Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Gilbert Comeau

Additional Tags:

Slow Burn, Love, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Traded, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Yearning, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Hockey, Stanley Cup, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Bottom Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is a Mess, idiots to lovers, San Francisco has a hockey team and their mascot is a sea lion, Shane Hollander Comes Out, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Freckles, the boys should really just have a dang conversation already, Depression, Shane Hollander goes to a gay bar and doesn't implode, Angst and Porn, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Good Friend Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry Friendship, Mentioned Rose Landry, Boston Fleet PWHL Team, PWHL | Professional Women's Hockey League, Alternate Universe - PWHL | Professional Women's Hockey League, Montreal Victoire PWHL Team, Detroit PWHL Team, Communication Failure, Lack of Communication, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Being Idiots, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Fight on the Ice, women's hockey is so gay, Jealousy, queer joy, Queer Culture

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-20 Updated: 2026-07-09 Words: 61,376 Chapters: 20/36

worse to be nothing (with you)

Summary

After winning the cup two seasons in a row, Shane Hollander is inexplicably traded to a west coast team just two days before Montreal and Boston are to meet for the first time of the season. Shane reaches out, Ilya doesn't reply. Then Ilya reaches out, Shane ignores him.

What now?

Notes

I wrote this while listening to Promise by Laufey over and over again in a strangely obsessive way. So, if you're looking for the vibe of at least these few chapters, there you have it.

I'm going to try to keep this updated every two days or so at first until it becomes unsustainable or I get too far over my skis.

Chapter 1: Though aurora skies

He didn’t object. When Farah, his agent, had called him about the baffling trade, he didn’t object. No bargaining, no begging, just “Huh.” Farah kept talking, and Shane kept responding, but he was on autopilot. He had been doing this all his life, pretending to be there when he was anything but. Farah didn’t notice. She probably would be shocked later when he had no idea what her instructions had been.

“You’ll likely get a call from the team in the next hour or so and they’ll give you a time to report to the airport. It’s just over 6 hours to San Francisco, so you’ll likely not report to practice for a couple of days with all the travel, but their coaching staff and equipment manager will likely be in touch today… Shane? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, Farah. Yeah.” Shane snapped to attention, finding he did know what he was supposed to be doing. It was nice when his brain did the work while he was gone. “Take the call, get on the plane, get back to practice. Right.”

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m really sorry this is happening. I know how much you love your life in Montreal.” She paused to breathe and Shane quickly interrupted her.

“It’s part of the game, Farah. If I didn’t want to get traded, I’d pick another career.” It had sounded very mature and professional but Shane knew he was feeling anything but. “Thank you. Really.” The phone clicked and Shane dropped down into the leather chair of his hotel room. Where was he even? Tampa? A Carolina? It didn’t really matter. He’d ask his mom to go pack him a couple of bags and close up his apartment. He had what? Two seasons left on this contract? Or was it three?

Shane closed his eyes and blew out a breath. His phone buzzed. Looking down at the screen, a text blinked back at him..

LILY: See you in two days.

“Fuck.”

—--

It was like Farah had predicted. His coach called– all business and so detached. As if the past 5 years of his life did not matter. As if he was a toy that two children could exchange. Being traded is hard. It’s full of shame, of guilt, of blame. And for generational talents who were also franchise anchors, it was downright bizarre. Shane didn’t even ask his coach why. The words he was saying were robotic and sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Shane could easily imagine the front office approved script he was reading from sitting just out of frame.

Shane’s flight was in 4 hours. He sat in the hotel lobby facing a warm mostly ignored beer. The rest of the team was already on the bus and headed to the airport. He wondered if they noticed he wasn’t on the bus. If they asked about him, and what their HR approved message had sounded like. Shane’s phone was quiet, so it was possible no one knew yet. He hoped he would already be in the air when the news broke. Let Farah and his mom have the first few hours.

The text from Rozanov sat unanswered. He picked up his phone and thought about calling. They didn’t do that. Hadn’t done that. But it felt… wrong to just send a text. Right? He chickened out.

SHANE: I got traded.

His phone rang a second later, but before he could pick it up, the call disconnected.

—-

The news had been a frenzy the week Hollander was traded. And everyone wanted to know what Ilya thought. Press calls, on ice interviews, random people on the street. Everyone calling his name to ask him what he thought of Montreal’s own Shane Hollander being sent to the west coast away from the snow and the pressure of the eastern division.

“I look forward to seeing him in the Stanley Cup Finals.” had worked at first. But it lost his humor on day three. And from there all he could do was shrug and say the same old “Let’s see if he can catch up to me in the scoring race.”

But alone, in his house in his bed, Ilya felt empty. Things had been good(?), yes, good, between him and Hollander. They had fallen into a rhythm after Vegas last year and it had been nice. It had been comfortable. It had been all Ilya had thought about since. He measured the days in how far they were from the next time they’d meet. Three weeks till I’m in Montreal, Two weeks till he’s in Boston. Back and forth through the season till the inevitably torturous summer break.

They were just two days away from the first meeting of the season when Hollander was suddenly gone. Ilya realized he was being dramatic. It wasn’t like he had died or even retired. But playing on the west coast… Hollander may as well have been on another planet. Their teams would only meet twice this year. He had already checked. And they wouldn’t even be together at the All Star Game.

Ilya stared at the last text Jane had sent. “I got traded.” Ilya’s first reaction had been to jam the call button. To hear his voice. To protest. To beg him not to go. But as fast as the impulse hit him, the cold understanding that there just was no choice. No stopping this. It was the sacrifice they made for their charmed lives. And so he hung up.

That was that.

Hollander never called back. Never texted again. And so Ilya watched ESPN that night. San Francisco’s post game interview talking about Hollander reporting for practice in the morning. Montreal welcoming the player they had replaced him with. So many commentators shocked and confused and angry about the whole thing.

It had been 16 days and the news hadn’t let up. Hollander had played three games now with the Sea Lions and been amazing in each one. That only fueled their confusion. Ilya watched the games he could, west coast time being generous to him. When his teammates asked if he was coming out, he’d make an excuse to go home and watch Hollander play. It felt like an addiction, the physical need to just watch him move and breathe and be happy.

For all the angst that Ilya felt, Hollander did look happy on the screen. His new team embraced him (of course they did, they were extremely lucky to have him) and he was playing the best hockey of his life. Ilya could tell he had been out in the sunshine, his skin was darker, sure, but also glowing in a way. He seemed relaxed, too. At home, even.

Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t just the weather or the lowered expectations or the much chiller team, but also… him. That Hollander was no longer tethered to him. That maybe he was able to measure his life in things other than the days between the moments they spent crashing into each other. That while Ilya felt like he was drowning, maybe Hollander felt like he had finally been pulled from the water.

Ilya looked down at his own hands to see he was holding his phone, text messages open, and thumb hovering over Jane’s name. Fuck. He had stopped himself from doing this too many times to count. But it had been 16 days, the longest they’d gone without texting or talking or fucking in what? A year? Two? Before all blended together in a long mess and after stretched before him desperately long and entirely wrong.

So, fuck it, he’d text. What was there to lose, really? Two awkward games a year? Maybe a press conference or two together. An award presentation sometime in the future? None of that mattered, not really.

ILYA: San Francisco looks good on you.

Sure, it was flirty and ignored the weight of everything. Ignored the reality that Hollander’s last message held. But this is what they were best at. Starting over. Ignoring the emotion, and hurt, and whatever else was lingering between them.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared. Then they were gone. Ilya didn’t realize he was holding his breath. Butterflies were building in his stomach and he was focused on each breath as it came and went. Then it just stopped. He threw his phone, shattering the screen.

—-

Shane was in the locker room when he had gotten Lily’s text. It was unmistakably him. Smooth, simple, devoid of real emotion while being flirty. His way of saying I’m still here. I still want you. Can we forget? But Shane didn’t want to forget just yet.

If he was being honest, he was hurt. Rozanov had left him alone and disconnected on what had been the worst day of his life. It had felt so sparkly clear– if we can’t fuck in two days, what is there to talk about anyway? And so as the days passed one by one, Shane just accepted it was done. They were done.

It was better this way, he reasoned. What could they possibly expect from two nights a year? The collision course Shane had seen ahead of them was just gone. And wasn’t that a good thing? Wasn’t that what he had been hoping for all along? They couldn’t be together anyway. There was no more than what they had and the longer they had that, the more Shane wanted. It had become painful more than fun.

So, clean break. Restart. Plus he was in San Francisco now. A good place for… people like him. A good place to find himself in a less precarious situation, even. A good place to build a life that wasn’t just orbiting a brooding sarcastic man who left him aching and wanting and feeling so very alone.

For 16 days he believed his own lie. He spent time in the sun, and for the first time in his life could run outside during the season every day. He read on the balcony in his apartment, and spent days off exploring the hilly damp city that somehow was shrouded in fog and bathed in sunshine. And then, in the loud chaotic locker room after a particularly good game, Lily sent him a text.

He typed and stopped. And typed again. Something flirty. Something flippant. Something angry. Something dismissive. Then he stopped typing, and looked down at his phone.

SHANE: I miss you.

Shaking his head violently, he erased the words letter by letter and shoved his phone back in his bag.

Chapter 2: How we didn't say goodbye

Chapter Summary

This was a terrible idea. Ilya knew it was a terrible idea. He also knew he wasn’t going to keep himself from doing it, so he didn’t even bother to try.

He was standing at the LA Kings ticket booth an hour before their game started. He had skipped the morning optional practice back in Anaheim to come to LA early. Ilya wasn’t sure why he didn’t think of it earlier… San Francisco played the Kings the day before the Bears did. Which meant Shane was in the same city at the same time playing hockey. On a day Ilya had off.

Okay, so it was extremely weird for him to be spending a day off at a hockey game. But it wasn’t unheard of entirely. Buying a regular ticket and sitting in the crowd? Yeah, okay, that was a particularly awful idea. But Ilya was known for being a little excentric, a little weird, and extremely unbothered about it.

Chapter Notes

The idea for this chapter came to me as I was doing some schedule research and realized that this year Boston played LA the day after San Jose did. You're welcome.

Somehow it was already November, and Ilya was on an airplane across the country. Anaheim, LA, and then at the end of the roadie, San Francisco. These long west coast trips were hard on the body and often on team morale. They would play at home, and then head straight to the airport from there. Seven hours gate to gate and back on a bus to their hotel. That would give them two full days to acclimate and rest before their first game.

Two full days in LA when all Ilya wanted to do was find himself in San Francisco.

He slept fitfully on the plane. The anxiety of being in the same time zone as Shane again building in his body. He felt like he had been plugged into an outlet. Every bit of him charged and anxious. The feeling made him want to peel off his own skin to get away from it. Nothing felt right. He shifted in his seat for the 100th time when Marleau narrowed his eyes.

“No one can sleep if you can’t sleep, eh, Roz?” Marleau turned towards the window, resting his head on a surface that Ilya couldn’t jostle.

“Sorry.” Ilya muttered. He pulled out his phone, stuck his earbuds in his ears and put on some action movie he had seen 100 times hoping he could trick his brain into shutting up long enough to get some sleep.

—
This was a terrible idea. Ilya knew it was a terrible idea. He also knew he wasn’t going to keep himself from doing it, so he didn’t even bother to try.

He was standing at the LA Kings ticket booth an hour before their game started. He had skipped the morning optional practice back in Anaheim to come to LA early. Ilya wasn’t sure why he didn’t think of it earlier… San Francisco played the Kings the day before the Bears did. Which meant Shane was in the same city at the same time playing hockey. On a day Ilya had off.

Okay, so it was extremely weird for him to be spending a day off at a hockey game. But it wasn’t unheard of entirely. Buying a regular ticket and sitting in the crowd? Yeah, okay, that was a particularly awful idea. But Ilya was known for being a little excentric, a little weird, and extremely unbothered about it.

He didn’t take off his sunglasses or hat as he bought his ticket. And god bless him, the ticket booth attendant didn’t even look twice. Ilya secured himself a decent seat at center ice… not along the glass. That would be too much. But close enough that he hoped maybe the jumbo tron would catch him. A stadium full of eighteen thousand fans either cheering or booing him should get Shane’s attention, right?

Yes, this was a terrible idea.

Ilya entered through a normal gate. Went through security like a normal fan. At first no one seemed to recognize him. Or maybe because he was in LA everyone was much better at pretending not to see him. There were cities that were just like that. New York and LA chief among them. People were just cooler here. Let you exist more. And so he ambled through the concourse mostly unnoticed and unbothered.

Ilya had never been to an NHL game as a fan, he realized. Not really. Sure, he had sat in the box when he was injured or been a guest at a game one of his friends invited him to. But he had never walked in through the general entrance gate, bought a pretzel and a beer and ambled to a regular seat. It was thrilling and much more exciting than he had imagined it would be. Like he was a spy getting away with something he shouldn’t. He was almost giddy.

He had an aisle seat about 10 rows up off the ice just at the red line. He settled in for warm ups and searched the visitors side. He hadn’t seen Hollander since the MHL awards in July. Four months wasn’t long, not really, but it had felt like an eternity.

Ilya’s breath caught when he finally saw him stretching in the silly frog pose that they all did and the fans all adored. His eyes were glued to Hollander as he stood and started passing a puck around with his teammates. Ilya realized how few of their names he even knew. Hollander took a shot and turned around to reveal an A on his jersey. Ilya found himself feeling a pang of… anger? Sadness? Disappointment? Hollander had been a wonderful captain for Montreal, winning them two cups before they tossed him away to the west where he had to work his way back up under veteran skaters he barely knew.

The clang of the puck against the pole snapped Ilya back to attention. He watched through his sunglasses as Hollander was just Hollander. Beautiful, fluid on the ice, confident, just friendly enough to make friends without it feeling forced. He was just himself.

Ilya wasn’t sure what he had expected. Perhaps he was hoping for a miserable Hollander who hated every moment of his time this far away from home. Perhaps he expected Hollander to be resigned to it, or angry about it. But what he found instead was a comfortable man who was at the top of his career and seemed to accept the uncertainty of it all. Ilya was bothered by how much Hollander was unbothered.

The game started with the usual pomp and circumstance. The lights and the booming announcer. The pump up music that got the crowd loud. The crowd size was respectable. Loud and excited, though the arena wasn’t quite as full as Boston’s usually was. Ilya was struck by how fun it seemed to just be a part of loving hockey. He had never been a fan of this hockey league with this hockey culture. He could get into this.

It was unremarkable as far as games go. Hollander was doing his thing, and Ilya could tell that he was struggling, just a little, to find his place in his line. The wings were working with him, yes, but they still didn’t know him and so sometimes the puck was just a little out of place. The assist wasn’t materializing. Hollander would break the perfect mask of being calm and confident and show he was annoyed. That didn’t stop him from scoring, though. Burying it deep in the net straight through the goalies legs. It was a good shot and the right wing who assisted was just as excited as Hollander appeared.

He told himself he was here to watch the Sea Lions play. It was like live game tape. And, yes, he had stopped watching Hollander exclusively and started watching the team, but he didn’t believe his own lie, not really.

Sometime in the second period, Ilya took off his sunglasses and hat. He could sense people looking at him. He knew people were snapping photos as if he could hear the shutters of the cameras. Little screens nonchalantly popping up pointed at him and not the ice. He couldn’t help but smirk. His ridiculous plan that was not at all the reason he was in this arena (not one bit) appeared to be working.

As the horn blasted for the end of the second period, Ilya slid from his seat to get a second beer. He wasn’t mobbed on the concourse but he wasn’t entirely ignored anymore either. He smiled at fans, shook hands, but in general was left alone. God bless LA.

Ilya got his beer and some cotton candy. He was a grown man and could eat a bag of pink fluff if he wanted to. Also, it made him look cute. He wanted to look cute, not in the least bit intimidating. The next period started, the score still tied at 1. The first TV break starts and… there it was.

Ilya smiled and waved as the camera stopped on him, putting his face up on the jumbo tron. He was clutching his half eaten bag of cotton candy with a huge almost silly grin. The crowd went wild, loud enough that he could see Shane Hollander look up from his bench and go white. Suddenly Ilya wished he had gotten a closer seat. He wanted to see the expression on his face. He needed actual proof that Hollander still cared. That he’d react to Ilya. Hollander turned away from the jumbotron and Ilya caught enough of a glance to confirm that yes, he reacted. In fact, Hollander looked mad. Like, really really mad.

The game ended, Hollander had gotten another goal and won the game. The crowd, now deflated, was filing out of the arena. Ilya lingered a bit so as not to be totally caught in the crush of the crowd. He put his sunglasses and hat back on and slipped out into the night. LA was bright and loud. Not as much as NY, sure, but bright and loud nonetheless. Just as he settled into his town car, Ilya felt a buzz in his pocket.

JANE: What the fuck were you doing at my game?

There it was. Ilya let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It worked.

—-

What. the. Fuck.

Shane had a normal warm up to a normal game. He was reasonably happy with his team mates. He was reasonably happy with his playing. He was reasonably content with his life (given the circumstances). Sure, it was a bit frustrating to find the puck too far ahead or just a bit too far back more often than he’d like. And sure, it was hard having no real friends in a group of guys who had gone mostly unchanged for the past two seasons. But it was all reasonably okay as far as surprise trades full across a continent go.

It was fine.

Did he know that Rozanov was playing in this same stadium less than 24 hours from now? Yes. Of course he’d known. The obsessive undeniable compulsion to check the man’s schedule had only increased since his text. Three weeks, four days and five hours ago. But who was counting? He was not counting.

And while his body hummed with the knowledge that Rozanov was likely somewhere within miles of him, in this very city, he didn’t expect to see him. He surely wasn’t going to ask to see him.

The third period was upon them, and Shane was getting worked up. He couldn’t break through and hadn’t scored since the first 10 minutes of the game. He hadn’t been able to eke out an assist, either. His passes weren’t landing as well with his wings as he would have hoped, and the game felt sluggish and off. The first commercial time out started and he sat on the bench, raising his water bottle to his face and taking a long pull.

The crowd was suddenly deafening. Loud and rowdy and jubilant, even. Shane glanced up at the jumbo tron despite himself. He figured he’d see a kid dancing or a fan doing something weird or ridiculous. What he did not figure was he’d be looking straight at the twenty foot face of Ilya Rozanov.

Shane stopped breathing. He stopped moving. Ilya smiled at the camera hugging a ridiculous pink bag of cotton candy to his chest and raised a hand to wiggle his fingers in a smug little wave. Shane was hit with the realization that this was for him. That Rozanov had walked himself into the Staples Arena, sat himself down in the fan seats and waited to get noticed. Then he wiggled his fingers and hoped Shane would see him. And how would Shane not see him?

One of his teammates, Jones or James or something like that elbowed him. “Holy fuck, dude. What is Rozanov doing sitting in the god damned stands? That guy is so weird. You know him, right?”

“I mean, kinda.” Shane heard himself answer, but didn’t really remember doing it. Rozanov’s face disappeared from the screen and Shane was furious and flushed and shaking. The time out ended, his shift hopped over the boards, and he commanded the ice. Shane poured whatever it was he was feeling into his skating.

The game shifted after that. It didn’t take more than 3 minutes of gameplay for Shane to sink another puck in the net. On this team he wasn’t always the only scorer. His team mates were good. They worked together. And most importantly they hadn’t learned to rely entirely on Shane. It was nice. It was freeing. He really did not care about that at this moment. At this moment he wanted to play hockey so hard that Ilya Rozanov was impressed. And that feeling made him so mad that he wanted to skate so fast he melted divots in the ice behind him. Whatever it was going on in him, it worked enough that they ended the game 2-1.

Shane headed to the locker room and stripped off his gear, He always left his gear organized and easy to pack for the equipment managers. Polite, respectful Shane Hollander would never toss it in a heap or stack it haphazardly in his stall. Once he was down to his compression layer and tugging off his socks, the anger he had been bottling up for the past hour possessed him. He grabbed his phone out of his bag and typed the text with so much intensity he was worried he’d put his hand through the screen.

SHANE: What the fuck were you doing at my game?

The dots appeared immediately, transitioning to a little bloop as the reply came though.

LILY: Getting your attention.

Shane huffed out a breath and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He needed to shower. He needed to change. He needed to get himself to the bus to get to the plane to get home to sleep in his own fucking bed. He did not need to be texting with an extremely irritating Russian who could not take a hint.

SHANE: You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?

LILY: No.

SHANE: Text me after our game.

Chapter End Notes

The next one is going to be significantly longer and therefore I'm going to be a bit slower to update than like 12 hours. Think more like 3-4 days.

Yes, they will be in the same place at the same time. I promise.

Chapter 3: I'm standing still

Chapter Summary

“We got you, Hollzy. Ya’ll are crazy out there. Don’t you worry about that shit.” Shane hadn’t had a nickname like that in Montreal. He was just always Hollander. But the locker room here in California was much less serious, much less intense, and all the guys called each other by multiple nicknames. Hollzy was the one based on his name, but he would really be one of them when he got a name based on something about him. Shane secretly couldn’t wait.

“Don’t I know it.” Shane met Jojo’s eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little bit. “But it did make beating their asses fucking fun.”

“Well, that I can get behind.” Jojo tapped his helmet to Shane’s. “Let’s go have some fucking fun.”

Chapter Notes

The song I listened to the most writing this one was The World Spins Madly On. In case you want to listen along. I decided to break the game up from the meet up cause we get some new characters to absorb and (hopefully) love.

THANK YOU to everyone who's read this so far and please pass it on if you like it. :)

“Welcome to Inside the Crease, the best podcast for the hockey obsessed and hockey curious. My name is Peter Mann and I’m here with Ray Schmidt. Today we’re going to talk about the most anticipated game of the week. The San Francisco Sea Lions take on the Boston Bears for the first time since Shane Hollander was traded outside of the eastern division. He had been longtime rivals with the Boston captain, Ilya Rozanov, though they haven’t played on the same ice since April of last year when Boston fell to Montreal in the first round of the playoffs.

So what do you think, Ray– are these two guys excited to face off again, or is this rivalry dead in the water?”

“Well, I don’t know, Pete. It all comes down to how things feel on the ice tomorrow, but given that Hollander isn’t the captain of the Sea Lions, and that’s a team that prefers a calm even game, I think there won’t be the kind of fireworks we’ve come to expect from a Hollander Rozanov game. Plus, and I know this is an unpopular opinion, but sometimes I feel like this rivalry thing is something the league is selling us to keep people engaged with them. And it’s a lot harder to do that in this current MHL set up.”

“I guess we won’t know till tomorrow, Ray, but I’m excited to find out–”

—-

The fucking audacity. The sheer fucking audacity.

The anger hadn’t abated. Shane had flown home, slept, woken up, gone to practice, came home, then did it all again the next day, but his body was still full of rage. His hands were shaking as he put on his skates, getting ready in the dressing room before the game began. He hadn’t been aware he had it in him to stay mad for fourty-eight minutes, let alone fourty-eight hours.

But how fucking dare Rozanov walk into an arena with the sheer purpose of prodding Shane. As if he hadn’t been the first one to disengage. As if he hadn’t fucked off for two full weeks before slinking back into his DMs without a single acknowledgement. And DURING a game.

Fuck that shit.

Shane knew his teammates could sense something was going on with him. Anger was rolling off of him in waves. He even accidentally checked his own defense during a scrimmage yesterday.

“Yo, dude,” James Jordan, the left wing on Shane’s line called over to him as they came off the ice at practice. “You okay, man? You seem… like tense or something?” Jojo had been with the Sea Lions three seasons. He was from michigan and looked exactly how you would imagine a hockey player from Michigan would look: tall, thin, brown hair, very crooked nose, and perfectly repaired teeth. He had been a first round draft pick and played like one. His name was on the back of jerseys all over town but he wasn’t a show boat or a star. He was the guy that made sure everyone was good. Made sure the team “passed the vibe check” as he would call it.

“Yeah. Sure. I’m okay.” Shane nodded, forcing his face into the manicured smile he saved for the press. “Don’t worry, Jojo, I’m just anxious to play Boston. I got it.”

“We got you, Hollzy. Ya’ll are crazy out there. Don’t you worry about that shit.” Shane hadn’t had a nickname like that in Montreal. He was just always Hollander. But the locker room here in California was much less serious, much less intense, and all the guys called each other by multiple nicknames. Hollzy was the one based on his name, but he would really be one of them when he got a name based on something about him. Shane secretly couldn’t wait.

“Don’t I know it.” Shane met Jojo’s eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little bit. “But it did make beating their asses fucking fun.”

“Well, that I can get behind.” Jojo tapped his helmet to Shane’s. “Let’s go have some fucking fun.”

As they started out of the room, the rest of Shane’s line stopped to tap their helmets to his. A couple even clapped him on the shoulder. Jojo must have said something, but Shane found he didn’t mind. Their faces were soft and caring and he felt supported. Like really supported. Something soft and human. Not the growling yells they were taught to perform for each other over decades of hockey rink after rink coach after coach team after team.

—-

Shane told himself he was going to stay calm. And for a bit, he did. Through warm ups, through the anthem, all the way up to the first face off. He bent over placing his stick on the ice and held his breath. Rosanov took his time getting to the circle. He bent lazily at the waste and pushed his stick to the ice. Then he razed his green eyes to look for Shane’s. Shane glanced up at him, and immediately the anger came rushing back. The puck fell– Shane won the face off.

The anger caught up to Shane about 10 minutes into the first period. He wasn’t listening, he wasn’t in sync, he was chaotic and messy and mad. Each time he had to stand across from Rozanov, close enough to hear him breathe, to see the sweat drip from his curls under his helmet, it added fuel to the fire burning in his chest. He was clenching his teeth so badly he thought he’d bite right through his mouth guard.

“You think you’ll finally get a point tonight, Hollzy?” Rozanov chirped at him the next time they found themselves face to face, emphasizing the new nickname the San Francisco guys had given Shane. He seemed intent on making each face-off a new torture. He clearly was trying to goad Shane into talking to him or even just look up at him. Shane refused. Not a word. Not a glance.

He crashed Rozanov into the boards over and over and over. Even when they had played together regularly, Shane wasn’t that kind of player. He played hard, but he was more the quick type with strong stick handling and a sixth sense for where his fellow players were on the ice. But tonight he was all force. All strength. He answered every chirp with a hit, and it didn’t take long for Shane’s team to see just how far gone he really was.

The horn blew and the first period ended. Shane’s captain, Liam Nylander took his time gathering his water bottle so he could fall into step beside Shane as they entered the tunnel. Nylander was a huge Swedish defender that had been the San Francisco captain for longer than Shane had been in the NHL. He was the heart and soul and face of the franchise and he took that very seriously. So seriously that he knew he had to do something about his very short fused starting center before he blew up the whole dang game.

“Hey, Hollander, hang back..” Shane slowed to walk beside him, not making eye contact as they moved slowly down the tunnel together. “What’s up with you, man? You seem… hot… tonight.”

Shane took a deep breath and let it out slow and ragged “Hey, man, I’m sorry. He’s been chirping me in the face off, and it’s just getting to me.” He looked heavy and defeated and so so tired.

Nylander tilted his head and bit his lip as he appraised Shane and his words separately. Then he nodded slowly. “What if we swapped the lines out a bit? You can be on the ice with him less. It’ll give you a chance to calm down and the rest of us won’t be scared of taking some friendly fire. I can talk to coach about it now during the break, yeah?”

Nylander was a good captain. He saw past the players to the humans beneath and worked with the coaches and the managers to be flexible enough to compensate for when the person beneath was affecting the hockey player.

Nothing in Montreal was like that. If your personal life, or your mental health, or even your physical health was impacting your game– you were a liability. A weakness to be dismissed or pushed aside. It limited Shane’s effectiveness as a captain and it harmed Shane as a person. He hadn’t realized how much until he had come here and started playing under Nylander and Coach Russ Bernette.

Shane sat in his stall and visibly relaxed. Just that little bit of care had acted as a release valve, letting some of his anger escape and lessening the pressure inside him. Burnette came in and gave them some notes, they were technical and precise. No one yelled. Everyone settled in for the three minutes of breathing they did as a group. Some sports psychologist added it to the game day routine, and honestly, it was really improving Shane’s game.

“Feeling better, Hollzy?” His neighbor and right wing John Dziurzynski gave him a little shoulder shove. Dziurzynski was a good humored guy– just a little bit dorky and a little bit weird.

