

“She tells me that I need to take better care of myself. That I need to let other people take care of me too. I think— maybe now I can. I will try. I think you would want me to try. Right?”

Again, only the wind answered. He closed his eyes, silently piecing together his thoughts. Until he came to a decision. He pressed his palm flat against the stone.

“I love you Mama. I'm not sure I will come back here again. Not because I am forgetting you or leaving you. I could never. I wish I could bring you with me. 

But I think I have been coming back here to punish myself and you never wanted that for me. I think maybe it is time I start looking forward instead.

I'm going to try. I promise I'm going to try."

He took a deep shuddering breath as a sob he didn’t realize he was holding back escaped his mouth. His shoulders started to shake. And suddenly he had no control over his emotions anymore. He clung to the headstone, hoping it would bring him back down to Earth.

 

He was gasping for air so loud that he didn’t hear the soft, quick footsteps approaching him. He briefly saw Nora’s face, scrunched with concern before she took him into his arms. He clung to her.

For one unguarded moment, in the way that grief strips everything down to its most basic components, he thought of someone else. Not with longing exactly. Just — an absence he had carried for so long he had almost stopped noticing it. Like a phantom limb. There and not there.

Then he felt Nora's fingers thread through his hair and he came back to himself. Back to her. Back to here.

Ilya didn’t know how long they stood there like that. But finally, he was able to release his grip on her and stand up straight, steadying himself. Nora didn’t say anything. She just wiped his tears away and smiled at him through her own teary eyes. He closed his eyes as her fingers met his cheek. And he took one more deep breath before opening them again.

 

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

 

“No. Never say sorry for this. I brought the car around but we can stay here a little longer if you need.”

 

“No. Is okay. I think I am done here.”

 

He turned around and gave one more pat to the headstone, letting his finger linger for the briefest moment. And then he threaded his fingers through Nora’s and let her guide him back to the parking lot.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Damn, did you hear about Rozanov?

Shane’s phone illuminated in the darkness, showing a message from Hayden.

No? What happened?

Well there were rumors going around

He didn’t fly with his team to their game in Nashville

People thought he was injured or something

Turns out his dad died, he had dementia or something

Oh. Wow.

Yeah. The guy sucks but that’s tough

Yeah. Wow. Dementia. That’s awful.

Shane opened a browser and typed “Ilya Rozanov father”. Links populated, some in English, some in Russian. He opened an article from Sportsnet.

 

Ilya Rozanov, star center of the Boston Raiders, has taken a leave of absence following the death of his father. Grigori Rozanov, aged 68, passed away in Moscow due to complications from a dementia diagnosis on March 17, 2017. Rozanov was a highly decorated police officer for the MDV having served for over 40 years. The funeral service took place on March 20, 2017. No reports yet on when Ilya will be returning to Boston. Our condolences go out to Rozanov and his family. 

 

Shane scrolled down a little further and stopped at a picture.

 

Pictured, left to right. Sergei Vetrov, goaltender for Soviet team. His daughter Svetlana Vetrova, long-time friend of Ilya Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov. Nora Aldrich, fashion model and girlfriend of Ilya Rozanov.

 

Rozanov’s head was down. Nora was holding his hand while gripping his upper arm with her other hand, her head also down. Svetlana also had a hand on Ilya, resting on his shoulder. 

 

Shane remembered Rozanov mentioning her. That day in Boston. He had said that she was an old friend from Russia and that they used to hook up occasionally. It was only clear to Shane now, looking at the photo, that it really was a platonic relationship. At the time he figured Rozanov was trying to make him jealous by bringing her up, showing Shane that he had options outside of him. But it was clear from the way she was gently comforting Rozanov, that there was nothing romantic going on there. Especially considering that Nora did not seem at all perturbed by the contact between them. Nora, on the other hand, did seem to have a strong connection with Rozanov.

 

Shane had scrolled down to another shot. A picture of Nora leading Ilya away from a grave. She was gazing up at him through long eyelashes. A soft, comforting smile while Ilya returned a small tight lipped one. 

 

He felt a pit forming in his stomach that he ignored. He closed out his browser, opening his messages. He scrolled down to “Lily” for the first time in months. He started typing out a message.

 

I’m sorry to hear about your father. My condolences to you and your family. 

 

He paused, deliberating. They hadn’t really spoken since they saw each other all those months ago. Even on the ice. They had stopped chirping at each other, usually just acknowledging each other with a small nod or a quick hello. They avoided eye contact as their teams shook hands and skated off in opposite directions as quickly as they could. 

 

What was the point of reaching out now? Yes, Shane felt awful for Rozanov. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose a parent. But, Shane just reaching out to try to show to Ilya that he could be the bigger person? Or was he trying to get his attention? Or was he just trying to clear his own conscience? 

 

Shane could maybe understand now why Ilya had panicked that day. If he had known he had so much on his plate with his family, maybe he wouldn’t have snapped at him on the phone when Rozanov had called to try to smooth things over.

 

But no, Rozanov had still been trying to brush everything between them under the rug at that point. And Shane couldn’t do that anymore. Especially now that he had been honest with his family about who he was. The only thing reaching out now would do is bring that all back up. And that was probably the last thing Rozanov needed right now. 

 

After all.

 

Shane opened up his browser again, staring at the picture of Ilya with his girlfriend. 

 

After all, he had someone now. Someone who was probably easier than a secret gay lover who was also his arch rival. Someone who was able to walk with Rozanov, in public, and help him through his darkest days. Someone who was not Shane.

 

He went back to his messages and erased his draft and turned off his phone altogether. 

 

Chapter 5: The old hat gets harder to hold

Chapter Summary

Ilya is finally learning what it means to let someone in. Shane is learning what it means to step out. As the league shifts around them, the boys are forced to reckon with who they are becoming and what they might have to leave behind to get there.

Shane was on his parents couch in Ottawa, legs crossed, and looking down at his phone. He scrolled through pictures of a small bundle, wrapped tightly in a hospital issued blanket. He smiled at the tiny fingers peeking over the top of the blanket, curling around a small, smushed face.

 

She’s super cute Hayd. Congratulations!

Hope Jackie is holding up okay. I’ll swing by when you guys are more settled in.

 

His mom came around the corner, a glass of wine in hand and settling in on the couch. 

“Who are you texting?”

 

“Just Hayden. Jackie had the baby.”

 

“Wow! Send them my congratulations! Any pictures?”

 

Shane tilted his phone towards his mom but she was looking at the tv screen.

 

“Oh come on! That was just absurd, that was an easy pass! How did he miss that! The Admirals are going to win this by a landslide.”

 

Shane shook his head with a laugh and started typing out his mom’s congratulations to Hayden.

 

“And there we have it folks! After 23 years, Scott Hunter has brought the Stanley Cup back to New York!”

 

Shane looked back up at the tv screen and saw Scott Hunter shaking the commissioner’s hand. He hoisted the cup over his head, skating around the rink as the New York fans roared and cheered behind him. The families of the players began to flood the rink.

 

His dad came around the corner too, holding his own glass of wine. 

 

“I told you your mother would be right! Now that she’s proven us all wrong yet again, should we pop on a movie?”

But there was a small commotion happening on the ice. Hunter seemed to be waving someone down to the ice. Someone from the audience.

 

“What’s he doing?” said Shane’s mother.

 

Shane shook his head slightly while trying to make out who it was Hunter was waving at. Eventually he noticed a figure making his way through the crowd. A man, with dark hair and a stocky build. He slowly made his way down to the rink, hesitating with every step.

 

At last, the man was at the boards. He said something to Hunter that Hunter waved off, instead grabbing his hand and helping him over the boards, onto the ice.

 

Something in Shane’s stomach flipped. But his mind couldn’t put words to it. He was desperately trying to connect the dots of what was unfolding on the screen. He knew it was something significant but couldn't explain why.

 

Hunter and the mystery man made their way to center ice while the players and families on the ice looked on curiously. Some were still congratulating each other and celebrating but faltered as Hunter pulled the man closer to him, wrapping his large hands around the man’s waist. His waist? No, it couldn’t be.

 

Hunter brought a hand up to the man’s face, whispering something to him and suddenly brought the man’s mouth to his. 

 

Shane felt the room spin. His heart was thumping out of his chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. Absurdly, he thought maybe it was a joke. But Hunter was not the type. Now that Shane thought about it, he never heard about Hunter with a girlfriend. Never heard about him sleeping around like the other players in New York. But Shane had just assumed that he was a private guy, like himself. But Shane wasn’t just private, he was gay. And now he felt stupid for not putting the pieces together. 

 

He knew that logically he couldn’t be the only gay player in the MLH. But he didn’t know this was an option. Could never conceive of the idea that someone could just kiss another man on the ice. Maybe it was because for so long, so much of his sexuality was wrapped up in Rozanov. With their rivalry being part of the equation, Shane knew that being public in any shape or form was unfathomable, out of the question. And he had never considered that, maybe with someone else he could have this. Be open. Be himself.

 

He thought about the last few months. How far he had come. That candlelit dinner with Rose.  Sitting across from his parents at their dining table. A photo of a man with golden curls with the arms of a dark haired woman wrapped around him. A door, finally closed. Maybe this was his moment, at long, long last. 

 

He hadn’t noticed his parents’ gaze on him, until he tore his face away from the screen. They looked at him expectantly, waiting for his cue so that they could react.

 

“I want to come out. Publicly.”

 

A beat. His parents’ faces frozen, as they tried to process what he just said. And then a wide smile broke across his mother’s face. His father even whooped, a sound Shane didn’t know he was capable of making.

 

“We are on it, baby!” His mother replied, wrapping him into a rib crushing hug.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Shane came out to Hayden first. Then JJ. They were great about it. He should have known better than to think they would have reacted badly. But, he still wasn’t great about explaining this part of himself to other people and he was still filled with nerves when he did it. But, they were reassuring and supportive. 

 

The next week after Shane had come out to both of them, they cornered him after practice and started rattling off names of all the gay men they personally knew and would set Shane up with.

 

“Guys, just because I’m… gay doesn’t mean I’m going to want to go out with every gay man you’ve ever met. Anyways, I need to come out to the team first. Just, let me do this at my own pace.”

 

“Okay, Capitaine,” JJ said with a salute. “Just let us know when you are ready. Because, I swear Antoine is hot. Like. Even I can admit it. His arms are just—”

 

He started gesturing wildly with his hands.

 

“Okay man, reel it in.” Hayden said. “But seriously Hollzy, we’ve got you. Whatever you need.”

 

Shane smiled at them both as they began to walk back to their cars.

 

Coming out to the rest of the team was… not as smooth. He stood in their locker room, in front of his locker and addressed the team. He made it clear that he didn’t want this to change anything. This was just about Shane being honest, being himself. He was still their captain. He still intended on winning them cups. He just might go out on a date with a guy every once in a while.

 

He was met with blank stares, while his teammates tried to come up with a response. Hayden, noticing the prolonged silence and the way that Shane’s shoulders started to droop, jumped in.

 

“Alright guys, you heard the man! Business as usual, skates on, on the ice in 5.”

 

“Yes, thank you Hayden. Thank you for hearing me out. Let’s go boys!”

 

Some of them awkwardly tried to clap. JJ let out a half-hearted “Woo!”. They all slowly filtered out of the locker room.

 

Shane sat down on his bench. He hunched over, resting his arms on his knees and letting his head fall into his hands. He took a deep steadying breath. He felt Hayden clap him on his shoulder.

 

“Come on buddy, I think it went pretty well. They’ll get used to it. You’re still our captain. The one who won us two Stanley cups, back to back. You’ve led us for the last 4 years. They’re not going to forget that.”

 

Shane nodded and put his head back down. Hayden took the cue and followed the rest of the team onto the ice.

 

Shane wasn’t upset about the team’s reaction. He knew not everyone would be overjoyed at his coming out. And this was never about them. Shane had fought for too much, given up so much to get to this point with himself. This was the last piece of the puzzle before his mom released the statement. And after that, this wouldn’t be Shane’s painful, shameful secret anymore. He could be free. This was to open doors for himself. To see what he could find once he let go of his careful control and be honest with himself. Maybe now, he could even have a shot at something real.

 

Despite himself, he thought of Rozanov. How could he not? Rozanov was the first one to see this in Shane. Recognize desire in Shane before Shane had the vocabulary to understand it himself.

 

What would he think of this? Of Shane coming out to his team? Would he think he was an idiot? Despite how openly sexual Rozanov could be, this was something Shane couldn’t imagine him doing. Rozanov had options. He had made his choice and it looked like it involved a dark haired woman who could walk beside him in public without it being a secret. Shane couldn't begrudge him that. He understood, more than most, the appeal of choosing the simpler thing. Rozanov could build a life with her if he really wanted to. 

 

Maybe that’s what he was doing with that girl. Building a life. Shane wondered what he had thought of Scott coming out? Did it make Rozanov feel brave the same way it made Shane feel brave?

 

He shook the thoughts out of his head and got himself up off the bench. Whatever Rozanov thought of all this, he’d never know. And he was okay with that. Whatever Rozanov had decided about his own life, that was his to figure out. Shane had spent long enough making Rozanov's decisions part of his own story.

 

Maybe he should take up JJ on his offer. A couple dates couldn’t hurt. Rozanov wasn’t the only man he had ever been with. There were a couple desperate nights over the years. And sure, maybe the men he had met didn’t light him on fire the way a certain Russian man did, but that didn’t mean that was Shane’s only option.

 

He picked up his gear and started trudging his way to the ice rink. Yes, maybe it was time for a date.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

“MLH Star Shane Hollander Comes Out, Signals New Era for League”

 

In the weeks following Scott Hunter’s widely publicized on-ice kiss, which marked a historic moment for the league, another prominent player has stepped forward.

Shane Hollander, captain and two-time Stanley Cup champion, released a personal statement earlier today confirming that he is gay. Hollander becomes one of the few active players in the MLH to come out publicly, signaling what many are calling a continued cultural shift within professional hockey.

The statement, shared through his team and personal channels, emphasized his commitment to both authenticity and the game:

I’m sharing this in order to be clear about something personal.

I’m gay.

This is something I’ve known for some time, and I’ve taken the space to understand it privately. With the support of my family and those close to me, I feel ready to be open about it.

Recent events in the league have made it clear that there is space for players to be honest about who they are. I have a lot of respect for those who have taken that step.

My focus remains where it has always been—on my team, my preparation, and competing at the highest level. This does not change my commitment to the game or to the people I work with every day.

I’m not looking to make this a larger conversation than it needs to be. I simply want to move forward honestly and continue doing my job.

I appreciate the respect and professionalism shown by my teammates, the organization, and the league, and I ask that the same consideration be extended as we move forward.

Reactions across the league and social media have been mixed. Teammates and several prominent figures across the league voiced their support, while others have remained notably quiet.

In response, representatives from Hollander’s camp released a short statement reiterating that his focus remains on hockey and asking that the conversation remain respectful as he continues the season.

Ilya sat at his kitchen island, reading and rereading the statement.

 

Ilya wasn’t shocked that Hollander was gay. He had tried asking him the last time they were together, but he knew he had been clumsy about it. Hollander had deflected at the time when Ilya pointed out that he was never seen with girls. And Ilya didn’t want to push him too far at the time. But the publicity of it all threw Ilya off.

 

“Recent events in the league have made it clear that there is a space for players to be honest about who they are.” 

 

Could that really be true? Scott Hunter, despite being 10,000 years old, seemed to still have the ability to send shockwaves across the hockey community. And he did it with just one kiss. Ilya had watched it from his couch. Nora had a shoot on location somewhere in Paris so he had been home alone that weekend. He recalled gripping the cushions of his couch, as his eyes were glued to the sight of the tender yet urgent way Hunter pulled his boyfriend, Kip as the public had learned shortly after that night, to his lips. It sure wouldn’t be possible for Ilya. He still didn’t have American citizenship so if anything were to happen to his career after coming out, he would be sent back to Russia, with no protection from the government’s wrath.

 

But another part of Ilya had wondered what it could have done for him and Hollander, had the option been available for them earlier. Before Ilya had ruined everything between them. He had thought back then that that was the only way to protect Hollander, from Ilya, from the MLH, from the consequences of what they had been doing for the last few years together. But now, seeing Hunter be able to love so boldly, so loudly, it made Ilya boil with jealousy and seeth with longing. It felt as thought he had found a door he didn't know had become suddenly visible in a wall he thought was solid. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to come out publicly like this, just in case there were legal repercussions. But maybe if he hadn’t been such a coward back then, this would have been their chance to just try. 

 

But now Hollander had taken that chance on his own. 

 

“I simply want to move forward honestly and continue doing my job.”

 

Ilya could hear Hollander in the statement, even though it was probably heavily altered to be more PR friendly. Hollander had always been the one more willing to be honest out of the two of them. But he probably would have still been terrified to take a step like this. He loved the game too much to jeopardize it in any way. 

 

But here he was, doing what Ilya could never do. Being brave. Taking a chance. And the world had not imploded. Sure, people were going to be talking about him for the next few weeks. He might lose some of his fans and the favor of some of their peers. But he seemed to have stuck the landing and now, he could be who he wanted to be out in the open.

 

Nora came padding around the corner, breaking Ilya out of his rumination. She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek and started to rummage in the fridge to make herself breakfast. 

 

Since Russia, Ilya had kept his promise to his mother. He was really, really trying. He had let Nora in, little by little. Sharing small pieces of himself, of his past. And she never recoiled. Just sat with him as he reminisced. Sometimes it caused him physical pain to talk about it. His chest would get so tight that he felt like he couldn’t draw breath. But he would let her still witness it, even if it made him feel as small and frail as a baby bird.

 

Sometimes she responded with her own stories, experiences like his. Ilya realized that by sharing small bits of himself, he made it easier for others to share with him too.

 

Eventually he started confiding in other people. He called Svetlana when something was hard instead of sitting with it alone. He had started telling Marleau when he's struggling with his game instead of just grinding through it privately, and letting him pick up the slack for him occasionally. 

 

He had also decided to cut off his loose ends in Russia, letting his brother keep his apartment and setting up a trust for his niece so none of them would ever have to speak again. He didn’t need to keep dwelling on his mistakes, on his past life. He had done his time. And by drawing a line in the sand, it had made him feel stronger, more present, and more capable than he had ever felt in his life.

 

But he couldn’t deny that things with Nora had been growing stagnant. He cared for her deeply and knew she felt the same. Yes, they had been getting closer and he liked the way it got easier to let each other in. He would forever be indebted to her for the way she had held him up over the last few months. But they had both been becoming busier and busier, missing each other more often. And Ilya thought that maybe the time apart should make him miss her more, but instead he felt nothing in her absence. Sometimes, he felt as though they were more friends than lovers.