“Yeah, man.” He let out a strained laugh and smiled over his shoulder. “I’m good.” He squirted some water in his mouth and put his helmet back on his head, clipping it before picking up his gloves again.

The second period was calmer. More controlled. Shane didn’t mind his time on the second line. The team here was more balanced and a lot more cohesive than he had expected. Plus, not having face off after face off across from Rozanov was doing wonders for his game. He was able to take time, let the game breathe and just play smart hockey.. Dziurzynski scored half way through the period. Nylander had the assist. The mood lifted as they took the lead.

Then Boston got a power play.

Shane knew that he would play for the power play. He had to. He was the fastest skater with the highest hockey IQ on the team. Shane also knew Rozanov would play the power play. That’s how this worked. They skated across from each other and Rozanov stilled behind his stick looking straight at Shane’s face. Shane raised his eyes so they were staring straight at each other.

Time stopped. Shane could feel his chest burn and his breath catch. He felt like he was in a tunnel and everything sounded so far away. The sound of their sticks clicking against each other and tapping on the ice. The roaring crowd. The ref’s instructions. The world kept going, but Shane was frozen, eyes locked with Rozanov. Shane felt the overwhelming urge to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find words for whatever he was feeling. Then just as Rozanov opened his mouth to speak, the puck hit the ice.

Shane swiped it away, but the Sea Lions were short handed, and Boston won the face off.

Chapter End Notes

We're likely looking at another few days before I get more in, but the next chapter will be the meet up, so do not worry. The angst is on its way.

Chapter 4: How we didn't say goodbye

Chapter Summary

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” As soon as Rosanov stepped into Shane’s apartment, he pushed the door closed and turned to face him. Rosanov had his hands in the front pocket of his soft black hoodie. The hood was pulled up, but his curls peeked out from beneath. He was smiling at Shane, his eyes soft. He looked… happy.

“There you are.” Rozanov didn’t even acknowledge the rage that had been directed at him all night. He just stood there beaming at Shane. 

Chapter Notes

I updated the rating to explicit, so warning that now we have full on explicit material. I haven't written it in like 22 years, so please excuse any rust or awkwardness, it just felt off to use FTB here.

Ilya Rozanov hated talking to the press. Yes, he was good at it. And yes, it was part of his contractual obligations as the captain of the Bears. But he hated it. They always asked the same stupid questions with answers that said little to nothing about what really happened. He couldn’t tell them yesterday that they lost the game because his goalie got in a fight with his girlfriend on FaceTime an hour before the game. Or that he was distracted tonight because he couldn’t get Hollander to look him in the eye. No, he couldn’t tell them any of that, so instead he just smiled and gave the same old platitudes about working hard and getting them next time or being pleased they put a game together. Whatever the line of the day was.

But tonight. Well,  he particularly hated the press tonight. They would not let go of this old rivals meeting in the West narrative they had been pushing all damn week. They kept asking the same version of the same question, and it was exhausting. 

“How did it feel to play against Shane Hollander again, Ilya?”

“It was nice. I got to go to the beach before beating him this time. All-inclusive resort.” Ilya quipped. This had become a well-rehearsed dance. One he had hoped 4500 miles would end. But the season was young, and this was still new, so the dance remained. 

“Were the Sea Lions a better team with Hollander?”

“You should ask them that. It looks like we beat them last year, and we beat them again today. So, they still aren’t as good as we are, eh?” Yes, it was arrogant, but he was feeling snippy and annoyed, and the best way to get this over was to give them a soundbite that made him sound like a total ass and then saunter off. He had a phone to check, an apartment to find, and a man to pin down and fuck. Much more important stuff than this.

“Iyla, one more. We saw you exchange some words with Nylander before he took a swing at you. Care to tell us what that’s about?” 

Ilya’s lips curled up in a smile, and he shrugged his shoulders. “You’re going to have to ask him, guys. Thank you.” He winked, turned, and walked back into the locker room.

—-

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” As soon as Rosanov stepped into Shane’s apartment, he pushed the door closed and turned to face him. Rosanov had his hands in the front pocket of his soft black hoodie. The hood was pulled up, but his curls peeked out from beneath. He was smiling at Shane, his eyes soft. He looked… happy.

“There you are.” Rozanov didn’t even acknowledge the rage that had been directed at him all night. He just stood there beaming at Shane. 

Shane was immediately disarmed. He couldn’t remember why he was mad. Why had he been so mad? He just stared at the man standing in his entryway. Roazanov looked the same but also entirely different. Had he always been that tall? Had he always looked that tired? Shane crinkled his eyes, scrunching up his freckles as he studied Rozanov. 

Suddenly, Shane realized that it had been the longest time they hadn’t seen each other since Sochi. Five months. His chest burned, the feeling starting in the center and spreading out across the whole of him. His breath caught, and he put a hand on his chest as if he could feel the warmth.  Behind his eyes also started burning, his vision suddenly blurring.Oh god, was he crying? Why was he crying? He swallowed hard, willing his face to get itself together. 

“Here I am.” Shane’s voice came out in a whisper. 

They collided a moment later. Shane wasn’t sure who had moved first, but he was pretty sure they had met in the middle. Lips hitting each other so hard they just about clicked teeth. Rozanov pressed forward, attacking Shane with a fierce and uncontrolled need. Walking him back down the hallway, coaxing his mouth open, grabbing him around the back with one hand, while the other cupped Shane’s chin. He was drinking Shane in like a man trapped in the desert. It was overwhelming and amazing, and Shane just felt comfortable? Safe? Relieved? It washed over him like a wave of cool water over a burn, settling something Shane hadn’t realized was unsettled. 

Shane could feel himself melt into Rozanov. Hand moving up to push back the hood and fingers grasping at the curls underneath. He thunked against the wall and wrapped one leg around Rosanov’s, twining them together from head to toe. They stayed like that for a while. Five minutes? Ten? Shane wasn’t sure. They were just kissing and breathing and then kissing some more. Finally, Shane came back to himself, lowering his foot and dropping his hands from Rozanov’s hair to his shoulders, leaning, pushing back on them.

“Wait. Stop. Hold on. Hold on.” Shane mumbled against his lips as they pushed apart just a couple of inches. “We should talk.”

Rozanov grunted in response, dropping his head back and exposing his neck to Shane. He let out a long sigh before rolling his head forward and meeting Shane’s eyes.“Yes. Okay. We talk.” 

Shane was surprised that he didn’t fight it. Didn’t say later and keep them hurtling towards the bed. That was how this usually went, and while Shane had meant that he wanted to talk, he didn’t have a plan to actually do so. That wasn’t how this went. That wasn’t what they did. Well, shit. 

“Should we sit down?” Shane offered awkwardly as he started to slide out from under Rozanov. The other man didn’t reply, but did follow after as Shane moved down the hallway and into his living room. Shane hadn’t wasted time moving from his team-provided rental into his own space. His apartment was spacious, had soft, low lighting, and lush curtains to help dampen the echo that would come from high ceilings. Shane made sure to have an area rug under the coffee table so the floor wasn’t cold, and the shoes didn’t click. His living room had a cream colored low profile couch around a coffee table facing a television set. It was well decorated, but not personal. Carefully curated by the bubbly designer who immediately understood the low lighting, no echo, and no visual clutter instructions Shane gave her. 

Shane dropped on the couch, sitting against the corner on one side, pulling a leg up underneath him. He hooked his fingers under his leg below his knee and faced the rest of the sectional. Rozanov paused for a moment, contemplating how or where to sit, but once he realized Shane had positioned himself so he couldn’t sit touching him, he dropped down at the other corner of the couch, matching Shane’s position.

“Okay. I am sitting.’ Rosanov said without snark or malice. He tilted his head to watch Shane, his expression too even and calm to be readable. Shane rubbed his fingers along his jeans under his leg, looking for a sensation to help him think. He needed to think. Making coherent thoughts that expressed himself was hard on a normal day; it was impossible when looking into the tidepools that were Ilya Rozanov’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” It was more of a plea than a demand. Shane truly did not understand this man. Ilya turning up somewhere unexpected… like a fucking hockey game, his fucking hockey game… had left Shane rattled for going on 48 hours. 

“I told you, I’m getting your attention.”

Shane blinked. “You ignored me for two weeks, Rozanov. What do you mean, get my attention/”

Rozabov let out a long sigh and blinked very slowly before making eye contact with Shane. “Hollander…” Shane thought he saw the ghost of an apology on Rozanov’s face. But it was gone as soon as it was there. “I…” He shrugged, shaking his head and looking away, breaking eye contact.

“You hurt me,” Shane said plainly. “When you hung up. When you didn’t respond. I was alone, and I don’t know, I thought maybe we could…” Shane trailed off. He thought maybe they could do what? Talk? That Ilya would comfort him? Console him? Help his reliable hookup feel better that he was moving halfway across the world? Shane felt ridiculous. 

Shane watched Rozanov fidget. He rubbed his right ear with his thumb, trying to disguise it as an itch, but Shane knew him enough to know that he did that when he was nervous or lying or lying because he was nervous. No, not nervous…scared. When he was scared. Shane had a feeling this fearful anxiety was Rozanov about to break up with him or confess love to him. He wasn’t sure he was prepared for either.

“I did not mean to.” Rozanov sighed it out. He looked tired. “What was there to say, Hollander? I couldn’t– I can’t–” He shrugged. “I did not mean to.” Shane knew that was as close to sorry as he’d ever hear from Ilya Rozanov. It wasn’tenough.

Seated as they were on the couch, apart and unable to touch, made the moment even harder on them both. Usually, when things felt this…stuck…they could fuck their way out of it. Or one would leave. Those had always been the options before them. They had never been good at stillness, almost moving together or apart, but always moving. Now the three feet between them on the couch may as well be the 4500 miles that stretched between them.

“We don’t have to keep doing this,” Shane said plainly. “It is what it is.”

“Is that what you want?” Rozanov raised his eyes, looking to meet Shane’s again. It caused Shane’s heart to skip a beat. The question so direct that it pinned him to the couch and left him without any defenses. 

“I… I don’t know?” Yes? Probably. I mean…” Shane took a ragged breath, his tongue wetting his lips so he could keep speaking. “What choice do we have?” The question hung between them. They were looking into each other’s eyes, silent and motionless. Shane wasn’t sure how long it lasted. It could have been one minute, one hour, or one whole year. It felt like the most eye contact he had ever made in his life. His heart raced, his ears flushed, and he just felt naked, which was a funny feeling given the man who was causing it had seen every inch of his body. Many, many times. 

Shane thought maybe he could see Rozanov thinking. The calm, detached mask he normally wore was accidentally removed. His face was expressive, soft, and conflicted. He saw him formulate and abandon two, maybe three answers before he just shrugged. “I’m here now.” It felt like a surrender and a plea. The burning feeling returned, a fire in Shane’s chest.

“I’m still mad at you.” It sounded like a denial, but they both knew it was an acquiescence. Shane stood up and walked to stand before Rozanov at the other end of the couch. Rozanov straightened his legs, making room for Shane on his lap. Both men smiled as Shane lowered himself onto the couch, a knee on either side of Rozanov, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Rozanov closed his eyes and opened his mouth to immediately deepen the kiss Shane had started. He reached his arms up, one firmly holding Shane towards him with a palm between his shoulder blades and the other cupping Shane’s face gently, guiding his face and keeping it close. Shane broke the kiss to remove his shirt up and over his head placing it gently on the couch next to them. He needed to feel Rozanov skin to skin heat to heat. The full body experience of it. Of him. He reached forward to pull up Rozanov’s shirt next, their lips breaking again for it to come up and off the man’s body. 

Shane ran his hands up over Rozanov’s chest, fingers pausing to press into the notch of each of his abs, feeling his body as if it were a topography map. Studying each valley and divot as it separated the mountains of his muscles. Rozanov dropped the hand from Shane’s face to curl his fingers around Shane’s hip, rooting him in place. Shane squirmed against the touch with the urgency of a man who needed to be naked immediately. 

He reached down to undo Rozanov’s fly, pulling down on his pants as he pressed him into the couch. He couldn’t get the leverage he wanted, so Shane stood up and pulled them off, hooking his fingers in his socks to take them off as well. Then Shane paused to remove the rest of his clothes, quickly folding them and depositing them on top of his shirt. He moved back to straddle Rozanov once more, leaning in to kiss him as their erections pressed together.

Rozanov let out a low grunt, hooking his arms around the back of Shane and pulling him in. They stayed like this a minute, both lightly thrusting their hips, rubbing their dicks against each other, moaning and muttering into the other’s mouth. It was Rozanov who pulled back, panting and breathlessly speaking into Shane’s mouth.

“I want to fuck you.” Rozanov gently ran his fingernails down Shane’s back, drawing a long moan from the man. Shane found himself forgetting his anger. Forgetting the complicated mess of it all. Forgetting the 100 promises he had told himself about how this was going to go. He was a grown adult who made his own decisions; he wanted desperately to be fucked by Ilya Rozanov, so that was what he was going to do.

Shane slipped off Rozanov’s legs again and pulled open the coffee table drawer to reveal condoms and lube right there. Rozanov laughed, and it made Shane’s cheeks and ears turn red. 

“You find you need that often?” Rozanov asked, but it seemed a bit sharper than playful to Shane. 

“I like to be prepared.” Shane chirped back, enjoying that Rozanov seemed, perhaps, just a bit jealous. “You never know when the opportunity will present itself.” Rozanov moaned and grabbed the lube and condom from Shane’s hands. His pupils were blown wide, and he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. 

Shane smiled widely and genuinely. The man before him looked positively starved. He was completely entranced and overwhelmed with desire. Desire for Shane. The need written all over his face as he continued to make eye contact while pouring the lube on his hand, tucking the condom half under his thigh. 

“Come here, let me at you.” He reached out with the clean hand, trying to get Shane closer. Shane smiled and didn’t move.

“I have an idea,” Shane smirked at Rozanov, suddenly empowered by the impact he was clearly having on him. What he was doing could only be described as sauntering, but he moved across the room to the other side of the couch. Shane leaned over the arm, resting his elbows and holding his ass up in the air. “Now you come here.” 

Shane was being hot, sure, and a little hard to get. But also, he was just too emotionally raw to look Ilya in the face. He needed this to be sexy and casual and maybe a little bit rough. But not, under any circumstances, tender. No secrets would be communicated in it. Yes, this was the last time; he was sure it was the last time, but it wouldn’t take on the weight of a goodbye. It would not be bittersweet or cloying or leave him feeling empty, his heart and soul cored out of him. It would just be sex, because he needed to get fucked, and then they could go their separate ways and find new secret boyfriends. Hopefully, ones that did not play hockey. Shane would prefer one that did not play hockey.

While Shane was spiraling, Rozanov moved to his feet slowly but clearly with a mission. He settled himself behind Shane, crowding behind him so that he could feel the warmth of him up his legs and through to his back. Carefully, Rozanov moved a finger to circle his hole, pressing gently but firmly. This brought Shane back into his body, and he pressed back into him, unable to keep from making noise. Rozanov worked him open, pushing the finger inside to stroke his prostate. As he worked, Rozanov bent over to whisper in Shane’s ear.  

“I’m going to make you forget.” 

Shane shuddered as Rozanov pushed a second finger inside him. “Please,” he murmured, unsure what exactly he was asking for– the forgetting or the fucking. Maybe both. He was squirming under Rosanov’s touch and making an array of noises from moaning to whimpering to squeaking. When his skin was flushed, and he was relaxed and open, Rosanov slid on the condom and pushed inside him. 

“Hold on, Hollander.” Rosanov had his back pressed to Shane’s, their whole bodies aligned and touching. Maybe he had seen what Shane was doing, using this position to try to put distance between them. Maybe he just instinctively needed to have as much of his skin pressed against Shane’s as possible. But he was there, warm and firm and fucking him into the sofa. Shane’s face was pressed down into the cushion, and he was being pushed up on tiptoe every time Rosanov slammed into him. 

Shane could feel the rough upholstery of the couch rubbing against his stomach, making the skin burn. He could smell Rosanov’s cologne as he sweated it off onto Shane’s back. He could taste the salt in their sweat as it mixed and dripped down his face. He could hear the murmured Russian coming from just above his ear. He was completely and totally subsumed by him. Every sense assaulted until his brain just got quiet. Nothing existed but the experience of being in this moment in this place pinned to this couch by Ilya Rozanov. 

For that moment, Shane did forget. 

When they were done, they lay on the tasteful area rug next to the coffee table shoulder to shoulder looking up at the skylight above them. Their hands were intertwined. Fingers laced together. Neither acknowledged it nor spoke. Shane felt Rozanov’s fingers tighten their grip. Holding on. The moments passed.

Though he had tried to avoid it, Shane still felt it as they fucked. The goodbye of it all. They couldn’t keep doing this. It was torture. And for what? Three times a year? Maybe four if they were lucky. Less if either of them were ever injured. It was too much pain for too little. Shane needed more than that. He needed everything every time they were together, and he felt the loss of everything every time they were apart. His heart tore open, the wound reopening, as they clung to each other. Ilya had an early flight. It was getting late. There were a hundred reasons he should leave. A hundred reasons they should unlace their fingers and untangle their lives.

They didn’t move.

—-

Ilya was studying Shane’s ceiling. It was perfect and white and smooth and clean, and really, there was nothing at all to study. But he knew if he moved, the spell would break, and it would all be over. 

Sometimes, when Ilya was a child, he would play out in the yard with Svetlana. They would blow bubbles and then try to catch them in their hands. If you were just careful enough, just still enough, you could hold a bubble gently in your hand. It would sit there, glistening a hundred different colors as you hold your breath and stare at your palm in disbelief. And then, you’d breathe too heavy, or the wind would blow and pop, it was gone.

Ilya was clinging to Shane’s hand, waiting for the pop. He tightened his grip. He held his breath. He stayed very, very still. Please, just a moment more. Just one more moment. 

He was glad Shane couldn’t see his face. He knew he was crying. Or about to be crying. The back of his eyes stung. His throat burned. His heart felt like it was growing in his chest, so large it was suffocating against his ribs. He was heavy with all the things he didn’t say.

I didn’t call you because I couldn’t bear to.

I thought the silence would be easier for you.

I want this to be easy for you.

I don’t think I can handle knowing you don’t need me. 

I don’t think I can handle knowing you do need me.

I don’t want to say goodbye. 

I’m too scared to say goodbye.

Goodbye. 

Yet here he was lying silent, holding Hollander’s hand and willing time to stand still. It was his own making. What was he doing going to that game? What was he doing forcing himself here? Was this really better than before? It sure was harder. It felt harder. 

Missing Shane had been quiet, almost easy. Ilya had a life full of pain and loss; what was one more? He could bear it as well as he could bear the death of his mother, his father’s abuse, or the sting of his brother’s indifference. So he hung up. He didn’t call back. And he accepted his fate.

For 16 days. 

And then he broke down. Broke out. Broke. But it was too late. Shane was done, is done. And now they are lying here on the ground, not looking at each other, not speaking to each other, just holding on for the last moments of their… what? Relationship? Was this some kind of fucked up relationship? Ilya laughed out loud. Whatever it was, it was over now.

“I should go.” He burst the bubble himself. Unable to endure the waiting anymore. Ilya began to let go of Shane’s hand when he tightened his fingers, refusing to let Ilya go.

“I needed you.” It was a whisper. Ilya could have missed it if it hadn’t already been silent in the room. “I needed you, and you weren’t there.” Ilya relaxed his hand. Stopped trying to pull it away. He closed his eyes and let the regret wash over him. The pain of it all. The sadness. He was so sad. Bone-deep sad. “You couldn’t make me forget that.”

“Hollander. I’m–”

“You should go.” Suddenly, Hollander’s hand was gone. He was standing, taking the pile of his folded clothes as he did. “We shouldn't do this again.” And he disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom without looking back. Ilya waited a moment, then began to dress slowly. When he was done, he lingered in the entryway, waiting to see if maybe, just maybe, Shane would appear. He really wanted Shane to appear.

But he heard the shower turn on above and water flowing through the pipes. Ilya looked down at his now-empty hand. He could feel the impression of Shane’s there. He could smell him and hear his breath and feel his fingers, his thumb rubbing gently on the back of Ilya’s hand. He could feel it all, even if he was looking at an empty palm. Even though he was standing in an empty hallway. Even though he was returning to an empty hotel room before flying home to an empty condo. Even though all that, he could feel Shane holding his hand like he was precious. Like he was worth the pain.

Chapter End Notes

I am outlined out to about 20 chapters, but I'm not committing yet. But that's the horizon I'm looking at. I'm super excited about this! I'm usually a panther, but I have a whole ass outline and everything.

Your comments make me happy. I'm going to work to reply to more of them this week. But also, feel free to leave more, cause I thrive on praise (I'm mostly kidding here, I promise).

Chapter 5: I will let you down. I will make you hurt.

Chapter Summary

“So I was having lunch with Pelletier earlier, we both came from Toronto before this, and he was telling me why Hollander got traded,” Felix Bellerose, the French Canadian winger was telling defenceman Declan Murphy.

“Wait, what? You know?” Murphy was strapping on his leg pads and propped his elbows on his knees to look at Bellerose.

Ilya stopped tying the skates now, and sat up, fully listening. He was staring at the men, but in the chaos of the dressing room, who could notice? Also, this was a particularly juicy piece of gossip. It had been three months now and most of the league had no idea what possibly could have happened.

Chapter Notes

I was planning on this taking like multiple days to do, but I sat down to write it and it came out in a single long 3 hour burst. You're welcome? I have a super busy week the rest of the week, so I don't think it'll happen again, but you never know.

It was a momentous occasion in the Sea Lions locker room. Shane Hollander agreed to go out. They had a particularly exciting win against their conference rivals the LA Royals and everyone was in a great mood. Someone had put Turn Down for What on the stereo system and the younger guys were dance-moshing(?) to it. 

“Captain!” Dziurzynski yelled at Nylander over the din. “Hollzy is coming to the bar! You owe me $20!” 

“You’re a millionaire, Dizzy,” Nylander replied dryly, but he smiled over his shoulder at the other guy.

“Wait, are you betting on me?” Shane asked, incredulously and everyone laughed. “How many of you are betting on me?” He pulled off his shoulder pads and put them in his stall, turning around to find only snickering players’ backs.

Jojo came up on Shane’s right and wordlessly handed him a cold ginger ale. He then opened his beer and laughed as he watched the party unfold in front of them. 

“Montreal ever like this?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious. There was so little insight one team ever got about how another worked, especially someone like Jojo, who had never played anywhere else and likely never would.

“Fuck no,” Shane laughed. “Not even close. We went out. We celebrated. But things are way more… intense there.” Shane pursed his lips and shook his head a bit. “Honestly, I forgot hockey could be this, I don’t know, fun?” 

“Glad we could help get that giant stick out of your ass then, Hollzy.” Jojo bumped his shoulder into Shane’s.

“Okay, okay, man.” But Shane was laughing through his warning. “How much did you bet I wouldn’t go out tonight, then?” He gave a sidelong glance at his friend.

“$50. Worth the loss, though.” Jojo clapped him on the shoulder and headed into the showers. 

—-

Shane arrived at the bar at a reasonable time. He knew he would not be the first one there,but he wasn't late enough that the other men would think he was trying to get there as they were leaving. He showered, changed, got in the car he always has to pick him up at the arena exactly 90 minutes after the end of a game and then instead of having it take him home,he had it take him exactly two blocks away from the bar they were meeting at.

From there, Shane took his time walking the blocks,enjoying the walk. He was still getting used to these cold winter days being 45 degrees. At night. But, honestly, it wasn’t like he minded it. It was just strange to wander about in a compression top and see people scurrying about in parkas. Shane was Canadian. Yes, yes, not all of Canada is frigid in the winter, but Montreal is. Ottawa is. To winter people, California seemed soft (derogatory). But, to be honest, Shane could use some soft (complimentary) in his life. 

It was maybe three weeks till Chrstmas, and so even though it was a Tuesday night, the streets felt full. There were people milling about in brightly colored sweaters, stumbling out of bars in droves from what was likely work holiday parties. Shane found the bar he was looking for and stepped in, pulling his toque off his head. He scanned the room for a moment, but it was the noise that got his attention first.

It was a sports bar. Of course. It’s always a sports bar. Wooden fixtures, hanging lights, dark but also lit up by so many television sets. There were a smattering of regular patrons left, but since almost all the games were long done, being the west coast and all, most of the sports enthusiasts had left. In the back, not far from the bathrooms, there were three tables squeezed between dark boards on one side and a pool table on the other. That is where the San Francisco Sea Lions were gathered. 

“Hollzy!” Dizzy called him over,gesturing wildly. “I thought I was going to have to give Nylander back his $20.”

“I never gave you, $20, Dizzy,” Nylander replied,his Swedish accent more noticeable after the few drinks he appeared to have already had. 

“I’m here! I’m here!” Shane laughed as he got to the table, smiling at the group. They were sharing a few pitchers of beer, mostly chatting loudly, though it looked like the goalie, Chucky (Shane could never remember his full Ukrainian last name, he’s have to work on that) was playing pool with Dane Sutterby a defenseman sometimes enforcer with an old school hockey mullet. 

“Yo, go get Shane a ginger ale,” Nylander quipped at a rookie,some kid named Rinaldi, Shane thought. 

“Yes, captain!” Rinaldi saluted and headed off to the bar,ignoring Shane’s calls that he could go himself.

“Good to see you out, Hollzy” Nylander gestured at the chair Rinaldi had just left. Ahhh, that was what he was up to, Shane thought. Got it. 

“Yeah, I thought it was about time.” Shane dropped into the chair, and turned slightly to face his captain. Nylander was a quiet but intense man. He was always at the center of the social structure of the team,but was never the heart. He didn’t make friends, as far as Shane could tell, but he was friendly with everyone. Well respected, and kept tabs on the dynamic. He was the kind of captain Shane thought he would have been in a place that let him be what he was meant to be and not what they expected of him.  

“I know this move has been rough for you,” Nylander went on, holding up a hand to stop Shane’s denial. “No, I know it has. Of course it has. I’ve been at this a decade now, and I’ve seen a lot of people get traded. They usually know why, or see it coming. But, seriously, Hollzy. I have no idea why you are on my team.”

Shane bit his lip and shrugged. “Sorry?”

“Oh, no no no. I’m very pleased you’re here. You’re an amazing player. You know that. And what team couldn’t use a player as smart and talented as you. What I’m trying to say is, I know this transition is hard. Unexpected is hard.”

Shane felt himself quiet. He hadn’t had many people in hockey who acknowledged the elephant in the room. That Shane had a harder time with change, that he was not as sociable as everyone thought he should be, that he thrived on routine and imposed control over the chaos of hockey to keep himself controlled. 

“It is. Unexpected is hard,” he met Nylander’s eyes and tried to convey the thanks he felt, not sure if he was doing it right, but grateful enough to want to try. He let out a long breath and relaxed back into his seat. “But you all… you’ve been really patient with me, and I’ve never felt like I didn’t belong. I’ve seen how sometimes teams treat a new guy, especially one like me– and not the hockey, I’m not talking about the hockey– just, guys like me, as outsiders.”

“I want you to fit in here, Shane.” It was strange how Nylander just slipped back and forth between nicknames,last names, and first names. He was one of the first hockey players Shane had ever noticed doing that. He noticed how comfortable he felt with how he seemed to set the level of intimacy with something that simple. “And I don’t want you to worry. About… we wouldn’t do that to you.”

Ah. There it was. Shane nodded, averting his eyes now. Nylander had heard the rumor that had ended his time in Montreal. Or at least he thought that was what ended his time in Montreal. His shoulders tensed and he closed his eyes a moment remembering the incident that could have been nothing or could have been everything.

He was sitting in his stall not long before a game. It was something in the preseason, it didn't matter. Couldn’t even remember what team. Not Boston, though. That’s important. It wasn’t Boston. But, Shane was sitting in his stall texting Ilya. Yes, the name said Lily but the words they were exchanging had quite a bit to do with dicks. Plural. 

A particularly meatheaded defenseman with a French Canadian name that was new to the team grabbed Shane’s phone from his hand saying he wanted to use it to change the music in the locker room. Before Shane could grab it back, he looked down at what was on the screen. Shane could see him smirk and begin to form a chirp about Shane’s girlfriend when he read the actual texts. The man’s face went white, he shook his head and shoved Shane’s phone back at him. 

Though he moved on to something else in the locker room, he never looked Shane in the eyes again. And the next day, there were two more players that wouldn’t look at him. Then another one the next day. At the end of the week a good quarter of the room wouldn’t talk to him, shower near him, and would linger in the dressing room till he was gone to change. Then Farah called.

“Thanks, Liam.” Nylander’s first name felt weird in Shane’s mouth, but he took the queue from his captain and addressed him as a friend, not a hockey player. “I… I believe you. This is hard, but it’s nice.” Just as Shane made eye contact again with an understanding Nylander, Rinaldi appeared with his ginger ale. 

“Oh, Rhino, I’m in your seat! Thanks, dude.” Shane took the ginger ale and moved to go lean against a high top where Jojo and someone he hadn’t learned their name yet were chatting. “Hey, guys….”

Shane stayed till the last player left.

—

Meanwhile in Boston, Ilya was tying his skates, listening to the gossip in the dressing room as they were preparing for warm ups before their game against Montreal. 

“So I was having lunch with Pelletier earlier, we both came from Toronto before this, and he was telling me why Hollander got traded,” Felix Bellerose, the French Canadian winger was telling defenceman Declan Murphy. 

“Wait, what? You know?” Murphy was strapping on his leg pads and propped his elbows on his knees to look at Bellerose. 

Ilya stopped tying the skates now, and sat up, fully listening. He was staring at the men, but in the chaos of the dressing room, who could notice? Also, this was a particularly juicy piece of gossip. It had been three months now and most of the league had no idea what possibly could have happened.

“Yeah, so, Pelletier was telling me that he grabbed Hollander's phone from him in the locker room to grab the music back. Some new kid from South Dakota or whatever was playing sad sack country music and that was just not the vibe, you know?”

“Dude, the story,” Murphy prompted. Pelletier had a tendency to ramble and get off track. It was very annoying when you only had 15 minutes to find out the biggest news in the league this year.

“Right, so he looks down at Hollander’s phone and he’s texting someone. His girlfriend or whatever, or that’s what everyone had always thought, but apparently they were sexting and like… well, either it was a man or… ya’know.” Pelletier made a motion with his hand that was a very derogatory way to indicate he meant a trans woman. 

“Yo. Nope.” Ilya didn’t mean to stop the gossip outright. He wanted to hear more. But his team didn’t talk like that. He was known for always stopping that sort of thing. He didn’t let any kind of slurs or gestures of any type fly. And given that he was Russian, it confused people at first. But also, if you knew anything about Rozy it was that he was weird and you did what he said unless you wanted your life to be very difficult.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, Cap.” Pelletier waved him off. “Anyway, eventually some of the guys went to management and they figured rather than wait for it to get around and become an issue, they’d trade him as far away as possible and let it play out on the other coast.” 

“Enough.” Ilya stood up and got between the men. “My dressing room is not a uh how you say, high school cafeteria.” He was beginning to crash and needed to get his feet on the ice as soon as humanly possible. Needed the clarity of it. The cold blast to the face would be nice to disrupt the cascade of panic forming in his chest. “Can we please go beat Montreal now? It is much more satisfying than this.” He waved them off as non-chalantly as he could, the calm mask of indifference firmly in place as he sauntered down the tunnel and out of the room.

Pausing at the end of the tunnel before the bench, Ilya made himself look busy examining his extra sticks along the wall. He was struggling to keep his breathing even and his hands steady. He knew what night that was. He did the math in his head and he knew exactly what night he was Shane’s undoing. Fuck.

It was normal. Natural. They were two weeks away from their first game. They were sexting in anticipation as usual.Nothing wild, nothing in depth. Quips back and forth that served as proof that they didn’t like each other. They just wanted to fuck each other and that was that. It was their normal routine. So, Ilya hadn’t thought about when he was sending the text. In fact, if he had realized that Shane was getting ready for a game, he probably would have been more turned on rather than not send the text. It was their personal phones. They had fake names. It was safe, surely.

It wasn’t safe. 

Ilya grasped one of the sticks in front of him, turning it in his hand. He needed to feel the weight of it,the stickiness where tape had peeled away. Something to keep him inside his body. To anchor him to the moment he was in.

The panic that was consuming him was the cold realization that Shane’s entire world was dismantled and shipped half a world away and it was Ilya’s fault. It was Ilya’s fault, and Shane knew it. The entire time. 

Everything suddenly made more sense. Why a missing phone call and an unanswered text for what felt like a short time compared to month’s long silences that were more easily forgotten were unforgivable. That Shane was alone, isolated, and it was because of Ilya. 

Ilya took a breath in and let it out slowly. He had learned how to do this after his mother had died. He would see her body in his mind, or even hallucinate it in the locker room showers, on the bathroom floor. At first the panic would consume him, and he’d become a pile on the floor shaking with gasping tears. But his father wouldn’t have that. His father would rather beat him than watch him cry. And so Ilya figured it out. 

First, he breathed in and out long and slow. Feeling the air in his body, the stick in his hand, his skates on his feet. He only focused on what he could feel. Turning his brain as far off as he possibly could. Then, he closed his eyes and locked that calm in place. No brain now, just body. And finally, he locked in a grin, shrugged his shoulders to test the new character he was playing, and entered the bench to set up for warm ups.

Chapter End Notes

I have some serious outline revisions to do this week, so I'm thinking we're aiming for 20 chapters at this point. I'm going to commit to that and then revise if I end up adding more again.

Upcoming is Rose Landry, so if you have strong Rose feelings, now's the time. I am not entirely sold on having her, but it could be fun in California.

Thanks for the love, I enjoy chatting with you! You can find me at thequeengeek on threads or in the comments here.

Chapter 6: a problem that you'll understand

Chapter Summary

Rose and Shane chatted most of the night. At some point she convinced him to dance. Badly. At another he convinced her to give him her number. She insisted he text her immediately. It was flirty, and fun, but neither of them seemed to make a move, and in the end, Shane figured he’d never hear from her again. Which is why he was shocked when a few days later she texted him.

ROSE: So, I have another day in SF, want to go eat some seafood and look at a prison?

SHANE: I am not going to Alcatraz with you, Rose Landry.

ROSE: Why must you break my heart?

SHANE: We can have lunch.

ROSE: I’ll take it.

Chapter Notes

I'm going to see the Wild play the Stars tomorrow night. It will be too late to write when I'm home, and I only write when everyone is asleep, so for sure losing a writing day this week. But hopefully the Wild win and I return in a good mood.

I got a new keyboard AND a beta reader (thank you, Carly!!!), so things should be getting better around here.

Shane kept going out with the team. After the first few times he found he wasn’t forcing himself to go out anymore, he was actually looking forward to it. The guys wanted him there, yes, but also it seemed like they also liked him. No one wanted him to be louder or wilder or drunker. They mostly just hung out at the same sports bar for a couple of hours and went their separate ways. It was chill and fun and manageable. Sure, sometimes another game was going late and there would still be people crowding the tables, and it would be loud. But even that he could manage these days. In moderation, anyway. It wasn’t like he was about to go to come watch the Niners game on a Sunday or anything. He was still Shane Hollander.

But, as Christmas approached, Shane had become a part of the team and actual friends with Jojo and Dizzy. So, when Jojo’s girlfriend, the executive director of Ruff Starts, a charity that supports foster cats and dogs, asked him to get Shane to be a guest at her fundraising gala, of course he said yes. Why own a tux if you don’t go pick at airplane chicken in a ballroom every once and awhile, right?

That was how Shane found himself sitting at a table with Dizzy and eight people he had never met. And while this would normally be a true nightmare scenario for Shane, Dizzy knew him well enough to help. 

“Okay, so you’re a reality star,” Dizzy was pointing at one of the people at their table, a thirty year old woman in a bodycon dress that clearly found him both charming and hilarious. “And you are a character actress that gets regular work in Hollywood whose name no one remembers,” he pointed at a woman around his own age who was beautiful but not memorable, which apparently was her whole career plan. “And then you two got rich off BitCoin and now you just go to fundraisers and do yoga on mountains, right?” That got the couple who were extremely fit and had at least two wearables on each (a watch and a ring, actually) to crack up. “Who am I missing?”

“Me,” laughed a Black woman in her fifties.

“Ah, yes, you have fostered 300 dogs over 10 years and are now the Queen of all the foster parents. You are paid only in dog beds and gala tickets. And your wife is somewhere else, not eating her very lonely looking salad. Very bad party date.” 

“And you,” a redhead in a shockingly expensive gold dress stops at the table, leaning on the back of the empty chair that should hold the foster mom’s wife, “are the Shane Hollander. Hockey god and the new hope of San Francisco.” She smiles, all red lips and very white, very perfect teeth. 

“Rose Landry?” Shane’s voice broke just a bit and lifted in a question even though he was pretty fucking sure that standing next to him was the extremely famous A-list actress Rose Landry. 

“Well, if we’re doing introductions.” She pulled back the chair and dropped into the seat, pushing back the salad that very much did not belong to her. “Heather, you did not tell me you were sitting next to Shane Hollander.” She tsked at the character actress who was on the right side of Shane. “Were you hogging him all to yourself? You greedy woman.”

“I would never!” Heather (that was her name, he guessed?) laughed and shook her head. 

Dizzy was sitting there, eyes wide, mouth open. His bit crashed by one of the most famous movie stars just sitting down at their table like she belonged there. Shane had never seen him still or silent. 

“So, tell me, Shane Hollander… dogs or cats?” Rose had him pinned with her eyes. They were sparkling and clearly trouble. Shane could not look away from her. He could see why she was a star. he had the kind of personality that made you feel like the only person on Earth when she looked at you.

“Cats. Clearly.” Shane found his confidence, and smiled back at her. She didn’t seem troubled by his flat affect or short answer and laughed as she shook her head.

“And I thought we could be soul mates.” Rose sighed wistfully as the lights began to dim, and she stood up just as the owner of her seat returned. “Heather, I’ll be back. And you–” She pointed at Shane “I’m not done with you yet.” 

The speeches were boring, but the live auction was intense. Shane was confused by the way they kept calling it an auction. No one was bidding on anything. They were just raising their paddles to donate more and more money. It was a weird arms race of philanthropy that made his skin itch and his tux feel too tight. This was the one part of California that he couldn’t imagine ever getting used to. Everyone wanted everyone to pay attention to them. Ugh. He wrote a very large check and slid it in the envelope at the middle of the table and skipped the part where everyone ogled him and his generosity. 

Rose kept her promise and as soon as the dancing part of the night began, she appeared at his table and plopped herself down next to him. 

“But do you dance?”

“Dance?” Shane laughed. “No, I do not dance.”

“I’m afraid we may be incompatible, Shane Hollander.”

He shrugged at her, but couldn’t help smiling. Shane had no idea why Rose Landry appeared to care about him. Or know who the hell he was. But he also was not the best at asking questions like that, so he just stared at her for what was probably way too long.

“I’m kidding,” Rose clarified.

“No, no, I know…” Shane was flustered then. “I just… how do you know who I am?” He sounded so flabbergasted that Rose couldn’t help but laugh again. She laughed so easily and so brightly - it really did give her a quality of being the main character. Clearly all cameras should be on her.

“I’m from Michigan. I have three brothers, and they all played hockey at some point. So, I’m a fan. Of hockey, not you. You play for the enemy.” 

“Fair. That’s fair.” He softened up a bit then, turning to face her more fully. 

“But you are really good at hockey.” She shrugged. 

“Okay, Rose Landry.” Shane was a bit amused that they kept using each other’s full names. It felt like an inside joke that only they could share. It took a certain level of famous to have people always refer to you that way. It was something that set you apart from “normal people,” and Shane always hated it. He got the vibe that Rose did, too. “What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“I’m actually here for this,” she said with a shrug. “I went to college with the ED, and she asked me to come make a big flashy donation and give a little speech to get people riled up, and I figured, I could use some sourdough bread and a weekend bathed in fog.” 

“Wait, you know Brityn?” 

“Yeah, she’s from like Indiana or something. We were in the same dorm. And now we’re very fancy California people.” Rose preened in jest. 

“Would it surprise you to find out that she’s why I’m here, too?” Rose raised an eyebrow at Shane. “Her boyfriend, Jojo.. no, wait, James… Jordan. We’re friends.”

“Must be fate.” 

Rose and Shane chatted most of the night. At some point she convinced him to dance. Badly. At another he convinced her to give him her number. She insisted he text her immediately. It was flirty, and fun, but neither of them seemed to make a move, and in the end, Shane figured he’d never hear from her again. Which is why he was shocked when a few days later she texted him.

ROSE: So, I have another day in SF, want to go eat some seafood and look at a prison?

SHANE: I am not going to Alcatraz with you, Rose Landry.

ROSE: Why must you break my heart?

SHANE: We can have lunch.

ROSE: I’ll take it. Meet me at Scoma’s at 1pm.

SHANE: See you there.

Shane was painfully aware that he didn’t really own something you wore to a nice sea food restaurant in a touristy area of San Francisco for lunch, not dinner. But, he did have a blue linen button up and some boat shoes, so he would survive. He took a car service and got out about a block away, walking the rest of the way to the pier. Just as he got to Scoma’s, Rose got out of her car right in front. He smiled and waved to her as he approached on the sidewalk.

“We meet again, Shane Hollander!” She gave him a hug without pausing, making Shane go stiff and still for a moment. He relaxed as she let him go and fell in beside him as they made their way to the door. She was in a seersucker sundress with big sunglasses and her hair down around her shoulders. Effortless was the word Shane had come to associate with Rose. Everything about her and everything she did seemed effortless.

He found himself drawn to her because for him everything took so. much. effort. Every interaction, every outfit, every single decision he made on every single day was debated and plotted and contemplated. But Rose just rode the moment. And he didn’t mind getting swept up in it. They got inside and were seated by a window, away from most of the other guests,so that they could eat without too much attention coming their way. 

Rose took off her sunglasses and picked up the menu, looking at it while chatting over the top. “Have you been here before? I have not. There is this idea that people have that popular or touristy things are bad somehow, but honestly, I’ve found most of them to be a pure delight.”

Shane laughed and nodded as he scanned the menu that actually had more than a usual restaurant that he would eat. Food was tricky for him.Textures, smells, and surprises just weren’t his jam. It was much easier to have a carefully curated set of rules around what he did and did not eat that was based in hockey. No one asked many questions if he said it was for hockey. 

“Honestly, when I get a day off in a city, I’m looking for the biggest tourist trap. If it wasn’t great, people wouldn't do it!” 

“EXACTLY!” Rose clapped once. “You get me.” 

“I guess so.” He put the menu down. There was a perfect salmon dish that he was going to very much enjoy. Mission accomplished. “Is that why you texted? You needed someone to confirm you weren’t a snob?”

“Actually, kinda.” She shrugged and put her menu down now, too. “I liked you and I wanted to see you again, and I’ve found in this life that if you want to do a thing, it’s best you do it.” 

“Hey, Rose.” Shane cleared his throat, looking around quick. He started pulling the sleeves of his shirt down, first one than the other. He was trying to even them out pulling back and forth eyes turned down as he spoke,  “I’m not really… I like you, but I’m not…” He couldn’t find the words he wanted to. Spending the last 4 months in homophobic exile had cemented some things for Shane, at least about what he wanted, if not necessarily about who he was. And he did like Rose. He wanted to spend time with Rose. But also… he didn’t want to do what he had done every other time he had felt this way about a woman.

It was a frustrating pattern that left Shane gutted every time. He loved talking to a woman he met. They would have fun banter. She’d be funny and that would make him funny. They somehow would always be extremely smart and technically beautiful. 

He can tell they are beautiful. But he never wants more. He wants to banter and hang out and maybe hold hands. To share secrets and learn about everything they are thinking. To just be together with someone in a way that is not bordering on violent competition. It’s nice.

But they always wanted more. Of course they did. He was in his mid-twenties, he was a famous hockey player, and he was (apparently) very attractive. These brilliant funny women eventually wanted to kiss, to touch, to fuck. And that was not what Shane wanted from them. And after just a few months of no longer spending every day doing being compelled to do things he didn’t want to be and portraying himself as someone he wasn’t, Shane thought that maybe he just wouldn’t anymore. It hadn’t ruined hockey, and hockey was much more important than disappointing a woman he just met. So, rather than do the same disappointing embarrassing dance again, Shane figured…he’d just tell her what he wanted. And didn’t want.

She raised a hand to stop him. “Oh, honey, we’re good.” That was all she said about that, and honestly that was all he wanted to discuss it. Effortless. She was just completely effortless. And just like that she went back to their conversation. 

“So, I was always told to get the cioppino here or really anywhere in this neighborhood, but it’s going to be a complete mess. I think I’ll have to wear a plastic bib to save this dress. And I do like this dress. Do you promise, Shane, no pictures? I cannot survive a TMZ article that has me wearing a plastic bib next to Shane Hollander. The indignity.” 

“You got it. No pictures.” He held his phone up, wiggled it, and then put it firmly in his pocket. “Scout’s honor.” 

They chatted for a bit more, Shane eating his very fancy salmon, and Rose navigating the bowl of seafood smothered in red sauce. Their hometowns, their families, those easy get to know you topics that lay the groundwork for a relationship. 

“And that’s how I ended up in New York…” Rose was finishing a story, explaining how she had somehow gotten herself from Michigan to NYC for college. “I liked NY, but NY didn’t really like me,” she admitted. “I’m not actually the most talented actress, or that’s how it all felt, you know? Theater acting is so serious and so intense and I just… wasn’t cut out to be that way. It was too much and I wanted to have fun. Acting to me is about imagining a world where I am entirely someone else, but I don’t think it has to be defined by suffering. So much of that NY acting is suffering, you know?”

Shane, in fact, did not know. He knew nothing about theater at all. He did, however, know quite a bit about action movies and feeling too much pressure to be great.

“I think I get what you're saying about the intensity,” he answers. “Montreal was like that. It’s hockey, and I love hockey. I never feel more me than when I’m playing hockey, but there it was just… heavy. To be great I had to be perfect and I started at like 19. It did take the light out of it, sometimes.”

“And has California given you a little sunshine?” Rose smiled softly. “It sure did for me. I may not win an Oscar for the work I’m doing, but I’m having fun and the money doesn’t hurt.” 

“Yeah, it’s just fun out here. I don’t know if it’s the place or the guys, but I feel less… heavy. The Bell Center, it’s a lot. Playing in it is a lot. The franchise is 120 years old. The fans expect a lot. But here, the team started the year I was born. The fans here just love watching hockey. They don’t boo you for not being perfect… and the money… not like they can pay me any less.”

Rose laughed as she nodded, stopping to slurp up some pasta and try to crack open a sauce soaked crab leg without completely destroying her clothes. “That is why I got your number, Shane Hollander. You had the look of someone who got it. Plus, you’re not bad to look at.”

“Rose…”

“LOOK at, LOOK at. No touchie.” She raised her messy hands and wiggled her fingers causing Shane to absolutely lose it. He was laughing harder than he had in years, most likely, and just could not regain composure. 

“Oh my GOD, Rose.” Shane’s face flushed and his freckles popped against the red.

“You are cute, Shane. Like completely adorable.” Rose stated matter of factly.

“I’m starting to think you are about to ask me for money,” Shane quipped. “That’s the only reason for all these compliments.”

“Well, actually… I have this business investment to ask you about….” 

They chatted for an hour, maybe more. And Rose did, in fact, get Shane to get on a ferry boat and take her to Alcatraz. Shane found that she was completely undemanding. She’d taken his hand when he offered, but never looked at him with any heat or expectation. She understood the boundary and didn’t even poke at it. He respected that. That was the kind of trust he needed to feel at ease. 

He learned about her brothers and how she had always wanted to play hockey, but it was the nineties and her town didn’t have a girl’s team until she was fifteen and by then she was already booking real roles. He learned that she was weirdly obsessed with horses until she was twelve but has actually never even met a horse, let alone rode one. He was treated to an entire thesis on how you could NOT be both a Titanic girl AND an Egypt girl but you COULD be a Titanic girl and a HORSE girl. And how she was deeply weird and disliked as a child because most actors are.

“I like acting,” Rose admitted, “because I don’t have to show anyone that I’m weird, or sad, or lost. I have a professional level understanding of how to just be. I don’t always want people to… perceive me, you know? It’s not their business.”

“Yes!” Shane completely understood. “It’s harder for me. There’s expectations… I’m Asian, I’m a jock, I’m a role model… and none of those things are sad, or scared, or unsure. And so I’ve learned to just… embody what I need to be when I’m around people, but…

“It’s exhausting.” She finished for him.

“Yes. It’s exhausting.” He nodded. There was a long silence. They had gotten off the ferry and were walking around the pier again. The sun was about to set, and Shane knew that Rose’s car was scheduled within the hour.

“Hey, Rose, can I tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet?”

“What? Sure. Yeah. Of course.” She paused their walk, turning them so that they were facing each other. Shane was looking at her forehead, a place she knew was meant to simulate eye contact.he had noticed him doing it all day. She didn’t say anything or correct him. 

“I’m gay.” He said it simply, quietly, but not whispered. No one was around, and if they were, who would believe this story? Shane Hollander comes out to famous actress Rose Landry while watching a romantic sunset on the pier? Honestly, he’d pay to read that, so maybe he was wrong there, but… it was all done now.

“Thank you for trusting me with that.” Rose squeezed both his hands, and turned them back so they were facing the water. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah,” Shane shook his head. “I just wanted someone to know that wouldn’t hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you, Shane Hollander.” And it was as he leaned down to put a little kiss on her forehead that someone, somewhere, snapped the photo that would appear in that week’s Star magazine with the headline “Rose Landry and Shane Hollander in Love in San Francisco.”

Chapter End Notes

For the next stretch of things it's more likely to see one POV per chapter. I am outlined through 20 chapters now, but reserve the right to revise as we go. I've already had a few rewrites. I'm normally a pantser, so this is new for all of us (okay, maybe just me).

Chapter 7: who am I that I should be vying for your touch?

Chapter Summary

“ENOUGH.” Ilya stood up, slamming what was left of his gear into his stall, pulling his tie over his head to start tightening it. “We spend too much time talking about fucking Hollander. Do you think they are sitting in the San Francisco locker room right now discussing who I am fucking?”

The men in the locker room all shared a look. Temperamental Roz was not an uncommon occurrence, and there was a whole protocol. Which mostly consisted of shutting the fuck up till he took his sour ass out of the locker room. 

Chapter Notes

A shorter chapter to set up a longer one after this. Enjoy the angst and more time in the Boston locker room.

“This fucking guy,” Felix Bellerose sat in his stall shirtless but still in his hockey pants, skates untied but not yet pulled off. He was shaking his head as he looked down at his phone. “Look at this shit, Roz.” He held the phone out to Ilya who was just unstrapping his shin guards. 

“What now, Bells?” Ilya reached over and took the phone. He looked at it for a moment, furrowed his brow and leaned in as if he was struggling to read it. “What the fuck is this shit?”

“It’s Hollander and that movie star, what’s her name…”

“Rose Landry. It says it right in the headline. You can’t read?” Ilya sniped. He started scrolling on Bells’ phone, pursing his lips into a tighter and tighter line as he did. The comments were full of very excited fans. Cute memes. Many, many, many exclamation points. Theories about when they met. Close ups of every part of the photo. Feral and unhinged commentary.   Links to something called fanfiction about them? Ilya was getting more and more drawn into the intense deluge of internet reactions. It was overwhelming. 

“Dude, give me my phone.” Bells grabbed the phone from Ilya’s hands and stepped back as Ilya rose to try and snatch it back. “Fucking weird, though. Considering what they were saying in Montreal about him sexting a guy like what? Three months ago?” Bells shook his head as he tossed his phone back into his bag and pulled his skates all the way off. “You think he paid her?”

“Listen to yourself, Bells. Do you think a hockey player has pay off movie star money?” Declan Murphy called over to the pair. 

Cliff Marleau came out from the showers then, sitting in his stall with a towel wrapped around him, starting to pull on his suit. “What are you hens clucking about?”

“Hollander is dating Rose Landry,” Murphy offers, “Bells thinks he paid her.”

“You think Hollander has Rose Landry money? She made his entire contract just last year. I saw it on E.” Marlow asks Bells.

“Dude, he reps like every brand! His contract is pocket money.” Bells holds his hands up in surrender. “Plus, maybe she felt bad for him.”

“I dunno… looks like he’s the one doing the feeling.” Marlow had his phone out now and was looking at the picture. 

“ENOUGH.” Ilya stood up, slamming what was left of his gear into his stall, pulling his tie over his head to start tightening it. “We spend too much time talking about fucking Hollander. Do you think they are sitting in the San Francisco locker room right now discussing who I am fucking?”

The men in the locker room all shared a look. Temperamental Roz was not an uncommon occurrence, and there was a whole protocol. Which mostly consisted of shutting the fuck up till he took his sour ass out of the locker room. 

When Ilya got home, he found himself slamming doors and stomping around his house. He was restless and angry and generally unsettled. He hadn’t heard from Hollander since he unceremoniously tossed him out of his apartment two months ago. Ilya hadn’t reached out, either. He wanted to, but his at first his pride couldn’t handle another rejection, and then when he heard the gossip about their text thread getting outed, he was too guilty to dare. 

But he was not expecting this.

If he was being honest, Ilya wasn’t even sure if Hollander liked girls. He had never seen him with one or heard a rumor about him dating one. He had never been able to get a read or an answer about it. But then, until this, there hadn’t been any news about Hollander and anyone. It was reasonable that he dated. Who could subsist on eight hook ups a year? Ilya certainly couldn’t. Hadn’t. And really, Ilya knew almost nothing about Shane’s life. 

He dropped on the couch, and put his head in his hands. Discontent simmered in his chest, making his hands feel hot and his skin feel small. Ilya was facing down the very real possibility that there wasn’t any more time. To figure this out. To make it right. He had taken Shane for granted. Assuming they would do this thing until when? Forever? Ilya hadn’t considered an end game. He hadn’t been able to picture one, but he knew he didn’t want to stop. Well, that was untrue. e wanted to stop because he wanted to stop feeling anxious and scared and desperate. But then he’d see Shane standing in the entryway of a hotel room or his house, and he knew there was no stopping. And then Shane was gone, and Ilya didn’t call, and now there was no more time.

Because if he were Shane Hollander, he would lock down the hot movie star. Maybe have a large wedding as soon as next year, and then what? Have a couple of kids and live an idyllic life for as long as it worked? At least till he retired. There were worst ways to silence rumors you’re gay than marrying the biggest fucking movie star in Hollywood. 

And there. That was what was really bothering Ilya. That was lodged in his chest between his ribs and against his heart. That it wasn’t Shane choosing between him and her. It was Shane choosing between being on the cover of magazines and getting traded for a text message someone read over your shoulder in a locker room. It was Shane choosing a fancy wedding at a villa in France over hooking up in a hotel room three times a year, four if they’re lucky. It was Shane choosing a life without constant fear and that constant nagging emptiness that came with longing. Missing. Needing someone you cannot be near. 

If Ilya was honest with himself, he’d choose it, too. A calm life with a good woman. Eating on cafe patios and watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean on a wharf on a warm evening. If he was choosing. If he had felt like he wanted a choice… or, no, if he felt like he’d had a choice. Which, he figured, he did now. 

The realization was heavy in his chest, and caused him to slump further. Ilya felt tears burning in his eyes. He didn’t cry, but somehow ever since the Metros put Shane Hollander on a plane to San Francisco, it had been happening more and more. He was trapped in a prison of his own feelings. Unable to expel them entirely, but equally unable to express them. He hated feeling so fucking out of control. 

—

“I am so sorry,” Rose started talking as soon as Shane picked up. “I should have realized something like that would happen. Sometimes I feel like a totally normal person, and you treat me like a totally normal person and then I’m acting like I’m a normal person and this happens.” 

“Rose–” Shane was trying to get a word in, to reassure her. He wasn’t upset, not even a little. Something like this could only help him. It would keep the Metros from leaking anything, could build both their brands. He’d never do it on purpose, he’d never encourage it, but why look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

“And now the internet is going crazy. I haven’t looked, but my PR manager called this morning to ask me what I want to do about it, and I don’t even think I should dignify it with a response because that will just make the whole thing worse, but–”

“Rose–”

“She told me I should ask you and then I realized that you probably weren’t expecting this or had a plan for this and it makes your whole situation more complicated, because if I deny it, then it could add fuel to the Metros debacle, but if I don’t–”

“ROSE!” She stopped talking. “Rose, it’s fine. Leave it alone. They’ll forget in fifteen minutes. Some people on the internet won’t, but as soon as some other celebrity does something unhinged, TMZ will move on and the rest of them will forget. It’s fine.”