 

But, Ilya didn’t want her to think he was ungrateful for her. So he had convinced himself that this is just what a healthy relationship was supposed to look like. Rather than fighting for scraps and spare moments. So he buckled down, decided that he would find happiness here. If a person could do so much for him, the least he could do was stay and learn to love her. And maybe one day he would get himself there.

 

She came around the island with a smoothie in hand, and rested her head on his shoulder, glancing at the phone still in his hand. 

 

“Oh I saw that article. Kinda crazy huh? Good for Shane Hollander.”

 

He turned his head towards her and frowned slightly. She shifted her weight off him and sat down at the bar stool next to him. He put his phone down slowly, steeling himself. He wasn’t sure why this felt like the right moment to talk about this. But he wasn’t sure if it would come up again. And maybe seeing Hollander be brave, he felt a little braver too.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked Nora.

Nora turned to look at him properly, waiting for him to continue.

“I have not always only liked women.”

Nora’s face was impassive. He continued on.

“There was someone. Before you. A man. It was — complicated. Actually there have been a few men before you.”

“Okay.”

“It is not something I — advertise? I think it is right word. It is dangerous in Russia. For me to do that. I used to like that. The danger of it. But eventually, it became too hard to manage with my father being sick. And no one else in the MLH was out. So it didn’t seem important to tell you. But I think you should know.”

Nora took his hand and squeezed it gently.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She looked into his eyes, searching for something.

“I’m really proud of how you’ve been trying to tell me more about yourself. Letting me into your world.” She paused, trying to find the correct way to word her next sentence. “But I always felt… I don’t know. that There was one big piece you were holding out of sharing. Maybe this was it?”

She was not accusatory, she said it like an observation. But it still took Ilya aback. Nora didn’t seem to notice. She turned back towards the island and continued drinking her smoothie. 

Ilya didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what he could say. He watched as Nora finished her smoothie, rinsed the glass in the sink and padded back down the hallway to get ready for the day. Like she hadn't just said something that was going to sit in his chest for a very long time.

He picked up his phone. Read the statement one more time.

I simply want to move forward honestly and continue doing my job.

He put it face down on the counter.

Chapter 6: It's kind of sad, but there's something I know

Chapter Summary

The long awaited Shane Starts Dating chapter! Shane finds that he is some what of a hot commodity. Ilya on the other hand, reckons with what he really wants.

Chapter Notes

A note before we begin: please be gentle with Ilya. He is a traumatized little guy doing his best and he means no harm. He just has the emotional self awareness of a toad and has never been to therapy. We love him anyway.
This chapter is dedicated to Connor Storrie, who I had the absolute privilege of meeting last week at his Tiffany's event and who is, I can confirm, made entirely of sunlight. I am still not over it and I refuse to be. When you are in the comments being mean about Ilya, please picture Connor's face. It will help.

Dating. Shane had done it before. Granted it was only ever with women who fawned over him and his status. He never really had to put effort into the whole thing. They sort of just came to him. He never treated them poorly, his mother had raised him to be a perfect gentleman. He opened doors, he paid the bill, he asked questions. But there were never any stakes to the whole process. It just felt like something he had to go through the motions of, like with a brand deal or a post-game interview.

Other than with Rose. Rose had been simultaneously easier and harder to navigate. On one hand, she was easy to talk to. He always enjoyed her company and the way she poked fun at his “Shane-isms” as she called it. It made him feel less awkward and out of place, as he so often did. She just got him. But on the other hand, that fact that she got him the way that she did, meant he couldn’t hide behind the usual flash and glamour of being Shane Hollander to mask his disinterest in the female anatomy. On the plus side though, all this meant that she was the perfect person for Shane to call before his first date as an out, gay man.

“So wait, who is this guy again?”

“A friend of a friend of Jackie’s. He’s her friend’s personal trainer or something like that.”

Shane was pacing around his apartment, his phone to his ear. Rose’s voice sang out for the other end.

“Ahh so he’s gonna be jacked and neurotic about his body just like you. Perfect.”

“Rose, please. I’m losing my mind over here, just tell me what to do!”

“Shane, you’ve been on dates before! With me! I can tell you that you were great at it. Minus the whole not being attracted to me thing. But hey! At least you won’t be dealing with that issue here. Or you might. Maybe he’ll look like some kind of rat sewer creature.”

“Not helping.”

“The point is, you don’t know what he’ll be like. And that’s what dating is about. To see if you’re compatible. You just need to be yourself. And you should be assessing him as much as you’re assessing yourself right now. This is exciting! You get to figure out what you like, what you don’t like. Just think of it like you’re trying out a new workout regimen. See what works and what doesn’t and then adjust accordingly.”

Shane paused his pacing. He hadn’t thought about it that way. He was so used to thinking about how others perceived him, he hadn’t given thought to if he would actually like this guy himself. 

“Okay. Yes. You’re right. I need to relax. But what are the rules?”

“Rules?”

“Well with a girl, I know I’m supposed to like, do man stuff.”

“Do man stuff?”, she said amused.

“Shut up. You know what I mean. Like being chivalrous. Pay the bill, pull out her chair, open doors, all that stuff. But with a guy, am I supposed to pay because I make more money? Or is that presumptuous? What if he thinks I don’t think he is capable if I help him? I don’t want to emasculate him. Or what if—”

“Shane, baby. You’re way over thinking this. Just do what feels natural to you. If you’re closer to the door, you open it. If you think he would need help getting into his chair, help him into his chair. If you want to pay the bill, go ahead. Or even ask him what he wants to do with it. There’s no right or wrong way to be gay.”

Shane took a deep breath. 

“Yeah, yeah okay. You’re right again.”

“I know, I always am.” She paused slightly. “Didn’t— didn’t you mention. That you were with a guy. Before me I mean? Did you guys ever do anything like this?”

Shane clenched his jaw. Shit, he forgot that he told her about that.

“Umm. ‘With’ is a strong word. It was more of a hook up thing. So we never really… did this part. And neither of us were out so we were never… in public with each other.”

“Hmm.”

There was an awkward pause.

Shane had never let himself imagine a world where he and Rozanov could have gone on a date. The closest thing they had to one was that last day in Boston. Rozanov had taken care of him that day. Made sure he had food, had his favorite drink ready. And after that phone call months later, Rozanov had made it clear that he had done those things, specifically for Shane. To get him to stay. But even if it didn’t implode in the way it did, where would things have gone? They would have had to continue to hide, meeting in secret, stealing moments. No, the possibility of a real date with Rozanov was laughable. 

“Anyways, I’m hoping this won’t be too public. I’m not… totally sure I want anything serious right now.”

“And it shouldn’t have to be! Just go have fun.” Another pause. “And not Shane-I’m-Pretending-To-Have-Fun, actually go have fun!”

Shane scoffed, rolling his eyes, unable to stop a grin from creeping across his face.

“Alright babe, they’re calling me back on set. But it’s going to go great! Call me after, I want a full debrief.”

“Okay, I will. Thank you. Really.”

“Anytime! Love ya!”

Shane hung up, still smiling. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. It would be fine. He was going to be fine.

He made towards the door, grabbing his keys and stopping briefly to check his hair in a mirror. Once he confirmed he didn’t look like a total mess, he headed out the door.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

“So then, I had to tell her no, we wouldn’t be able to get her abs before 3 weeks for her sister’s wedding. And then she got so mad at me, she had the audacity to fire me for it! And she stormed out of the gym and never came back!”

Shane chuckled lightly, shaking his head. He was absentmindedly fiddling with his almost empty glass of ginger ale.

“Do you want another one of those?

“Hmm? Oh yeah sure.”

His date, Chris, waved over the waiter, rotating his finger in the air to indicate another round.

Shane looked up into Chris’ eyes which were looking softly in his direction and quickly looked away, self-consciousness making him feel antsy and panicky. 

“So uhh. Jackie mentioned you like to hike. Any places you recommend?”

“Mmm, I don’t wanna talk about that.”

Shane looked back at him, stricken. Had he said something offensive? How could hiking be offensive?

“Oh umm. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s just I’ve been talking your ear off for the last hour and I don’t really know anything about you. Other thank you being, you know Shane Hollander.” He said his name with an exaggerated tone, using his hands to make an arc in the air.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so quiet. I guess I’m just nervous.”

“Nervous about what?”

“Well, I’ve never really done this before. Like gone on a date.”

“You’ve never been on a date before? Like ever?”

“No. No. I’ve never been on a date. With a man.” Shane looked back at Chris sheepishly.

“Hmm. I see.” Chris paused. “I won’t pretend I didn’t see everything about your coming out. That must have been incredibly difficult.”

“Yeah. Umm. Hockey is a tough sport to admit something like that in. But, I needed to do it. You know?”

“Yeah. I know, I get it. I have to deal with the bro culture with my job too. Of course it’s not on the scale you have to deal with it and no one is writing articles about me being gay. But it’s hard when you don’t know how people are going to be receiving you.”

“Yes. Exactly. And I hate being received. Well—” Chris laughed, cutting Shane off.

“Shut up! I just mean I hate having to think about how people perceive me.”

“Well, let me just say. I think you can be rest assured I’m receiving you very well, Shane.”

Chris reached out and gently placed his hand. It was warm. Shane couldn't pretend like there was any kind of overwhelming spark there. But maybe sparks were dangerous. He had learned that the hard way. Sparks could turn into a roaring fire that was almost impossible to stifle once it started. He had spent months stamping out that flame. Maybe this was better. He could pick something lighter, simpler.

“I think I’m receiving you well too.”

They left the restaurant an hour later.

“You feeling less nervous? Less in your head?” Chris asked, putting his hands in his pockets to brace against the cold Montreal air.

“Yes, a little bit. I think. Thank you.”

“Well. If you’re still feeling anxious. Maybe we can do something to fix that, ground you a little bit.” He sideled closer to Shane, looking into his eyes curiously, silently asking for permission.

Shane gulped, looking down at Chris’ lips. Soft, inviting. Shane nodded ever so slightly, moving in closer, still looking at Chris’ mouth.

Chris gently cupped Shane’s face, the warmth of his hand contrasting against the coolness that surrounded them, bringing Shane in to touch his lips.

As their mouths moved together Shane brought his hands up to his date’s hard chest, as Chris’ hands cautiously roamed down to Shane's waist to pull him in closer.

They broke apart slowly. Shane was aware of his own heartbeat in a way that felt different from nervous. Just, present.

Chris was looking at him with that same soft expression from across the dinner table. Up close it was warmer somehow.

"So," Chris said quietly. "Still anxious?"

Shane considered this honestly.

"Less," he admitted.

Chris smiled. "I think we can do better than less."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. And then, surprising himself—

"Yeah," he said. "I think we probably can."

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

“Wait, you have another date this week? What is this, like your third one?”

 

“Well, yeah. People just… I don’t know. Keep setting me up. And I guess being out means people approach me more. So I’ve just been saying yes.”

 

Shane, Hayden and JJ were getting dressed after practice, milling around in front of their lockers. Shane shot a furtive glance around the locker room. His other teammates were still being cagey about his sexuality and he didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. But Hayden and JJ seemed determined to show themselves as good allies and kept checking in with him about his dating adventures. 

 

The private part of Shane had found it mortifying in the beginning. But, he found that he had started to like it. For years, Shane was on the outside of conversations like this, never able to join in when the guys would talk about the women they were hooking up with. He would sit in front of his locker, trying to chuckle and chirp at the appropriate times while they recounted their escapades, thinking he’d never be able to share this part of himself with anyone. So he tried to be grateful when Hayden prompted him again.

 

“So, has anything panned out with any of them?”

 

“Mmm… not really. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. I guess I’ve never really… had options before. So I’m trying to keep an open mind. They’ve all been very nice so far though.”

 

“Even Antoine?”JJ piped up. “Bro, come on. You’re not going to find biceps like those anywhere else. Seriously they’re really just—”

 

“JJ.” Hayden cut him off. “Seriously, if you talk about his arms one more time, I’m going to make Antoine ask you out instead.” He turned back to Shane

 

“Wow, seriously though man, good for you! I’m proud of you! Dates and everything are great but maybe we need to take you out, get you laid.”

 

Shane put his head down, a flush creeping up his neck.

 

“Well, I never said I wasn’t getting laid.” He muttered quietly. Hayden and JJ looked at each other and then exploded into cheers.

 

“Hollander. You. Fucking. Legend!” Exclaimed Hayden.

 

“What? You thought I couldn’t get laid? How do you think I figured out I was gay?”

 

“No! It’s not that. It’s just that… I don’t know.”

 

“Just didn’t think you had it in you. To be casual. To… you know.” JJ gestured vaguely into the air.

 

Shane flushed again, feeling the heat creeping higher into his ears. God if only they knew just how casual Shane could force himself to be.

 

“Well. I don’t love casual. But I still want to. You know” He gestured in the same way JJ just had.

 

“Ok.” Hayden scooched closer to Shane on the bench, conspiratorily. “So which ones?”

 

“Which ones, what?” Shane asked.

 

“Which ones did you sleep with?”

 

“What do you mean which ones? I went on dates with all of them.”

 

Hayden and JJ froze again.

 

“Shane. Don’t tell me.” Hayden said, thunderstruck.

 

“Hollander. You. Are. A Goddamned. MACHINE. You slept with EVERY GUY you’ve been going out with?” JJ clasped his hands on top of his head, roaring with laughter.

 

Shane looked around nervously, shushing them both.

 

“Well, yeah. Isn’t that how it works?”

 

This just made them laugh even harder. Shane laughed nervously, not fully grasping the joke.

 

“Shane, buddy. You can do whatever you want. More fucking power to you. I mean you’ve been in the closet for so long, you have a lot of catching up to do. But I don’t think most people are sleeping with every single person they go out with.”

 

Shane furrowed his brow. Was that true? He had no context for any of this. All of his past encounters had been purely sexual. That seemed to be at the center of any interaction he had with a gay man before. With Rozanov especially, that was their jumping off point and framework for every moment they shared together after that. It was there that the whole thing fell apart as well. Shane hadn’t considered that maybe he could lead with any other part of himself.

 

“Do you think that’s… bad? I don’t want them to think I was using them. I just thought that that’s how the whole gay dating thing worked?”

Shane knew what it was like, to feel used. He had liked it at one point. Found it thrilling, even. But he also knew the agony that came with it. How low it could make a person feel. He didn’t want any of these nice men to think he was just discarding them.

 

“Nah man, it’s not a big deal.” JJ said, trying to seem comforting through his chuckles. 

 

“Yeah, you’re allowed to hook up with people if that’s all you want right now. Just make sure you’re being honest about that, don’t be a dick about it.” Hayden clapped his shoulder. “But I mean, would you have wanted anything serious? With any of those guys?”

 

Shane paused for a second, considering.

 

“No, I don’t think so. I mean maybe I could be open to looking for something more long term.”

 

“Okay. So maybe we hold off on boning if we really like someone. See what happens.”

 

“Please never use the word boning again.”

 

“Hey,” Hayden threw his hands up in the air in surrender. “I’m not the one who just became Montreal’s biggest fuckboy, what do I know?”

 

Shane scowled at him but couldn’t help but be a little pleased with himself. He guessed that maybe he had been building a bit of a reputation for himself. He had seen some tabloids about him on some of his dates. He tried not to pay attention to them too much, in case they said anything negative about his being gay. But, it did boost his confidence to know that he had some pull now that he could fully be himself in public.

Hayden and JJ filtered out ahead of him, still laughing and shoving each other. Shane stayed behind for a moment, finishing packing his duffel.

He thought about what Hayden said. Maybe we hold off if we really like someone.

He hadn't really liked anyone yet. Not in that way. They were all good men. Easy to be around. Easy to laugh with. Easy in ways he hadn't known were available to him.

But easy wasn't the same as wanting something. He wasn't sure yet what wanting something actually felt like when it didn't come wrapped in danger and secrecy and the particular thrill of having something you weren't supposed to have.

He'd figure it out. He had time.

He grabbed his bag and headed out towards the parking lot.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Ilya wasn’t jealous. No, he had just been up at 6 AM today, because he hadn’t been able to sleep, and had been biking in his home gym for the last hour and a half. No, he would not allow himself to feel any type of jealousy over Shane Hollander. 

 

But he couldn’t stop thinking of the picture. The one of Hollander in front of a restaurant in Montreal, head resting in his hand, propped up on top of the table. A relaxed, careless grin plastered onto his face. Ilya had never seen him smile like that in public. Any pictures taken of Hollander by the tabloids before this had been steely, determined, never truly showing what the Montreal captain was really feeling. This grin had been reserved for quiet moments in hotel rooms, after Ilya had him splayed open on his bed, his body limp and pliable. When Hollander would turn over afterwards, to face Ilya. And as his eyes would meet Ilya’s, the grin would stretch out, like a reward for all of Ilya’s hard work. Ilya pumped his legs harder on his bicycle.

 

But there it was, in the daylight, for all the world to see. Ilya couldn’t see the man Hollander was sitting with in the picture. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the fact that it was a man that he sat with. A man who could touch Hollander, who could experience what it felt like to feel those muscles flex and stretch, as Hollander chased his pleasure. A man who could hear those quiet, desperate noises Hollander made when he was right on the edge, pleading for more. And worse, a man who could walk out in public with Hollander afterwards, and not have to hide it. Ilya pumped on the pedals, harder still. 

 

In truth, Ilya knew his feelings had nothing to do with the man himself. It wasn’t even about the fact that Hollander had been likely sleeping with other people. He no longer had a right to that part of Hollander. And he didn’t expect him to be celibate for the rest of his life.

 

He exhaled sharply and forced his legs to stop their toiling. His muscles burned from over exertion and his breath was ragged. And with the motion no longer fueling his rage, a new emotion took hold instead. Defeat.

 

He knew the jealousy wasn’t justified. Ilya knew he wasn't allowed to have any kind of feelings of jealousy towards Hollander after that day when he had shoved his t-shirt into his face and unceremoniously ousted him from his home. He wasn’t even jealous of the men. He was jealous of Hollander.

 

It was the fact that Hollander now got to do all the other stuff with another man. Go out on dates in public, hold hands in public, maybe even kiss in public. How many times had Ilya stood across from Hollander on the ice, been inches away from his perfect, pink lips, and wondered what it would be like to close the gap between them? How often had he wished he could take him somewhere and spoil him rotten. Buy him dinner, play footsie under the table, take him home?

He shook his head. Reminded himself that he did, in fact, have someone to do all that with. Someone he had done all that with. And she was lovely, and sweet, and cared for Ilya so much. But, it never got like this with her. His blood didn’t boil at the thought of someone else touching her. His skin didn’t set on fire when she touched him. His heart didn’t clench at the thought of her. He wasn’t sure what to call it, what Hollander made him feel, but he knew it wasn’t the same with Nora.

 

But she was there for him. There for him when he didn’t allow anyone to be there, not even Svetlana. Forced her way in and sat down, like a protester at a sit-in. Resolute. And he let her in. Because she made him realize that he was worth being cared for. Her kindness allowed him to come to terms with the hard truths about his life. Beginning to forgive himself for his mother's death. Deal with the fact that he had made himself small in order to be more palatable to everyone around him. His father. His brother. His country. 

 

So how could he turn his back on her now? But he also knew that staying out of gratitude wasn't fair to her either. She deserved someone whose blood ran hot for her the way his ran hot right now just from a photograph.

He didn't have an answer for that yet.

Maybe this is what a grown up relationship was supposed to look like. Maybe the fire died and you were left with warmth and comfort and that was supposed to be enough.

But he kept thinking about Hollander's face in that photograph. That grin that used to be his.

He didn't want warmth. He wanted that.

He didn't know what to do with that yet. But for the first time he let himself know it without immediately burying it.

He roughly slapped his face, trying to wake himself up. Got off the bike. His legs wobbled as he made his way out of the gym.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Ilya and Nora had fallen into a quiet routine as of late. More often than not, Nora had been traveling for work. They spent longer and longer stretches apart, facetiming every night but their calls got shorter and shorter. There wasn’t much to discuss, their day to day lives were pretty routine. It wasn’t that Ilya didn’t enjoy seeing her face before bed but he could sense that Nora also wanted to end the call sooner rather than later too, her eyes often wandering off screen to something out of his view.

 

He often would try to conjure up something to say, just to make sure she knew he wasn’t taking her for granted. But it felt like pulling teeth. So eventually he would just give up, blowing her a kiss good night.

 

It was slightly better in person. On the infrequent weekends when Nora was back in town, they would spend evenings at each other’s places. Ilya tried to keep things stimulating, taking them out to dinner or going on shopping trips. Nora was trying too, cooking them dinners and teasing him for good measure. But most of the time they sat in a comfortable silence. Neither of them wanting to acknowledge the shift but simultaneously still wanting to be close. 

On one such infrequent weekend, the two of them sat on Ilya’s couch. Nora’s feet in Ilya’s lap as he rubbed them absentmindedly and she read a magazine. She put the magazine down and studied Ilya’s face, as if trying to piece something together, searching for something. Ilya noticed and paused, looking into her eyes questioningly.

“Can I… ask you something?” she said tentatively.

 

“Of course, moya devochka.”

 

She smiled slightly at the pet name, but her smile didn’t exactly reach her eyes.

 

“Do you… are you… Do you think you’re in love with me?”

 

Ilya froze. He knew what the answer should be. After everything they had gone through. After all she did for him. He should lie. He should give her what she deserved. But did she deserve a lie? She would hate him for that.

 

“I care about you. I care about you more than most people in my life.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

He paused for even longer. Typical Nora. She would never let him bullshit his way through this. He had to be brave enough to tell the truth, knowing what the result would likely be.

 

“No. I don’t think I am. I’m sorry.”

 

She considered him, she didn’t burst into tears. She didn’t yell and scream. She just looked at him, reading him as she had always been able to from the moment they met. Finally, she responded.

 

“I don’t think I am either.”

Ilya looked into her eyes. He should have been shocked, but he wasn’t.

“I wanted to be.” She says it simply. Without self pity. “I thought maybe it would come. The relationship was good. You made me laugh. You showed up. Even when it was hard.”

“I’m still sorry. I don’t want you to feel like I used you. I do really care for you. So much. You have been so good to me.”

“Please, Rozanov. Don’t flatter yourself. You couldn’t trap me even if you tried. I was here because I wanted to be.” She smirked.

Ilya tried to return the smirk, but instead gave her a pained grimace. Nora softened, explaining further.

“You have been so good to me too. I promise. But…” She looked around, searching for the correct phrasing. “But I wasn't fully alive either. And I think I want to be fully alive.”

Alive. That’s what it was with Hollander. The feeling he had been trying to name. And he felt a sense of relief to know that he wasn’t crazy for craving it. That Nora had been wanting that too. That it wasn’t unfair or selfish of him to want that. 

That Nora knew they would never have that feeling with each other.

“I have never done this before, you know. Been in a long term relationship like this. I don’t really know what one looks like. I thought… Maybe this is just how it is supposed to feel. Maybe you were happy with this. So I should be happy with it too.”

“Hmm. Yeah I thought so too. But, I just don’t think either of us would be happy doing this. Forever.”

“Yes, I think you are right.” Ilya paused before continuing. 

“You deserve that, by the way. Feeling alive like you say.” He looked at her seriously. He meant it completely. “You deserve someone who sets you on fire.”

Nora smiled slightly at that.

“So do you.”

And they sat there looking over at each other, for a long while. Finally, Nora untangled her feet from Ilya’s lap and replaced it with her whole body, straddling him and wrapping him in a hug. He breathed in her familiar scent. He recalled another pair of thighs wrapped around him, in almost this exact spot. Back then, this type of proximity and vulnerability would have terrified him. But now, he allowed himself to feel comfort from the tight embrace and tried his best to return the comfort back. Told himself it was safe to do so, to not run from it. He pulled Nora back slightly and placed a gentle kiss onto her forehead.

“Thank you, for everything.” He hoped that she knew he was thanking her for everything. For saving him that first night they met at the charity, for Russia, for being brave enough to let them both seek out more.

“You’re welcome. Take care of yourself Ilya. Really. Not just everyone around you.”

He nods. She squeezed his shoulders one last time and clambered off his lap. She gathered her things and left. No fuss. No mess. Very Nora.

Ilya sat in the living room alone. Truly alone. Not because he had pushed someone away. Not because he thought he was saving someone from him. But because he had finally started to believe he should want more for himself. And it felt terrifying, but electrifying.

Chapter 7: You could've been here in my arms, but we're nothing at all

Chapter Summary

At long last! The boys are in the same space again! That doesn't mean it goes well though...

Shane does on another date, this one seems promising. Ilya reckons with his past actions and makes a plan to repent. But nothing goes according to plan.

Chapter Notes

Sorry it's been a while since I updated! I was moving and things got really crazy for a while there. But hopefully will have more time to write in the upcoming weeks :)

Shane hadn’t been to an arcade since he was nine years old at a classmate’s birthday party. They often felt too overstimulating for him, with the shrieks of unsupervised children, the dull constant roar of beeps and tinny music from the machines, and the flashing lights. But an adults only arcade seemed to have its benefits. The lack of children already improved the environment and Shane already had one drink in him which helped with the other stimuli. It also helped that Marcus was there, and looked really good. His dark, tan skin seemed to glow slightly under the pink and blue lights, his dark hair was long and framed his face delicately. 

 

Marcus was a photographer who had a studio in downtown Montreal. Shane had met him on the set of his most recent Rolex campaign and Marcus had come up to him afterwards.

 

“I’ll text you. Don’t worry, I’ll plan something fun for us!” He had said. 

 

This is not what Shane had expected for “something fun”. 

 

But here he was, with his second drink in hand. He had watched Marcus play a couple games, skee-ball and whack-a-mole, with slight amusement but didn’t participate himself. He struggled with things like this. There was no strategy involved, no way to prepare. You just had to show up and see what happened. Shane had never been particularly good at that.

 

Marcus moved through the arcade with ease, stopping to watch someone else's game for a moment, genuinely interested, before moving on. Shane noticed he laughed easily too. Not performed laughter. Just — something struck him as funny and he laughed. 

 

“Come on Shane, you’ve got to play at least one game. I got us so many tokens! Oh, this one!”

 

Marcus grabbed Shane’s hand and dragged him over to the opposite side of the arcade. Shane felt slight flutters in his stomach from the sudden contact. But his eyes narrowed as they approached a pinball machine. Marcus turned towards him and noticed Shane’s apprehension.

 

“Come on, pleeeease?”

 

After a moment, Shane gave in. “Alright, alright, load me up.”

 

Marcus wiggled his eyebrows at that and Shane rolled his eyes. Once the tokens were in the machine, the ball dropped in and Shane began his play. Almost immediately a sad little tune came from the speaker as the ball fell to the bottom of the machine. Shane huffed.

 

“Aww, tough luck man.”

 

“No. Load it up again.”

 

Marcus looked at him, slightly amused but did what he was told. Again the ball dropped into the game and somehow, even sooner the sad tune played again. Shane groaned in frustration.

 

“This is stupid, the levers have a lag or something.”

 

“Do you always get like this about games?” Marcus asked, his arms crossed, surveying Shane with a playfully taunting look.

 

Shane’s cheeks reddened. He didn’t want to tell his date that he was, in fact, always like this about games. Shane knew not everyone found competition hot. On the other hand, he also didn’t want to look like a fool in front of a hot man. 

 

Shane took some more tokens and played again. And again. And again. With no avail. When he finally looked up after his sixth attempt, Marcus had disappeared. Great, Shane had gotten way too intense and failed miserably and now his date left him.

 

But, as Shane looked around a little more, he saw Marcus in front of a claw machine. He walked up to him, and saw him focused on the claw, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. The claw dropped and grabbed at a small plastic dinosaur. The claw grasped onto it by the tail and it clattered into the prize bin.

 

“Yes! Here.” Marcus fished it out of the bin. “A consolation prize.”

 

Shane grinned and took the small dinosaur into his hand. It was missing an arm.

 

“You couldn’t have picked one that had all its parts?”

 

“Hey, just because it's not perfect doesn’t mean it doesn’t have value.”

 

Shane blinked at him. Marcus had meant it as a joke but Shane had rarely found himself in the company of people who didn't expect perfection out of him. He had spent so long being exceptional at things that he had forgotten what it felt like to just be okay at something. To show up and try and fail and have it not mean anything about who he was.

 

There had been someone once who pushed him. Who met every version of Shane — the controlled and the uncontrolled, the sharp and the soft — and pushed back against all of it. Who made Shane want to be better not because he was afraid of disappointing him but because something about being seen that completely made him want to rise to it. Shane had been sharper around him. More awake. More himself in ways that were sometimes painful and sometimes exhilarating and never, ever easy.

 

He wasn't sure he was ready for that again. Wasn't sure he trusted himself not to disappear into it.

 

Marcus was different. Easy in a way that asked nothing of Shane except his actual presence. No scoreboard. No stakes. Just — here, if you want to be.

 

Shane wasn't sure if he liked it or not. But he couldn't deny that it made him curious.

 

He put the dinosaur in his jacket pocket.

 

“Thank you. I love it.”

 

An hour later, after Marcus had talked Shane into skee-ball and proven to be somehow even worse at it than Shane had been at pinball, Shane found himself laughing properly for the first time in a while. They were still laughing together as they walked back to their cars.

 

“I had a good time tonight. It was fun to play games and not have to be worried about what it would mean if we lost for once.”

 

“Hey, I’ll lose with you anytime you want. Just say the word.”

 

Shane smiled back at his date, who looked at him expectantly. This was the moment where he should have kissed him. Maybe they would go back to one of their places. But, Shane couldn’t shake the curiosity he had about this man. And Hayden’s words echoed in his mind. Maybe we hold off if we really like someone.

 

“I— I think I don’t want to sleep with you.”

 

“Oh— umm.”

 

“No! No! I don’t mean ever. I just mean— lately I think I’ve been jumping into things, physically, with people. And I think I don’t want to do that with you. I like you. I think. And I want to get to know you better. I want to see you again. And I don’t want you to run away after we’ve slept together.”

 

Maybe a little too honest. Marcus didn’t need to know how anxious it made him that someone could run away from him again. Discard him. He grimaced, hoping he hadn’t come on too strong.

 

Marcus just smiled at him. 

 

“Okay. I like you too. For the record. And I would like to see you again. But, if you wanted to, you know, do anything. I wouldn’t run away after. That’s not really my thing.”

 

Shane relaxed his shoulders, he hadn’t realized he had been tensing them. 

 

“Okay. Well. Maybe, could I kiss you then?”

“Yes, you can kiss me.”

Marcus was looking at him with that same easy expression from across the arcade. Up close it was warmer somehow. Shane could see the pink and blue lights of the arcade still reflected in his eyes through the window behind them.

Shane leaned in slowly. Not the way he usually moved — quick and certain and already thinking about what came next. Just — slowly. Giving them both time.

Marcus met him halfway.

It was soft at first. Almost careful. Marcus's hand came up to Shane's jaw lightly, not grabbing, just resting there. Steady. Shane felt his own hands find Marcus's waist and he pulled him in slightly, closing the last of the distance between them.

There was no urgency to it. No performance. Just two people standing on a street in Montreal in the cold deciding they liked each other enough to stay in this moment a little longer.

When they finally broke apart Shane's breath was slightly uneven. Not from the kiss exactly. From the specific strangeness of having wanted something and then just — having it. No conditions. No hiding. No corridor to sprint down afterward.

Marcus was still close. Looking at him with something warm and uncomplicated.

"We don’t have to do more than that. I feel like it’ll be worth the wait," Marcus said quietly.

Shane smiled. And then something shifted slightly in his chest. Not sadness exactly. Just — recognition. He had heard those words before. In a different city, in a different life, said by someone whose voice sounded nothing like Marcus's but whose face Shane could still picture perfectly in the dark.

He pushed the thought aside. It arrived uninvited and he let it leave the same way.

"Yeah," he said. "I think it will be."

He drove home with the one-armed dinosaur still in his pocket.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

“Would you want to come to my game this weekend?”

 

Marcus looked up from his phone. He was leaning on Shane’s kitchen island. Shane thought he looked cute, the early morning sunlight casting a soft glow around his face.

 

“This weekend? What time is it at?”

“It’s an evening game, on Saturday. I know you have a shoot but maybe if you finish early enough I could leave some tickets for you at the box office?”

 

They had been going out for a little over a month now. Shane was comfortable with Marcus. He liked having lazy mornings with him, well, as lazy as Shane ever got. He still got up early to go on his run, and meditated while his coffee brewed. He wasn’t a complete heathen. 

 

But, Marcus was easy to be around. He never pushed Shane, never expected too much out of him. Did Shane sometimes wish that maybe he felt a little more passionate about him? Sure, but passion had never done him any good in the past. And this was exactly what he had been wanting. Someone who could be honest about his feelings towards him. Someone who could give himself fully to him. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who showed up whole. No, this was good. So, the next obvious step was to start incorporating him into his life more. He could start with this game.

 

And it had nothing to do with the fact that this was the first game he was playing with Rozanov since he had come out publicly. No, that had nothing to do with it at all. 

 

But a little extra support for a game like this couldn’t hurt.

 

“Yeah I think the shoot is scheduled to finish around 6 so I should be able to come by. Is it bad that I know absolutely nothing about hockey?” A sly smile crept its way onto Marcus’ face.

“No, I think you knowing absolutely nothing about hockey could be good for me right now.” He walked over and gave him a quick kiss.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Ilya was nervous. He couldn’t deny it. He paced back and forth in his Boston apartment, trying to calm himself. 

 

It was his first game against Montreal since Nora. His first game against Montreal since Hollander had announced his sexuality to the world. His first game against Montreal since he admitted to himself that he deserved something real, passionate, alive.

 

And he was about to face the only man who had ever made him feel that way. 

 

He felt a need to repent. He fiddled with the cross around his neck, thinking of his mother. She was a pious woman. He sometimes felt that he should have done a better job honoring her, going to church more, praying more regularly. Repenting was something she would have approved of. He didn’t want to do it to get Hollander back. It was about more than that.

 

He knew there was no possible way of getting him back now. It was far too late and he had already caused enough damage. Hollander was moving on to bigger and better things. Maybe he had found a boyfriend by now. 

 

He shuddered at the thought. Another man wrapping himself around Hollander, being everything Ilya had wanted to be, giving him everything that Ilya only now realized he should have given him.

 

Ilya knew he wasn’t being fair. He had to move on. Let Hollander find his own happiness, while Ilya continued to carve a braver, more honest path for himself. But could he do that without properly closing that chapter between him and Hollander?

He had been watching Hollander from a distance for months now. Watching him step into himself in a way that Ilya recognized even from across the ice. The particular presence and grace of someone who has stopped performing and started just being. Ilya knew what that cost. He had been slowly learning what it felt like from the inside.

He had never been ashamed of who he was drawn to. He had just been terrified of what naming it publicly would cost him. What would happen if the league reacted badly? He had no safety net. No country to return to that would protect him. He had built everything he had from nothing on foreign soil and one wrong step could take all of it.

And yet here was Hollander. Who had taken that step. Who had stood in front of the world and said the thing and kept playing hockey and kept winning. And Ilya, who had spent years telling himself the fear was reasonable, the caution was necessary, found he had no argument left against it.

He was tired of carrying his father's voice around with him like it still had authority over his life. He may have removed himself physically from their presence but they breathed down his neck every moment of every day.

He took a breath and stopped his pacing. He ran his fingers through his hair, as he made a decision. He couldn't solve the bigger thing today. But he could do the smaller thing. The thing that had been sitting in his chest since Boston.

 

He needed to say something today. Not everything. Just — that he was sorry. That Hollander had been brave in a way Ilya hadn't known how to be yet and that he respected it. Truly.

Whether Hollander would believe him was another question entirely.

Maybe if he could just say that, he could finally let go of the boy with the beautiful freckles.

He sighed, shaking out his hands. He walked over to his front door, picking up his suitcase on the way to head to the airport. 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Shane was soaring. And he was so unbelievably pissed off about it.

 

He shifted his weight effortlessly from one skate to the other, his hands twisting the handle of the hockey stick in his hand. He was on Rozanov’s heels, who was ducking and diving and dodging as he ran the puck to the Montreal side of the rink. It was like a dance, one which Shane never knew the exact steps to but always kept him on his toes, anticipating his partner’s next moves. 

 

He hated that Rozanov was the best dance partner he had ever had. He hated how he was the only one who could ever get Shane into this state, with his blood rushing, his hands buzzing, his mind racing.

 

Rozanov glanced back sharply, throwing a devilish grin at Shane, before reeling his hockey stick back and hurtling the puck into the net in front of him.

 

Shane stopped short, spitting onto the ice. He skated back to the bench, throwing his helmet on the ground.