“Oh my god, thank you, Shane, really. But maybe we shouldn’t go to lunch today.”

“No, it’s fine. And look, it’s not the kind of rumor that’s hurting me right now. I won’’t lie. I don’t want to lie. But also, I don’t need to change my life, either. If you’re okay, I’m okay. We’ll go to lunch. You’ll go back to LA, and everyone will forget about us because someone will cheat on someone else while they’re in rehab, and that is a much more juicy story than “movie star and hockey player stand next to each other.””

“Allright, Shane Hollander. I’ll see you at two, then.” 

—

All Star Weekend was approaching and it appeared that Shane Hollander had gone on another public date with Rose Landry. They hadn’t held hands, and they hadn’t kissed, but they sat in a brightly lit restaurant in San Francisco and openly chatted as people took secret photos of them from every angle. Neither had made any kind of statement about the last photo, but Ilya knew that they’d seen the hubbub and still hadn’t denied it. This sucked.

Sadness and rage were dueling inside him. On the one hand, he was still stewing in the deep regret he was feeling of not doing more. Saying more. Pushing past the weird parting they had in November. And on the other hand, he was furious. That he was so quickly and easily replaced. That Hollander would use this to move away from the secrecy about his own life. And that for the second time in as many months, he found out such huge news about his relationship (was it that?) with Hollander from locker room gossip.

The sadness clawed at him, burrowing into his chest, and curling up to rest, leaving him to frown in it. He considered texting Hollander about meeting up in Detroit. They would both be there and the chaos of the weekend always made it the easiest place to get away, even if the players were all right on top of each other. But he wasn’t sure what he would say. The idea of asking Hollander to cheat on his girlfriend sat wrong with Ilya. But texting “Do you have a girlfriend or do you want to fuck?” seemed too pathetic to even consider. He didn’t want to be mocked, and he had this fear that he would be mocked.

So, the anger won.

The rage wrapped itself around the sadness, around the affection, around every part of him. He was angry and surly and hard to be around. Every picture, every Tweet, every time he had to sit through chirping and gossip, the rage grew. Two weeks into the Rose Landry frenzy, Ilya was not only a monster on the ice, but also in his own room, at his own tape review, in his own practices. He needed an outlet, a place to aim the rage.

This year the league went back to the three on three tournament model for the All Star Weekend. Four teams would play in a little single elimination tournament. Ilya and Hollander were both given their own teams to draft and captain. It means that they would play each other, yes, but none of the team events or get togethers would have them in the same room at the same time. Ilya was annoyed at himself for not being relieved.

He had drafted a team full of big Europeans who liked to play a physical game. And Hayden Pike. Did he like Pike? Absolutely not. Was it baffling that somehow after Hollander left Pike was both the captain and star of the Metros? Entirely. Was he petty enough to use his first draft pick to go for a middle of the pack player that would irritate the hell out of Shane Hollander? Also yes. Yes, he was. 

Ilya knew that Pike would have been Hollander’s first pick. They were close friends. Pike wore the A under Hollander’s C. And they had likely spent less than 2 hours together since Hollander’s trade. Hollander would be desperate for the time together. To play together on the ice. To have fun being back in the same room as the buddies he left behind. And Ilya ruined it. On purpose. In a way that made it very clear to Hollander that that was exactly what he was doing. 

Hollander hurt him and he was going to hurt Hollander back.

Chapter End Notes

We're headed to Detroit next! There we will find WHL players, a 3:3 tournament that may set off some Hollanov fireworks, the league's best personalities, and perhaps some Shane pining this time.

Stay tuned to find out!

(We're looking at the weekend for this one, I think, so see you soon!)

Chapter 8: too bad you had to have a better half

Chapter Summary

Most players looked forward to two things at the All Star game. The arrivals reception on Wednesday night, and the Friday night parties.

Chapter Notes

We're heeeere. This is a little longer than I usually post, and the rest of the weekend is even longer, so I split it up. Outline is being adjusted, and you get this 2600 words ahead of expectations.

Most players looked forward to two things at the All Star game. The arrivals reception on Wednesday night, and the Friday night parties. Shane entered the bar at seven on the dot. Never early, never late, just like his mama taught him, when responding to an official invite, Shane Hollander was reliably right on time. The room was mostly empty. Many of the players arrived that afternoon and were taking time to freshen up and make their way down. The room was a dimly lit lounge with windows on all sides. It looked out on Detroit, bright in the clear winter night. It was snowing causing the sky to have a light orange glow.

The party met the mood of the quiet calm night. Live piano music wafted through the room as cater waiters offered fancy looking snacks on silver platters. The players who were there were dressed fashionably in blazers and slacks, hair done and jewelry on. It wasn’t a tux party, but the press was there and loved to take photos of the most fashionable players. Many of them had been stepping up their style game, hoping to rival the MNBA players. It wasn’t even close, though. 

Shane was wearing fitted black pants, a white tee and an open, well tailored black blazer. It was understated, but more elevated than his usual look. Rose had insisted he wear something she called a “luxury loafer” in beige suede. He felt like he looked ridiculous, but he’d gotten two compliments before even making it to the reception, so she was probably right about them. And, of course, he was wearing a Rolex. Rose went with him to the LA showroom and helped him pick a Datejust 41 in stainless steel with a black dial. She cooed at it when she saw it in the case and was very insistent that it was classic but luxury and not at all ostentatious. Shane felt like every Rolex was ostentatious, but he had blind trust in Rose, so on it went.

He made his way towards the back of the bar and leaned against a booth that he would claim as soon as he found who he was looking for. A waiter stopped by and he ordered a light, low ABV beer. In a glass. His intent was to take tiny sips and make it last all night, a trick for events like this that he’d picked up over the years. Turning his attention to the door, he caught Hayden just as he walked in. With a wave, he called him over and they slid into the booth together.

This was Hayden’s first All Star weekend, even though he’d been in the league longer than Shane. The Metros were hard up for a star, and he’d stepped into the role well enough. He got a ticket here, anyway. Hayden was wearing blue trousers, a white button down shirt with the collar open and a maroon blazer. It was basically a more colorful version of Shane’s outfit. In fact, they had on almost exactly the same shoes. 

“You look good,” Shame smiled at his friend. 

“Jackie dressed me. She’s been reading Vogue lately, or something. Very expensive hobby, but I think I look good.”

“Oh, you’re for sure going to show up on a fashion blog with that jacket. And a pocket square? Tell Jackie she has a future as a stylist.”

“I’ll let her know,” Hayden was laughing now.

“So, man, how have you been?” Shane spun his beer on the table slowly, keeping his fingers pressed to the bottom of the stem of his fancy glass.

“Good, good. I mean, we’re hanging in there without you, I guess. They let me play here, so…”

“Yeah,” Shane got quiet at the mention of the Metros, shrugging a bit as he looked down at his slowly turning glass.

“Things with me are great,” Hayden picked up on Shane’s discomfort. He was always good at knowing what Shane was thinking, something that had cemented him as Shane’s best friend. He hoped to stay there. “Jackie is good, the kids are good. Thinking about maybe another one soon.”

“Another one?” Shane gaped at him.

“Hey, Jackie likes it. She can’t really work right now with my schedule and the kids are fun for her. When she’s not studying to be a fashion icon.” Hayden smiles fondly as he thinks of his wife.

“How are your kids? The twins must be like three by now. Damn.”

“Yeah, Ruby is a beast. She’s impossible. But Jade balances it out. And Arthur is just being a baby. They keep trying to walk around with him, and I have to stop them from dropping him straight on the ground.” 

“You should get them on skates. Ruby in particular. She’d be great…” Shane looked off over Hayden’s shoulder thoughtfully. There was a plan brewing there for Ruby. A ten year plan. One that ended at the University of Minnesota Duluth and then being drafted into the WHL. 

Hayden knew that look and waved a hand in front of Shane’s face. “Hey, Hollander. She’s three. How about we start with going to the rink when you’re in town, eh? She’s not ready for the draft yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” Shane laughed to himself. “But I’m serious. You have to get them on skates, like, now.”

“I promise, I promise.” Hayden took a sip of the beer he had been ignoring. “Hey, look, it’s my esteemed captain.” He rolled his eyes as he up-nodded at someone coming in the door.

Shane turned around to see Rozanov entering the lounge. He was wearing a black and red jacket that was printed with roses, black tailored pants, and a tuxedo shirt opened to the third button. His gold cross was on display, along with the top of his very pretty, very firm pecs. His shoes were black leather loafers, and he had a much more flashy Rolex on (the Skydweller, to be exact. Shane would know). He was wearing sunglasses inside, but they were pulled down his nose a bit so he could look over the top of them. And he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked expensive. He looked good.  

To watch Rozanov approach, Shane would have to remain turned entirely around in his seat, , so he turned back to Hayden instead. Lifting the glass he was ignoring, he took a sip and steadied himself, sure that the Russian was headed their way. Shit. Fuck. 

Rozanov was a problem Shane had decided to ignore. After their weirdly emotional and very disastrous last meeting, he just… pretended he didn’t exist. It was much easier for Shane to do that now that they never saw each other. And after Rozanov’s little stunt at the LA game in November, he hadn’t tried again to get Shane’s attention. Well, except maybe drafting Hayden in the first round when he was very clearly not the best player, and very much Shane’s pick. Maybe. But probably not.

Now, however, Shane was forced to acknowledge the very attractive blonde man sized elephant in the room. When considering this moment in the days and weeks before, he had come to the delusion that he wouldn’t ever run into Rozanov in a place they’d be compelled to speak to each other. And that he would politely ignore Shane and Shane would politely ignore him. They weren’t friends as far as anyone was concerned even if they weren’t really rivals as much anymore either. Shane realized now that he had, in fact, been very wrong.

“Ah, yes, Pike.” Rozanov stopped at the end of their table, nodding at Pike before turning his eyes on Hollander. He was peering down at him over the top of the sunglasses and smiled wide and unguarded, but it wasn’t in his eyes. Ah, Shane thought, okay, he could play this game. “Hollander.”

“Rozanov. Would you like to join us?” Shane slid in to make room on his side of the booth, but Rozanov instead slid into Hayden’s side, forcing him to slide over. 

“Given as this is a mixer, I will mix.” The waiter appeared and Rozanov ordered an old fashioned. Shane raised his eyebrows at the order. “It matches the jacket. Very Don Draper,” he explained. 

“You watch Mad Men?” a very confused Hayden Pike asked. 

“And you do not?” He leveled a look at Hayden with a totally straight face.

Hayden blinked and looked back to Shane, who was sipping the warm, flattening beer he was still barely a quarter into. Shane shrugged in return. The trio exchanged pleasantries and were chatting a bit about the upcoming games. 

“I am glad to have gotten both my best friend and yours, Hollander. I believe it will give me advantage to have expert on hitting you, and expert on your plays.” Rozanov met his eyes, then.

Shane realized at that moment that this was aimed at his attention. The look Rozanov was aiming at him was hard, but not dispassionate. It wasn’t angry, not really, but it wasn’t not angry either. Challenging, for sure. A touch of a dare to it. It sent a jolt through him. Oh. We’re playing.

“Mm. We’ll see how that works out for you.” They sat in silence looking at each other for a long moment. Maybe a minute. Hayden then tapped Rozanov.

“Let me out, I’m going to the bathroom. Shane, you wanna–” He tilted his head to give Shane the opportunity to leave. He shook his head no. Rozanov stood to let Hayden out and then sat back down.

“So,” Rozanov spoke first. 

“Look,” Shane was looking back down at his drink again, the slow spinning restarting. “I’m sorry about last time–”

“Eh, no. Hollander. It is fine.” But it clearly was anything but fine. Rozanov looked a little lost, if Shane was being honest. Like he wasn’t sure what he was doing in the booth and what he wanted to happen next. He had once again gotten Shane’s attention, but appeared to have no plan for it. Shane couldn’t help but feel a little protective of him in that moment. He seemed like a lost kid who desperately wanted to be remembered. “We do not need to talk about that.” 

“I know, but I wasn’t–”

“I said no.” Rozanov dipped his head low to try and get eye contact with Shane again. Their eyes met and Shane raised his gaze to more clearly look at him. Rozanov removed the sunglasses he had been peering over by pushing them up onto his head. “I am not here to extract an apology. You are not sorry and I am not interested in a polite lie, yes?” 

Shane bit his bottom lip. He was sorry, but forcing his apology felt like it would make everything worse. He shrugged slowly, holding his shoulders up by his ears for a moment longer than he needed to, and shook his head no once before lowering his shoulders and looking away. His fingers itched to grab Rozanov’s hand. It was sitting on the table unmoving. Shane felt like maybe the contact could ease the tension, get them to a place where they were communicating on the same wavelength, but they were in public and Shane got the distinct impression Rozanov wouldn’t even welcome the touch. He didn’t reach. 

They stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an hour. It was the longest eye contact Shane had held, maybe ever, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the blue-green eyes that had him pinned to the back of the booth. Then the waiter appeared with Rozanov’s drink and left it in front of him, breaking the spell. He thanked the waiter and raised his drink to take a sip.

“You look good,” Shane could finally talk, get a whole sentence out. It erupted from his mouth without his approval and he wasn’t sure he’d have chosen the compliment if he had time to review what his brain was sending to his mouth, but he didn’t. So there was the compliment. Unguarded and honest.

“Mm. Thank you, I chose it myself.” He was fishing, but Shane wasn’t sure what for. Was he making fun of Shane’s stylist? How would he have known about him, anyway? Rozanov kept looking at him as if he should understand the reference and Shane… didn’t. He didn’t read the tabloids, he didn’t have social media, and so he didn’t know that EVERY time he spent a moment with Rose Landry a picture of them appeared. 

The public had started to get invested in the idea they were together. And though they were not, Rose’s PR person had said that if they deny they are dating and continue spending time together in public, it would probably get worse. Shane’s crisis manager (on retainer) had asked him how he felt and when he was agnostic about the whole thing, he agreed they should just do nothing. So while he knew the internet was shipping them on the bird app (whatever that meant, Rose kept saying it), he didn’t realize how ubiquitous it all really was. Shane just didn’t pick up that Rozanov was snarking about his girlfriend.

Shane pinched his eyebrows together and tilted his head to examine Rozanov. His heart was pounding and his hands were clammy and he realized that he was nervous. He couldn’t see outside the booth, but plenty of people could see in. He wasn’t sure what his face looked like, what this interaction looked like, but he was sure it would evoke gossip of some kind if someone had a clear view of his face. 

He needed to get them alone. Actually alone. Where they could touch, and maybe talk. Probably. They should talk. But Shane could smell his aftershave and feel the warmth radiating off his knees under the table, and really he was fine if maybe they didn’t talk much. Or at least first. Maybe all the talking was what made this harder. What made this a mess. It felt like an impossible mess right now. 

He’d never had a relationship that was so strained. Being agreeable and quiet and almost invisible had always been Shane’s way. No one could make fun of you if they didn’t remember you. No one would reject you if you never offered them an invitation. So he blended into the background. Until hockey. And then his skill outshined him and his friendships could be about hockey. Safe and calm. So Shane was not equipped for whatever was happening now. The strained quiet. The anxiety of saying something, but the pain of saying nothing.

The silence had stretched on again. Rozanov sat incredibly still. Almost statue like. Just looking. Shane was squirming under the gaze, twirling his glass, tapping his leg under the table. Neither spoke. The hot burning feeling that only accompanied Ilya Rozanov started expanding in Shane’s chest. He couldn’t look anywhere but at Ilya’s hand sitting stationary next to his glass. 

“What room are you in?” Shane asked it first this time. A dance they had done so many times. For years. And most of the time, Rozanov went first. But today Shane knew that if he did not, neither of them would. He wanted to be alone, together. He wanted to be closer. He was flooding with regret for breaking the tenuous thing between them, so he offered an olive branch. Eyebrows raised in question, breath catching in his throat as he waited for the other man to answer.

“No. You cannot do that,” Rozanov’s voice was hard, irritated. Shane sat back in his seat, shocked by the denial. “I will not be that for you.”

“What?” Shane’s voice cracked as he responded, his cheeks flushing immediately. The sting of rejection flooded through his body as if his blood had been replaced with lava. Eyes immediately falling to the beer in front of him. 

“Go back to your girlfriend, Hollander.” And Ilya stood and moved into the crowd of rowdy hockey players, leaving Shane alone in the booth reeling.

Chapter End Notes

So, I promise you it's going to get better. We're about 2-3 chapters off of the payoff you all want. So please hang in there with me. Your comments give me life, as does your kudos. Every read makes me so happy.

Good job, I love you.

Chapter 9: not the guy you're taking home

Chapter Summary

“Iyluka, it has been too long. Why have you not come to see me play?”

“Because we share an arena, Sveta.” He rolled his eyes. “If you are playing, I am on an airplane somewhere.”

“I still hate you for it.”

(the one where we meet the WHL and Svetlana all at once)

Chapter Notes

This was the most fun I've had yet. In the past 10 days I've been to 2 NHL playoffs and 2 PWHL playoffs and the vibe difference is SO STARK that it heavily influenced a lot of this chapter and the upcoming ones.

If you can get to the PWHL playoffs or see a team next year, do. The vibes are immaculate.

Go Frost! Go Wild! Enjoy!

The MHL wanted to incorporate the newly launched WHL into the All Star weekend. The fair thing would have been to combine their All Star weekends and use the press the men already get to lift the women’s league and get more air time and popularity. What they actually did was let some of the WHL stars compete in the skills competition with the men. 

Ilya found the whole thing frustrating. He loved watching women’s hockey. He loved watching all hockey. Hockey was fun and fast and violent and exhilarating. And the women were great. They were great, but they still had to have other jobs and other lives. They only got to play 30 games. They barely made any money. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t think the risk of injury was worth the reward of a poverty wage. It pissed him off because he knew if he had to do all that, he wouldn’t be nearly as good at hockey as these women all were. And he is Ilya Rozanov.

But now he found himself sitting next to his boyhood friend Svetlana Vitrova on the bench at Little Caesars Arena. 

Svetlana was one of the best players in the world, and certainly the best player in the women’s league. She played right wing for the Boston Rebellion and was the fastest skater by far. She also knew hockey better than anyone he had ever met. Himself included. Well, except for maybe Shane Hollander. But still. She was whip smart, could see plays before they materialized, always knew where on the ice to be, and was not greedy. A lethal combination.

Svetlana was Ilya’s childhood best friend’s younger sister. Her father was a famous Russian goalie who had an American wife while he played in the MHL. But after his retirement, she divorced him, and he got a job in the Russian government. This meant Svetlana and her brother Igor appeared each summer in Russia with little supervision. Their first summer together, the three of them were inseparable: training together, goofing off on the ice, eating lunch in the sun outside the rink. 

The second summer, Igor got a girlfriend and left Ilya and Svetlana alone together. They trained, but also they laid in the sun kissing and exploring each other in that way that 14 year olds do. It was never serious and it was never more, and at the end of that second summer, she went back to America and did not return again. Igor, however, did not leave.

 

So when the World Juniors came, Ilya and Igor were on the Russian national team, but Svetlana was playing for America. And in 2014, when they all went to Sochi, Ilya and Igor flamed out early with Russia, but Svetlana came home to Boston with a gold medal. 

Ilya was surprised to see her on the bench when he came out of the tunnel. He knew the women would be there, but he hadn’t looked at the rosters to see who was in which event. He slowed his walk to gather his thoughts as he made his way to his spot next to her on the bench. It wasn’t that they had a falling out, or weren’t on good terms. They just hadn’t had a real conversation in a decade. 

Ilya shook his head when he sat down next to her. “Uh, no. I will not skate against you.”

Svetlana laughed. She was biracial with light brown skin, long, dark curly hair, and bright blue eyes. “Is it because I’m a woman, Rozanov? Are you scared I will be faster?”

Ilya shook his head furiously. “Oh, no, Svete, it’s because you are a traitor to our motherland, and I can’t stand to share the ice with such treachery.” She burst into laughter then, thumping him on the shoulder with her gloved hand.

“Iyluka, it has been too long. Why have you not come to see me play?” 

“Because we share an arena, Sveta.” He rolled his eyes. “If you are playing, I am on an airplane somewhere.” 

“I still hate you for it.” 

This was the first time in their MHL careers that Hollander and Rozanov were not in the same event. There were three skills events that had women players in them, and each event had one of the biggest stars. Shot accuracy was Hollander, speed was Ilya, and then Scott Hunter had puck handling. 

When it was time for the fastest skater competition, they had Svetlana go last. That way it would be exciting no matter how she performed. Though Ilya had a feeling she was going to do better than anyone had expected anyway. A few rookies skated, one much faster than the other three. Then a couple of more veteran skaters that most knew wouldn’t be a top contender. Ilya was towards the end, but not right before Svetlana. He figured that was on purpose to keep the crowd engaged through the whole thing. 

The group skated, and fans were kept engaged as the skaters kept one upping each other’s times, laughing and ribbing each other as they went. In the end, Ilya won by about a second (which was huge for this particular event), but the big win was Svetlana came in second. No woman had ever finished above last place before. The crowd lost their damn minds about it. 

Ilya patted her on the back with his glove as she returned to the bench. “You’re going to sell a million jerseys for that,” he laughed. “Every woman watching this is about to be your biggest fan.”

“Good.” Svetlana beamed up at him. “I deserve it. I’m the best.” Ilya watched her skate down the rest of the bench accepting high fives and cheers from most of the other men. There were one or two that she beat that did not seem excited, which made it all the more enjoyable for Ilya. He found the whole thing downright hot. 

—-

The night after the skill competition was usually wild. The next day’s games didn’t start until well after noon, and honestly, no one was playing to win anyway. The 3 on 3 format kept things from being too contact heavy, and it was more for showboating than hard competition. So, as soon as the skills competition was over and the players showered and changed, things began to escalate.

There was an official after party at a bar not far from the official hotel. It was tasteful and chic and easily roped off from the public. Downtown Detroit had seen a revival, with old buildings being torn down or rehabbed for newer, more luxury experiences. Ilya was excited to see some of the city as most of the time he was in and out so quickly that he barely saw anything outside of his hotel and the arena. And he hated the arena and its weird fans ever since he had been very nearly hit with an octopus after the Hydra scored a goal in his first playoffs. No one should have to dodge sea creatures to play hockey.

Tonight, though, he was dressed in a tailored double breasted all black suit with a turtleneck and colorful scarf. It was more understated than what he normally wore, but it fit the vibe of Detroit as well as Ilya’s desire to avoid being followed around by photographers and fans all night. When he arrived at the party behind oversized sunglasses, he was greeted at the door by his longtime friend and teammate Cliff Marleau. 

“Hey, Rozy! I knew you’d be out here,” he exclaimed as Ilya got inside the door.

“Marly, hey.” Ilya smiled, but left his sunglasses on, even in the darkened bar. They moved to the bar, chitchatting about the competition as they went. They waved down the bartender and both got a beer that was nice enough to suit rich hockey players, but not so pretentious that they felt out of place drinking it.

“Do you know Vetrova? I saw you talking to her down on the bench. My sister played in a league with her once. She’s brutal.” Marleau picked up their conversation as the two went and found a place to lean and chat.

“We trained together as kids,” Ilya replied. “I hadn't seen her in long time.” He shrugged. “She is better hockey player now.”

“She’s also super hot, man,” Marleau wagged his brows. “You ever hit that?”

“I do not kiss and tell, Marly, we have been over this.” But Ilya did turn up the corner of his mouth, just a little, as Marleau frowned.

“But you’d have the best stories, Rozy, come onnnn.” Ilya laughed and shook his head. 

The two laughing and chirping as Svetlana walked into the bar. She was accompanied by the other two WHL players that had competed that day, a skater from Seattle and another from Minnesota. The three were dressed like professional athletes headed to the club with crop tops and high ponytails. Svetlana had a white crop that was more like a sports bra under a black leather jacket with matching skin tight leather pants. She still had her swagger, even with the tight pants, and was laughing at something one of her friends said as she entered the bar.

Her laugh cut through the noise and made Ilya smile. It was musical but also just unbridled joy. She was new enough to be joyful at one of these crowded, ego-driven events. She looked up and into the club, scanning the room. Her eyes landed on Ilya and she smiled heading his way. The other two women headed to the bar with a nod to her as they went.

“Aren’t your friends going to get mad you ditched them?” Ilya teased as they hugged hello.

“They’re married,” she waved him off. “I’m the third wheel, anyway.”

“Married.” It hit Ilya like a ton of bricks. It was one thing to read the stories of openly out skaters in the WHL, and another to see it. His heart clenched and his hands went cold as he watched the women get to the bar, one standing behind the other with her arms around her wife. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The heat of the club and the press of the crowd caused him to curl in on himself as if he could disappear. 

Ilya knew he was staring, but how could he not? There was proof that everything he wanted in his life was completely possible, and yet possible at all at the same time. How the same sport could be so different should have infuriated him, but instead it left him hollow and empty. Ilya existed in a world of casual yet intense cruelty towards people like him, while the captains of the American and Canadian women’s teams were celebrated as married college sweethearts. It was hard for Ilya to comprehend they were in the same world, the same sport, the same fucking arena. 

“Don’t act too surprised, Ilyuka. Women can marry each other, even in America,” Svetlana tsked, calling Ilya back to himself. He shook his head at her, regaining his composure, and lobbed a crooked smile and a one shouldered shrug.

“Yes, yes, of course. Let me get you a drink, Sveta,” Ilya said easily, not correcting her assumption. 

They settled in at a booth in the back of the club. It was loud so they had to huddle next to each other to talk. Ilya threw his arm over her shoulders and she leaned her head back against his shoulder, her hair resting on his face. They sat like that in the lights of the club for a moment, enjoying each other’s company and watching the chaos around them. 

Celebrities, hockey stars, out of place girlfriends - they all smooshed together on the dance floor, against the bar, leaning against high top tables littered with empty glasses. The party moved on, and Ilya found himself searching the faces idly while playing with the bottom edge of Svetlana’s crop top with his fingers.

He was trapped in thought. About Shane. About his perfect life and his perfect girlfriend and the audacity of him acting like things were normal by asking for that room number. About how it wouldn’t have to be that way if they were different people in a different league in a different life. How he was so fucking tired of spending his life wishing it were different when all evidence pointed to the impossibility it ever would be. About how Svetlana was warm and safe and comforting. The last softness in a life that had been otherwise been only hardness since his mother was gone.

Ilya dropped his head enough to breathe in her hair. The scent of conditioner, coconut oil, and hairspray grounding him. The heat of her skin on his fingers was more alluring than the drink he was ignoring. She was settling him. He had forgotten what it felt like to just be calm. Quiet. The torrent of thoughts dissipated as he came back into his body.

“You are quiet tonight, Iyluka,” Svetlana breaks the quiet first. 

“I hate three on three,” Ilya groaned. “This weekend is supposed to be relaxing and yet I’m going to spend half of tomorrow skating at full speed.” Hockey was an easy distraction for them both. It didn’t matter whether she believed that was what he was thinking about because she couldn’t help engaging. 

“You’re wasting this party pouting about a game that doesn’t matter! Just play at their level,” Svetlana laughed. “It’ll be more fun for everyone else that way.”

“I’ll just make Pike pull doubles for me,” Ilya quipped. “Problem solved.”

“You are incorrigible, Ilya Rozanov.” Svetlana stood up and offered him a hand, “Come, dance with me.” Her face was neutral and he wasn’t sure if she knew he needed to be shaken out of  his thoughts or if she just rather go somewhere else. Do something else. You could never tell what she was thinking, and she would never tell you.

Ilya took her hand and stood, letting her lead him behind her through the crowded dance floor. Some celebrity had sponsored this party. A Jonas brother, or Justin Bieber, or someone like that. Ilya did not care. But it meant everyone was here. Players, partners, staff, VIP guests. The room was full, and hot, and sticky as hell. 

When Svetlana was happy with the spot she occupied, on the left of the dance floor, but close to the center, she dropped Ilya’s hand and turned to face him, that unguarded smile back on her face. She reached to take him by the hips and pulled him into her bubble. 

“You’re bossy,” Ilya purred at her, letting her pull him close. 