 

“Woah, buddy.” Hayden jumped back, startled. “It’s okay, we’ll get him next time.”

 

“Yeah. Whatever.” Shane replied.

 

He tried to center himself. He glanced into the stands, searching for a mop of dark hair. He spotted it and Marcus grinned at him, waving frantically. He wore a comically large foam glove and gave him a huge thumbs up. Shane shook his head and grinned with his head down. At least he could be certain Marcus wouldn’t care if he lost tonight.

 

But, the brief reprieve Marcus had given him ended abruptly as he looked around towards the Raider’s bench and he felt his blood beginning to boil again looking at Rozanov, who was squirting water into his mouth. Shane registered how intoxicating the feeling was. He loved that it felt like he was on fire. And then he hated himself for knowing it. He tore his eyes away, trying to remind himself that he was choosing peace. He was choosing real.

 

He picked up his helmet. Put it back on. He was still their captain. He still had a game to win. 

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

The next face-off was beginning. Ilya hopped the boards and made his way to center ice. Hollander was making his way over as well. Now. He had to do it now.

 

Hollander didn’t look up at him, instead choosing to focus on the way their hockey sticks were interlocked.

 

“Hi.” Ilya started, awkwardly.

 

Hollander grunted in response.

 

“I— uhh. I just want to say it was brave. What you did.”

 

Hollander looked up, making eye contact with Ilya for the first time since that disastrous day in Boston.

 

“What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

Ilya’s heart clenched. Oh god, it was already going so wrong.

 

“No. No please. I just mean—”

 

“Fuck you Rozanov, you don’t anything about me. Or my life you have no right—”

 

The puck was dropped. Neither man had time to process what happened. Hollander fumbled the puck initially but regained control faster than Ilya could and took off, tearing down the ice, leaving Ilya to desperately try to catch up in futile fashion. 

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Oh fuck. He had done it now. Why did he do it right there? On the ice? He should’ve asked to talk privately. Or texted him. 

 

No, but Hollander wouldn’t have responded. He probably had Ilya blocked at this point. There was no other option. But still, what the hell was wrong with him? 

 

Ilya trudged back to his locker room. They had lost, 3-2. Ilya’s final fumble had lost them the game. Typical. His teammates were muttering complaints all around him but he couldn’t hear them, lost in the narrative in his own mind.

 

He started stripping down, peeling off his sweat soaked gear. He tried to drown out his teammates but they were getting more and more riled up.

 

"That was embarrassing." Volkov threw his gloves across the room. "We had them in the second period. We had them."

 

"Hollander's too fast on the penalty kill," Marleau muttered. "Can't get anything past him."

 

"Rozanov had him in the first," said another voice. "What happened in the third?"

 

Ilya said nothing. Kept his eyes on his gear.

 

"I'll tell you what happened." Volkov again, louder now, working himself up the way he always did after a loss. "We lost to a team whose captain spent the whole summer doing photo shoots about being a cocksucker instead of training. And we still couldn't beat them. That's embarrassing."

 

A few uncomfortable laughs around the room. Someone said yeah without much conviction. Ilya’s fists started to ball up.

 

"Hollander's soft now." Volkov spat on the floor. "Playing like a f——"

 

And then Ilya was on him. He felt his knuckles connect with Volkov’s cheekbone with a sickening crunch. But he couldn’t stop himself. His fists kept meeting flesh and Ilya just saw red. At first he thought it was just his vision blurring out of anger. Until actual red slowly coated Volkov’s compression gear. The team was frozen in horror at first, until hands grabbed the back of Ilya’s shirt and yanked him off the bleeding man.

 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you Rozanov?!” Volkov spit out, blood spurting out of his mouth as he spit out a tooth.

 

“Say it again, Volkov! Fucking say that shit again!” Ilya struggled against the arms holding him back, unsure who they belonged to.

 

“What does it matter to you? You fucking hate Hollander?”

 

Ilya finally broke free of his restraints but didn’t charge again. Instead, he took a breath. He was sick of this shit. Now. He had to do it now. Before he lost his nerve.

 

“Hate Hollander all you want. I don’t care. But if your problem with Hollander is him being a cocksucking fa— whatever you said, then you have a problem with me too.”

The silence stretched. Nobody moved. Ilya could feel his hand starting to throb where his knuckles had connected with Volkov's face. He became aware of blood on his mouth. His own or Volkov's, he wasn't sure.

He looked around the room. At the faces of men he had played with for years. Some of them unreadable. Some of them uncomfortable. 

"You're… gay?" someone said from the back. Tentative. Genuinely confused.

Ilya turned toward the voice.

"Bisexual." He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tomato tomahto. Or whatever the saying is."

Nobody laughed. Nobody said anything.

He didn’t need them to.

He grabbed his jacket from his locker. Didn't bother with the rest of his gear. Just walked out.

He had done it. He wasn't sure what he had done exactly. But he had done it. And there was no going back now.

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

“Shane. Shane. Man, why are you so pissed off? We won!” Hayden shouted at him over the exuberant voices of the rest of the Montreal team.

 

But Shane couldn’t hear him. What the hell was Rozanov trying to say? 

 

It was brave. What you did.

 

He was sure he had been trying to make fun of him. Rubbing it in that Shane wasn’t able to pick the easy thing like he could. Shane didn’t have the option of finding some nice woman and just making it work. He couldn’t pretend like everything that happened between them was just a blip. 

 

No. Shane had had to claw and fight his way here. He forged a place for himself, within this sport that didn’t want him here, and stood firm in who he was. And now he had found someone who would just let him exist in that space, with no expectations. A good man, who didn’t run away at the first sign of trouble. And Rozanov was taunting him?

 

What the hell did Ilya Rozanov know about being brave? He wouldn’t know brave if it punched him straight in the face.

 

Shane got up.

 

“Woah, woah. Where are you going?” Hayden stepped in front of him, his hands pushing lightly against Shane’s chest.

 

“I just— I have to— leave me alone Hayden I have to go.”

 

Before Hayden could protest he was storming down the hall, making his way over to the visiting team locker room.

 

No, Rozanov didn’t get to say that shit. Not after everything he had put Shane through. Shane had tried to be the bigger man. Tried to accept the fact that Rozanov would never be the type of man to meet him where he was. And he could accept that. Rozanov didn't get to say that. Not after everything. Shane had done the work. Had stood up in front of everyone and said the thing and kept playing. And Rozanov got to what — watch from a safe distance and call it brave? No. 

 

He rounded the corner and was marching up to the door of the locker room when it suddenly swung open. And out came Rozanov.

 

“Rozanov, we need to talk. What the fuck did you— Ily— Rozanov what the fuck happened?”

 

Blood. He was covered in blood. Shane stood, rooted to the spot. He peeked over Rozanov’s shoulder and spotted a crowd forming around someone. Was that Volkov? He couldn’t tell. The man’s face was also covered in blood, distorting his features.

 

He looked back at Rozanov. They both looked down at his hands, knuckles bloodied and finger tips shaking slightly.

 

“Rozanov, what—”

 

“Hollander, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

 

“Wait, but—”

 

“I have to. I’m sorry. But since you are here.”

 

Rozanov looked up at Shane and Shane looked into his eyes, frantically trying to piece together the story unfolding in front of him.

 

“This is not how I wanted to do this. I just— I was not joking. On the ice today. I really do think it was brave what you did. It’s not— it’s not easy. To be brave. I think I know now. And I— I’m sorry for everything. I really need you to know. I am sorry.”

 

“Rozanov, I—”

“Shane!”

 

Both boys whipped around towards the end of the hall. Marcus, wearing his foam finger and a camera around his neck, stood waving Shane over.

 

“Shane, babe! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Come on, I want to get some pictures of you with the guys! I think I might love hockey now!”

 

Shane turned back towards Rozanov. And turned back towards Marcus. The choice should have been clear. But why was Shane hesitating. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Said Rozanov. “I need to go ice this. And it looks like you—”

“Yes. I should— yes.”

 

They lingered, just for a second longer. Until Shane turned around. Marcus held out his hand, and Shane took it tentatively. Briefly looking back towards Rozanov before he let himself be pulled around the corner.

 

Ilya stood. Hands throbbing. The lights a little too bright, a ringing in his ears getting louder and louder. Eventually he shook his head. Turned in the opposite direction to find some ice.

Chapter 8: Let the light come in once in a while

Chapter Summary

The boys start deal with the fall out from Ilya's confession. Finally lines of communication are open again. Ilya thinks about how far he has come and how much further he has to go. Shane starts to realize that the idea he had of Rozanov in his head might not have been entirely accurate.

Chapter Notes

Syurpriz! Another chapter because I'm kinda on a roll with this. I'm also wanting to wrap this one up soon because I have other ideas for fics and can't focus on more than one at a time. Enjoy :)

Ilya stared down at his phone as the light seeped in through the cracks in his curtains, dappling his bed sheets with spots of light. He should be horrified at what he’s seeing. This is his absolute worst nightmare.

His voice, echoing around the empty bedroom. 

Hate Hollander all you want. I don’t care. But if your problem with Hollander is him being a cocksucking fa— whatever you said, then you have a problem with me too.

The video seemed to have leaked almost immediately. He wasn’t sure who had been recording in the locker room. Or why. It’s not like any of them had been doing anything they wanted to remember. But there it was. Existing on the internet. And he found he didn’t really care who had done it.

Of course the internet had run with it. Already news outlets had picked up the story, the outing of Russia’s hockey machine, Ilya Rozanov.

Bisexual. Tomato tomahto. Or whatever the saying is.

He had seen enough. He clicked his phone off, instead turning his attention down towards his hands. He flexed his fingers, slowly and cautiously. They were still tender, but he relished in dull pain. It felt like a release in a way. 

He got himself out of bed, groaning slightly at the way his muscles ached beneath him, and padded his way over to the bathroom. He ran some cold water over the scabs forming on his knuckles, hissing slightly at the sudden change in temperature. He splashed some water onto his face, tentatively looking at himself in the mirror.

He should be horrified. But instead he felt inexplicably lighter. He had been running. Running his whole life. Running from Russia, to Boston. From his father and his illness. From his brother and his demands. From himself. But his legs finally gave out. And now all he had left was to look at the face gazing back at him from this mirror.

He looked, truly looked into his own eyes. Green. Searching. Eyebrows. Slightly scrunched. The curve of his lips, slightly down turned. For so long, he had looked at this face and only saw his fear and weakness reflected back at him. Or even worse, he feared that one day he would see a man like his father gazing back at him, hard lines drawn across his face in fury, cold unfeeling eyes. 

But today, he searched for something else. The mole on his cheek, in the exact place his mother had one. The way his soft, blonde curls pointed in every which way the way mama’s did when she had just woken up. He had ignored the similarities between them, terrified that he would never live up to who she was, even on her worst days. Her gentleness, her caring, her softness. But looking into his reflection now, he could see glimpses of her peeking out.

Something shifted in him yesterday. It wasn’t the first time that someone on his team had said some ignorant shit. And normally Ilya would have kept his mouth shut, throwing them a disapproving glance at most. Always so scared that any indication of who he was would get him sent straight back to Russia, to Papa. 

Maybe it was finally facing Hollander again. Or maybe it was a culmination of everything he had gone through with Nora and his father and Russia. But Ilya was done with it. 

He dried his face. Went back to his phone. Clicked it back on.

The notifications were still there. Hundreds of them. He didn't look at any of them.

He went to make coffee instead. Let whatever happened next happen.

He wasn't sure he had ever done that before. Just let something happen without trying to manage it first.

It felt terrifying. It felt right.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Marcus’ soft snores filled Shane’s bedroom. But Shane could not find sleep. He was tossing and turning the whole night until he started getting texts. And news notifications. 

“Boston Raiders' Ilya Rozanov Suspended Following Locker Room Altercation"

"Rozanov Out Two Games After Physical Altercation with Teammate Volkov"

"Rozanov Drops Gloves — and a Bombshell — in Leaked Locker Room Video"

On and on it went. Shane had been staring at one in particular for over 10 minutes.

"Rozanov Defends Hollander in Leaked Video, Reveals He is Bisexual: 'You Have a Problem With Me Too'"

Rozanov defends Hollander. But why? He couldn’t figure out why. Shane replayed their conversation in the hall. 

I was not joking. On the ice today. I really do think it was brave what you did. It’s not— it’s not easy. To be brave. I think I know now.

But it still didn’t make sense. Why now? He could have gone on pretending. Rozanov had an out. Something Shane didn’t have. Why did he choose to embark down this more difficult, treacherous path? It wasn’t like him. Shane had thought Rozanov to be someone to take the easy road out. Someone who life came easily to. He was loud in a way Shane had to fight to be. Good at hockey effortlessly, unlike Shane who managed every second of his life carefully to cater to hockey. He could make himself love a woman. Why, all of a sudden had he decided that he had to be honest about this now?

A small part of him, a part Shane never acknowledged anymore, whispered conspiratorially. Maybe it was really for you. Maybe after all this time. Was this Rozanov finally acknowledging what had taken place between them? Shane wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

I’m sorry for everything. I really need you to know. I am sorry.

Over and over he kept going over it in his head. What had he gotten wrong about Rozanov? Every theory he had about it kept contradicting the others. Nothing made sense. The curiosity was killing him. He glanced over at Marcus’ form, watched as his back rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He pursed his lips, stealing himself. He had to. 

He opened up his messages app. Scrolled down, and scrolled, and scrolled. Until he found it. Lily.

His fingers trembled slightly. His mind was racing and he was desperately trying to pull his thoughts together to ask a question that encompassed everything he needed to know. Finally, he settled on one.

Is it true?

He hit send and threw his phone to the side. God, what was he doing? This was so stupid of him. But before he could spiral more, his phone dinged.

Which part? The punch or the two game suspension

Typical, deflecting. Shane wasn’t sure what he expected. But before he could protest, another message came in.

Yes it's true

Shane froze. He wasn’t sure what to do with this. He needed to know more.

Why did you do it?

Volkov has bad jaw anyway. Was doing him a favor.

Shane waited this time, hoping for more. He got his wish.

It wasn't right what he said.

No. It wasn't.

Was that all? All of a sudden Ilya Rozanov had found morality and needed to stand up to a big bad bully? No, he needed more than that.

I don’t need you to fight my battles.

It wasn’t just your battle. You’re not the only gay man in the MLH Hollander.

You know what I mean.

I have needed to do this for a while. 

The timing wasn’t great. 

I have never been good with that.

Honest. Raw. Real. Shane didn’t know what to do with any of it. He couldn’t let it go. He forged forward.

But why now?

I’m not sure. I just got tired of it.

I don’t know what will happen now. If the league thinks I am too much trouble.

I could get sent back to Russia. It is not safe.

Shane stared at that for a moment. He knew about Russia. Of course he knew. But knowing it abstractly and having Ilya type it out plainly like that — it is not safe — were different things. Shane had been out in Canada for months now. Had his parents, his team, the league, a whole infrastructure of people who would catch him if he fell. He hadn't had to think about what it would mean to have none of that.

I know about Russia

He typed. Then deleted it. Too defensive.

I know it's not the same situation

Closer. He sent it.

But why are you doing this now? Did your circumstances change?

Something tightened in Shane’s stomach. A thought that hadn’t crossed his mind. Maybe, Rozanov had figured out his citizenship problem. Maybe that Nora girl had been the solution after all and they were married. He waited with bated breath.

No. It is still not safe. But I don’t know.

There was a long pause, while Shane watched the grey typing bubble jump softly up and down on his screen.

But someone showed me that I should have been braver this whole time. And I finally got the courage to say it. 

Shane stared at his screen. Suddenly his body felt awkward. His hands felt too large and clumsy. His breathing became labored. He read the message three times.

Someone showed me.

He knew who. Of course he knew who. And something about having it said that way. Obliquely, carefully, the way Ilya always said the true things, made it land harder than if he had just said it plainly.

He put his phone face down on his chest. Stared at the ceiling. Listened to Marcus breathing steadily beside him.

He didn't know what to do with this. He wasn't ready to do anything with this. But he also couldn't pretend he hadn't felt something shift in his chest just now reading those words in the dark.

He picked his phone back up. Stared at the message one more time.

Then typed the only honest thing he had.

Put some ice on that hand, Rozanov.

Marcus began to stir gently next to him.

“Hey,” he whispered, placing a light kiss on Shane’s lips. “You been up a while? You were moving around a lot last night, everything okay?”

Shane nodded gently but hesitated, finally deciding to just show Marcus. He opened up his phone and passed it to him, letting him scroll through the headlines.

“This is the guy from yesterday right? You were talking to in the hallway?” he said, squinting at the screen. “Aren’t you like, supposed to hate each other or whatever?” He looked up at Shane’s face, which was impassive.

“Feels weird seeing it all… public like that. Are you okay about it?” 

Shane found he had no answer for him. There was almost too much and not enough to explain. He also had a creeping feeling that he didn’t want to talk to Marcus about this. Not because he would react badly or that he was ashamed. But it felt like everything between him and Rozanov was a room he had locked away, and only the two of them had a key to it. 

“Yeah… it’s nothing, really.”

Marcus was watching him like he was trying to decide whether to push further or let it go. 

“You sure you’re okay? You seem… far away.”

“I’m… yeah I feel fine. Was nice of him I guess”, Shane continued

Shane shook his head and put a small smile on his face.

“Yes, I’m fine. Coffee?”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

“Shane! Shane! Can you tell us your thoughts on Rozanov defending you?”

Shane stood in the press conference room, lights flashing for every direction. He knew it was coming. But he still surprised himself when he opened his mouth to speak.

“I was shocked to say the least. I don’t condone violence of any kind. But, I— I— I thank Mr. Rozanov. He put himself out on the line and that is never easy. I know first hand what that’s like. Language like that has no place on or off the ice. But, I hope everyone has a speedy recovery and gets back to what we’re all here for, the love of the game. Thank you.”

Shouts continued to surround him but he stepped off the stage back towards the locker room, into the showers. He stood under the hot water for longer than usual. Letting it work through the tension in his shoulders. Trying not to think about anything in particular.

He mostly succeeded.

When he returned back to his locker, he saw a text. Lily.

Thank you.

You did not need to be so kind to me. 

But what you said means a lot to me.

Shane wasn’t sure he would ever get used to this. This level of candor from Rozanov. But it was refreshing. He tried to ignore the flutter in his chest as he typed back his response.

I meant it. Being brave isn’t easy. Under any circumstance.

He paused for a moment.

Just try to stop punching people. Deal?

He waited for a bit. Saw the grey bubble pop up. Then disappear. Then pop up. And disappear again. Finally,

I can’t make promises. But I will try :)

Chapter 9: Aren't you for sale if you're cashing in cold?

Chapter Summary

Ilya knows it's time to leave Boston. The locker room has never felt colder and he's done pretending otherwise. Shane knows something is shifting too — he's just not sure what to do with it yet. Somewhere between a trade request and a text sent too late at night, two people who have spent years deciding what the other could handle start to figure out what honesty actually looks like.

Ilya had to leave Boston. There was no other option. 

Well there were other options but that would require Ilya punching some more people which he had said he would try not to do. 

The locker room had grown… cold to say the least. The boys he used to go out with, the ones he used to make crass jokes with, boys he used to wrestle with during practice, were all giving him a wide berth now. All except for Marleau.

"You just have to give it time," Marleau said, after practice one day. "I think they're all just scared you'll beat them up or something."

The Bears had lost to Buffalo last week. To Buffalo of all teams. Pathetic.

Ilya had carried them through three periods almost single handedly and it still hadn't been enough. His teammates had been careful around him ever since the locker room incident. Careful in the way people are when they don't know what to do with someone and politeness feels safer than honesty.

“I still might beat them up. Haven’t decided yet.” Ilya muttered through gritted teeth.

“Have you heard anything about Volkov since… ya know?”

Volkov was traded almost immediately after the video was leaked. The Bears seemed to think it was bad PR to have a blatant homophobe on the team. If only the public could hear the shit Ilya heard in the locker room on a regular basis.

“No. Don’t want to hear anything.” Ilya said. 

“Hmm.” Marleau paused. “Like I said, give it time. People just need to cool down.” He gave Ilya a pointed look.

“Don’t look at me! I am very cool. Always coolest.” Ilya exclaimed. Marleau looked unconvinced. 

“Whatever. Fuck off Marly”

Marleau shook his head, chuckling a bit, and headed off for the showers.

Ilya stayed at his bench, head down, while the rest of his team moved around him. He didn’t want to give it time. Ilya had already wasted so much time hiding. And what did he have to show for it? A team that no longer respected him? His… Hollander… with another man?

He had been here since he was 18 years old. Built this team from the ground up. Left everything he knew back in Russia to come to this strange town with its obsession with Dunkin and bars that closed too early.

But he hadn’t left everything behind in Russia. If anything, this place always felt like a liminal space between his two lives. He always had one foot in, one foot out, waiting for things to go south back home. But now that his last threads on connection had been sniped, what was keeping him here?

But where would he go? He would probably get more of the same treatment with any other American team. And the US didn’t feel particularly kind towards LGBTQ+ folks right now. Or towards Russians. Maybe Canada? But he had no idea what that would look like.

He could call his agent, Viktor. Except that Viktor had been his father's friend before he was Ilya's agent and they hadn't spoken since the video leaked. The silence said enough. Viktor had kept Ilya employed for nine years and out of trouble and that was apparently the extent of what he had signed up for. Ilya never really had brand deals. At least nothing like other players in the league had. Never had someone sit down with him and ask what kind of player he wanted to be known as, what he cared about, what story he wanted to tell. That had never seemed important before.

It seemed important now.

Svetlana would know about what teams would be looking for a star center, but she probably wouldn’t be able to help with understanding what the culture would look like on those teams.

He needed to know what it felt like on the other side of all of this. Whether it got easier or just different. Whether there was a version of his life that didn't feel like navigating a minefield every single day.

He needed to talk to someone. Someone who had been through this. Someone like…

Hollander.

Yes?

Ilya paused. He felt stupid for doing it. What right did he have? He almost put the phone down. Almost talked himself out of it the way he used to talk himself out of everything.

Almost. 

But Hollander had been so kind that day, to the press. He told Ilya that he was brave. 

He thought of Nora. Her voice, matter of fact and slightly exasperated — you keep deciding for everyone what they can bear.

I need some help, if you can give it.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Help. Ilya Rozanov was asking him for help.

A thousand thoughts ran through Shane’s head. Something terrible must have happened for him to reach out to him, of all people. But if it was truly an emergency he would’ve called someone local. 

He had seen a tabloid (Marcus liked to read them in the morning) that the Nora girl was spotted with someone else, somewhere in New York. Shane had ignored the way his chest fluttered at hearing the news. 

Was that why Rozanov was reaching out now? He lost his play thing and thought he should try to find his old one?

Shane shook his head. That was unfair of him to think. This didn’t seem like something like that. If Rozanov had been trying to crawl his way back into Shane’s life he would’ve been more coy, delicate, flirtatious. And Shane thought Rozanov was a lot of things, but he didn’t seem like a homewrecker. 

No, this was something else. Shane knew it couldn't have been easy for him to ask. In the years of their clandestine meetings, Rozanov had never asked anything of Shane that was non-sexual. Other than Boston… when he had asked him to stay. That was the last time he had seen Rozanov show even the slightest bit of vulnerability. Look where that had ended them up.

“If you can give it.”

But he was giving Shane an out. A way to say no if he really wanted to. Did he want to say no? Would Shane be able to help him without losing his way again? He had worked so hard. So damn hard for this version of his life. 

And because of that Shane was sure, he wouldn’t sacrifice it for just anything. Especially not a random text from Ilya Rozanov. He was stronger now. 

He looked down at his phone and began typing. 

 

What do you need?

 

He waited for a moment as Rozanov began to type.

 

I am free agent next season and I am thinking of leaving. Boston.

 

Wow. That’s a lot. Can I ask why?

 

I punched my teammate. Not exactly good for team morale.

Just does not feel good here anymore.

 

Makes sense. What can I help with though?

 

I am thinking it might be good to move somewhere new altogether. To Canada. 

 

Shane stared at the screen in disbelief. Rozanov. In Canada.

 

I don't know what this looks like. The culture. The market. What teams would be good for someone in my situation right now.

 

Someone in your situation meaning?

 

Out. Russian. Coming off a suspension and a lot of bad press.

 

Shane smiled despite himself.

 

Ottawa is looking for a center. Has been for two seasons.

 

Ottawa.

 

Yes.

 

You want to win cup so bad? You send me to shit team like Ottawa.

 

Fuck off. Do you want my help or not?

 

Yes. Fine. Why Ottawa?

 

They haven’t met their cap yet. They would take someone like you in a heartbeat.

 

Silence. Shane waited a moment. Finally, Rozanov started typing again.

 

What is Ottawa like?

 

Cold.

 

I am Russian, Hollander.

 

Fair. It's quieter than you'd expect for a capital city. I obviously like it. It's my hometown. Smaller market than Toronto or Montreal. Less media pressure. The organization is solid. They actually take care of their players.

 

The locker room?

 

Shane’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, as he contemplated. 

 

I can't tell you what their locker room is like on the inside. But I know their coach. Good guy. The kind of person who sets the tone.

The Canadian market is different from American. People here care about hockey the way you care about hockey. No hiding behind other sports. You'll be scrutinized more.

 

I am already being scrutinized.

 

Fair.

 

Another pause.

 

Why Canada specifically. You have a green card right?

 

Yes. I know. It's not about the paperwork.

I just want to be somewhere that feels like it's on my side. Even a little.

 

Shane grimaced. Boston must really be doing a number on him.

 

Yeah.

I understand that.

 

Shane hesitated, wondering how much exactly he should offer. Finally, he decided. If he was going to help, he would help as much as he could.

 

I can connect you with my mom's contact at a sports agency. She's not my mom obviously. But she's good. She'll actually help you build something. If that’s what you want.

 

You don't have to do that.

 

I know.

 

Neither person was typing now. Shane’s fingers hovering again over the keyboard. Finally.

 

Hollander.

 

Yeah?

Thank you.

 

Don't mention it.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — A Week Later — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

“What are you still doing up?”

Marcus came into Shane’s study, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh. Hey. Sorry. I’m just helping… someone. Had some research to do.”

Marcus came around the desk behind Shane and slid his hands down Shane’s chest, resting his chin on top of his head. Shane tried not to stiffen at his touch.

“Why are you looking up citizenship stuff?”

“The person… I’m helping. He has an American green card. But he wants to come up here. I was just putting together some information for him.”

“Do I know this mysterious person?”

Shane froze. He had nothing to hide. Not really. He should be able to tell his boyfriend about this. Right?

“Umm— yeah. You remember Rozanov? The one who— you know. Punched his teammate.”

“The one who defended you? Who you hate?”

“Well. Yes. But no. I don’t hate him. Well, maybe not anymore. He just reached out because he wants to switch to a Canadian team after everything happened. His relationship with his agent fell apart once the video leaked. So I’m just helping get his ducks in a row. I guess.”

Marcus fell silent behind him. Shane turned around in his chair.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Hmm. Okay. Well, come back to bed soon okay?”

“Yeah, I will.” He forced a smile, letting Marcus kiss him. He lingered, his mouth hovering over Shane’s, as if he were hoping for more. Instead, he just made his way back to the bedroom.

Shane looked down. Why did he feel like he was doing something wrong? He was just helping after all. It’s not like he had lied to his boyfriend about what was happening. Right?

He closed his laptop. Sat in the dark for a moment.

He hadn't lied to Marcus. That was true. He had helped someone who needed help. That was also true. There was nothing wrong with any of it.

And yet.

Marcus had said okay and gone back to bed. Hadn't pushed, hadn't asked the question that was sitting in the room between them. Shane had always appreciated that about him. The space he gave. The way he never demanded more than Shane was ready to offer.

Sitting in the dark now he wasn't sure if he appreciated it or if he had just been using it. If the space Marcus gave him had been a gift or a convenience. If he had chosen someone easy because he was done being brave.

That thought sat uncomfortably in his chest.

He got up. Turned off the desk lamp.

The one armed dinosaur sat on the corner of his desk where he'd put it almost two months ago and forgotten about it. He looked at it for a moment in the dark.

Then went to bed. He didn’t sleep particularly well.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Rozanov. I sent you a document. It should have enough to get you started on the citizenship process here. I put Alyssa’s contact information on there. She’s my mom’s friend I was telling you about.

So Mr. Real Estate is also Mr. Government Official.

Shut up.

I am kidding Hollander.

This is all very helpful.

Thank you.

You are welcome.

 

The next day, Shane got another message from Rozanov.

 

Alyssa called me this morning.

 

Already? She's fast.

 

Yes. She is very… a lot.

 

That's my mom's energy rubbing off on her. Was she helpful?

 

Very. She also told me I have very good bone structure. Is this normal for her?

 

Shane laughed out loud at that. He could picture it perfectly.

 

Unfortunately yes. Don't pretend you didn't like that though.

Did she help with the Ottawa stuff?

 

Yes. She thinks it is very doable. She also thinks I should do press while I am up there. Build my brand she says. Apparently I have been very bad at this.

 

You have been terrible at it.

 

Thank you Hollander, very helpful.

 

I'm just being honest.

 

Yes well. Maybe that is something I am learning to do.

 

Shane read that last message twice. Put his phone down. Picked it back up.

 

How's Boston?

 

Cold. And I do not mean the weather.

 

Are you okay?

 

A longer pause than usual.

 

I told management this morning I will not be signing again.

 

Shane sat with that for a moment. Knowing what it cost him.

 

How does it feel?

 

Like I am finally doing the right thing. Also terrifying. Also maybe like I should have done it sooner.

 

Yeah. Maybe.

 

Can I ask you something?

 

Sure.

 

When you came out. Were you scared of what it would do to the things that mattered to you? Or people around you?

 

Shane stared at his phone now. Not sure where this was going but staying with it.

 

Yes. Very.

 

I think I was always scared of that. With everything. Not just this. I spent a long time deciding what people could handle from me before they even got to decide for themselves.

 

Shane read that twice. Then a third time.

Something in it was familiar in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. Was that what it was the whole time?

When it had been done to him he had just assumed Rozanov was being selfish. Only giving Shane access to parts of himself because he didn't think Shane was worth any more than that. Or worse, that what they had wasn't worth any more than that.

But maybe that wasn't it. Maybe Rozanov had genuinely believed he was protecting Shane from something. From himself. From the weight of everything Ilya carried. Maybe he had looked at Shane and decided what Shane could handle before Shane ever got to decide.

Shane's stomach twisted slightly.

Because he knew what that looked like from the inside now. Didn't he?

He thought about Marcus. About thirty tabs of Canadian immigration law open on his laptop. About not quite being able to meet his kiss. About choosing someone who wouldn't push him, who would give him space, who would accept it's not a big deal and go back to bed without asking the question sitting in the room between them.

He had told himself that was what he needed. Someone easy. Someone safe. Someone who wouldn't light him on fire.

But maybe he had just been deciding what he could handle before he gave himself the chance to find out.

He put his phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

He wasn't sure which was worse — the idea that Rozanov had been protecting him all along, or the idea that Shane had been doing the exact same thing to someone else and calling it growth.

 

That sounds exhausting.

 

It was. It is. I am working on it.

 

Yeah.

 

Shane typed. Then after a moment — 

 

Me too.

 

Finally Rozanov sent —

 

Thank you. For all of this. Truly.

 

Don't mention it Rozanov.

 

I mean it.

 

I know you do.

 

Chapter 10: Holding, holding out

Chapter Summary

The last game. For old time's sake. Ilya plays knowing he's leaving Boston, knowing he's done running, knowing he has no idea what to do about it. Shane plays knowing something has shifted in him that he's not ready to name. And somewhere between a face off and a handshake line, two people who have spent years hiding things from each other decide — for once — to just say the true thing.

Ilya’s stomach was in knots. He knew it shouldn’t be. The game was inconsequential for all intents and purposes. There was no shot in hell that the Raiders were making it to the playoffs at this point. It was the first time it had happened since Ilya had been drafted. But there was no salvaging the team’s rapport after everything that had happened this year. It was so unfair, after everything he poured into this team, building it from the ground up. He was really hoping to close this chapter out with one more cup, prove that no matter who he slept with that he was still Ilya Fucking Rozanov. But, his team decided otherwise and now if he wanted another cup, he would have to rebuild the Centaurs from the ground up, just as he did with the Raiders. It would probably be years before they were in a spot to even be contenders.

 

So no, he wasn’t nervous because this was an important game. He had an obligation to play to the end of his contract, and that was that. He was nervous because this was the last time he would be playing against Shane Hollander as his greatest rival. Through the years, throughout all the ups and downs and turbulence of the twisted thing between them, they always had this. They had hockey. They would still have it, neither of them were retiring anytime soon. But it would change. And Ilya couldn’t decide if that was going to be good or bad for them.

 

Things were going well between them, at least as well as Ilya could expect after everything. They would text occasionally. Ilya would ask questions about neighborhoods in Ottawa and Hollander, with his real estate fetish (although he denied the allegations every time Ilya brought it up) would reply with paragraphs of information for him. Sometimes Hollander would text him restaurant recommendations or tell him which hiking trails to try out. Sometimes Ilya could convince himself that maybe after all this, he and Hollander could figure out a way to be friends. He could admit to himself now that he would do anything to keep Hollander in his orbit, to make sure that those freckles stayed in his life in one way or another. Even tolerate Hollander’s stupid photographer boyfriend clicking away in the stadium.

 

As Ilya laced up his skates, he recalled the last game he and Hollander had in Montreal. He had seen pictures of the boyfriend in the stands. The man was annoyingly handsome. And he looked at Shane like he was something worth documenting which, fine, he was. Ilya just wished he didn't have to know about it. Ilya sat up straighter and shook his head lightly. 

 

Friends. He had decided on friends. And friends didn’t get jealous over their friend’s annoyingly hot boyfriends. He would not let his mind get in the way of enjoying one last game against his rival of almost 10 years. 

 

But all that went out the window the second he was hunched over center ice, staring into Hollander’s dark determined eyes. Shane’s eyes. Shane’s freckles. Shane’s pink, plump lower lip, pouting slightly the way it always did when he was trying to focus. Who was Ilya kidding? Nothing else, no one else would ever compare. 

 

Ilya watched as those lips quirked into a little smirk.

 

“Glad to see you here Rozanov.”

 

“You too Hollander. One last time? For old time’s sake?”

 

“For old time’s sake.”

The puck dropped and they were off. Ilya wished he could live in this moment for the rest of time. He watched as Shane twisted his wrist with precision, taking the puck from under Ilya with ease. Saw Shane cross his skates over each other and dance around Ilya in a neat loop before racing down to the other end of the rink, Ilya on his heels.

 

This was when Shane was most beautiful to him. Not standing still. Not in a hotel room. Here. Moving. Completely certain of himself in a way that used to cost him something and now just. Didn't.

Ilya had known Shane Hollander for almost ten years. Had played against him, played beside him, had him in his arms, sent him out the door. He knew the shape of his anxiety as well as he knew his own. The careful management. The controlled presentation. The way Shane used to skate like he was performing rather than playing.

He wasn't performing anymore.

The realization hit Ilya somewhere between the blue line and the net. Shane had always been good. But he was playing like someone who had put something down that he'd been carrying for a very long time. Like the ice belonged to him in a way it never quite had before.

Ilya slowed without meaning to. Just half a stride. Just enough.

Shane found the gap and put it in the net.

The horn went off. Ilya stood there for a second longer than he should have, watching Shane get mobbed by his teammates. Watching him laugh.

There is no version of his life that doesn't have Shane Hollander in it. He had tried. He knew what that looked like. It looked like a box of ginger ale in a garbage bag. It looked like a woman with familiar freckles who deserved more than he could give her. It looked like years of running from the one thing that ever made him feel completely awake.

He was done running.

He just had no idea what to do about it.

He skated back to his bench. But again, his efforts were futile as he skated past a dark-haired man with a camera. Marcus nodded at Ilya and suddenly the knots in Ilya’s stomach began to tighten.

He squirted cold water from his bottle onto his face. He had to pull it together. That wasn’t his Shane anymore. Shane had Marcus. And Marcus knew what he wanted early on, didn’t go back and forth with either his actions nor words. And he got the boy. And Ilya had to just deal with it. He looked up again as he saw Marcus rapidly clicking away at the celebration occurring on the ice and felt heat bubbling in his stomach. 

 

The game went on around him and Ilya made a concerted effort to not open his mouth anymore when he faced Shane. He was scared of what would come out. But Shane began to notice, and each time looked more and more concerned as Ilya would avoid his gaze. 

 

Ilya couldn’t do this to him again, pulling away from Shane when his emotions flew out of his control. Not when things were going so well between them. He had to be mature. He had to make Shane believe nothing was wrong. Especially nothing concerning his perfect boyfriend.

 

They leaned over the ice at the beginning of the second period. Ilya wracked his brain to think of something neutral and natural to say.