“You like it.” Svetlana put a hand on his waist, splaying her fingers around his hip to keep him close. Ilya draped an arm over her shoulder and let her guide where he moved. 

“I do,” he agreed. 

Ilya let his eyes close and his head fall back as Svetlana moved them both to the music. He melted into the music, the lights, the heat, and the movement. His brain was calm and he could just experience the sensation of it all. It was like he was high, but he wasn’t. He was just finally, blissfully quiet. 

They danced like that for an hour, maybe? Longer? Long enough that Ilya was tired and sweaty and very, very thirsty. He finally pulled his arms off Svetlana and leaned in forward to speak into her ear. 

“I need drink. You want?” he asked over the thump of the music. She nodded her chin towards the bar in a silent indication they could both go together. 

They snaked through the crowd, arriving at the bar together. Ilya used his shoulder to nudge his way between all of the people and raised a hand to the bartender. He wasn’t paying attention to who was next to him as Svetlana pressed herself to his back, standing on tiptoe to whisper her order in his ear. He didn’t quite notice the sputtering man just behind his right shoulder who he had moments earlier moved out of the way with his enormous arms. And he didn’t see the dark eyes, wide with surprise and indignation, boring into the back of his head.

Ilya paid the bartender and turned to hand Svetlana her drink. She pressed a thank you kiss to his cheek, and as Ilya pushed off the bar to make room for someone else, he met Shane Hollander’s eyes.

Fuck.

They stared at each other. Ilya’s quiet, calm brain now flooding with adrenaline. Obviously Shane would be there. Everyone was there. He was a captain. He had an obligation to show up, take pictures at the step and repeat on the way in, and have a drink Only then could he retreat to his room to read or scroll or whatever other boring thing Shane Hollander did when he wasn’t out with everyone else getting drunk and being irresponsible. 

Hollander was holding a glass full of something that could easily be ginger ale, though Ilya guessed it could also be a beer. But who was he kidding. It was ginger ale. He was dressed about as boring as you could be dressed, with designer jeans, a v-neck white t-shirt, sensible shoes, and a look of abject terror on his face. Just typical Hollander things. 

“Shane Hollander!” Svetlana exclaimed, either totally missing the tension or not giving a shit about it. She was a wrecking ball like that. “I have been dying to meet you.” Svetlana untangled herself from Ilya and turned to totally face Shane, who now had his back up against the bar. His eyes moved from Ilya to her and he stared in silence for another beat before his media mask washed over him and he gave a polite smile.

“You’re from Boston, right? You skated with us today?” 

“Yeah, Svetlana Vetrova. Boston Rebellion. It’s an honor to meet you. You’re fun as hell to watch.” She stuck a hand out at him, all smiles. 

Hollander took her hand and shook it without reacting. Polite, rehearsed Hollander remained. Now focused on Svetlana and no longer looking at Ilya. As if Ilya were invisible. Svetlana beamed at him, and then remembered who she was with.

“Oh, you guys must know each other, right? Ilyuka and I grew up together. I taught him how to play hockey.”

That snapped Ilya back into himself as he shook his head and scowled down at Svetlana. “Excuse me? I taught you to play hockey.” She grinned and waved him off, turning back to Hollander and waiting for him to talk. Ilya wondered if he would short circuit and wander off without a word. But in this room, full of peers and full of expectations for Canada’s Prince of Hockey, Hollander would never be rude. Certainly not to a WHL player at an MHL party.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Hollander said in an even tone, “And nice to see you, Rozanov.” His eyes flicked up to Ilya’s again, and Ilya’s heart cracked. He could tell that Hollander was shaken. Ilya had never seen Shane shaken. He watched Shane take a deep breath, shoulders moving with it, and then drop his gaze back to his glass of ginger ale.

Ilya wondered if maybe Hollander was embarrassed? He had all but called him a cheater. And if he was– no, because he was– he should feel ashamed. Why would Ilya feel bad about that? But maybe… and this was starting to feel possible… maybe Ilya had misread the situation somehow. Because Shane looked tired. 

“Always a pleasure,” Ilya heard himself responding. It was maybe a little too tender, maybe a little too genuine… but the club was loud, and Svetlana was tipsy, and it seemed that the only one who may have noticed was the person who was meant to. 

“Svets!” A yell came from behind where Hollander was standing. It was the women she had entered the bar with. One was tall and blonde, the other shorter and brunette. A Minnesotan and a Canadian. “Where did you go?”

The tall blonde woman moved into the spot next to Svetlana, and the shorter brunette squeezed next to Hollander. They were suddenly in a circle, the women completely unaware of the quiet nightmare the men were in. 

“Stenny, Beau, meet Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander,” Svetlana smirked at them as their eyes widened and they realized they had somehow stumbled into a circle with the other two best hockey players in the world. Svetlana turned to Ilya and Hollander. “This is Annika Stensrud and Dani Beaulieu.”

The beat dropped on whatever song was playing, and it suddenly became hard to talk, so the group of five stood there waiting for a break in the music. Ilya felt his skin itch, nervous energy vibrating through him. Get out, get out, get out looping in his head as he was faced with Svetlana and the only three people on Earth who filled him with jealousy. He looped an arm in Svetlana’s to steady himself. She was warm and safe, and he was holding on for dear life. 

The shock and fear on Hollander’s face had melted away and was replaced with the nice Canadian who was happy to meet new people and make polite small talk. But Ilya could tell he was uncomfortable, anxious, and trapped. Well, they had that in common. 

“I’ve been meaning to meet you both,” Hollander finally could be heard over the music. “You’re phenomenal.” The women shrugged and Ilya noticed that they weren’t interested in his praise. It was more like they expected but didn’t trust what he was saying. Not that Hollander sounded genuine with his transparently stiff media voice and extremely rigid body language. 

“Ilya and I were friends growing up,” Svetlana explained to the group. “He played with my brother in Russia.” 

“Ah, yes, the devil and the angel,” Beau quipped as she looked between Ilya and Hollander. 

Svetlana and Ilya cracked up, laughing hard enough to shake their shoulders. It loosened the mood, for them at least. Hollander still was looking incredulous and out of place. 

“I am angel, yes?” Ilya said through his laughter. 

“I mean, you have the hair.” Stenny was getting in on the chirping now, bringing the bottle she had been holding to her lips for a sip. 

“I don’t know if Hollander has a devilish bone in his body,” Svetlana mused as she tilted her head to evaluate him.

“Ah, Hollander likes to be bad,” Ilya was just drunk enough and just loose enough and just off kilter enough to make the joke without considering its reception. As the woman laughed, Hollander bore a hole into his forehead with his glare as if he was trying to set Ilya on fire with his eyes. Ilya met his eyes and set his lips in line, defiant. They stared at each other for a moment and then the group shifted as Stenny and Beau pushed into the bar to refresh their drinks, moving Hollander closer to Ilya. 

“I have to go find Hayden,” Shane said weakly to Ilya and Svetlana as he backed towards the dance floor. “It was great to meet you all. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rozanov.” A stiff head nod and a raise of his warming ginger ale, and Shane Hollander was off into the crowd.

“Is he always weird like that?” Svetlana asked as they waited for the women to get their drinks. 

“Yeah. Just about,” Ilya answered.

The night continued on as it had. The group of them sitting around a table talking about hockey, Detroit, the weather, travel. Ilya never got the nerve to ask about their marriage, and other than Stenny putting her legs in Beau’s lap as the night went on, they didn’t mention it, either. It felt bizarrely normal and yet exhilaratingly new to be sitting with queer women. 

Svetlana cuddled in closer the more her teammates moved into each other, and by the time the party was dying down she was sitting in Ilya’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Carry me, Iluka. I am too drunk and too tired to walk to the hotel,” she loudly begged him as her friends were standing to put on their coats.

“I have big game tomorrow, Sveta. You will be watching with nachos. You should carry me.” Ilya set her down on her feet as she clung to him, pouting. But she finally let him stand next to her, holding her coat for her to slip her arms into. She then turned and wrapped her arms around him, trying to lift him.

“I cannot carry you. You are too heavy. You will have to walk yourself… and carry me.” She nodded sagely at him. Ilya laughed and shook his head, looking to the other women for help. 

“She’s your problem, tonight!” Stenny said as she held her hands up. “We do not fraternize with Boston players. It is against our religion.” Beau saluted the pair and they disappeared into the crowd on the way to the door. 

“Okay, Sveta. I will take you home,” Ilya pulled on his own coat and grabbed Svetlana’s hand. 

“I don’t want to go home. I want to go with you,” she pouted at him, all eyelashes and curls. 

“You are drunk,” he sighed.

“Not too drunk to cuddle. You must cuddle,” she nodded sagely.

“You can come with me. But you will behave.” 

“I promise. Scouts honor.” She tried to make the Girl Scout hand signal, but ended up with four fingers instead of three.  

This was trouble, but it seemed like, for once, it would be fun trouble. And what he needed right now was fun trouble. This was the kind of trouble he enjoyed. Thrived in. Flirting, and winking and enjoying another person without the heaviness of impossible. And wasn’t it okay to want something like that? Maybe he deserved something like that. 

“Alright, Sveta. C’mon.” Ilya shook his head and led her from the club and into the waiting night.

Chapter End Notes

I have a beta reader now (for the past 3 chapters) and it's helping and I love it. I forgot to ask if I could use her name, but if you get to this part, you know who you are and you make me a better writer and a better person and I love you.

The tangled web is being woven, but the unweaving will happen. I promise. I'm having fun fleshing out the world we're playing in, so it's taking a bit longer, but I think the payoff will be good? I hope so? Please love me?

Each chapter title is from the song I listened to while writing it, so if you clock the song, tell me. It makes me happy when my easter eggs are found.

Would a playlist be fun? Maybe I should make a playlist?

Full of questions today. I saw Project Hail Mary and am still devastated.

Chapter 10: (do I wanna know) if this feelin' flows both ways?

Chapter Summary

The All Star game is not going as expected.

Chapter Notes

These are going to be short cause I'm splitting the POV of this one into two chapters so each one gets room to breathe. Chapter count updated to reflect the change!

The All-Star game didn’t mean anything. That was what everyone said. Commentators, spectators, players. It was just there for fun. For kids who wanted to see all their favorite players at once. For people who didn’t normally watch hockey or even like hockey that wanted to feel a part of something exciting and special, but not hungry and violent. But to Shane, the game was everything.

Because it had been three months since he had touched Ilya, and his body ached of it. Because it had been two nights since they had sat across from each other and for the very first time, Ilya rejected him. Because last night Shane saw Ilya leave the bar with a woman so talented and so beautiful that Shane felt like a child in his father’s suit.

And so when it became clear that the only way to touch Ilya was to play against Ilya and the only way to play against Ilya was to win that first game, Shane played like he was in the playoffs. He didn’t hit, and he didn’t chirp– there were unspoken rules against these things– but he also was playing to win. Not to show off. Not to have fun. To win. 

The other guys were confused by his sudden seriousness. It was a lot, even for Shane Hollander, a man who takes everything very seriously. The captain of the other team, Matheson from Colorado, bent to meet Shane in a face-off about five minutes into their twenty minute period and asked Shane if he was alright. Shane said nothing, and swiped the puck away to skate off at full speed.

They won 5-3. The final came directly after. Shane’s team retreated to the locker room for the 20 minute intermission. It was silent at first, the men unsure if they should address whatever the hell had just happened out there and to Shane Hollander. It was JJ who finally spoke.

“Hey, you okay man?” he asked tentatively. Shane pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

“I’m great. Need water. You guys are great. We just do that again and then we party, right.” Shane’s affect was flat, his words seemingly a script with no truth behind them. The men in the locker room, some his friends and some who had never actually met The Shane Hollander, shared uncomfortable looks before deciding to just pretend whatever was happening with Shane was a totally and completely normal way for an All Star to behave at his sixth games.

The final game began. The arena was packed. And very, very loud. Shane could see that there was a mix of his jerseys in the crowd. Half the royal blue of Montreal and half the more fun teal of San Francisco. It made sense like nothing in his life had made sense for the past three days. That he had fans here that loved him for him and not the color of his jersey, at least here where there were no standings or playoff points. 

Shane was vibrating. He was counting the seconds down till the puck dropped. He felt completely unlike himself, weirdly shaped and out of control. He had no plan for how this would go. Should go. He just wanted to stand in the face off circle and look Ilya Rozanov in the eye. Shane was hurt and tired and wanting. So much wanting. He needed the clarity and calm that ice could provide. 

The first faceoff arrived. The crowd was at an all time roar. They had paid to see the arch rivals play each other in the fast-paced three on three format that the All Star Game had become. All attack, all show. A fun and flashy game made to showcase two fun and flashy players.

Rozanov skated to the circle, meeting the waiting Shane. Shane looked up through his visor but Rozanov kept his eyes down at the ice. No swagger, no chirp. Oddly quiet and businesslike. 

“I want you to look at me when I beat you.” Shane heard what he said from outside himself, his brain and body disconnected. He was full of white hot rage. His tone was threatening, and lacked the usual playful lilt that was part of their whole thing. All Shane wanted was for this man to open his fucking mouth and say one true thing to him. Not a barb, not a gotcha, a true fucking sentence. Knowing that he wouldn’t burned through Shane like the fires that made his new home smokey and itchy and surreal. 

“You will not beat me, Hollander,” Illya looked up at him then, the ghost of a smile starting. Sarcasm, cockiness, competition. These were languages that Ilya spoke. But when his eyes met Shane’s, he froze. “Oh, shit.”

Before Rozanov had time to address what he saw in Shane’s eyes, the puck dropped and Shane was gone, taking it with him. 

There was no catching Shane Hollander. He had put JJ on his line, and Dane Sutterby, the best defenseman on the Sea Lions. Sutterby was amazing at skating backwards, blocking shots, and keeping the puck where it needed to be. JJ was fast, a great shot, and had a sixth sense for where to be during the forecheck. The three of them were working well together in practice. They were a good line who made good choices and played clean hockey.

But now Shane was completely unpredictable. JJ was waiting for passes that weren’t coming. Shane was overplaying his shift times, keeping the puck too long, and was stalking Rosanov across the ice any time he dared touch it. The game was feeling more and more reckless and out of control. His team felt it. Rosanov’s team felt it. Even the crowd felt it. 

The three on three format forces beautiful plays, flashy goals, and unbelievable saves. It takes the heart of what makes hockey fun for people who do not watch hockey and magnifies it. But here, at these exhibition games, you did not hit. No one was meant to get injured or bruised or slowed down at the All Star Game. If they did, players would stop coming.

Which is why at five minutes in when Shane Hollander checked Ilya Rozanov into the boards the arena went silent. You could hear audible gasps from the benches, the coaches, and the crowd. No one could remember a time when a player intentionally hit another player in a game like this. It just wasn’t done. But there was the golden boy of hockey, who played clean respectable hockey, who fought maybe once a year and only about something very serious, smashing his rival into the boards. 

Shane didn’t even take the puck. He hit Rozanov as hard as he could and stayed pressing him to the wall long enough to say something, and then skated off leaving the puck behind. The ref blew a whistle. No one was even sure why or for what. Play stopped and noise returned to the arena. People were yelling and pointing, and Rozanov’s bench erupted in indignation. Shane skated back to his bench, stepped through the open door and sat down. The coach that was managing the chaos of the game looked down at him with his eyebrows pinched.

There were fifteen minutes left in the game, and Shane got almost no ice time after that. The coach put him out on another line, one that did not face Rozanov at all, but Shane was still careening around the ice in a way that felt dangerous and unhinged. So he stayed on the bench more than he didn’t. And the fans didn’t even complain, because they were still reeling from whatever the fuck that was.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya's POV is next, and then the plot-- it gets moving again.

Chapter 11: i do it because I learned it from you

Chapter Summary

The intros and the lights and the projections brought roars from the crowd. They had just watched Hollander’s team dispatch Matherson’s. The MHL knew this would happen and the projection reel was all shots of them making play after play against each other in an endless loop. Year after year. Game after game. 

Ilya was exhausted.

The lights came up and the crowd was awash in black and yellow jerseys. They stood out against the blue and red ones beside them. So much money expended on this thing. This manufactured hatred that served no other purpose. Not really. Ilya felt like an object. A commodity. To be bought and sold and used up. Not a person at all. Not to anyone in this building. Except for maybe Hollander.

Ilya was exhausted.

He was exhausted of the performing. He was exhausted of the lying. He was exhausted of having to disappear inside something that didn’t benefit him at all, but did benefit men in suits who had never held a hockey stick and who likely would hate him if they knew anything about him. 

He was so exhausted.

Chapter Notes

This is the first chapter I significantly rewrote before it got to the beta reader and then to you. I'm pretty happy with this iteration, but the stuff I pulled out is now outlined two from here and it's working out really well there. Sorry for the wait!

Ilya was exhausted. Staying out too late, getting up too early, thinking too much. The first game had been boring. Easy to win and easy to watch. A few big goals, a few saves that defied gravity. The kind of hockey you were expected to delivery for an All Star Game. They retreated to the tunnel afterwards knowing they had maybe 2 hours to wait. 

The guys were hanging out. Some were friends. Some were at their first game and were excited to make friends. Ilya sat in his stall and leaned his head back, closing his eyes and waited. His foot bounced idly, catching Marleau’s attention.

“Dude, you know this game doesn’t matter, right?” He dropped down next to him. 

“I have hangover.” Ilya opened an eye to peer over at his friend. 

“You’re such a fucking beauty.”

Ilya scoffed and closed his eyes again. 

The intros and the lights and the projections brought roars from the crowd. They had just watched Hollander’s team dispatch Matherson’s. The MHL knew this would happen and the projection reel was all shots of them making play after play against each other in an endless loop. Year after year. Game after game. 

Ilya was exhausted.

The lights came up and the crowd was awash in black and yellow jerseys. They stood out against the blue and red ones beside them. So much money expended on this thing. This manufactured hatred that served no other purpose. Not really. Ilya felt like an object. A commodity. To be bought and sold and used up. Not a person at all. Not to anyone in this building. Except for maybe Hollander.

Ilya was exhausted.

He was exhausted of the performing. He was exhausted of the lying. He was exhausted of having to disappear inside something that didn’t benefit him at all, but did benefit men in suits who had never held a hockey stick and who likely would hate him if they knew anything about him. 

He was so exhausted.

The crowd roared. The announcer boomed. The music blared. And Ilya did what Ilya always did. He smirked, he thumped backs, he skated to the face off circle and he bent over the dot and he waited for the puck. The focus and the adrenaline and the rhythm of it all that would take him out of his head and into his body. Leave him focused and alive. He needed to feel alive. Desperately.

Ilya looked pensive, looked down. He was fighting the exhaustion, he was looking for that space he needed to occupy to get through this. And he wasn’t ready to face Hollander. Hollander who was now standing inches away, bent over and staring straight ahead, glaring at Ilya’s helmet. \

“I want you to look at me when I beat you.” Shane sounded wrong. His voice was different. His chirp was more aggressive than it usually was. No playfulness. Ilya shook his head. I was nothing. He was imagining it.

“You will not beat me, Hollander.” Ilya looked up at him then, lips tugging up to meet the chirp. The banter was good. It meant they were still there somewhere. Tied up in the middle of the mess, yes, but not strangers. Not yet.

But when his eyes met Shane’s, Ilya froze. “Oh, shit.”

Hollander’s eyes were wrong. They were unrecognizable. His face was hard and his arms were stiff and his eyes were wrong. Ilya couldn’t describe it, couldn’t quantify it. Just knew Shane’s eyes were wrong. It left him stunned and slow and he lost the faceoff. 

Pike came up behind him, blowing past on his wing. The defender was hanging behind, ready to follow Ilya, but Ilya was exhausted and confused and stuck in his spot in the faceoff circle thinking about how Shane’s eyes were wrong. \

“Rozy!” The defender nudged him with a shoulder and Ilya took off after the puck. 

Ilya’s team was playing short shifts. And so the lines kept changing. Thirty seconds on, two minutes off, forty five seconds on, another minute off. But he could still tell that Hollander was playing wrong. His eyes were wrong, yes, but also the way he was skating. The way he was playing. He normally passed a lot. He was a play maker, not a show boat. Yes, he scored. A lot. The most, sometimes, but that wasn’t because he didn’t share the puck. It was because he knew where to be and when to be there. But whatever Shane Hollander was on the ice tonight, he wasn’t playing right.

Ilya would position himself to intercept the pass he knew Hollander would make, but he didn’t pass the puck. He didn’t look at his team mates. He didn’t do that thing he did where he didn’t need to speak because his line was completely in sync. Instead he was careening around the ice acting like a devil on skates. 

He scored on a breakaway. It was sloppy and fast and wrong. Everything was wrong. 

They’d been playing for 5 minutes of game time. The game was tense.  one seemed to be having fun. The whistle blew for icing and they were moving down to the other side of the ice to take the faceoff. Hollander skated by Ilya faster than he needed to, and much too close, almost clipping his shoulder in the process.

“Какого хуя?” Ilya called after him. He was getting frustrated, his hands flexing in his gloves. They arrived at the face off circle. It was down in Ilya’s defense zone, and Hollander was on the attack. They bent to await the puck drop, the ref looking between them before dropping it in.

Ilya won the faceoff and was coming back around, skating not far from the boards as he did. He crossed into the neutral zone, looking for a pass. Because these games didn’t involve hitting, he was a little more relaxed, not paying the kind of complete attention he would have if he knew someone could blow him up at any moment. And that’s why he found himself slammed into the boards.

He hadn’t seen Hollander coming. He hadn’t thought to even look. But he was knocked off his feet and pinned against the wall, face pressing to the glass. Ilya was so surprised, so shocked, he didn’t even remember to protect the puck with his stick or push back against the check. 

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Hollander growled in his ear before taking off without even trying to gain possession. Everything stopped. It was a moment suspended in time, no one quite sure what had happened or what to do next. 

The crowd was stunned silent and then broke out into a chaotic frenzy of noise. His bench was yelling, sticks were clapping against the boards, everything seemed to roar back into motion all at once and Ilya was exhausted. The play was whistled dead and he headed back to the bench in a daze.

“You hit your head?” the medical team asked him as he sat down, staring off into space. He looked haunted, empty. Ilya was exhausted.

“I’m fine.” He was clipped, didn’t look up, but the medical staff believed him. No one had seen him hit his head, and concussion protocol would pull him for the remainder. And he was why the fans were here. He and Hollander.

Hollander was on the ice less and less. Rozanov didn’t face off against him again. Everything was wrong, and now everyone knew it. The play slowed down. It was the flashy, show boaty, carefree kind of play that was supposed to be part of an All Star weekend. But all eyes were on Hollander. Sitting on the bench, laser eyes focused at something on the ice.

Ilya knew it was him. And Ilya was exhausted.

The horn blew, the game ended. Ilya wasn’t even sure who had won. He looked up at the score and realized it was him. His team. He smiled and waved at the crowd. They did a handshake line like it was the playoffs. Mostly players hugged and fistbumped and performed the fun brotherhood of hockey that fans adored. The fantasy of a group where you were loved and belonged. Enjoy the show.

Ilya went back to the dressing room. Striped off his equipment and organized it for the equipment managers to pick up. He tucked his game-worn jersey in his bag. A souvenir of the games they each got every game. He wasn’t sure he wanted to remember this one, but he packed it anyway. 

Ilya showered. He was exhausted. Slow. Letting his body stay under the warm water, eyes closed, head tilted back. Everyone finished. He waited till the hot water started to falter. They didn’t have to wear suits out of the tunnel because this weekend was also about fashion. More buzz. More sponsorships. More money. He dressed head to toe in Adidas. But like fancy Adidas. He could have been on an album cover in his track pants, new sneakers and backward white cap.

He finally grabbed his bag and made it into the tunnel. He was exhausted. His shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes, wet hair clinging to his head. He was not going out tonight. He was going to bed. 

He came out of the locker room and into the mixed media zone. Press was gathered. Of course. He got HIT in an ALL STAR GAME. 

“Ilya, Ilya!” he turned his eyes to focus on the woman yelling his name from the scrum happening across from the locker room doors.

“Why do you think Hollander hit you?” A woman in a red suit, likely from SportsCenter or some other ESPN outlet asked him, reaching a microphone forward.

“You’re going to have to ask him.” Ilya hadn’t meant to answer, but he was tired and wrung out and just over this entire thing. So he fed the beast he was trying to escape.

“Did you say anything to upset him before the game?” Ilya knew the reporter who asked this question. He was a gossip columnist as much as he was a sports reporter. 

Ilya stared at him, mouth slightly open. The curated expression falling off his face. He had said something to upset Hollander before the game. Quite a few things, in fact. His face turned white and his eyes lost focus, looking past the people in front of him to the wall behind. His mouth opened to speak, but he didn’t say a word. He just nodded once slowly, barely there.

Ilya was exhausted. He rolled his head back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he looked back at the media crowded around him, he was all swagger and calm control. His smile lopsided and cocky, his demeanor fun. The transformation was so complete and so natural that you’d never tell– if he hadn’t just cracked open on national TV. The media yelled more questions about Hollander, and he ignored them.

“How was this All Star weekend, Ilya?” The reporter that yelled this, that threw him a bone, was a friend as far as media could be friends. He was based in Boston, been there his whole career, and was very good at reading Ilya Rozanov. They had a good rapport, and he had saved Ilya before– from too complicated questions, or when people wanted to consume his personal life. \

“I am proud of our team and always enjoy playing with new people and making new friends, but excited to get back to the season. Good night.” Ilya tilted his chin up in thanks to the reporter, smiled at the scrum, and disappeared down the hallway to the door out of this place.

It was over. This neverending day was finally over. Ilya took some deep breaths as he broke past the press and the venue staff and the assorted other people hanging out in the hallway between the locker room and the secured tunnel to the shuttles that would take him to the player hotel. Freedom from this awful fucking day and the neverending presence of the awful fucking press and the distinct absence of a particular wonderful fucking hockey player.

He opened the door to the tunnel. Most of the other players didn’t do press, so they were long gone. Ilya stepped into the corridor and there, leaning against the wall with shower-wet hair and a duffle bag on his shoulder, was Shane Hollander.

“You here to finish me off?” The humor came first for Ilya, as it always did. He was surprised, and annoyed, and overall not ready for this conversation. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Hollander said reflexively, but he didn’t look sorry. His jaw was set, and his eyes were still fundamentally wrong. He looked possessed and wild and Ilya wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. 

The tunnel was empty, the door to the shuttle loading area closed but in front of them. They likely were the last to catch one. They’d step out the door and into a Sprinter Van with a driver who would recount the story of how he was driving Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander alone together to their hotel the night of The Hit. But neither moved towards the door.

Neither spoke. 

“Why do you make this impossible?” Hollander sounded as tired as Ilya felt in that moment. Tired and angry and wrung the fuck out. 

“I do not know what you mean. I am not one who left. I am not one who gets moviestar girlfriend. I am not the one who does– whatever this is.” Iyla waved his hand at him. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend, “ Shane huffs a breath, exasperated. His voice is sharp and quick.

“Bullshit, I saw–”

“You saw pictures some person took of two people having a conversation and then sold for hundreds of dollars to a blog who gets to write whatever they want. She’s not my girlfriend.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Ilya threw his hands up in exasperation.

“I don’t know, fucking ask me?” Hollander took a long deep breath through his nose and let it out in a huff through his mouth.

“You could have just told me rather than trying to give me a concussion, Hollander.” Ilya leaned back on the sarcasm, biting and dismissive. 

“I wanted to give you a concussion. That you assumed I would have a girlfriend and still–  It’s insulting.” 

“That’s not what I–”

“It is. It is what you meant. And then you leave the bar last night with the best player in the women’s league like it’s nothing. You’re unbelievable. You have no business being jealous with how you behave.”

“I’m not jealous,” Ilya insisted, his voice rising. But he was. He knew he was. Hollander knew he was. Ilya felt pathetic and exposed and too too vulnerable. 

“You drafted Hayden first,” Hollander was yelling now. Quietly, yes, but the tone could not be mistaken.

“He’s a good player…” Ilya heard himself. His protest weak and small. For someone who had purposefully provoked the man across from him, he couldn’t answer for himself.

“Rozanov.” The exhaustion came back into Hollander’s voice. He looked like a parent who couldn’t get their toddler to leave the playground and get in the car. Frustrated and resigned.

“Hollander,” Ilya responded, but it was more of a plead than it was a denial.