 

“So, how’s the boyfriend?”

 

He meant to say it casually, as if it were no big deal that the love of his life was with someone else. Instead it was laced with sticky venom. And there was no denying just how much Ilya felt about the situation. 

 

Shane looked up at him sharply. 

 

“I-”

 

The puck was dropped before either of them could say anything more. Ilya stole the puck and skated as quickly as he could to try to run from the moment, cursing himself out in his own head.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

Shane was dumbfounded as he watched the tall Russian man fly by him on the ice. He could feel his cheeks flush pink as he tried to recover, his legs moving sluggishly beneath him. 

 

Was Rozanov jealous? Of Marcus? He knew that Rozanov had feelings about Marcus. Had always known, even if neither of them had said it directly. But to say it out loud while they were on the ice had taken Shane by surprise. 

 

It wasn’t cruel, the way Rozanov had spit the sentence out. He knew what it looked like when Rozanov was being cruel and he hadn’t seen that side of him in a very long time. No this was something else, something Shane himself was familiar with.

 

Rozanov was trying to pretend that Shane’s relationship didn’t bother him. The same way Shane had pretended for months that Rozanov’s relationship with Nora didn’t bother him. That he didn’t stay up some nights, scrolling through tabloids of them holding hands down the street or kissing at restaurants. The morbid curiosity, eating away at him day by day.

 

Clearly it was eating away at Rozanov too because Shane knew he had been trying to bite his tongue. But Rozanov had to know, had to check.

 

The question was what to do with that.

Three weeks ago Shane might have let it go. Filed it away. Protected himself the way he always protected himself.

 

But three weeks ago he also still had a boyfriend. And somewhere between one honest conversation and another he had stopped having one of those too.

 

It hadn't been dramatic. Marcus had seen it coming before Shane had fully admitted it to himself. Had said “You're not really here are you?”  in that easy unbothered way he had. And Shane had opened his mouth to argue and found he couldn't. He hadn't been. He never had been, if he was being truly honest about it.

 

So now he didn't have a boyfriend. And Rozanov was out there on the ice asking about it, trying and failing to pretend he didn't care.

 

Shane thought maybe Rozanov deserved to know.

But he sat with that for a moment first. Because deserving to know and deserving Shane were two different things. And Shane hadn't decided about the second one yet.

 

He thought about everything he'd watched Ilya do this year. The punch. The coming out. The texts at midnight about Ottawa. The way he'd asked for help without making it into something else. The way he'd said “I spent a long time deciding what people could handle before they got to decide for themselves” like he was finally seeing something he'd been looking at wrong for years.

 

It wasn't nothing. Shane knew that.

 

But it also wasn't everything. And Shane wasn't sure yet what the gap between those two things looked like.

 

What he did know was that he was tired of making decisions based on what might happen. He had spent too long doing that. With Ilya. With Marcus. With himself.

 

So he would tell him. And see what Ilya did with it.

 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

 

The game ended, with Montreal winning 4-3. The teams lined up to shake hands. Ilya was dreading it. He couldn’t believe how stupid he had been. He should have just kept his mouth shut. He avoided Shane’s eyes as they made their way to each other.

 

“Just so you know, he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

 

Ilya’s head snapped up, as his eyes locked with Shane’s. Shane stared him down, with his signature steely determination. Their eyes lingered for just a few seconds longer than necessary before they skated in opposite directions.

 

Ilya felt sick, his heart was pounding out of his chest. 

 

Shane didn’t have a boyfriend anymore. And he thought it was important that Ilya knew that. He wouldn’t let himself hope. Not after everything that happened between them. He had to be sure.

 

He ran to his locker throwing his gear haphazardly onto the bench, earning him a few murderous glares from his teammates. But he didn’t care. He thumbed through his messages until he found Jane.

You’re not together anymore?

Ilya expected he would have to wait a while for a response. Shane had probably gone into the showers. But instead, a grey bubble appeared almost immediately.

 

No. We just weren’t compatible anymore. Maybe we never were.

Ilya’s stomach flipped. He was almost certain his team would be able to see his heart beating out of his chest through his compression shirt.

But he was here tonight no?

Yes, the Metros had hired him to do our photography for the season. Nothing more.

 

A pause. Ilya stared at his phone.

 

Why are you telling me this.

 

Because you asked.

 

Hollander.

 

Because I thought you should know. And I think you know why.

 

Ilya knew Shane wasn’t going to make this easy for him. He shouldn’t. This was it. This was the moment. Ilya had to get it right.

He took a breath.

 

Can I take you to dinner?

 

But people will see. It’s too public.

 

I don’t care.

 

Ilya waited. The grey bubbles in the corner kept bouncing. And with each ripple he could feel his resolve crumbling. Until.

 

Yes.

 

Chapter 11: Hoping you will love me now

Chapter Summary

Ten years. Two cities. One dinner. Ilya finally says the thing he should have said almost two years ago. Shane finally lets himself want what he’s always wanted. And somewhere between a fumbled apology, Rose fucking Landry, and a to-go order, two people who spent a decade running from each other decide to stop.

Shane left TD Garden in his post game suit. Rozanov had picked a nice restaurant for them, some place on the water, so Shane didn’t feel a need to change into something more casual. 

Despite not knowing how this conversation would go, Shane found himself wanting to still look nice. He spent a couple extra minutes on his unruly hair in the locker room. Even Hayden had noticed he was taking longer than usual.

“Where you headed looking all nice?”

Shane had faltered, wondering how honest he could be about the situation. Things had changed, they didn’t have to perform mortal enemies in the public eye anymore. They had both spoken kindly of each other. Maybe they didn’t have to keep up the charade anymore.

“Umm– Rozanov asked if we could get dinner. After the game.”

“Rozanov??” Hayden gaped at him incredulously.

“Yeah, after the locker room stuff. Umm— We’ve been talking I guess. I helped him figure out the Ottawa trade. So I think he just wants to… talk.”

Hayden still had his mouth slightly open. It would be funny if Shane hadn’t started sweating profusely in his polyester suit.

“Oh. Well, yeah I guess that makes sense. That’s… nice of him I guess. Don’t like… tell him I said that though.”

Shane grinned, relief flooding his system.

“Wouldn’t dream of it buddy.”

"So you're not seeing your Boston Lily tonight? Figured since you and Marcus broke up maybe you'd—" Hayden stopped. Frowned slightly. "Wait. Lily. That's a girl's name."

Shane said nothing.

"Shane."

Still nothing.

"Was Lily— was that not a girl?"

Shane picked up his bag. Started moving toward the door.

"Oh my god." Hayden said quietly. More to himself than to Shane. "That's why you were always so weird about it. I just thought she was— I thought you were embarrassed about— oh."

"Hayd."

"No I get it. I just—" He shook his head slightly. "Okay. So maybe you are seeing him tonight."

"I don't know."

"Right." A beat. "Good luck Hollzy. Genuinely."

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Ilya had been scared before. Looking back on his life, he lived most of it in some kind of fear. Sure, the cocky, braggadocious, Russian, bad boy was a real part of him. It wasn’t entirely an act. He knew he had some redeeming qualities. He could be confident in his hockey skills. His sexual prowess, of course. But beyond that, he had always felt there wasn’t much else that he could offer people.

That version of himself was born from a need to survive. Survive the near constant onslaught of vitriol from his father, survive Alexei’s never ending expenses, survive losing the one person he thought would stay and love him. And that version of himself was always so scared that someday, someone would come and find a chink in his armor and the whole charade would fall to pieces.

Ilya had been right. The day came, in a cold parking lot behind an ice rink in Saskatchewan in 2008. When a stupid boy, with his stupid freckles, and his stupid disarming smile walked up to him with a polite demeanor and an extended hand. And since that day, Ilya had accepted a new type of fear into his life. 

This was the fear of being seen completely. Every flaw, every failure, every ugly corner of himself. And having someone choose to stay anyway. And then having to live with what it would mean if they left.

It was the fear of mattering to someone. Really mattering. In a way that couldn't be managed or controlled or protected against.

Ilya had spent the better part of ten years running from that specific fear. And now he was putting on his coat and going to meet it for dinner.

As he started the engine to his Ferrari, he tried to take some deep, steadying breaths. He knew he had to navigate this delicately. This couldn’t be about trying to get Shane back. Even if it was the one thing he truly wanted.

This was about righting a wrong. He had made a mistake. Many mistakes. He had hurt someone. The one person in his life who had never hurt him. And he had to let him know that he knew that. And that he was sorry for it. 

He wasn’t good at apologizing, at owning up to things. It was not what he was taught to do. Rozanovs do not apologize. They stall, they evade, they run when they see trouble. But after everything that had happened over the past year, Ilya knew that he could not keep this cycle of hurt going. It would end with him. 

So he started his car and made his way towards Seaport.

As he walked into the dimly lit restaurant, he saw that Shane was already seated at the bar with a ginger ale in hand. The sight makes something in Ilya’s chest tighten but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Despite the obvious shifts in Shane’s life and demeanor, some things would never change about him. And Ilya so loved that fact.

He walked up to him, trying to maintain his usual swagger but the movement felt unnatural in his body. He could tell that Shane was nervous too. His hand fiddled with a folded napkin, which looked like it had seen war. Ilya is about a foot away from him and they stared at each other awkwardly, both unsure how to greet each other. 

Shane dropped the napkin and extended his hand towards Ilya. Ilya misjudged the motion and pulled Shane’s hand into his chest and wrapped an arm around his back. Suddenly Shane’s hair was tickling his nose and Ilya had to bite back a soft moan as the smell of Shane’s pine scented shampoo filled his brain. They both froze for a second too long. Ilya tried to recover, by clumsily clapping Shane on the back and quickly pulling away before he could make even more of a fool of himself. 

Shane looked at him, bemused.

“Did you… just dap me up?”

Ilya could feel his face flush into a deep red. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never felt so out of control before.

“I— I think so. I don’t know what that was. This is—”

“Insane of us? Yeah.”

“Yes. Insane.”

They both looked into each other’s eyes, appraising each other. It had been over a year since Ilya had been able to look at Shane, truly look at him. And his eyes devoured the sight. His shoulders were slightly broader than they used to be. His chest pulled against the buttons down the center of his chest, almost indecent the way Ilya could see every hard line under his shirt. His pink lips, the bottom lip pouting out ever so slightly as the corner of his mouth quirked up into half a smile. His deep brown eyes, so warm and soft despite everything that sat between them. Those damn fucking freckles. Scattered across his face like stars. Ilya had never seen anything more beautiful. This night was going to be impossible.

Ilya cleared his throat.

“Umm. Let’s just— Let’s just sit down, okay?”

Shane nodded and Ilya turned his back to him, walking over to the hostess to tell her they were ready to sit. He hurried behind her, trying not to look at Shane just for a little while longer so he could pull himself together. Ilya could do this. He had practiced what he wanted to say approximately forty seven times in the car. 

He remembered none of it. 

— — — — — — — — — — —  — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

Shane couldn’t see Rozanov behind his menu. He knew he was stalling, but Shane didn’t feel a need to push him to say anything. He could be patient, one last time, if it meant that Rozanov would be honest with him. He wasn’t sure why he knew this would be the time it would happen. It wasn’t like before, when Shane would be hoping, during every clandestine meeting, every coy text, that maybe they could both find the courage to say everything that had been simmering beneath the surface over these last ten years. Neither of them had been ready. He knew that now. They both needed time to figure themselves out. And Shane felt that he had finally found his footing. All he could do now was see if Rozanov had found his.

He understood more than he used to about why things had gone the way they had. That wasn't really the question anymore.

The question was whether Rozanov could say it. Out loud. To him. Without running.

Shane thought maybe that was all he needed to know.

At last the waitress came by and took their orders. She took their menus from them and at last there was nothing left between them. Just an empty table. Rozanov’s eyes met Shane’s from across the table and Shane could see the turmoil brewing behind his green irises, beautiful and complex as ever. 

“This is strange.” Shane said, trying to ease the tension. 

“Yes. It is. But, it is nice I think. To see you outside of the rink.” Rozanov said slowly. “Or outside of hotel room.” He said quietly.

Shane looked around surreptitiously. A couple at the bar had their heads bent together, one of them glancing over with that particular look people got when they recognized someone and were trying to decide if they were sure. A table of four near the window, one of them already had his phone face down on the table in an exaggerated way that meant he'd just put it away after taking a photo.

"People are noticing."

"Yes." Rozanov expression was unbothered. "It is fine I think. Image can’t get much worse."

Shane looked at him for a moment.

"Doesn't that bother you."

"No." Simply. "I am done with things bothering me that should not bother me."

Shane held his gaze for a moment. Then looked back around the room. The couple at the bar had gone back to their own conversation. The table near the window was focused on their food. Nobody was approaching. Nobody was making it a thing.

He turned back to Rozanov.

"Okay."

They both looked into each other's eyes, unable to decide where to go from here. Both knowing that once they started, they would have to forge forward.

“So—” Shane started.

“I just—” Rozanov said, simultaneously.

Shane grinned, gesturing towards Rozanov.

“You go first.”

“Okay. Umm.” Rozanov paused, inhaling and exhaling once, quickly.

“I just wanted to thank you first. For everything you have done for me in the last few months. I do not know what I would have done without your help. Finding Alyssa for me. Helping me figure out stupid Canadian rules. Finding new house. It is more than anyone else would have done. But you especially, you did not have to do that for me. But, I am very very grateful.”

“Rozanov, I already told you. You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I know. I just. Umm.” He paused again, looking at Shane carefully, as if he was bracing himself.

“That is another thing. Could you… do you think… Please call me Ilya, instead.”

Shane’s brain short circuited. He was ready to hear whatever Rozanov had to say. But he wasn’t expecting this.

“I— umm. I don’t—”

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t— blyat I’m doing this wrong let me start over. That is what I wanted to talk about. That day.”

Rozanov ran his fingers through his hair, his curls still damp from the showers after the game. The framed his face just so, glowing slightly under the candle light. Noticing this didn’t help Shane reboot any faster. Shane was frozen in his seat. He had wanted this. And yet. Now that it was here he wasn’t sure if he could stomach it. All of a sudden his body was transported back to that sunny day in Rozanov’s Boston house. Familiar, horrible ropes wrapped around his insides, pulling them tighter and tighter. He felt nauseous. His heart was pounding, he was sure everyone in the restaurant could see it through his button up shirt.

Rozanov noticed Shane’s panic. His hand reached up, as if to grab Shane’s hand, and Shane flinched involuntarily. Rozanov froze, instead opting to place his hand on top of each other on the table, but continuing to look at Shane with concern.

“Are you okay? We can stop. Or I can go if you need me to.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows were knitted with concern, he was bracing himself for disappointment. For Shane to tell him to fuck off or storm away. It was a look Shane had worn before. And maybe that was what finally steadied him. Knowing that Rozanov was just as scared as him to confront that day. Maybe they could be scared together.

“No— it’s okay. I’m okay. Go ahead.”

Rozanov gave him one more appraising look before closing his eyes to brace himself to begin again. The Russian man opened his eyes. He looked at his hands on the table for a moment. Then up at Shane.

"That day. In Boston. I want to start there because I think that is where I have to start."

Shane said nothing. Just waited.

"I had a plan that day. I wanted you to stay. I bought the things I thought you’d liked. I made food. I had— I had whole idea of how it would go." A pause. 

"And then you said my name and I panicked. I remembered that this was selfish of me. That I could not give you what you deserved. My father—”

Rozanov cleared his throat once.

“My father was very sick. Dementia. And I had to take care of him. From across an ocean. I don’t know if you remember but, he had called me that day. He was panicking.”

Shane nodded. Of course he remembered. He remembered every single moment of that day. All the pleasure. And all the agony.

Rozanov stopped and looked down at his hands.

"And so I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep you with me. That is not an excuse. I want to be clear about that. Because the truth is I would have found another reason. I always did."

He looked back up at Shane.

“I could not— I did not want to bring you into that with me. So when you said my name— I chose the worst version of myself. The version my father built. The one that decided the kindest thing he could do for people was to leave them before they had the chance to see how much damage he could do. Because needing someone, accepting help from them was a punishment. Something you did to them.”

He stopped. Looked at Shane carefully.

"So I gave you your shirt. I watched you leave. And I told myself I was protecting you."

Another pause. Shorter this time.

"I was not protecting you. I was protecting myself. And you paid for that. For years you paid for that. And I need you to know that I know that."

A long pause. Shane’s throat was tightening.

"I also need you to know—" Rozanov stopped. Started again. "You asked me once. On the phone. To say what I had been hiding. And I couldn't. And that also was not fair to you. You had to figure out who you were without— without anyone making it easier for you. And some of that was my fault. Because I made it harder. For both of us. Because I was scared."

Shane could feel a hot prickle building behind his eyes. 

“Because I wanted you there that day. We have only ever had moments together. And I have always wanted more. But, I couldn’t let myself want more. Because in what world could Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have anything close to more together? But, you make me want so much. I wanted to be selfish. Just for one day. Have you. For myself.”

Shane was very still across the table, tears still barely being contained.

"I am not asking you to forgive me for any of this. I just needed you to know that I see it. All of it. What it cost you. What I took from you by being— by being exactly the man my father raised me to be."

He looked down at his hands again. Then back up.

"I am trying very hard not to be that man anymore."

Silence.

Then quietly. The thing that costs him most —

"I'm sorry Shane."

Shane felt his lip tremble, as one tear finally broke free. 

Finally Rozanov reached a hand over and placed it on top of Shane’s.

“I’m so sorry, Solnyshko. Please, please don’t cry.”

Shane looked down at Rozanov’s hand on top of his own. Ilya’s hand. Ilya’s hand that shook slightly but still remained present as it tried to steady Shane. And he looked into Ilya’s eyes which were welling up with tears as well. Those stunning green eyes that always knew too much about him.

“Thank you. I— thank you, Ilya.”

Shane twisted his own hand, so that he could gently intertwine his fingers with Ilya’s. He gave them a slight squeeze that Ilya returned, sending a familiar bolt of electricity shooting up his arm. How he missed that.

They stayed like that for a moment. Until Shane looked around again and pulled his hand back. They could be seen at dinner together but holding hands was maybe overkill.

“Thank you. It really means a lot to hear you say that. I— I spent a long time being really angry at you. But I think I understand now.”

Shane paused, deciding what he could reveal. But if Ilya was being honest, he could be too.

“For the record, I’m very sorry about your father. I wanted to— you know, reach out when I saw the news. But I was scared too. And you had. You know. You had that girl Nora. And I thought you wouldn’t want to hear from me. You didn’t need to hear from me.”

Shane looked away at that.

“Yes. I had Nora. Nora was— she was very good. She helped me become someone who could be here tonight. But I think I would have liked to have heard from you back then. I don’t know if I would have handled it well. But I always like to hear from you.”

“I can tell. That she helped you. Or I can tell that you’re different now.”

“You are different too. Gayer.”

“What the fuck!”

“I mean it as good thing! You are confident now. Not so skittish about gay things.”

Shane huffed, but there wasn’t any real anger in it. If anything, he felt a little proud that Ilya could tell.

“Yeah, well I had to date Rose Landry to figure out that if I couldn’t love her, I couldn’t love any woman.”

Ilya gaped at Shane.

“Shane. You are telling me. You dated Rose fucking Landry? Rose Landry? From action movies? With mutants? When the fuck did that happen?”

“It was a few months after… everything. We met in Montreal. She was— well she was very nice about everything. She helped me figure it out. We’re friends now. Just friends.”

Ilya stared at him in disbelief, slowly shaking his head.

“I cannot believe you fumbled Rose fucking Landry.”

“Stop saying her name like that. And is it really a fumble if I was gay?”

“Yes, Shane. That is a fumble no matter how gay you are.”

Shane snorted. Ilya chuckled too. But then looked up at Shane, a little hesitantly.

“So Rose. And your photographer boyfriend. And I see you with some other men. No, no it’s okay.” Ilya hurried as he watched Shane’s face begin to scrunch up with indignation. “I’m not judging. I am in no place to judge. Just understanding. It is good for you, yes? To get experience.”

“Yes. Rose and Marcus were the only serious ones. The others were just— you know.”

“And they treated you well, yes? They were good to you?”

Shane smiled softly. Even through this, Ilya was always making sure Shane was comfortable. Always checking in. 

“Yes. They were all good to me. Marcus was good to me. It just— wasn’t enough. I think I chose him partly because he felt safe.”

A beat.

“That’s what I meant, when I said I understand. I think I understand now why you did some of the things you did.”

Ilya nodded slowly, understanding growing on his face. Shane found his own version of Nora. Someone warm and good and not quite close enough to the real thing.

The silence should have been uncomfortable, but they just sat together. Absorbing each other’s new forms. 

Shane let himself look. Really look. The way he’d been carefully not doing all evening.

Ilya had always been beautiful in the specific way that made Shane slightly angry about it. Like it wasn’t fair that someone could look like that and also be the most infuriating person Shane had ever met. The golden curls that Shane had run his hands through more times than he’d ever admit. The particular green of his eyes in low light. The way his shoulders filled out his jacket. The mole on his cheek that Shane had pressed his lips to in hotel rooms he was never supposed to be in.

He was older now. They both were. There were new lines at the corners of his eyes. His jaw was slightly sharper. He looked like someone who had been through something and came out the other side of it. Better for it. 

Shane found him more beautiful than he ever had.

And underneath all the careful rationality of the last few months — the texts, the trade advice, the agent contact, the measured measured measured approach to this whole thing — Shane felt something that had never actually gone anywhere.

It had just been waiting.

He looked down at his empty glass. Looked back up.

Ilya was already looking at him.

Both slowly realized that they now stood on the edge of a cliff. Not knowing if one of them jumped, if the other would follow. 

Shane knew it had to be him. 

“So, Ottawa.”

“Ottawa. Yes.”

“When are you moving?”

“End of the month. Leaving right after our last game. Not much to stick around for. Marly wanted to go out one last time but.” Ilya shrugged. 

Shane nodded slowly. He looked down briefly before making himself look directly into Ilya’s eyes. 

“I’m in Montreal.”

“Yes.” Ilya replied hesitantly, trying and failing to keep the quiver in his voice at bay. 

“Ottawa is close to Montreal. Only a couple hours.”

“Yes. I know.” Ilya’s voice was barely a whisper. 

“Would you— can we please get out of here?”

“Our food hasn’t come out yet.”

“We can take it with us.”

“Okay. But—“

“Ilya, I’m asking you to take me home. Yes or no?”

They stare into each others eyes. Ilya’s face cracks into one of those grins. The one that makes his eyes twinkle and makes him look about 10 years younger. The one reserved just for Shane. 

“Yes.”

Chapter 12: Do I let you down?

Chapter Summary

Smut. That's all :)

Chapter Notes

We made it guys! I have never in my life written smut and it is making me feel very bashful so please be nice and if you know me IRL we never speak of this ever kay thx. I might have gotten carried away. Idk what is says about me that this is one of my longest chapters. I thought this would be the last one but I think I want to do one more so stay tuned!

It was good they were in separate cars. Shane needed a second to pull himself together.

 

It took everything in Shane to not jump on Ilya the second they got their to-go bags, both racing towards the parking lot. Ilya however, couldn’t wait. As soon as they got out of the restaurant, Shane felt his hand wrap around his wrist. He was pulled into a deserted side street and warm lips crashed into his own, pushing his back into the side of a building.

 

Shane had died and gone to heaven. Surely this was a dream. It was ecstasy. A feeling Shane never thought he’d be able to feel again. He moaned a bit too loudly for being in public, as Ilya tongue lapped into his mouth, begging to be pulled in deeper. Shane sucked on it, relishing in the faint taste of vodka in Ilya’s mouth. Shane snaked his fingers into Ilya’s soft golden curls, pulling his head even closer. His musky scent filled Shane’s brain making it go blank. All he could think was Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

 

Ilya’s hands pulled at Shane’s jacket, dragging his waist closer to his own, so that Shane could feel Ilya begin to stiffen under the contact. His arm wrapped around Shane, keeping him flush against his body while his hand reached up to cup his face. He pulled back softly, and Shane chased his mouth, kissing him lightly a couple more times before opening his eyelids, which felt heavy. He looked into Ilya’s similarly heavy, dark eyes.

 

“I just— I needed to make sure.” Ilya panted. “That this was real. That you are real. And that this is what you wanted.”

 

Shane hummed. Placing a gentle kiss onto Ilya’s now slightly puffy, red lips. Soft, warm, tender.

 

“This is real. I am real. And this is what I want.”

 

Ilya’s face cracked into another characteristic grin and kissed him quickly one more time.

 

“I will see you at home. You… ummm. You still have address yes?”

 

“Yes. I still have it.”

 

There was a slightly awkward pause. Shane decided to break it, giving Ilya one more quick kiss.

 

“I will meet you there, okay? Please drive slowly.”

 

“I will try my best. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

 

So Shane had gotten into his car, desperately trying to quell the hard-on that had grown in his pants. Twenty minutes later he pulled into the driveway of Ilya’s sleek, modern Boston home. Ilya’s car was already in the driveway. Shane rolled his eyes, so much for driving slow.

 

He tried hard not to remember the last time he stood in this driveway. His hands were slightly unsteady. Not from nerves exactly. From memory. The muscle memory of having been here before and having it end the way it ended. His body braced for something his mind was trying to tell it wouldn't happen this time. 

 

Things were different now. He was different. Ilya was different. They would not let the same thing happen again. Shane steadied his breathing. Slowly, he made his way to the front step, his take out in hand. A bag sat on the porch. Before he could knock the door swung open and Ilya stood at the threshold, looking a little frazzled. 

 

“Oh. Umm hi. You’re here.”

 

They stared at each other for a moment.

 

“I just ordered something. It got delivered right before you came.”

 

He picked up the bag and stared at Shane again.

 

“You going to let me in Ilya?”

 

Ilya laughed nervously, stepping aside to let Shane in. He took his shoes off while Ilya took his take out bag and made his way to the kitchen. Shane followed him, taking off his suit jacket and placing it on the back of a stool on the kitchen island. Ilya opened the delivery bag and looked up sheepishly at Shane.

 

A box of ginger ales.

 

“Is that— did you get those for me?”

 

“Yes. I put in order when we left restaurant. You know. In case you wanted some later.”

 

Shane’s heart shattered into a million little pieces. He made his way around the island until he was facing Ilya. 

 

He wanted to take his time. He wanted to languish in every single moment tonight. Because he knew they had time now. Time to explore. Time to learn. Time to grow.

 

And so he placed his hands on top of Ilya’s chest, feeling the way his heart thundered under his fingertips, the rhythm growing faster with each second. He let his eyes wander to Ilya’s Adam’s apple, bobbing as Ilya swallowed. To the sharp edge of his jawline. To the mole next to Ilya’s cheek. To the bend of Ilya’s cupid’s bow. To the sharp slope of his nose. And finally his eyes. Filled with such worry. Shane had never seen him like this before. So raw and open. 

 

“Beautiful. You are beautiful, Ilya.”

 

Ilya licked his lips lightly, his breath shaking ever so slightly. And Shane tilted his head just enough so that his lips would meet Ilya’s.

 

They drank each other in. It was like it was his first gulp of water after years of drought. How did he ever think he would be able to live without this? Without Ilya’s insistent tongue pushing into his mouth. Without Ilya’s hands, one wrapped around his throat the other dragging down his back. Without the sound of low hums filling his ears, vibrating through his entire body.

 

Shane wrapped a leg around Ilya’s waist. Ilya, picked up on the hint, cupped his hands on Shane’s ass before clutching his thighs and hoisting him onto the counter. Shane wrapped his other leg around Ilya. Closer, closer, closer. He needed more contact.

 

Ilya, always knowing when Shane needed more, let his lips travel down to Shane’s jaw. Ilya began to unbutton Shane’s shirt, freeing his neck. Shane inhaled sharply, as Ilya dragged his tongue up the side of his throat. 

 

“Oh my god, Ilya.” he moaned.

 

“Fuck Shane. I missed how you taste. So much.”

 

Ilya began to suck at his neck. Shane winced slightly at the sharp, stinging contact, relishing in the pain as Ilya marked him. At the noise, Ilya peppered soft kisses over the sensitive areas, soothing his skin.

 

“Don’t worry moy lyubimyy. I will take care of you. I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you”

 

Shane’s eyes snapped open. He pulled back from Ilya, making him stumble slightly.

 

“No Ilya. Don’t— Don’t say that.”

 

He cupped Ilya’s face in his hands. He waited until Ilya met his eyes.

 

"I forgive you. I want you to know that. Properly. I forgive you."

 

Ilya's throat bobbed as he swallowed back his words. 

 

"But I don't want you spending the rest of your days making it up to me. That's not— that's not what I want from you."

 

"Shane—"

 

"I want you here. Present. Not apologizing for the past every time you touch me." He took a deep breath. He needed Ilya to understand this. 

 

"We both made mistakes. We both hid. We both chose the wrong things because we were scared. And I don't want to carry that into whatever this is."

 

He searched Ilya's eyes, trying to find any reassurance that Ilya was getting it.

 

"Can you do that? Can you just— be here? With me? I just want you. Just you being you."

 

Ilya stared at him. Something shifted in his face. The concern slowly drained from his eyes.

 

"Okay. Yes." Quietly. "I can do that."

 

Shane nodded. Then pulled him back in.

 

And now Ilya devoured him. His old commanding nature returned with each bruising kiss. He continued to unbutton Shane’s shirt, raking his palm across the exposed skin, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Shane let his head fall back, his eyes fluttering closed. He shifted his weight onto his palms behind him, bracing himself against the counter, arching his chest toward Ilya's mouth. His shirt fell off one of his shoulders, the other side barely hanging on as Ilya began to mouth at his nipple. His other hand found its way into Ilya's curls, fingers curling loosely, not guiding — just needing something to hold onto.

He felt completely open. Completely exposed. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't want to close himself back up.

Ilya’s strong hands pushed Shane’s thighs further apart as his nose began to nuzzle at the growing bulge in Shane’s pants. Shane groaned, the sound echoing around the massive kitchen. Ilya looked up at him with hunger in his eyes. He took off his own shirt and Shane’s hands ran along the massive expanse of his shoulders, trying to hold as much of them in his hands as he could. His hand splayed on Ilya’s back, admiring the dark spots that peppered his soft, milky skin. Ilya backed up slightly and began to unbutton Shane’s pants while Shane’s hips bucked at the loss of pressure. Ilya stared at his bulge and the wet spot that had formed, almost reverently. Shane could feel his hot breath over the fabric of his boxers until–-

“Holy shit, Ilya.”

Ilya dragged his hot tongue over the fabric. The rough cloth rubbed against the sensitive skin, making Shane see stars. 

“Already so wet for me zaychik. So pretty.”

Ilya began to suck on the wet spot, his saliva and Shane’s precum mixing together and creating an even larger wet spot. Shane let the hand that had been on Ilya’s shoulder travel up his neck, already wet with sweat, into his hair, letting the curls twist around his fingers. 

Ilya continued his ministrations with his tongue, eventually he brought a hand up to cup Shane’s balls as well, making Shane roll his hips and pant heavily. Finally his fingers hooked around the top of Shane’s boxers, freeing his straining cock.

“Fuck Shane.”

Ilya palmed himself through his own pants, trying to find relief for himself before diving to take Shane into his mouth.

Shane cried out, collapsing onto his elbows on the counter. 

Ilya took his time. That was the thing about him that Shane had never been able to forget — the particular patience he had with Shane's body, like he was learning something he intended to know for a long time. His tongue rolled over the head of his shaft, sending wave after wave of electricity up Shane’s spine.

Shane's hand tightened in his curls. 

"Ilya—" His own voice sounded strange to him. Wrecked already.

“Fuck Ilya, so good. So so good.”

Ilya hummed in response and the vibration went through Shane like a current. His elbow slipped slightly on the counter. He fell back onto his palm, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling of Ilya's kitchen, trying to ground himself and not be taken too far that the night would end early.

He had forgotten. Or maybe he had been trying to forget. How completely undone Ilya could make him. How there was no managing this, no controlling the way his body responded, no performing anything. Just — this. Just Ilya. Just Shane coming apart at the seams in a kitchen in Boston with his takeout going cold on the counter.

“Stop! You have to stop or I’m going to—”

Ilya released him with a lurid “pop”, grinning up at Shane with a devilish look in his eyes.

“We can’t have that, solnyshko.” He leaned in, nibbling at Shane’s ear. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Shane grabbed Ilya’s face hard, kissing him breathless.

“I need you. Need to feel you in me. Please.”

“Bedroom?”

“No, too far.”

Ilya paused. He was trying to be casual about it. But some of his nerves cracked through his controlled exterior.

“Couch?”

Shane smiled, kissing him again. Softer this time. Soothing.

“Couch.”

Ilya smirked at him, scooping him up in one swift motion, never letting his lips disconnect from Shane’s as he carried him into the living room. Shane had thought it might feel wrong to be here again. In this room. On this couch. He had expected the memory of the last time to rise up and swallow him.

It didn't. It felt like taking something back.

They collapsed onto the couch in a heap, mouths still finding each other. Shane ended up sprawled across Ilya's chest, both of them breathless and slightly tangled.

Ilya's hands roamed down Shane's back, finding the waistband of his boxers and tugging them down over his hips. Shane lifted himself slightly to help, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. He reached down and freed Ilya from his own pants, both of them finally bare against each other.

Shane felt Ilya's hands spread across his hips — not guiding, just holding — and felt him shift beneath him, a clear suggestion in the movement.

Shane understood immediately. He swung his leg over, reversing himself so that he was straddling Ilya's chest facing his feet, his own hips hovering above Ilya's face. The new angle made him dizzy.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, his breath warm against him.

"Yeah." Shane's voice came out rougher than intended. "Yeah. More than okay."

He felt Ilya's hands spread across his ass, steadying him, before one thumb began to trace slow circles. Shane exhaled sharply. He lowered himself onto his elbows and took Ilya into his mouth at the same moment Ilya's tongue found him.

They both went very still for a second. Adjusting. Finding the rhythm. And then all at once, Ilya was relentless. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles first — learning him again, reacquainting himself with every sensitive place he had memorized years ago and clearly never forgotten. Shane's thighs trembled on either side of his head. Then Ilya's thumbs spread him wider and his tongue flattened, lapping in long strokes that made Shane's whole body shudder. Shane dropped his forehead to Ilya's thigh for one breathless second, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Then Ilya's lips closed around him and sucked and Shane's hips buckled completely.

"Fuck—"

He forced himself to focus. Lowered himself back down. Took Ilya back into his mouth.

He managed for approximately thirty seconds before Ilya did something with his tongue that made Shane's whole body lock up and he had to pull off completely, pressing his forehead to Ilya's inner thigh and just — breathing. Waiting for the white to clear from his vision.

"You are doing that on purpose," he managed.

The vibration of Ilya's laugh against him was almost worse than whatever he'd just done.

Shane set his jaw and went back to work.

He loved having Ilya in his mouth. The soft, warm weight of him against his tongue, grounding him. He loved the way his mind went blank, he had never been more inside of his own body. He hummed and moaned around Ilya's length, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth. The vast room was filled with filthy, wet noises from both Shane and Ilya, neither of them yielding. He hollowed his cheeks, eliciting a deep moan out of Ilya who in turn poked his tongue into Shane's entrance. Encouraged, Shane began to bob his head slightly faster, making sure to trace his tongue along Ilya’s head just the way he liked, muscle memory kicking in. Ilya began to rock his hips lightly and Shane relaxed his throat further, taking in as much of him as possible.

Ilya spit into him, making Shane arch his back. Ilya’s finger traced a few small circles before plunging a finger into him. Shane luxuriated against the friction, releasing Ilya from his mouth and succumbing to his touch. 

“So greedy, kotenik. Da, like that. Fuck onto my finger. Make yourself feel good.”

Shane whined, rolling his hips while Ilya’s finger curled in him. He found that one spot and Shane threw his head back rocking harder. 

“More baby, please. I need more.”

He heard Ilya growl behind him as he added another finger. The stretch made Shane gasp, his whole body going taut for a moment before relaxing into it. Ilya was patient — scissoring slowly, reading every sound Shane made, every involuntary clench and shudder. He knew exactly what he was doing. He had always known exactly what he was doing with Shane's body and that knowledge had never quite left either of them.

"Good?" Ilya asked, his voice rough.

"So good—" Shane managed. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

Ilya rewarded him by curling both fingers against that spot again while his tongue returned, working around his fingers, and Shane completely abandoned any pretense of composure. He fisted his hand in the couch cushion, his knuckles white, his forehead dropping forward.

"Ilya I swear to god if you don't—"

"Tell me what you want." Low. Deliberate. Ilya knew exactly what he was asking.

Shane had spent years not saying the thing. Not asking for what he wanted. Not letting himself be known completely.

"I want you." Breathless. "I want you inside me. Now. Please."

A third finger. Slow. Thorough.