“You don’t get to throw a tantrum when I have dinner with a girl but fuck your way through North America.” Hollander pushed off the wall, eyes pinning Ilya then. This is what he had waited to say, Ilya realized. This was why they were talking at all. 

The silence settled between them. Hollander wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t. Ilya had left the bar with Sveta last night. He had brought her to his hotel room the way he had countless other women over the years they had been doing this. Because that was what it took to quiet the voice in his head that told him he was fundamentally unlovable. That he was too broken and too flawed and too much. But Hollander was outside of that. Was separate from that. And he should know.

“Don’t fucking talk.” Hollander stopped Ilya as he was opening his mouth to respond. “Don’t.”

Hollander pushed off the wall and walked out the door, meeting the Sprinter van that had been waiting there. Ilya followed behind, cheeks red, hands shaking. He wasn’t about to let another of their meetings go without saying what he had meant to say. Ilya was exhausted.  It was time to end these half conversations spread across a year and across a continent. 

“Hollander…” Ilya reached out and caught his arm before they were within hearing distance of the driver. “I miss you. Being around, I mean.”

“You do a great job of showing it.” Hollander pushed past him to get into the van.

Chapter End Notes

I lost my outline for like 24 hours, so you can thank that for this, because they weren't supposed to speak in this chapter, but my brain brought it to me and my outline was under my footrest.

If you're keeping up with the timeline we're at the All Star game in mid February and the next time San Fran plays Boston is in Boston in March. Just, you know, if you were wondering where we are in time and where we may be headed.

This chapter was written while listening to Ani Difranco's album Dilate. Name, Super Hero, Dilate, Shameless and Joyful Girl. Please, if you like angst, get yourself to this album.

Chapter 12: you would never break the chain

Chapter Summary

The one where Rose Landry buys a hockey team so Shane and Ilya end up standing on a stage together.

Chapter Notes

I know the PWHL has one owner, I just hate that so the WHL will have a team owned by Rose Landry. Thank you for your suspense of disbelief.

Also, now that San Jose has a WHL team, looks like Shane gets a team in SF. I don't know if I'll weave it into the story much, but I fucking love that somehow the two expansion teams are happening in cities I randomly placed in my outline. I am clearly a witch.

It was the last morning in Detroit, and Shane couldn’t get the fuck out of there fast enough. He was dropping the last of his clothes into his carryon and zippering it up when his phone started buzzing on the bed. No one ever called him. Who would call without texting first? Unless someone was dead. Someone was probably dead.

He grabbed his phone and looked at the screen and it was Rose. Rose was calling him? He picked it up immediately.

“Hello? Are you being kidnapped right now?”

“Shane. Perfect. Don’t get on your plane,” Rose announced cheerily from the other side of the phone. “I have a proposition for you.”

“A what?“ Shane was so confused. 

“A proposition,” she repeated.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Shane laughed in response. 

“Ew, no, listen. They’re announcing a new women’s team in Detroit today. Hoping to catch the press that are still in town after your little show last night. What was that, by the way?  I’m putting a pin in that. Anyway, I’m doing the announcement,” She was rambling at full speed, barely pausing as she went.

“Wait, what? Why are you announcing a new hockey team?” Shane just straight ignored her first question and decided to focus on the crazy part of her ask instead. 

“Cause I bought it.” Rose sounded so proud of herself. 

“Bought what?” Shane blinked. Then blinked again. Did Rose say she BOUGHT a HOCKEY TEAM? 

“The team. In Detroit.” Rose was very matter of fact and also did not bother to slow the fuck down. “They were shopping around for investors before they secured the deal and my financial manager asked me if I’d be interested in investing, and I just decided to buy the whole thing.”

“You bought a hockey team,” Shane sounded very dubious.

“I bought a hockey team,” Rose sounded very certain.

“In Detroit.”

“Yes, I bought a hockey team in Detroit.”

“Okay. And why am I not getting on the plane?” He felt caught up enough to move forward with their conversation at the very least. But it was an extremely Rose thing to do. She was fun and spontaneous, which was also very stressful sometimes for Shane Hollander.

“Because, you’re going to help me launch my hockey team. Today. In Detroit. Where you are,” She continued to very cheerfully inform him. Not ask. Inform. 

“O…kay…?”

“Look, none of the big superstars on the men’s side have gotten involved at all in the women’s league. It’s kind of bullshit.” Rose was still moving a mile a minute, but now Shane was keeping up with her. She seemed indignant and Shane started to get indignant with her.

“Yeah. Wait. Really? That is bullshit,” He sat down on the side of the bed now, abandoning his suitcase.

“THANK YOU. Anyway, me, Rose, your very best friend,”

“Rose, we’ve been friends like two mon–” Shane tried to interject.

“Hush, I’m not done.” Rose just kept on going. “ANYWAY, me, Rose, your very best friend, bought a hockey team. And you, Shane, the best MENS’ hockey player, are going to come launch the team with me.” She stopped speaking then. A second passed. Then two. 

“I’ll move my flight. But I have a game the day after tomorrow.” Shane responded tentatively, but he knew he was on board. He couldn’t tell Rose no. And if he was honest with himself, the men’s league mistreating the women’s league felt personal to him. The idea that hockey was only for burly masculine straight white men was all that was wrong in his world. So fuck it, he thought. Let’s go launch a women’s hockey team.

“It’ll be two hours out of your day. Three, tops. I won’t even make you go to a party.” Rose sounded like she knew he was coming. They were negotiating now.

“I was never going to a party,” Shane said dryly. 

“I will need you to talk to the press, though.”

“Rose.”

“Shane.”

“If I talk to the press there will be zero questions about your hockey team and one hundred questions about why I tried to murder Ilya Rozanov last night,” he sighed. Shane had been hoping if he just stayed away from the media for a bit no one would remember. Or at least remember to ask him.

“Oh, that reminds me.. Why did you try to murder Ilya Rozanov last night?” Rose tried a second time.

“Funny.” Shane said it as a finality on the topic. He would not be discussing his situationship with Rose. Not yet, at least.

“It was worth a try. Don’t worry about the press. I’ll plant some good ones with good questions, you’ll have prepped answers and we don’t call on anyone else. This isn’t my first time with this sort of thing.” She dismissed his worry, yes, but in a way that gave Shane confidence it was handled rather than concern she didn’t take him seriously.

“This is the first hockey team you’ve bought though?” Shane teased.

“Yes, Shane. This is the first hockey team I’ve bought,” Rose started laughing in return.

“Send me the address.”

“Oh, no, honey. I’m sending you a car. 20 minutes, wear sunglasses and running shoes cause your hotel has like 100 fans out there waiting to scream things at you.”

“Great.” He sighed and rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling.

 

—

In a different hotel room in the same building, Ilya was also packing his bag. He was too tired and too irritated to fold anything, so he was just pressing down on the carryon trying to get it to close while the contents were a jumbled mess. His phone rang, then, and he picked it up ready to yell at his brother or get a lecture from his father when he noticed it was Svetlana. 

“When are you leaving?” She said immediately when he picked up. No hello, and no time for him to say hello.

“Hello to you too, Sveta,” Illya said, amused.

“When are you leaving?” She pressed.

“I was about to go to the airport. This afternoon. I have a home game tomorrow night, practice optional in the morning…” he held the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he went back to trying to zip his bag.

“Move your flight,” Svetlana said simply.

“Why?” Ilya paused his packing, knitting his brow and looking out the window trying to figure out what she was up to. “We can see each other at home.”

“We’re launching a hockey team,” she said, ignoring his invitation.

“We?”

“The League. We’re launching a team in Detroit. Surprise announcement to catch the press before they go. And I want you to be my date.” Svetlana was certain, Ilya could tell. And when she was certain she was very difficult to budge, or deny.

“Why?”

“Because having the best player in the men’s league at our announcement will be good press. For you, for us. And, I think you’ll have fun.”

“You know I can’t stay the night,” he reminded her.

“It’s like a 2 hour flight to Boston. You catch the red eye or first one in the morning, skip optional practice, and you’re on the ice to beat Montreal. Come on. It’ll be fun,” Svetlana’s voice lightened and her invitation seemed a little more playful.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll come to your launch,” Ilya sighed. He could not refuse her, and most of the time he didn’t want to. “Send me a car.”

“Ilyuka, I make WHL money. You should send me the car,” she teased. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll pick you up. Text me what hotel you’re in.”

 

—-

 

“Okay, so I have to tell you something,” Rose whispered to Shane as they stood backstage at the announcement. “And you cannot be mad at me.”

“There is a 90% chance I’m going to be mad at you,” Shane replied, eyes darting around.

“Ilya Rozanov is here,” She said quickly, unable to look directly at Shane.

“Rozanov. Is here. Right now?” Shane blinked, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then leveled his gaze on Rose.

“Sort of. Yeah.” She gave him an apologetic smile, her shoulders raising. Rose rarely looked sorry or shy or anything short of completely confident. It was weird, Shane didn't like it. 

“Why?”

“Well, the players union rep is this woman named Svetlana and they’re apparently childhood friends so she talked him into coming at the same time I talked you into coming because we both had the same, absolutely fantastic, idea,” Rose returned to her rapid speech as Shane tried to process what the hell was going on.

“Well, shit,” was his reply. Shane didn’t want to see Rozanov again right now. He didn’t want to be near him. He was still furious and frustrated, and absolutely did not want to pretend to like him. Not to mention there was no finer meal for the press than the two of them next to each other less than 24 hours from the hit heard round the internet. “That’s not good, Rose.”

“Actually, I think it will be great. You can put your differences aside to support us! An inspiration!” It was then that Shane caught sight of Svetlana.

“Oh, fuck me.” He cursed under his breath, eyes going hard.

“What?” Rose looked up to see Shane’s face.

“Nothing,” he replied a little too quickly. “Just, fine. Okay. But I’m not sitting next to him in the press briefing. I’ll stand there on the sage, we’ll take photos, and then we’re done.”

“Deal,” Rose nodded. “Totally fair deal.”

“And I sure as fuck am not going to the party.”

“No parties,” Rose assured him. “Let’s go.” They filed onto the stage just before the announcement started, taking their place next to Svetlana and Rozanov. 

“Welcome to Hockey Town!” the diminutive woman in a red suit announced from the podium. Susan Andover, the commissioner of the WHL, was welcoming the crowd to her last minute surprise team announcement. Standing behind her was Rose Landry, Svetlana Vitrova and, oddly, Shane Hollander next to Ilya Rozanov. 

The press was losing its collective mind. 

The announcement itself was quick. One of the four expansion teams coming next season was going to be in Detroit, the colors (red and gray!) were announced, and the mayor had a few words to say about how excited they were to welcome another hockey team to their arena. But all eyes were on the pair of hockey players who showed up to support the league and how they do not get along.

Rose took the microphone after squeezing Shane’s hand. She smiled and waved to the crowd that was mostly full of women who appeared to adore her.

“Hello, Detroit! As you know I grew up just a couple of hours from here. I have three brothers, each who played hockey, and it was a big part of their lives. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the same access to hockey as my brothers. When I was young, girls had fewer teams with fewer resources, and fewer places to play. While my brothers could dream of playing in the MHL, girls who played hockey knew their careers would stop after college.” She paused to some gentle good-natured booing. “Until the WHL!” There the crowd cheered, and Rose, of course, knew to pause for it. 

“So, when the Commissioner chose Detroit for the next team, it was natural for me to buy it. I am so proud and excited to be your owner. Detroit is my city, and this team is going to be my team. I cannot wait to build it with you all!” Shane marveled just how good Rose was with the crowd. He could manage press in a small scrum or one on one, but she could speak to anyone and they appeared to immediately love her. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we have some other guests up here. Shane Hollander is my good friend and a living hockey legend. When I told him I bought a hockey team, he accused me of messing with him.” The crowd laughed on cue. “And then he wanted to come support us. And when HIS very good friend Ilya Rozanov...” The crowd had a much bigger laugh for this one, going on long enough that Rose had to pause and twirl her hand in a go on type motion “...found out that Shane was going to support us, he wanted to be here as well.” 

Shane raised a hand to give a little wave then, and Rozanov couldn’t help but laugh at them. He raised his hand then as well, and the applause they got was surprising and loud. 

“They know that it’s important for all hockey players to support each other and the sport together, because hockey is for everyone.” Rose stepped away from the microphone then, and gave another wave. There would be a smaller press conference later that Shane would be at, but it had been decided neither of the boys were going to speak at this main announcement. 

Rose gathered Svetlana, the commissioner, and then Shane with Rozanov together on the stage and set herself in the middle. Shane tried to smile believably, a task he often struggled with, and had no idea which camera to look at. He was rigid and uncomfortable and pressed between Rose and Rozanov. 

They hadn’t touched since November, and Shane wasn’t prepared for it. He wasn’t prepared for Rozanov to even be there, let alone standing next to him in a press scrum, their bodies making contact from shoulder to knee. Shane realized he was shaking. Like really actually shaking. The adrenaline and anxiety and also the overwhelming desire to lean into the touch were short circuiting his nervous system. He needed an ice bath. He needed to stub his toe, to accidentally burn himself, to slam his hand in a door. He needed something, anything, to pull him into his body and just stop his brain. Before he cried or vomited or punched Rozanov in his smug little face. Or…. or… Whatever. Shane just needed out of here. 

He glanced up at Rozanov to see how he was doing and recognized the easy media smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was stiff and at attention, clearly uncomfortable to those who knew him. Well, to Shane, anyway. At least Rozanov was also having a bad time.

“Shane, Ilya! Can you do one together?” The media person for the WHL called out, and they couldn’t say no. So, the women stepped away and Rozanov draped an arm around Shane and smiled at the camera. Shane stayed stiff and unsure. He knew the picture tomorrow would become a meme. They always did with his weird posture and his cast down eyes. But now, pressed against a relaxed Ilya Rozanov who he had made very clear on national TV he did not like… well, he wasn’t looking forward to the shit the guys were going to give him in the locker room tomorrow. 

And honestly, he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take pretending they didn’t really know each other. Pretending the hatred. Pretending the indifference. It had almost been a relief to be so angry, because finally Shane had an emotion towards Ilya that he could show. In public and fully. He could hit him. He could yell at him. Shane knew that behavior was a thousand times less acceptable, in a normal world, than being kind or caring towards someone. But in his world, in their world, it was the only thing allowed. He could hit Ilya Rozanov on live television, but he couldn’t even shake his hand. Not earnestly. Not without sarcasm or swagger or anger or humor overlaid.

They were finally freed from the stage, and Shane bolted for the bathroom. They had another 15 minutes before the presser and then he could leave. He figured Rozanov would go now that his photo op was over and Shane had refused to do press together. Shane put his hands on the counter and took a deep breath. He was starting to really dislike Detroit. This entire weekend had been a mess and he just felt so out of control of himself. His emotions, his actions. It needed to be done. 

Just as he was taking his second centering breath, Rozanov came through the door. How is no bathroom on Earth safe from Ilya Rozanov?

“Oh, fuck,” he said immediately upon seeing Shane. Shane found himself a little disappointed that Rozanov hadn’t been looking for him like he had in Vegas years ago. “Look, I didn’t know you’d be here with your– with Rose.” Rozanov started. 

“Well, I didn’t know you’d be here with your…” Shane trailed off.

“Friend. We’re friends.”

“You seem close.” Shane couldn’t control the sarcasm. There had been too much upheaval in his life to keep his usual even keel in situations like this.

“Okay. Well. I think I’ll find another bathroom.” Rozanov started backing up out of the room, recoiling from Shane’s anger. Shane hadn’t expected Rozanov to do that. On the ice, he always leaned into a fight. Pushed further. Met anger with swagger. He was more likely to drop gloves than Shane ever was, and Shane had always figured that meant he was always up for a fight. But standing in front of him in the bathroom, he looked small and exhausted. 

“Wait, wait.” Shane let out a long breath, pushing off the counter. He found himself overwhelmed with the feeling that he didn’t want to end another one of these confrontations like this. Maybe he was also tired of the fight? He felt it draining out of him now, anyway. 

Rozanov stopped, his back against the door he was about to turn and walk through. Shane looked him up and down again. His shirt was a little wrinkled, his hair wasn’t perfectly set. He was tired. Shane could see it now. He was drawn and his eyes had dark circles. 

“We should talk,” Shane said softly. He suddenly felt sorry for Rozanov. No, not sorry, tender. He found himself feeling tender for Ilya at that moment. Like he would rather hug him than punch him.

“Here?” Rozanov seemed frustrated or confused. Maybe both. His eyebrows pinched and his lips set hard together.

“No. No. I’ll be in Boston in three weeks. Text me after the game.”

“Oh.” Rozanov blinked at him. They stood there looking at each other for a moment. The tension in the air had shifted from angry to something else. Something more like anticipation. “Okay. Yeah.” Then Rozanov nodded one more time, turned and walked out the door. 

Chapter End Notes

It's haaaaaaaapening. Okay, so funny story, I'm real anxious about this next chapter (I've been working on it a few days already), so I went to the lovely romance bookstore in Minneapolis (shout out to Tropes and Trifles!) and them recommend some books to help me do some more research into what vibe I'm looking for. Reading is one of the biggest joys of writing!

Support your indie bookstore and smut writers everywhere.

Also, I'm still putting a playlist together chapter by chapter. Maybe I'll try to link it at some point, but I'm wary of linking on here since I already lost my ability to comment for some reason.

See you soon!!

Chapter 13: it's a sad song, but we keep singing it even so

Chapter Summary

The silence that settled was one of understanding, but also of loss. They had no way forward. They had no way back. They could only go around and around. In the quiet. In the dark. In the uncertainty and the anger and the fondness. Shane couldn’t help but think of something Hermes had said in Hadestown. Rose had taken Shane to see the tour in LA, and it rattled in his brain ever since. That even though the story had been told, and the events pre-determined, there was beauty in the telling.

To know how it ends, and still begin to sing it again, as if it might turn out this time.

And maybe that was what they were doing. Over and over and over. Retelling the same story looking for a different ending. A way out of it. A future. Hope. And over and over it just ended here. Stuck. Ilya still lived in Boston. Shane still lived in San Francisco. They both still played professional hockey. Orpheus turned around. Eurydice spends eternity in Hades. And the story begins again.

Chapter Notes

So, I spent a very long time working on this chapter. It is one of the hardest things I've ever written and probably the most I've ever worked on something. I normally don't do a ton of editing, but I went over this at least twice a day for 3 or 4 days in a row.

I'm very proud of it. Please enjoy it.

The game should have been unremarkable. These interconference games usually felt different. The crowd was often a little bit more of a mixture of home team fans and transplants who only get one chance to see their team each year. There were theme nights, give aways, a little more fun, a little less intensity. It wasn’t that the game wasn’t important– a point is a point. But the stakes were lower, and the vitriol was just less. 

But not this game. The press and the league had leaned in hard to the rivalry between him and Rozanov again. Fueled by his stunt at the All Star Game, every commercial showed a shot of one of them checking the other. Of their names in a big font. It was being advertised almost like a boxing match. Their game was designated the Game of the Week, which came with more press, and even more attention. 

Shane hated it. Hated that this stupid thing would not die. Hated that he fed into it with his own temper. Hated that he’d have to do the same old press with the same old questions and provide the same coy answers. He’d been a little relieved when he was traded… about this, anyway. That maybe it would end and they could just be very good hockey players that hopefully will have to play each other in the Stanley Cup finals this year. Every year. Whatever.

But no, here we were again. The posters, and the promotional pictures on the jumbotron. The ice projections, the chants. And so even if this should be an unremarkable game, it was loud and full of tension. Utterly remarkable.

If Shane were going to describe a game after it was through, and often he struggled to really, outside of the platitudes -- a game was a feeling more than it was an event – but if Shane were to describe this game, he would call it fast. From the first face off to the last buzzer, they were skating with the speed of playoff hockey. Shane wasn’t sure why, if he had started it or if Rozanov had, but once it took off, it never slowed. The hits were harder, yes, but it seemed there were less of them. Mainly because they were constantly racing. Moving. As if they could speed time up through the sheer force of skating. And everyone else on the ice fucking hated it.

The relentless game of cat and mouse was exhausting both teams. Before the second period started, Jojo grabbed Shane by the arm and looked him up and down.

“You’re skating like the devil is chasing you,” he said, squinting at Shane like he was trying to decode him. Shane shrugged and kept playing hockey, setting a pace even more breakneck than the last period. They were down 0-1 after the second. They just couldn’t make plays when they were moving so fast, and since Shane was setting the pace of play tonight, they kept moving too fast.

“Hey, Hollzy,” Nylander pulled him aside as they headed out of the tunnel into the third period. “I know you guys got beef, but you need to slow down or you’re going to kill us.” He looked down into Shane’s eyes, checking to see if he was alright. 

“I got it, yeah,” Shane responded, nodding as he spoke. “It’s not that, just jetlag or… something like that.”

“Look man, I don’t know what you two have going on, and I don’t need to know. You hate each other or whatever, it doesn’t impact me. Until it does impact me. So, slow the fuck down. Play the puck, take time to find your lane, all of it. Just play hockey and get out of your head.” Nylander tapped his helmet to Shane’s and gave him a little nudge out of the tunnel, leaving no time for Shane to disagree. 

But Shane couldn’t slow down. He didn’t want to slow down. His insides felt fast. They wanted to run away from whatever was coming after this game. Or run towards it. It didn’t matter, they just wanted to run. Move move move. And Rozanov seemed happy to oblige. He also was moving constantly, with Shane but also away from him. The Bears looking as tired and annoyed at the Sea Lions were. 

The horn blew and the game was done. The Sea Lions lost 1-0. Neither Shane nor Rozanov scored, or even had any assists. They had a few good hits, some scrambling for the puck against the boards. Some nice scoring opportunities that didn’t pan out. But, if you were watching for the fireworks the television network promised you? They just weren’t there. 

Shane was exhausted. He headed through the tunnel, into the dressing room and knew that he’d have to talk to the press before he could shower and change. He didn’t want to. Nylander should be doing all the press. He was the captain. This was his job. But, no, Hollander had to come out and give the same soundbite about Rozanov that he did hundreds of times so everyone can get a little hit of sports drama to chat about at work tomorrow. 

So out he went into the hall. Nylander was finishing up his post game and called Shane over, keeping his arm around him as the press descended. Shane had expected Nylander to go. To leave him to face the piranhas alone. But, he stayed. He stayed, arm draped over Shane’s shoulders, looking straight at the reporters with steely eyes but a lazy smile.

“Shane, are you frustrated about your loss tonight? Especially since it was the first time you’ve played against Rozanov since the All Star Game?”

“A loss is a loss, and you take each one personally, no matter who is on the ice with you,” Shane recited. “Of course I’m disappointed.”

“Have the two of you spoken since Detroit?”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with the game,” Nylander responded that time. “Do you have any other questions about tonight? Otherwise, I think we’ve fulfilled our obligation tonight, and it’s been a tough one.”

There was a moment of silence. Nylander had never said no to press, had never chastised, had never pushed back at all. He wasn’t flashy like that. He was a rule follower, and a quiet and thoughtful player that was kind and even keeled with the press. But tonight he felt… paternal? Protective? Normally Shane would bristle at something like this, but he was so raw and anxious about later that he was grateful for the help. 

“Shane, you’re going on to play Montreal next, how do you feel about playing your old team for the first time?”

“Ready,” Shane replied with no hesitation. This was a question he wanted to answer. “I’m ready.” 

Nylander gently nudged him before dropping his arm from Shane’s shoulders and they retreated back into the dressing room. Shane leaned his hands on his thighs and took a couple of deep breaths, letting them out. Nylander just thumped him once on the back and dropped down in front of his stall to continue his post game routine.

Shane got the text right as he was opening the door to his hotel room. It was just Rozanov’s home address. He hadn’t been there before. The privateness of it made him anxious. Everything about this made him anxious, if he was being honest. Shane fought against the creeping panic as he changed. He laced his shoes, called his Uber, and left. 

The team had gone out. He begged off, and no one asked him why. They had seen what he played like. What he was like in the locker room. They didn’t need to ask. They left him to his own devices and off he went. With the Sea Lions, no one pried. He’d tell them or he wouldn’t. 

This was a bad idea. It had been a bad idea when he suggested it in Detroit. It was the bad idea he thought about every night since. It was the worst idea of half a decade of his bad ideas. They should let the distance do what distance did and separate them. Let the heat dissipate and just drift apart across a continent. Shane could date for real. Rich gay men of all kinds abound in San Francisco. The rumors about him were pervasive enough that he could actually discreetly date, and not have to worry, not too much, about what would happen. A “soft launch,” Farah had called it.

He and Ilya had spent six months slamming up against this thing, though. Both of them refusing to just let it go.  Despite the jealousy, the frustration, and the sheer impossibility of it all. Because that was the real problem, in the end: working out the miscommunication and the jealousy and the anger would leave them worse off than when they started. 

Because when you strip it all the way to the core of it, there are three fundamental truths. One: Shane is a gay superstar in one of the most homophobic sports in the world. Two: He lives 3000 miles away from Boston for nine months out of the year. And three: He is completely in love with Ilya Rozanov.

There just wasn’t a way to make the math work. It was easier to be angry. It was easier to hate each other. You could hide the hurt in the anger that way. But they could not just let well enough alone. And so Shane sat in another Uber, headed towards the man that would put him together just to rip him back apart.

Fucking great.

Rozanov opened the door right away. It was as if he had been standing there, waiting. He was still wearing his suit pants and his white shirt untucked, feet bare. His curls were mostly dried, but he hadn’t put product in after his shower so they were soft and uncontrolled. He looked young. Young and tired. 

Shane had changed, and was standing in the doorway wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. He was scared, he realized.. Terrified, really. Because for the first time in their entire time knowing each other, they were meeting for a reason other than sex or hockey.

“So,” Shane said.

“So,” Rozanov replied as he stepped aside, letting Shane into the house. Shane toed off his shoes and walked down the hallway, pausing in the kitchen, unsure where to go next. Rozanov followed and they stood facing each other. “You came.”

“I did.” Their eyes met, and Shane felt his heart clench. He was still so fucking angry, but in these moments, when they were alone and close and soft… it was easy to forget all the rest of it. 

“I know. Why you got traded.” It felt like a confession, the way Ilya said it to him. He averted his eyes before looking back to meet Shane’s gaze. Shane met it, even though he hated it. Even though it left his skin itchy. 

“You do.” Shane’s response wasn’t a question but an acknowledgement. Okay, they both knew now. They were doing this. Here. In Ilya’s kitchen. Under the overhead lighting, in their clothes. Standing face to face. Allright. Okay. Shane kept breathing.

“I didn’t mean to– I thought we were–” Ilya fought for the words. He couldn’t find the right ones. It pained Shane to watch him search for the right thing to say. Ilya who was always so certain and sure and quick. 

“I wasn’t careful,” Shane cut him off. His own confession. His voice getting higher and thinner. The guilt and the shame leaking out with the words.

“Don’t– don’t do that,” Ilya waved a hand to erase the words. “You shouldn’t have to be careful.” 

“Well. I did.” Shane shrugged. “I very much did.”

“Was cruel. Your teammate was cruel.”

“I know that, of course I know that,” Shane felt exasperated. “But also they’re right. I did lie. And I was in the locker room and the shower without telling anyone, I still–”

“No. Don’t do that. Shane, you can’t do that. You deserve to be there as much as any of them. More than any of them.” And in another circumstance, in another conversation, Ilya saying his first name soft and careful like that would terrify him. Would set off every alarm bell in his body. But today, in this context, Shane saw it as a balm on something that felt so fundamentally broken. On an admission of how unworthy and unlovable he felt in that moment. In every moment.

“Well. They didn’t think so.” 

“They’re wrong. They waste you and your talent. They make you carry them season after season and cast you out for what? Sending a text, yes?” Ilya was getting riled up, his accent more apparent, his voice a little louder. Shane could tell he was indignant, but could not match Ilya’s energy. 

“I was supposed to retire there.” Shane said it just over a whisper, eyes cast down, shame dripping off of it.

“Would you even want to anymore?” Ilya was getting riled up.

“I’d like the choice,” Shane admitted. 

“What does choice matter, if it is not the one you’d make?”

“Because it’s humiliating. To go from the most revered player to someone that was tossed away. It will always be a part of my story. Of my career. Fuck, my Wikipedia page has a whole fucking section about it now.”