"Soon," Ilya murmured against him. "Not yet. You look so pretty here, so open for me. Want to watch a little longer."

Shane groaned into the couch cushion. The most luxurious kind of torture.

Ilya began to scissor his fingers and Shane’s vision whited out, relishing in the burn from the stretch. He collapsed into Ilya’s lap, weakly attempting to stroke Ilya’s pulsing cock, anything to distract from the onslaught of pleasure.

“Ilya baby please. I want to take care of you too.”

Ilya stilled his fingers. Shane felt him press a soft kiss to the small of his back.

"Come here."

His voice was different. Softer than it had been all night. Shane turned himself around slowly, his legs unsteady, until he was facing Ilya. Really facing him.

Ilya looked — undone. His curls damp at his temples. His chest heaving. His eyes darker than Shane had ever seen them, and underneath the want, something else. Something open and slightly terrified and completely present.

Shane cupped his face. Just for a moment. Just to look at him.

"Let me." Shane said quietly.

Ilya opened his mouth. Shane could see him reaching for something — a deflection, a joke, some way to manage the moment before it became too much.

He closed it again.

Just nodded.

Something in Shane's chest settled at that. Ilya letting himself be cared for without making it smaller first. That being maybe the thing Shane had waited longest to see.

Ilya gripped onto Shane’s thighs to reach into the side table drawer, pulling out a condom and bottle of lube. 

"You planned ahead."

"I am always prepared." A hint of the old smugness in his voice. Undermined slightly by how wrecked he sounded.

Shane laughed despite himself. He slowly rolled the condom onto Ilya and drizzled the lube onto his length, giving it a couple strokes.

Shane rose up onto his knees, one hand bracing on Ilya's shoulder, the other reaching between them to line them up. He rested his forehead on Ilya’s and held Ilya's gaze as he slowly sank down.

Ilya threw his head back making their lips meet. 

“Oh, Shane—”

“Ilya.”

Shane cupped the back of his head with both hands, placing a hot, messy kiss onto his swollen, red lips. They sat there like that for a moment, breathing each other in, grounding each other. Reveling in the fact that their words didn’t change anything between them. Instead they deepened their desire for each other. Shane was overcome. And so he started to rock his hips, slowly back and forth. 

Shane pulled back slightly. Not stopping. Just — needing to see him.

Ilya looked up at him. Both of them were breathing hard. Neither of them looked away.

Shane had never seen him like this. His eyes, fuck-drunk and full of adoration. Nothing to hide behind. Just Ilya, looking at him like he was the only thing in the room. Like he had always been the only thing in the room.

Something tightened in Shane's chest.

"Stay with me." He didn't mean just tonight.

Ilya's hands tightened on his hips.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Shane kissed him, hard. Ilya groaned into Shane’s mouth and gripped onto his hips even harder. Shane knew there would be bruises there the next day. He didn’t care. He wanted Ilya to mark him. Claim him. Shane clawed at Ilya’s back. He would leave his mark as well. There would be no doubt that he was Ilya’s now and that Ilya was his. 

“Shane, moy lyubimyy. So good. Fuck so good.” 

Ilya was babbling now. An incoherent mix of Russian and English, his hips bucking underneath Shane, who held him in place with his thighs. Shane ground down into him harder, picking up speed as he felt Ilya’s cock hitting that one spot, over and over and over again. Waves of pleasure crashed over him as he moaned and groaned and purred, Ilya’s strong hands supporting him through it.

“You fill me up so good. I missed you”

“I missed you. Fuck I missed you.”

Ilya's hands found Shane's waist. Not guiding. Just holding him. Like he was trying to keep something that kept threatening to slip away.

Shane felt himself getting close. He could feel from Ilya's breathing, from the way his hips were losing their rhythm, that Ilya was too.

Ilya buried his head into Shane’s shoulder, still murmuring endearments and encouragement as he slipped over the edge, clutching at Shane’s back, pulling him in, jerking his hips up into him, filling the condom.

And that was when it slipped out. Quiet. Unplanned. The truest thing Ilya had ever said.

"I love you."

Then Shane felt himself go over the edge, white, hot pleasure pulsating throughout his body. He clamped down around Ilya, riding harder trying to extend the moment for as long as possible and heard his own voice —

"I know." Breathless. "I love you too."

They both stilled, wrecked and entirely spent. Ilya's hand was in Shane's hair. Shane's head on his chest. Neither of them speaking for a long moment.

Then —

"Did you mean that?"

Not accusatory. Just — needing to know. His voice was very quiet.

Shane lifted his head slightly to look at him.

"Which part?"

"You know which part."

Shane held his gaze. Not letting him look away.

"Yes." Simply. "I meant it."

Ilya's throat moved.

"Even after everything."

It wasn't quite a question. More like Ilya giving Shane one last chance to take it back. To say — I got carried away. I didn't mean it like that.

Shane didn't take it.

"Especially after everything. You think I'd still be here if I didn't?"

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Like he was trying to find the lie in it and couldn't.

"I think— I think I have loved you for a very long time," he said finally. "I did not think you would— I did not think I would ever get to—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish it.

Shane pressed a kiss to his jaw. Then his cheek. Then the mole Shane had been pressing his lips to in secret for years.

"I know," he said quietly. "Me too."

Shane pulled him in and they sat like that for a minute. Or maybe an hour. Rocking each other back and forth.

Chapter 13: Do you love me now?

Chapter Summary

Resolution at long long last! With a bit of an epilogue at the end.

Chapter Notes

Thank you for everyone who has been following along with this story! I'm very excited to finally close her out. I started writing this when I signed up for a community theater group and I ended up getting a lead in it. So I've been in rehearsals throughout this process. Both this fic and the musical feel very entwinned at this point so it feels fitting that I publish the last chapter on closing night <3

When Shane woke up the next morning in Ilya’s sundrenched house, the early morning light illuminating Ilya’s mole-speckled back, Shane felt a sense of peace settle into his chest. A sense of stability he had been chasing ever since the last time he was here. Maybe he had been chasing it since that cold, windy day in Saskatchewan, when it all felt so scary and new and the pressure had first begun to take hold of him. And he had found the one person in the world who could understand that feeling and couldn’t help but to cling onto him for dear life. It was always going to be them. Hollander and Rozanov. Shane and Ilya. They were fools for thinking it was ever going to play out in any other way.

And now that he had found that stability and claimed it for himself a new sensation also settled into his chest; a new resolve.

They were going to take their time. In every sense of the word. Take their time with each other’s hearts. Take their time with each other’s bodies. Take their time back, the time they lost being stupid and scared. Nothing would stand in their way ever again. Shane would make sure of it.

He placed his hands delicately on Ilya’s back, tracing small circles up and down his spine. He wasn’t trying to wake him, he just needed to feel him. But Ilya stirred beneath his touch, his eyelids fluttering open, revealing those beautiful green eyes Shane loved so much. 

“Good morning. I love you.” Shane said.

Ilya blinked away his tiredness, smiling lazily as he draped his massive arm over Shane’s body and dragged him closer.

“Good morning. I love you too.”

Ilya kissed him lazily and sloppily, and Shane welcomed his tongue into his mouth eagerly. He should’ve been disgusted by both their morning breaths. But his happiness overrode his disgust. He was happy. So incandescently happy.

Shane’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. Ilya groaned and Shane giggled while he reached behind him, not breaking the kiss. He pulled his phone in front of him, placating Ilya with a couple more pecks before breaking apart to check who it was.

“It’s Hayden. Asking where I am.”

Ilya stilled, his muscles tensing up.

“Does he… does he know you were with me?”

“Yeah, I told him we were having dinner.”

“Ah, I’ve made you into liar then. We didn’t eat last night. Unless you count you having my cock in your—”

“Shut up!” Shane chucked a pillow into Ilya’s face.

Ilya laughed, that unguarded laugh that Shane had missed hearing so much. But all too soon it was gone as Ilya’s face drooped again.

“Are you… okay with Hayden knowing?” Shane asked.

“Yes, it is okay. He is your friend and you trust him, yes?”

“Yeah, I do. But if you don’t think it’s safe he doesn’t have to know more.”

“No.” Ilya said quickly. Shane cocked his head at his sudden intensity.

“No, I— this is exactly what I do not want. I don’t… I don’t want you to have to hide for me again.”

“It’s not hiding. It’s about being safe. And if you don’t feel safe—”

“No. I am safe. I— I decided after my father died that I will not be going back to Russia again. This is not the problem. It is just— MLH.”

Ilya’s eyebrows knit with concern, a line forming between his brows. Shane wanted nothing more than to rub it away, plant kisses on it until it smoothed out.

“To stay in Canada, at least for the first few years, I have to be able to play. They need to sponsor my visa until I can become permanent resident. And… you.” Ilya paused, steeling himself. He cupped Shane’s face gingerly. Shane melted at his touch, nuzzling in further, encouraging him. 

“You love the game, Shane. It is who you are. And I don’t want you to have to pick between me or the game. It is not fair. You deserve to have everything. I want to give you everything—”

Shane cut him off immediately.

“You Ilya, I would choose you. And you don’t get to decide for me anymore, remember?”

Ilya pressed his lips together, the worry still etched into his face.

“But… also I don’t think we will have to choose.”

“What do you mean? They won’t just believe we are not rivals anymore let alone that we are lovers.”

“Eww, Ilya don’t say that!”

“What? Why not? Is romantic! You love me right?”

“Yes, but—”

“And I love you. We are in love. Lovers.”

“That’s not— whatever, just don’t say that.”

“Okay, so what do I say then? Boyfriends?”

Shane’s cheeks reddened, warmth filling up in his chest.

“You want to be my boyfriend?”

Now Ilya was blushing.

“Yes, I think so. Probably. If— If you will have me.”

Shane reached his hand up, brushing his fingers into the curls at the nape of Ilya’s neck.

“Yes. Boyfriend. My boyfriend.”

He pulled Ilya into him, their mouths melting into each other, moving slowly. Shane’s chest felt like it was going to combust. 

Ilya pulled back, anxiety still on his face.

“Okay. So rivals to boyfriends still feels like big jump, no?”

Shane paused, contemplating the problem at hand.

“Well, we can let people think we’re friends first. We already kind of publicly supported each other. And with you moving to Ottawa now it would make sense we got friendlier. And we are the only other out players other than Scott Hunter.”

Ilya groaned dramatically.

“Gah! No! Do not put me in same category as that historical artifact!”

“Shut up you’re such a baby!”

Ilya groaned again, rolling his body away and stared at the ceiling. His face became dark and serious again. His eyes darted around, as if trying to piece something together.

"I want to tell you something." Ilya said, finally.

"Okay."

"I have been thinking. I want to start something. A foundation. For mental health. In athletes."

Shane propped himself up slightly. "That's a really good idea, Ilya."

Ilya's jaw tightened. He didn't look over.

"I want to name it after my mother. Irina."

Shane went still. In all their years he had never once heard that name.

"I was twelve. When she died."

A pause. Ilya's hand, resting on his own chest, curled slightly against the crucifix around his neck. His fingers absentmindedly running along its edges.

"She was sad. For a long time. My father did not believe that was real. He thought it was something you worked through, or you were weak. He was… He was not good to her."

Shane reached over and took his other hand. Ilya let him.

"I found her. When I came home from school. Pills."

The room went very quiet. Shane felt his throat close. He didn't say anything. He just held on, his thumb moving slowly over Ilya's knuckles.

Ilya's eyes had gone glassy, fixed somewhere on the ceiling that wasn't really there.

"I do not remember much. The quiet, mostly. How wrong it felt before I even understood why."

His voice had gone flat in the specific way of someone reciting something they've never let themselves feel out loud.

Shane felt a tear slide down his own face. He let it fall.

A long silence. Ilya's chest rose and fell unevenly.

“I don’t want you to think she was weak.”

“I don’t.”

“She was not. She was everything. She was so funny and beautiful and smart. And I just—” He took a deep, steadying breath. Shane squeezed his hand once.

"I think," he said finally, quieter, "I want her name to be something good now. Not just the worst day."

Shane brought Ilya's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss into his knuckles. Said nothing. There wasn't anything to say that wouldn't be smaller than the moment.

Ilya finally turned his head. His eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying — just close to it, holding it the way he held everything, carefully, at the edge.

"Will you help me?"

Shane nodded, pressing his forehead to Ilya's shoulder.

"Yes. Of course."

“And this way, maybe people can see us being close. Then she will be doing two good things at once.”

Shane smiled and clambered onto top of Ilya, draping his body over him. Ilya wrapped his arms around him as Shane began to softly pepper his face with kisses.

“I didn’t know her. And I’m sad I will not know her. But I think she would be so proud of you, Ilya. Proud of you like I’m proud of you.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall from Ilya’s eyes finally trickled down his cheek. Shane reached up to wipe them away pulling him in for a deep kiss. 

“I love you, Ilya. So much.”

“I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya teby loobloo.” Shane tried to sound out the words. 

Ilya grinned at his butchered pronunciation, pulling him in for another lazy, messy kiss. Shane could have stayed there forever, if only—

“Now go brush your teeth. Your breath is disgusting.”

“Oh this breath?”

Ilya rolled them both over, pinning Shane down by his wrists and drastically blew air into his face.

“Ugh oh my god! Fuck you! ”

“No I’m going to fuck you.”

“Teeth first. Then you can do whatever you want with me. I’m all yours.”

Shane’s eyes darkened.

“Fuck Hollander.” Ilya scrambled out of bed and ran stark naked into the bathroom as Shane laughed, chasing after him.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — One Year Later — — — — — — — — — — — — — — 

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. I’m ready. Are you ready?”

“Never been more ready for anything.” Shane replied back with a grin, phone face up on the coffee table between them.

They sat on Ilya’s couch, not in Boston, but in Ottawa. Ilya stared at the screen for one more second. A year ago a question like this would have sent him into a quiet, controlled spiral — too many calculations, too many what-ifs, the old instinct to manage the outcome before anyone else had a chance to react to it. Now it just felt like the next thing. Inevitable, almost. The way Ottawa had started to feel inevitable, somewhere around month three, when he stopped counting the days until Shane's next visit and just started leaving a key under the mat.

The apartment still smelled vaguely of fresh paint in certain corners, the boxes long gone but the newness of it lingering in a way that comforted him more than he expected. There were photos on the bookshelf now — him and Svetlana at his and Shane’s cottage, Shane mid-laugh at some restaurant in Montreal, the two of them squinting into the sun on the Hollander’s porch with Yuna and David on either side of them. A second toothbrush sat in Ilya’s bathroom and had stopped being a novelty months ago. Shane's grey hoodie lived permanently on the back of a kitchen chair because neither of them had bothered to move it, and Ilya had stopped trying.

The Centaurs had been good to him, better than he'd let himself hope. A new city, a new room full of people who hadn't watched him become someone they didn't recognize. They only ever knew this version. The version that tried earnestly to stay open and present. His coach didn't flinch at the careful questions reporters sometimes asked. His teammates, for the most part, had been remarkably unbothered about all of it, which felt like its own kind of mercy after Boston. He even had friends, close friends. Friends that Ilya didn’t second guess about sharing himself with.

The Foundation had its first gala in the fall. Ilya gave a speech shorter than Alyssa wanted and longer than he'd planned, and didn't run from the room afterward. What need did he have to run? When he had Shane by his side, raising a glass and then clapping almost too enthusiastically than what might have been appropriate for two co-chairs of a foundation.

The story the public told about them had held exactly the way Shane predicted it would. Two rivals who'd found an unlikely respect for each other. Two of the league's only openly out players, increasingly photographed at the same events, increasingly photographed close together. Nobody pushed. The story was plausible enough that no one had to ask the real question.

But they were tired of it being plausible instead of true.

Shane drove up most weekends now. Ottawa to Montreal wasn't far — a couple of hours, nothing, really, compared to everything else they'd already survived. They'd talked about this moment for weeks, circling it the way they circled everything important, a little clumsy, a little careful, neither of them rushing the other.

Ilya picked up his phone again.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Let's do it."

They both leaned over.

“One,” Said Shane.

“Two,” Ilya replied.

“Three!” They both said, hitting post.

They watched as the post went live on both their accounts. Ilya swiped through the photos they had chosen briefly, just to make sure everything was just right. A photo of them from their first CCM shoot. At the MLH awards, all those years back, where you could see Ilya’s hand resting a little too low on Shane’s back. At the Irina Foundation launch gala, arms around each other with drinks in hand. Finally, some pictures the public had never seen before. Shane asleep on top of Ilya’s chest, a blanket on top of both of them at Shane’s parents’ house. Shane’s face scrunched up in annoyance at the cottage, standing in front of burnt burgers while Ilya laughed at him. Both of them playing dress up with the Pike kids, Ilya in a tiara, holding a plastic teacup and Shane with pink and purple makeup smeared all over his face. Finally, one of their silhouettes by the lake at the cottage during sunset, Ilya’s arms wrapped around Shane’s waist and placing a kiss on his lips. The caption underneath read, “We took the long way, glad we made it.”

Once they were sure it was up, they both turned off their phones. Ilya took a deep breath.

“Okay, malysh?” Shane asked in his poor Russian accent. It always made Ilya’s heart seize up just a little bit.

“Perfect, moya lyubov.”

Shane opened up his arms, humming a little as Ilya melted into him.

“We did it. I can’t believe we actually did it.” Shane said into the crook of Ilya’s neck.

“Yes. Only took ten years. Very easy. Don’t know why we were so scared.”

Shane slapped him on the back. Ilya just squeezed him harder. Shane faltered, just for a moment, long enough to make Ilya pull back.

“Are you— are you still scared?” Shane asked tentatively.

Ilya looked into his face, drinking him in. He placed a kiss on the line forming between Shane’s eyebrows, across the freckles on his nose, on the corner of both sides of his mouth, on his sharp chin. Finally, planting a long, deep kiss onto his lips, Shane’s lips responded by opening slightly, letting Ilya’s tongue run along the inside of his lower lip.

“No. I am not scared anymore. I have you now, Shane.You are the only thing I have ever been really scared of losing.”

Shane smiled at him, a rare, defenseless smile that lit up his large, brown doe eyes. 

"What now?" Shane asked. 

"I don't know," he said. "What do you want, Shane?" 

"I want this. I just want you. Forever." 

"Okay," Ilya said. "Then that is what we do." 

Shane paused for a moment.

“I’m also a little hungry. Maybe I also want food.”

Ilya smiled at him.

“Okay, I make you something. Tuna melt maybe.”

Ilya took Shane’s hand into his and pulled him off the couch and towards the kitchen.