“Your new team is better.” Ilya was being obstinate now.

“My new team is in fucking CALIFORNIA, Ilya! I live in California. In team rental housing. In AMERICA! I had to move without even stepping foot in my house. I’m a six hour flight from my parents, and…” Shane took a breath in through his teeth. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep going. But as he let the breath out, he realized that he was too tired to keep hiding. “You. I’m a six hour flight from you.”

The room went quiet and stayed quiet. A moment. Another. They were looking at each other. Standing inches apart. Shane pushed back against the counter, fingers gripping the granite. Ilya standing across, fingers playing with the hem of his dress shirt, rolling it between his thumb and first finger. More time passed. Shane breathed in time with Ilya. They waited. Shane waited.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispered. 

Something inside Shane broke open. Rozanov had never once apologized to him. About anything. That was not part of their game. That was not who they were. Shane apologized. Rozanov did not. He deflected, he brushed over, he washed away. 

Shane pushed off the counter grabbing the lapels of Rozanov’s shirt and pulling him forward so their lips slammed together. Shane reached up, immediately putting a hand in Ilya’s hair, curls between his fingers. He closed his hand around the curls, tugging them tightly as he kept Ilya close. Shane was trying to inhale him. To crawl inside him. To get as close as possible without disappearing into him.

“I’m sorry.” Ilya whispered it against Shane’s lips now. “I’m sorry,” into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry,” again as he pressed a kiss to his collar bone. “I’m sorry,” as he pressed their lips back together. He said it like praying. He said it like begging. And each one washed over Shane like a wave drowning him in the intensity of it all. 

“Shane.” Ilya put a hand under Shane’s chin, tilting his head up so they were looking each other in the eyes. Shane was stunned into stillness by the intensity of Ilya’s eyes. Blue and green and gold and full of so much guilt and fear and something he dare not name. “I’m sorry.” 

They came back together, a desperate, hungry, wild kiss. Ilya backed them towards the bedroom door. Shane pulled Ilya’s shirt over his head and left it on the floor. Their mouths met again, opening for each other as they fed on each other. Ilya slid his hands into Shane’s waistband, grabbing him by the hipbones to press him up against the door, using the leverage to somehow deepen their kiss even more. Shane then pushed back against Ilya’s shoulders, spinning them inside the room and back towards the bed.

Ilya took a turn removing Shane’s shirt, pushing down his sweatpants and boxer briefs so Shane could step out of them as they backed towards the bed. Spinning once more, Ilya pushed him down.

Shane was naked now, and Ilya was pressing kisses up his body. First the ankle, then the knee, then inside the thigh. Shane was propped up on his elbows watching the other man make his way towards his very hard dick, muttering in Russian as he went. 

“Я знаю, что сделал тебе больно,” Ilya said to the dip where Shane’s hip turned into his thigh. “Ты этого не заслужил,” as he kissed across him before following the trail of hair that led to Shane’s dick. Ilya took him in his mouth all the way to the base and Shane moaned long and low, arching his back into the bed. It had been so long since they had been together like this. The longest stretch since Sochi, almost three years ago. 

Ilya withdrew, dragging his tongue along the bottom of Shane’s shaft, humming as he went. Then he sucked gently on the head before popping off, and starting again. It was too slow and too much and Shane loved it. He was going crazy, making noises he didn’t realize he could make. Ready to be completely outside of himself. Of this. Of what came next. Of Ilya worshipping him in some kind of act of apology. 

“Мне очень жаль.” Ilya muttered more Russian against Shane’s dick and he both understood it and desperately wanted to ask for the translation. But Shane knew that would shut Ilya down, send the moment to a screeching halt. And Shane didn’t need to meaning of the words to know that he wanted Ilya to keep saying them. He needed this more than water, more than sunlight. 

Shane pulled Ilya back up to kiss him again, to have their bodies pressed together entirely. He wanted to be under the weight of him. A full body reminder that Ilya was here and Shane was here and they had hours stretched out ahead of them. Not minutes. Not seconds. But hours. 

“We have time,” Shane let his thoughts tumble from his mouth. He wanted Ilya to know. “I need you, all of you, but not in a rush. We have time.” He kissed Ilya’s collarbone. The hallow of his neck. “I want to drink in every single moment.” Ilya growled at that, hands coming up to take Shane’s wrists, and hold them beside his head. 

“Прости меня, пожалуйста?" Ilya asked it as if it had been torn from his soul. Whatever it meant, it came from the core of him. It was a desperate need, a plea. And Shane didn’t care what it meant, he wanted to grant it. Though from the way Ilya’s eyes seemed to be begging him, full of grief and pain and hope, Shane was pretty sure what he was asking. And he would. Of course he would. He couldn’t stay mad at this man if he tried. He knew this because he kept trying. 

“Yes, of course, yes.”  Shane tried to lean up again, to meet Ilya’s mouth or neck or ear or any part of him, but the relieved smile melted into something else. Something needy. It looked like Ilya wanted to consume him, and he very much wanted to be confused. “Now please, will you fuck me until I forget my name?” Shane joked but also wasn’t joking. And Ilya obliged. For a long slow perfect while, he obliged.

Afterward, they lay there in the aftermath of it all. Physically and emotionally spent. Together again, holding hands again, looking up at the ceiling. Ilya’s head on Shane’s chest, an ear pressed down to listen to his heart beat. His eyes fluttered closed and they just were. Together. God he missed this. Why does he have to miss this? 

It would be so much easier to keep on living if he could feel like a whole fucking person, but no, this stupid man with his golden curls and his terrible choices keeps half of him tucked close to his chest and with him. Always. Shane aches to remember what it felt like to be whole and to stay whole. Who was he if he wasn’t wanting Ilya Rozanov?

Shane rolled on top of Ilya, looking down at him. He looked as soft as Shane felt.

“I don’t want to keep hurting each other.” Shane whispered it into the dark of the room. He was clinging to Ilya, hands dug into the muscles of his hips, body pressed down on him, holding him into the bed. They were back to the beginning, holding on to the last minutes they’d have together for… weeks? No, months. 

“What if we don’t?” Ilya melted into the mattress allowing himself to be pinned there. He meant it. He wanted this. Again and again. Whatever this was. Whatever this could be. 

Shane laughed. It was humorless and frustrated. As if he hadn’t considered that before. As if this torture was on purpose. As if Shane enjoyed the hurt in Ilya’s eyes when he devastated him. As if Shane enjoyed being so fucking angry all the time.

“I mean it.” Ilya was quiet and his voice broke just a little. Just enough to catch Shane’s breath.

“How?” Shane met his tone.

Ilya pushed up on Shane and rolled him over, pressing his lips to his neck, and then to his collar bone. It wasn’t hurried and it wasn’t hungry. It was something else. It was something Shane couldn’t name, but could feel. He closed his eyes and let Ilya take control. 

The kisses traveled over Shane’s body. Over the hollow of his neck. Down his shoulder. Around his pecs. Over his nipple. Up his abs. Each one carefully placed. Each one… adoring. Oh. Oh shit. Ilya was adoring him. 

Shane went still. His breath caught. He wasn’t sure what to do. Ilya got to his belly button before kissing back up his chest, a clear message that this was not escalating -- this was the whole fucking point. And Shane was terrified. Ilya rubbed his hands over Shane’s abs, pressing into the tightness.

“Relax,” he all but purred as he made his way back up to Shane’s neck. And Shane did. He let himself relax. “We can just be. Here. Now.” Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. “Just you.” And then the bridge of his nose. “Just me.” And then his forehead, right at the hair line. “Together.” Then Ilya pressed a kiss straight to Shane’s lips. It was slow and it was soft and it was adoring. Reverent and special. Nothing like the filthy kissing they had been doing before. Nothing like any kiss they’d ever shared, really. “No one has to get hurt, yes?”

Shane was floaty and quiet and still. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and for the first time since this whole thing began, he felt safe. Protected. At ease. Ilya had his head on his chest, a hand tracing circles on his stomach. It was so quiet and dark and warm. 

The good moments. When they came. They made it feel worth it. During them Shane believed that maybe they could do this without hurting each other. Maybe they could share what time they had, and that was enough. That they could drink their fill of each other and go back to their normal lives sated and happy until they happened to meet again. It was a beautiful lie.

Because Shane knew that tomorrow the torture would resume. That the distance would stretch back out and the endless harm they always caused each other would start once more. And that this, the best of all the good moments, would be the one that keeps him trapped. Tethered together to this man with an invisible string that stretched all the way across the country. That persisted despite the stunning movie star and the beautiful woman with a mean slap shot. That persisted despite the rumors and pettiness and so much anger. That persisted just to tear Shane apart.

And he hated it. Because of the not knowing. Who was Ilya with? Was he thinking of Shane or did he forget him in between? Because of his constant insecurity. That he was a convenience. A little treat. Something to be sampled in secret and then put aside. Shane feared that he was not part of Ilya’s real life. The one he imagined a future for. And Shane desperately wanted to be real. Real and chosen and possible. Like Svetlana was… is. An acceptable choice with a plethora of options for an acceptable life. Not this torturously beautiful yet completely unattainable thing they had.

“Will you keep seeing her?” Shane asked this quietly. And while it’s not meant to hold any ill will or jealousy, there’s still a bite to it. His anger clings to him like a residue he can’t quite wash away, as if to prove that no, they can’t stop hurting each other. 

“Are you asking me not to?” Ilya responded slowly, carefully. 

“I don’t know.” He took a ragged breath, then. Shane knew it was weird and unfair of him to ask, suddenly, for something so completely ludicrous. They saw each other so rarely, and they weren’t dating. They've never been dating. But… it made him so mad. To see Ilya leave with her.. Shane knew that he was jealous of her because she gets to be the best at hockey yet still hold Ilya’s hand and dance with him and kiss that spot under his jaw that makes his head roll back. And Shane knew that he would never get those things. He would objectively never get to have any of them. And so it was absurd and selfish, but he wanted, no, needed, to ask Ilya to not make him watch her get all the things he wanted more than anything. 

“Maybe,” he said. 

Ilya took a moment to process, then let out a sigh. “I thought you had a girlfriend, Shane.” He sounded tormented. The sentence was heavy and raw, and his face clearly pained. “And I thought, well, if he wants something simple and easy and expected, then I can do that, too.”

“Is it easy? Does it feel easy?”

“Yes. Very easy,” Ilya responded immediately.  Shane stopped breathing. He knew that it would be easier to choose a woman over him. He knew it was easier to choose just about anyone else. That didn’t change that he wanted so desperately to be chosen, even if the consequences terrified him. “But it also feels also wrong,” Ilya followed up softly.

The silence that settled was one of understanding, but also of loss. They had no way forward. They had no way back. They could only go around and around. In the quiet. In the dark. In the uncertainty and the anger and the fondness. Shane couldn’t help but think of something Herems had said in Hadestown. Rose had taken Shane to see the tour in LA, and it rattled in his brain ever since. That even though the story had been told, and the events pre-determined, there was beauty in the telling. 

To know how it ends, and still begin to sing it again, as if it might turn out this time.

And maybe that was what they were doing. Over and over and over. Retelling the same story looking for a different ending. A way out of it. A future. Hope. And over and over it just ended here. Stuck. Ilya still lived in Boston. Shane still lived in San Francisco. They both still played professional hockey. Orpheus turned around. Eurydice spends eternity in Hades. And the story begins again. 

“I should sleep,” Shane could hear himself talking, quiet and far away. He was feeling overcome and overwhelmed, and maybe a little bit crazy. To be lying cuddled up against Ilya and only thinking of a musical. To be unable and ask for the future he secretly wanted. And Shane knew if he didn’t get up and walk out the door and go back to his hotel that he wouldn’t leave this room, ever. And he didn’t know what else to say here. What else was there even to be done? 

“Stay,” Ilya murmured against his skin. His eyes were closed, but his hands still moving. He was awake but settled. Comfortable. 

“You know I can’t,” Shane murmured, but didn’t move.

“No one cares,” Ilya crooned in his ear as he tightened his grip on Shane.

“I can’t risk that someone does,” Shane said plainly. 

“There’s time,” Ilya negotiated. “An hour?” He scooted forward, more of himself laying on top of Shane to hold him in place, to calm him with the pressure. Shane hummed and closed his eyes.

“Okay. Okay. An hour.” 

And the song starts over again.

 

—

They fell asleep. When Ilya opened his eyes, the sun was just starting to appear at the horizon. His mouth was dry and his arms were stiff. Shane wasn’t beside him, but his place was warm and Ilya could hear the shower running behind the bathroom door. He rolled onto his back, closing his eyes to keep out the sun. Fuck. Ilya wasn’t sure what was going to happen when Shane reappeared. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to happen. Everything felt impossible and terrible. But also wonderful? Fuck.

Last night was good. Whatever thing that gnawed at him, telling him to keep moving, keep looking, keep fighting, went silent. It settled. For the first time in a long time, Ilya felt like he could breathe. And maybe that was why he had clung to it, to Shane, and put them in the awkward position they seemed to be in now. Having spent the night together, but not having chosen to.

Ilya didn’t panic. Not like Shane would, or was probably was right now behind the bathroom door. He just basked in the newness and comfort of it, letting the sun rise and bathe the room with soft light. He smiled and let the feeling of waking up smelling like another person, the bed warm from his body, overcome him. It was nice.

Shane emerged from the bathroom, and Ilya sat up. Their eyes met. Shane had taken a shower and gotten dressed in the bathroom. He was wearing last night’s clothes, but his hair was wet and freshly towel dried, falling around his face messily. He looked soft and warm and unguarded. He reminded Ilya of an untucked tuxedo shirt, where you could see the formality it normally held, but also that it was lived in and comfortable. 

Shane smiled, open and wide. Anxiety didn’t radiate off him. He wasn’t shaking or stuttering. He just looked happy to see Ilya there, sitting up in bed, with bedhead and eyes not quite used to the light. Shane's comfort and ease made Ilya wonder for a brief moment if this was just a dream. If he would wake up again, alone, and cold in the dark. Fuck it, Ilya wouldn’t let that ruin this moment. He smiled back, wide and unguarded himself.

Neither spoke at first. They were just enjoying each other’s joy. Eventually Ilya started laughing. He was happy and confused and unsure of where to go next. What to do next. Shane matched his laugh, doubling over as he echoed the avalanche of giggles. 

When their eyes met again, both still shaking with their giggles, Ilya noticed something there. Something tender and delicate and dangerous. Exciting. He didn’t have the word in English. Just the feeling. The feeling he was suddenly completely sure was mutual. 

“Come here,” he called Shane over. 

“I need to go,” Shane sighed. It wasn’t said to create distance, he just really did have to go.

“I know. I know. Just a minute.” Ilya opened his arms. 

“Like the hour from last night,” Shane laughed again.

“Pleeease. I want to squeeze you.” It was maybe the most vulnerable thing Ilya had ever said to Shane. To anyone. Maybe at all. To admit he just wanted to touch him for a moment before he left. A need completely outside their casual sexual agreement.

Shane sat on the bed, and shifted back so Ilya could wrap his arms around him. Ilya hummed softly and rested his chin atop Shane’s head as he pulled him back into the embrace. Letting his eyes fall closed, he breathed in Shane’s hair. It smelled like Ilya’s shampoo, and there was something so domestic about Shane smelling like him that lit Ilya’s soul on fire. He held on to Shane and the moment.

“What’s the plan? We just keep doing this?” Shane was pressed back into Ilya’s embrace, and just a little bit rigid. Tense and taught. 

“Yes. I think so. Probably,” Ilya whispered into his head. “Or,” he said hesitantly, “we don’t.” As soon as the words were out of Ilya’s mouth, he was terrified Shane would agree with them. Because that would be the real way to stop hurting each other. That was the answer to how they could get out of this unscathed. They just stop this nonsense and let it fade away like they should have six months ago. Six years ago, even. 

“Okay. So we keep doing this.” Shane was determined now. Ilya knew that voice. He’d decided. Things were set and that was the plan. As imperfect and impossible and painful as that plan was. And it was. Shane turned then to wrap his arms around Ilya more firmly and they clung to each other. 

They were quiet for a while, body against body. Ilya breathing in Shane’s hair, and Shane breathing against Ilya’s chest. The sun kept rising, and the room was completely lit now, bright and warm. If they were any other couple on any other morning, they could be lazy. Have sex. Bring coffee to each other in bed. Enjoy the day and each other. But they were them. And Shane had a flight in two hours and forty five minutes. Ilya had practice in an hour and a half. There was no time for the quiet luxuries of a Sunday morning. 

“I won’t see her anymore. If it hurts you.” Ilya surprised himself how quickly he agreed to such a limitation on his life. But something about holding Shane in his arms, against his chest, knowing how they both were coming undone, made him want to offer. Want to give that to Shane. He didn’t have much of anything else to offer him.

“It wasn’t fair of me to ask you that,” Shane countered. He sounded small and unsure, but also like he didn’t mean it. Ilya tightened his grip on him somehow, holding them together.

“I do not mind,” Ilya shrugged. Then a more serious, “Let me do this for you.” He gave Shane’s pec a squeeze and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Okay,” Shane whispered, barely audible. “Okay.” 

“Good. Now you better go before they send a search party after you.” Ilya released Shane, giving his sides a playful squeeze. Shane actually yelped and giggled a little. Ilya lit up, a huge smile cracking across his face as Shane scrambled out of the bed, grabbing his shoes as he went. 

“Shane Hollander is ticklish!”  Ilya crowed, just pure joy. “Shane Hollander is ticklish!”

“Shut up, asshole.” Shane had his shoes on then, and approached the bed carefully. “I’m going to kiss you goodbye now. Unless you tickle me again, and then I’m just going to leave.” 

“Truce, truce!” Ilya held his hands up, still laughing. Shane leaned over to press a tender but simple kiss to Ilya’s lips. And it felt like the most natural and normal thing in the world. Just like any normal couple, on any normal day, when one of them was late to work. 

But as Shane retreated, Ilya had to face the fact that they would not be in the same place until June. Either in the Stanley Cup Finals or at the MHL awards. And then again maybe only for one night. His chest clenched and a lump formed in his throat. This was torture. All of it. Somehow worse than it was before, now that they were more committed to it.

What the fuck were they doing? And who the fuck were they kidding that this had any chance of working at all?

Chapter End Notes

So, the spice was where I spent the most time. I think I'm happy where I ended up as far as smut to emotion balance. But if you feel strongly there was not enough or there should have been more, let me know (I promise I won't yell at you if you give me a little advice in the comments).

I like that Shane thinks about Hadestown a lot and I do not care if it is totally in character. Also that Hadestown was not touring in 2017. It was in this universe. Okay? Okay.

I hope I made you cry. We're about halfway through, though I reserve the right to up the chapter count because I have some ideas that are not in the outline. And, a confession, I don't think I like my planned ending, so we may be pantsing a little coming up here. Let me know if you have ideas or desires. I will likely ignore them, but maybe I won't.

Chapter 14: all I did was try my best, this the kind of thanks I get?

Chapter Summary

The onslaught was constant. Homophobic chirps, relentlessly being bashed around on the ice, and the slurs. All manner of them. It was clear to Nylander in the first five minutes of gameplay which two players had been responsible for the Montreal downfall of Shane Hollander. Gilbert Comeau and the rookie Alexandre Bouchard, two men who spoke to each other in Québécois so the Sea Lions couldn’t understand them and were playing like they wanted Hollander dead. That was not how any member of Captain Liam Nylander’s team was ever going to be treated.

No fucking way.

Chapter Notes

This is a bonus chapter before I head to Rochester MN for the DFL State Convention. (Go Peggy Flanagan!) I hope you like the new POV! (I'm sorry.)

The onslaught was constant. Homophobic chirps, relentlessly being bashed around on the ice, and the slurs. All manner of them. It was clear to Nylander in the first five minutes of gameplay which two players had been responsible for the Montreal downfall of Shane Hollander. Gilbert Comeau and the rookie Alexandre Bouchard, two men who spoke to each other in Québécois so the Sea Lions couldn’t understand them and were playing like they wanted Hollander dead. That was not how any member of Captain Liam Nylander’s team was ever going to be treated.

No fucking way.

Nylander knew that this was going to be an issue. He could tell from the way Hollzy had been tiptoeing around the locker room all week. The way he seemed to be apologizing for existing. Nylander knew that the way Hollzy was bracing meant they had to be ready. He was in his head, and if the past six months had taught Nylander anything, it was that Hollander was a liability when he was in his head.

And the press kept doing what the press does. Hound Shane Hollander. Think pieces, stories, calls for comment. The Sea Lions management had asked Hollander to do press two nights ago in preparation for the game. Nylander protested, but they insisted. They said it was good for the team to have all this attention. Good for the bottom line, maybe, but Nylander knew it was terrible for morale.

None of the guys liked what was happening with Hollander. They had gotten the best player in the league, but he couldn’t settle in and mesh with them because he was constantly being harassed by the press. Constantly being pushed into rivalries and feuds. His energy was sapped up by it. He came to the bar, and he laughed with the guys, and he was trying. Nylander could tell he was trying. But then some story popped up or he’d get papped and Shane Hollander would retreat. Become the robot version of himself. Fake smiles and early nights.

And so as the graphics and the video packages and the press questions mounted, Nylander watched Shane fall apart. He was anxious and embarrassed and lying through his teeth. The emotions were living in his eyes even when they didn’t touch his face. Nylander was a good captain because he had learned to read hockey players. Repressed, reserved players who tucked away whatever it was that was impacting their game. Or the loud, boisterous, impulsive players that hid their pain behind erratic behaviors. And so he could tell that they were headed for disaster.

Nylander knew what happened when Shane lost control. He had been at the All Star game. He had played Boston a week ago. When Shane was out of sorts, the team was out of sorts. And he didn’t like it. But what could he do when he knew that Hollzy’s former team was going to show up with something to prove? They wanted Shane to feel, no, to know, that he was somehow unworthy of them and completely unnecessary for their success.

Nylander had seen it before. Teams who lost their star player and reacted like petulant teenagers trying to prove they didn’t need their parents. They chirped more and hit more and were generally pains in the ass.So Nylander knew they had to go into this game with a plan if they expected Hollander to come out of it with any chance of regaining his mental game at all this season.

The night before the game, Nylander pulled aside Jojo, Shane’s closest friend on the team, and they discussed the plan. They knew management would never agree to bench Hollzy, but they could try and minimize the damage. And so while the Sea Lions didn’t have an enforcer normally, they would for this game. And it was going to be Liam Nylander.

The first time Shane took a hit from Comeau that was just on the edge of legal, it was Nylander that retaliated. Just a warning check into the boards. A little late. A little hard. Nothing out of the ordinary for a hockey game with the level of intensity this one seemed to have. But when Nylander pressed in close, he whispered to the man, “You fuck with Hollzy, you fuck with me.” Comeau furrowed his brow and skated back to his bench looking uncertain.

The next hit Hollander took was dangerous. Bouchard laid a crosscheck high enough that Hollander’s visor saved him from breaking his nose. It was hard, and scary, but looked accidental enough that it only drew a two minute minor. But before the ref got over to the play to bring Bouchard to the box, Nylander dropped his gloves and grabbed for the player’s shirt, knocking his helmet off before the lineman broke it up. He was careful only to take a 2 minute roughing. This time.

At the start of the second period, Nylander bent to take the face off against Hayden Pike, the new Montreal captain and presumed best friend to Shane Hollander. This would normally be Shane’s face off, but Nylander had a message to send. He looked up through his visor at the man.

“You shouldn’t let your team do that to your best friend, you know,” he chided. Pike looked crestfallen. Gutted. And completely at a loss on how to control his team.

“I’m not letting them do anything,” Pike shot back, defensive… defeated.

“If you don’t stop Cormeau and Bouchard, they’re going to get someone hurt. They won’t respect you. Fix it.” The puck dropped and Nylander took off with it.

The Seal Lions were up 3-2 at the end of the second. Hollander was playing okay, but not great. The hits had him spooked, and the insults had him scared someone would hear them. He was wound tight and entirely in his head. Hollander had a point on an assist, but Montreal would not let him breathe, and he was playing like a man who was scared of getting hurt. Nylander knew from experience that meant that he was going to get hurt.

“Hollzy,” he caught Shane as they were passing at the boards after a power play. “I got you. No one believes their bullshit. No one is going to hurt you. You need to calm down or you are going to get hurt.”

“I hear you, Landie,” Shane responded, but the fear didn’t leave his eyes. He was scared and exhausted and pushing through the shame of it all.

“Hey, man,” Nylander grabbed him by the shoulders then, taking advantage of the TV time out. “I have told you before and I will tell you again, this team has your back. I do not care what they say. I do not care what the press says. You are one of us, and you will be respected on my ice in my barn with my logo on your chest. You understand?”

Shane smiled then, meeting Nylander’s eyes. “I understand.”

“If one of those two motherfuckers calls you a name or lays a finger on you again, I’m going to knock them out cold. I don’t give a fuck about the penalty, and I don’t give a fuck about Pike’s ego. Now let’s fucking win this fucking game so we can get drunk and forget these miserable fucks exist.” Nylander tapped his helmet to Hollander and they reset for the next play.

It was the end of the third when the worst of it happened. Hollander had somehow managed not to take the bait. He hadn’t thrown his gloves once. Not when Bouchard called him a faggot, not when Cormeau made fun of his eyes, not when his former coach, Theriault, pretended he didn’t see it happening. Shane remained unflappable. Spooked, restrained, but mostly on his game. Playing hockey and absorbing the abuse of his former teammates.

It wasn’t just Nylander that had gotten mad. The rest of the Sea Lions could hear and see what their teammate was enduring. The game got out of control. The Sea Lions got madder, and then the Voyageurs were meeting their energy. Even the ones that didn’t notice (or pretended not to notice) what Comeau and Bouchard were up to. It was moving past chippy into violent. And none of them seemed to want to restrain themselves. As Pike lost control of his team, Nylander could feel that he was losing control of his own. It was a powder keg. Everyone could feel it.

The crowd was getting caught up in the energy on the ice. Normally chill and fun here in San Francisco, they were rowdy. Booing players, chanting that the refs suck. This fan base had accepted Shane Hollander with open arms. They loved their team. They protected them. They were also offended that his former team tossed him away, even if it was a win for them. And so when it was clear that the source of the tension was Shane Hollander’s ex teammates roughing him up every chance they got, the crowd got wild.

Comeau took a shot on goal and somehow Hollander was able to block it with his leg. It was a slapshot and no doubt it was going to hurt in the morning, but he stopped what would have absolutely tied the game. As Shane skated away from the net, an enraged Comeau skated up behind him and cross checked him in the back HARD, sending Shane flying face first into the boards. It was brutal and it was intentional.

Nylander didn’t have time to check and see if Hollander had a broken nose or a concussion, because he was going to beat the shit out of Comeau. Immediately. He was not a violent player. Being an impromptu enforcer had been hard. Until this very moment, when there was no pretending. He wanted that man to bleed. He wanted the ice to be red with his blood and for him to regret the day he stepped foot into this arena and messed with his team.

Nylander’s gloves were off, his stick was down, and he was unbuckling his helmet as he approached Comeau from behind. The refs hadn’t grabbed him yet, swarming over to Hollander to see if he needed medical attention (there was no way he didn’t, Nylander mused, but that was for later). Skating up behind him, Nylander grabbed him by the jersey, flipped him around and decked him straight in the face. Bare hand to bare nose.

Comeau dropped like a sack of potatoes. He wasn’t prepared for the punch to come from behind. He lay on the ice unmoving and for a minute no one but Nylander had noticed. He considered kicking him with his skate. Nylander considered straddling him and knocking out all of his teeth with his fists. He even considered strangling him with his bare hands. But, in the end, Nylander found himself in the middle of a scrum faster than he could make up his mind.

The refs struggled to break up the fight. Both benches cleared. It was a mess of arms and skates tripping on gloves as bodies spun and stumbled. Nylander saw Comeau’s jersey as the man tried to sneak away. He had blood coming from his forehead where Nylander had already got him, but otherwise looked in pretty good shape. Not for long.

Nylander knew that he was going to get a game misconduct for this. They’d likely lose the game at this point. Heck, he may even see a suspension. But he could see that Hollander was still down, and this fucking asshole looked proud of himself. So, he skated around the outside to intercept Comeau before he got outside of the line of fire and shoved him up against the boards to hit him again. He was lining up to throw a third punch when Jojo came from behind and grabbed Nylander.

“Dude, you’re not going to jail tonight over these fuckers,” he said in his ear as he fought to hold the man back. Comeau stepped forward then, looking like he was going to take a shot at the restrained Nylander.

“Don’t you fucking try it, Gil, or I’ll let him go,” Jojo sneered. “We’re done here.”

The refs regained control. There was another ten minute time out as they sorted the penalty situation. Comeau and Nylander were both given game misconducts and were removed from the game. Bouchard had somehow gotten out of the whole thing unscathed. No injury, no penalty. Just a smug grin on his smug fucking face. The last five minutes of play was a wash. Without Nylander or Hollander, the Sea Lions struggled to keep their lead, but luckily the goaltender held and they didn’t have to go into overtime.

After the game, a bloodied Nylander sat in his stall awaiting his team. He had heard from medical that Hollander was awake when they put him in the ambulance. It was mostly a precaution. He was fine. But it didn’t make Nylander feel better. He had one job, and that was to protect his team. He failed. These sons of bitches got what they wanted. Again.

Nylander hated what they were doing to Shane. He could see from the moment he arrived in San Francisco that Shane was beaten down, traumatized. He said they were his friends, and that he belonged there, but then acted surprised whenever someone in San Francisco was nice to him or wanted him around. For weeks Shane would putter around as everyone showered, pretending to be organizing his gear or chatting with someone so that he was the last one in the showers.

Of course Nylander knew what had happened. Management let him know the situation before Hollander arrived. He didn’t care. As captain he had one job, and that was to protect his team. Every player. And who gave a fuck who Shane Hollander sexted, anyway? The man was an artist on the ice and a kind, calm force in the locker room.

And that’s what made it even worse that these bigoted men were trying to take that from him. Make him feel small and unimportant and when they couldn’t break down his confidence, they resorted to breaking his body. When their names will be lost to time, while Shane will live on in Jeopardy clues, highlight reels and the Hall of Fame. First ballot. And Nylander had let it happen.

Jojo came into the room first at the end of the game, dropping beside Nylander and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you need to get checked out by the med staff.”

“I promised him he wouldn’t get hurt, Jojo,” Nylander said in a low, serious voice. He was bloody, exhausted, and defeated. “Comeau and Bouchard.. they tried to kill him, and I told him he wouldn’t get hurt.”

“You couldn’t have known they were going to go that far, Landie. You know that. If they want to play like that…how could you have stopped that?” Jojo put his forearms on his knees, leaning over and letting out a ragged breath. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

Nylander decided he would still do press himself. He stood in front of the scrum in his compression layer, a bloody cut above his swelling eye. There were twice as many reporters as there were usually and they already had their recording devices ready. The flashes began before he even got into his usual spot.

“Liam, what happened out there?” ESPN started. They usually did. It was supposed to be an easy question, but how do you answer that in a media training approved way? Fuck it. Nylander was going to be messy tonight.

“You have eyes. Gilbert Comeau intentionally injured Shane Hollander. After hours of verbal abuse, from both him and Alexandre Bouchard, Hollander didn’t take the bait, so they resorted to attempted murder.”

The scrum erupted, not used to real answers to their questions, they were shouting follow ups at him. Nylander stayed quiet until the mayhem calmed enough that he could actually hear a question being yelled at him.

“So you’re saying that you think the Voyageurs were intentionally targeting Shane Hollander tonight?” a woman from the AP pressed.

“You watched the game.” He answered, shut up, and looked at the gathered press. Just an intense gaze, as few words as possible, and the truth laid bare.

“Can you explain what you mean by verbal abuse?” The reporter who asked this was a Black woman from a sports blog that covered discrimination and inclusion in sport. He knew that she knew what he meant. But he respected that she needed to put it plainly for her readers. They all should.

“I heard a number of slurs on the ice tonight. And they were all targeted at one player.” Nylander was careful with his words. He could share everything that was said tonight, but that was not his story to tell. If Shane wanted to call out the homophobia or the racism directly, he could. But Nylander wasn’t going to accidentally out him just to get a cheap shot at a team that won’t care and a league that won’t make them.

“Can you elaborate what you mean by slurs?” She tried again.

“No.” He stood with his arms crossed.

“Have you heard anything about Shane Hollander’s condition?” The local paper asked this one, an older man with a notepad.

“The medical staff let us know that he was awake and alert when he got into the ambulance. They took him to San Francisco General in an abundance of caution and we’ll update everyone as soon as we know.” Nylander wiped some blood from his eyebrow.

“What would you like to see happen to Gil Comeau?” A smaller woman in the back asked this. She had on a pink suit and a press credential he couldn’t make out, but he thought maybe it said Teen Vogue? She locked eyes with him when she asked it, daring him to tell the truth.

“If it were me he assaulted like that, I’d press charges. Thank you.” And Nylander went back into his dressing room to apologize to his team.

—

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the cliffhanger. I'll be back probably mid to end of next week. Have a good weekend! I discovered brutal by Olivia Rodrigo this week, and it was the perfect song to listen to over and over while I wrote this.

Chapter 15: hint of a spark

Chapter Summary

He clicked another video. Another. He watched it from above. He watched it from the broadcast. He watched the fight break out. He watched it from the glass. He watched it from the nosebleeds. He watched Shane, still… so still, surrounded by medics, a war raging around him. He watched with the sound off. With the sound on. Announcers, fans, players yelling and reacting. He watched the medics load Shane up on the back board. He watched the referees gain control of the ice. He watched Nylander and Comeau head down the tunnel. He watched the zamboni clear the blood from the ice. He watched a fan video of Shane’s ambulance pulling up to some hospital in Berkeley. He watched the bundled figure on the stretcher being rolled inside, EMTs and nurses using their bodies to shield him from the cameras. So many cameras.

Chapter Notes

Glad to be back after 3 days of meetings and standing on concrete. My body is trashed, but my brain still works!

I started this in Shane's POV and it just... didn't work. So, after 3 days of struggle, I killed my darling, and this chapter is working SO MUCH BETTER. I hope you enjoy it, cause I'm happy with how it worked out.

ILYA: Fuck them. Go win.

Ilya sent the text about an hour before Shane’s game was set to begin. He hadn’t expected a response, as Shane was likely already in his pre-game routine. So he was pleasantly surprised when about 20 minutes before Shane would be in warm ups, he got one.

JANE: I will.

It was so very Hollander in its direct earnestness. Ilya smiled and shook his head before dropping his phone into this bag. They had an afternoon game, which meant Ilya was already in the locker room getting ready for his evening game. He wasn’t going to be able to watch, but he knew Shane was anxious. Not about his game, but about seeing his teammates. 

They hadn’t talked about it exactly, but it was written on Shane’s face when Ilya brought up his next game, and he saw it again when he was doing press this week. If you didn’t know Shane the way Ilya knew Shane, you’d miss it. The tensing of his jaw, the vagueness of his answers. He was lying about how confident he felt. Ilya paid no mind because he knew that Hollander was wrong. He was going to kick their bigoted irritating asses, and it would be glorious. Glancing up at the clock, Ilya headed out to warm-ups, figuring he’d check on the game later.

He didn’t hear anything about Shane’s game again until they were about to start the third period. Ilya came out of the tunnel and sat on the bench, checking the tape on his stick as he waited. He glanced up to see how much time they had left, and caught a highlight reel from around the league that included a screen with nothing but white text on a black background.

“SF Sea Lions win 3-2 in regulation, Shane Hollander injured, Comeau suspended.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. There wasn’t a replay. There wasn’t an image. Just words. That was not good. That was extremely not good. Ilya took a deep breath in and held it. He couldn’t quiet his mind but his body stayed stick still. It seemed like it was too heavy to move at all. He blinked himself back as much as he could, and reached over to nudge Marleau next to him.

“Marly, you see this?” Ilya tried to sound non-chalant as he gestured up at the screen.

“Oh, yeah, I watched the replay. Hollander got crosschecked into the boards. You should have seen Nylander, though, Jesus Christ. He dropped Comeau hard.”

“If anyone did that to you, Marly, I’d murder him.”

“Thanks, man,” and Marly thumped him on the back. “Hollander looked fucked up, though. Fucking brutal.” Ilya nodded slowly, stood, and took the ice.

He wasn’t sure how he got back into the locker room. The game had ended. He was in his compression layer. Press had come and gone. But he didn’t remember what he said, didn’t remember if they won, didn’t even remember if he’d scored. Time passed, he existed, but he wasn’t there. Yet no one seemed to notice he was on autopilot. Moving through the motions of his life without living them. Playing hockey and talking to reporters and stripping off equipment as if nothing was wrong and nothing was different. A robotic version of himself existing so the real Ilya could think about Shane in a hospital somewhere in San Francisco with everyone he loves thousands of miles away.

Marly gave Ilya a sidelong glance as he came out of the shower, just noticing that Ilya seemed to be off somehow. Still sitting in his stall, staring at his stocking feet. 

“You going to shower?” he asked as he was pulling on his suit. 

“Yeah.” Ilya stood up, grabbed a towel and walked into the showers without a word, stepping aside to let people out as he went in. 

The next place Ilya came into himself was in his car. He was sitting in his garage, hair wet, suit on, Porsche parked in its usual spot. He had his duffle bag on the passenger seat. And somehow he was home, alive and untouched, and there. Fuck. 

Ilya checked his phone. 11pm. No calls. No texts. No news alerts. Fuck.

He made his way inside his house. He could remember this– unlocking the door, stepping into the house, turning on lamps as he moved from room to room. He made his way to the kitchen and sat at his counter, feet tucked into the base of the barstool. Ilya placed his phone on the counter in front of him and watched it like it might detonate. Waiting. 

He was embarrassed, a little, that he thought Hollander would call him. As if he would be top of mind in a moment like this. He probably wouldn’t give a second thought to how Ilya felt. Or even that Ilya would know and would care. But also, he felt heavy. The blistering loneliness of knowing that no one on Earth knew that he was sitting here in his dimly lit kitchen waiting for a call that would never come about a man no one knew he cared anything about.    

He wasn’t sure how long he had sat and stared at his phone before he picked it up and typed “Shane Hollander injury” into the search browser. The footage came up immediately and his finger hovered before he clicked it. Ilya watched Shane come around to get the puck. Watched Comeau line up behind him and then grab his stick and launch him off his skates. Shane came down hard, unable to catch an edge, and tumbled forward sliding full speed into the boards.

Holy shit. 

He clicked another video. Another. He watched it from above. He watched it from the broadcast. He watched the fight break out. He watched it from the glass. He watched it from the nosebleeds. He watched Shane, still… so still, surrounded by medics, a war raging around him. He watched with the sound off. With the sound on. Announcers, fans, players yelling and reacting. He watched the medics load Shane up on the back board. He watched the referees gain control of the ice. He watched Nylander and Comeau head down the tunnel. He watched the zamboni clear the blood from the ice. He watched a fan video of Shane’s ambulance pulling up to some hospital in Berkeley. He watched the bundled figure on the stretcher being rolled inside, EMTs and nurses using their bodies to shield him from the cameras. So many cameras.

It was so fucking unfair. Shane couldn’t even bleed in peace. Neither of them could. The vultures always hungry to consume them, bit by bit. Moment by moment. Ilya wanted to throw his body over Shane’s. Wanted to smash the cameras that were the only thing tying him to Shane at that moment. He didn’t care that they were helping him, he knew they were killing Shane. Killing both of them. How do you exist in a world where even your pain was entertainment? 

His phone was hot to the touch. His battery was screaming to be recharged. But there were so. many. videos. Twenty thousand people watched it all unfold. Some horrified, some infuriated, some elated. Each one loading their snippet for all to see. He searched Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. YouTube had the longer clips. Everyone was speculating why Shane’s teammate suddenly seemed to hate him. As if any of them could know.

But Ilya knew.

Gil Comeau was a shitbag. A homophobic, racist asshole. He was good to his friends. Generally good to his team. He was clearly not good to Shane. Not anymore. Ilya had seen pictures of Comeau’s wedding at some point, Shane smiling in a tuxedo in the staged photo Comeau had sold to People magazine. It was gross. The juxtaposition. Ilya wanted to vomit. 

It was 3am. Ilya had been sitting on a stool at his counter for four hours watching. Reading. Waiting. He knew he needed to sleep. Charge his phone. Get through the night so that he could do something tomorrow. He knew he needed to have the clarity to decide what that something was going to be. He couldn’t fly to California. He wanted to fly to California. He had two days off… would anyone notice? Surely someone would notice him turning up at the hospital in Berkeley looking terrified. Shane would be pissed. Would it be worth it to see that Shane could be pissed?

Right. Sleep. He needed to sleep. Plug in his phone. Turn on the ringer. Take off his clothes. Get in bed. An easy list of easy tasks. He could do it. The fact he had somehow played a hockey game, talked to the press, showered, and arrived home was evidence he could do it. He had to do it.

Not long after, he found himself lying in bed, his phone plugged in next to him. It was 5am now. It was only 2am in California. He had five hours to go. Ilya wasn’t sure why he felt like he couldn’t call before 7am, but that’s what he told himself, and that was what he was going to do. So he laid on his back, arms stiff at his sides, and waited.

Sleep came. But not for long. And it wasn’t rest. He’d doze just to wake up gasping, heart pounding. His brain playing the videos in his mind, over and over. Trying to process something unimaginable. Like an endless nightmare that sleep only amplified. The minutes stretched on, slowly, slowly ticking by. The hours to wait seemed impossible, but he kept waiting. Eyes dropping closed, sleep taking over, then a yell in the dark as Shane hit the ice and Ilya’s body tried to leap from the bed. Again. And again.

And again.

It was only 6am. Four hours to go. Creeping by. He grabbed his phone. He googled again. But what sports site was going to post an update on an injured hockey player in the middle of the night? It can’t be that bad, Ilya mused to himself, or some hospital staffer would have taken the ridiculous payout he was sure TMZ was offering. If Shane had died, a picture of his corpse would be on the internet before they even called his mother.

Ilya barely made it to the bathroom before he puked huge heaving sighs into the toilet. His body was rejecting the image his mind made him. Once he was done, he slumped back against the wall, tiles cool against his body. Head tilted back to the ceiling. Sleep came again. Longer this time. Hands still resting on the sides of the bowl. He dozed. Time passed.

Ilya awoke to his phone ringing. He jumped up and scrambled to the nightstand. Just a confirmation call for his dentist appointment later that week. Fuck. It was 8am. Okay. Two more hours. He dropped to sit on the side of the bed, and started Googling again. No news. No notes. No injury report. 

San Francisco played tomorrow. They would have to comment on his injury. Ilya wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. Other than for someone to fucking say something, somewhere, that he could latch on to. Reddit was page after page of speculation, but no one knew. No one really knew. He was hoping for a doctor or a nurse to leak something. Anything. But there was nothing concrete. The internet was just an endless pit of horrifying videos of Shane smashing face first into a fucking wall.

The fear was starting to morph into rage. When he fell asleep again, it wasn’t Shane’s injuries he saw, but himself beating Comeau against the boards. Unrestrained by consequences. Unmoored from reality. He’d wake up, hand pulsating with pain from injuries that didn’t exist. A few deep breaths and the pattern would restart. Asleep. Awake. Asleep. The rage crashing over him in each cycle. He wasn’t sure how time could pass so quickly in his dream but so slowly on the clock. 

The sun was fully up now in Boston. It was just starting to rise in California. The cruelty of time zones was almost done terrorizing him. He left his bed, phone in hand. It was still silent. Still empty of news. He poured water into the fancy coffeemaker Marly had convinced him to buy. He grabbed his secret cigarettes out of the kitchen cabinet and settled at his counter once more, cigarette and coffee in his hands. He knew he shouldn’t smoke in his house, but he also didn’t give a fuck. This is what air purifiers were for, no?

9:45. Fifteen minutes. He googled Shane’s name again. Still nothing new. He cursed San Francisco for their silence. Cursed Yuna Hollander for not immediately releasing some pre-prepared statement she saved for moments like this. Cursed Shane (unfairly) for not even thinking to text him. Cursed himself for thinking that maybe Shane hadn’t texted him because he couldn’t. 

It had been twelve hours. He had somehow survived 12 hours.

The alarm on his phone startled him back to reality. He silenced it and looked down at the time staring back at him. 7am. Fuck. Okay. He rolled his head back, looking at the ceiling for a moment. He blew out a long breath, and for the first time since the day Shane was traded, he called him.

It rang once. Then twice. A third time. Just as Ilya was about to give up, the phone connected. No one spoke, but he could hear the faint beeping of a machine, the woosh of Shane’s breathing. The undeniable static that came with a call open on both ends.

“Shane?” He knew he sounded wrong. He hadn’t spoken aloud in how many hours? Ten? Eleven? The whole 12? He didn’t even know. But he was hoarse. And… crying? Ilya doesn’t know when that started. Before he dialed? After? But he can taste the salt of his tears and hear the way his voice hitched. If he wasn’t terrified, he’d be embarrassed. 

“I’m here,” Shane sounded small and far away– soft and pliable. Ilya had the sudden desire to gather him up in his arms and cradle him close. Fuck.. 

“M’okay,” Shane slurred. “M’okay. Just sleepy.”

“I need to see you,” Ilya was desperate. He could hear the edge in his own voice. He was overcome with an intense and immediate need to see Shane. To see him move and breathe. To see his eyes and his mouth. To see him. He needed to see him.

“I can’t look at the screen...” Shane murmured back. Always following rules. Always being so careful. Ilya wanted to strangle him and hug him at the same time. He let out a little wet laugh.

“Just for a minute?” Ilya was aware that he was crying. Audibly crying. That Shane undoubtedly could tell how he felt. How he wa reacting. Which is why he didn’t hesitate to share his desperation and beg. “Please?”  

“M’kay.” And Shane flickered alive on the screen. His face was a mess. Bruised and swollen and bandaged. His freckles getting lost in the purple and black spreading over his cheeks from his nose and eyes. Ilya’s breath caught. His overwhelming need to care for Shane was matched only by his overwhelming need to kill Gilbert Comeau. 

“Солнышко. What have they done to you?” His voice was quiet, and he found himself reaching for the phone screen, wanting to brush his fingers over the bruising. He imagined how hot Shane’s face was, swollen and puffy and so broken. 

“I fell,” Shane countered. “It was an accident.” He sounded blurred around the edges. Clearly on medication. His eyes were looking away from the camera. It seemed that he had propped the phone on his tray, but was trying not to look at it. Pupils huge, gaze drifting off to the middle distance. “I have a concussion. That's all.”

Ilya can tell he hadn’t seen the video yet. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Shane that his former friend shoved him face first, full speed into a wall. So he didn’t. A small gift, Ilya thought, the only one he can give. Sending something would attract attention. Flying there would attract even more. But allowing Shane to believe he tripped before mashing his beautiful face– that was something Ilya could give. 

“You look awful,” Ilya offered. It wasa truth wrapped in a joke. Shane laughs and then winces as he moved his face that much.

“Oh yeah, I broke my nose,” Shane muttered as he reached up to feel the little metal brace there. 

“First time?” Ilya quipped. “It’ll make you look more like a hockey player, all crooked.”

“It’s crooked?!” Shane squeaked. 

“No, no… you’re still very pretty,” Ilya responded more gently.

“M’not pretty,” Shane sleepily protested. 

“Yes, sweetheart, you’re beautiful.” Ilya could feel the tension of the past 12 hours leave his body. Shane was beat up. He was clearly out for a long while. But he was alive and awake and okay. He was going to be okay.

“I’m so tired,” Shane blinked, his head resting back on the pillow and rolling a little to one side. “I’mma sleep now, okay?” He wasn’t really asking. He was falling asleep already. It was heartbreaking and adorable.

“You should rest, Shane, yeah? Get stronger.” Ilya held his breath and took a screen shot of the video call. He knew it was dangerous to have the image. He knew it was weird to take a picture of Shane in this state. But he just wanted something to look at and cling to when the call was over, and they went back to their timezones, their cities, their lives. On the other side of a country. May as well be the other side of the world. 

“Yes. Stronger,” he said quietly. His eyes were closed. He went silent and Ilya watched him for a moment. He was still and breathing softly, likely having drifted off to sleep. He was soft and beautiful. And Ilya wanted to just watch him for the rest of the day. See he was breathing. It was intoxicating to watch this man exist. To see him alive and warm and snuggling into an uncomfortable hospital bed.

“Ilya?” Shane spoke unexpectedly. His eyes didn’t open, his body didn’t move. He was reaching out to Ilya in his sleep– or near to, anyway. 

“Yes, Shane.”

“I wish you were here.” The words were slurred with medication and sleep. 

“Me too, Солнышко. Me too.” Ilya watched him sleep for a long while. Twenty minutes? Thirty? Until he heard a nurse come into Shane’s room and disconnected before she could see the very worried hockey captain who had gotten no sleep and now was watching a beautiful boy with freckles sleep in a hospital bed bathed with light from the window. And how would either of them explain that?

Chapter End Notes

The song I listened to writing this one is I Will Follow You into the Dark. Which I realize is VERY DRAMATIC but what is Ilya if not very dramatic?

My chapter count is likely to go up because we're solidly entering/beginning Act 2 at this point.

Chapter 16: shake it out

Chapter Summary

The one where a concussed Shane takes a bunch of pain killers and the lack of inhibitions leads to him taking control of his life.

Chapter Notes

I went to Hamilton to see the filming locations last week, so forgive my delayed chapter. It was SO FUN, though, and I highly suggest you do it, too. The food was good, it's so fun to just take pictures right where things were filmed, and who doesn't love buying a huge sack of Canadian candy at the Duty Free store? Plus, I got to hang out with my beta reader and general bffs.

Enjoy!

Shane woke up alone. Everything was too bright and too loud and too much, but he was awake. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. His head hurt. It was pounding, and his neck was so stiff he couldn’t move it without wincing. But he felt otherwise okay. He didn’t have any braces on, no casts. And… well, he had all his teeth. So that was good.  He could work with this. A win for Hollander. 

The room was light, so he knew some time had passed, but he couldn’t remember how much. He couldn’t remember much from the actual game. He hit the ice. Nylander screamed something at Comeau. The paramedics surrounded him as men were yelling and whistles were blowing. He was in the ambulance. And now he’s here. His phone was propped up on the tray table in front of him. It was dark, but it had clearly been put there with some intention. Okay. He was on the phone.

His parents?

Shane realized that even if his parents had gotten on a plane the second he hit the ice, they’d have been 6 hours away. How many hours had passed? 12? 24? Clearly not that many, as there was no Yuna Hollander in his room. Okay, so less than 12 hours, then. That was a good sign for his brain. 

“Mr. Hollander, you’re awake.” A nurse appeared and handed him the controls for his bed, helping him sit up further. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” he said weakly. Duh. 

“You have a pretty bad concussion, whiplash, and a broken nose, so I’m not surprised. Can you rank the pain for me?”

“Six. It’s a six.” 

“Alright, I’ll call the doctor and we’ll get that managed.”

“How long have I been here?” he asked the nurse as she was typing instructions into the computer terminal at the front of the room.

“You got here last night,” she reassured him. “It’s noon now. You had some pretty strong meds last night to help you sleep and for the pain, so you mostly slept. Now that you’re up, you’ll meet with your care team and work out what’s next.” So he was right. Less than 12 hours. Good. He was relieved he still had a grasp on the passage of time. 

Then came a was a monotonous cycle of vital checks, medication, and waiting. The nurses came in and out, and he was handed pills he took without question. After 2pm he finally saw the doctor who explained his brain to him in a way he wouldn’t understand even if he wasn’t taking pain pills and sleeping off a concussion. But he did understand her prognosis. He’d get more coherent, take less pills, and go home the day after tomorrow at the latest. 

So he returned to waiting. Shane hated being so far away from everyone he loved. He heard that Nylander had tried to stop by on the way home from the arena, but it was after visiting hours and Shane wasn’t awake to make them let him in. Which meant he was alone with his thoughts until he fell asleep or someone arrived in his room. 

Even though Shane was on strict no screen orders, he watched a replay of the hit anyway. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to know. Watching it hurt more than his aching head. It hurt his soul. The realization that it was not an accident left the taste of bile in his mouth. He took deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, closing his eyes to erase the image of his head slamming into the boards over and over. He felt like puking, but his nose and his neck would not enjoy that. At that moment he knew that he could never watch the clip again. Ever. 

So Shane laid in bed and stared at the weird informational posters on the walls. The shock of watching the hit brought him back to reality and dragged him back into his mind. The Shane Hollander special. A spiral of thoughts that either became a plan he would religiously follow or a panic attack. Maybe both. Sometimes it was both. Given the combination of drugs and the aftermath of life-altering events over the past 24 hours– it was certainly going to be both.

If Shane had any doubt who had been responsible for shunning him from Montreal, he knew now. Bouchard was obvious, since he was the one who grabbed his phone. But Comeau. That was a surprise. Well, not a surprise, not really. Shane had been in locker rooms with him for years. Heard what he said. Knew how he acted in the bar, in the club, when only other men were watching. But Shane had been in his wedding. Had comforted him for his subsequent divorce. A year ago they were friends, and today he was sitting in a hospital bed. He was flooded with rage, but also with shame. A hot and humiliating combination rushed through his body, taking him over. 

Over the years Shane had heard and watched so many stories of people discovering that their loved ones were gay and then realizing that their outdated opinions were wrong because they loved their friend, or brother, or son. It had become a kind of comfort watch for him. Video after video of people talking about how wrong they had been, and how much they understand now. It was his fantasy. He clung to it. A dream that maybe everything would someday be okay. He could be himself, stop being so cautious, and people in his life would just keep loving him. And while he dreamed and wished and wished and dreamed– he also knew it wasn’t real. Not for him. He would always be rejected.

And he was. Not by everyone, but by the men he had been closest with. Watching his teammates– his friends– reject him, mock him– for fucks sake, they tried to kill him– it caused his dream to collapse around him. 

It wasn’t that Shane was surprised. If he had thought it would all be inspirational videos and rainbows, he wouldn’t be in the closet at all. But it did sting a little extra. Like somehow he wasn’t worth the transformation to a fucking decent human being.

But fuck that. He fucking was. He was worth not only decency, but love and support from his teammates. It was clear as day now that he experienced one team’s rejection and another’s acceptance all at once. The Sea Lions had rallied around him. He couldn’t remember it all, but he remembered the beginning of the game. He remembered Nylander all over the ice, all night long. He remembered Jojo keeping him safe and protected in his lane. He remembered seeing the edges of the brawl as he waited to be taken to the ambulance, delayed by the fighting his team was doing FOR HIM. And he had been their teammate for what? Six months? And they had decided he was worthy of their care and protection. Because he fucking was.

Shane realized that he had spent the week leading up to the game feeling ashamed. Scared of his new teammates finding out what happened. Feeling that he didn’t belong in their locker room, in their showers, on their team. That he didn’t belong in hockey, because men like him didn’t play sports. Shouldn’t play sports. He skittered around and made himself small and hoped they wouldn’t notice. He lied to the press, to his mom, and to himself. 

But in the end, his new team didn’t seem to give a shit. They knew. Or at least Nylander knew. Shane was sure that Nylander knew. Coach knew. How could he not, when Theriault surely told him? And tonight it was Nylander that was keeping him safe and taking on fights. He didn’t give a fuck if he was gay. And the team didn’t seem to give a fuck, either. They heard what Comeau and Bouchard were saying. But they still didn’t shun Shane. They got mad on his behalf instead. 

Oh. Fuck. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t belong in hockey. It was that he didn’t belong in Montreal. Not with guys like that thinking they could do whatever they want to guys like him.

And that’s how Shane Hollander suddenly settled into himself. Not entirely. Not completely. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to know that he didn’t need to make himself small or invisible. Because he wasn’t the problem, they were. Maybe there were other teams out there who would hate him, even try to hurt him. But he had a team that cared for him, and he was not going to play like he was apologizing. He was going to play like he knew he was the best fucking hockey player in the entire fucking world.

Because now he did.

Nylander arrived again around 3pm. Shane’s parents hadn’t arrived yet because there weren’t a lot of overnight flights from Montreal to San Francisco, and once they landed, they had to work their way through customs at SFO. So Liam Nylander was the first person to see Shane Hollander at the hospital.

“Hey.” Liam was quiet as he came in and said hello, acting like Shane was a sleeping baby. 

“Hi!” Shane was too loud, and a little too excited. He was still on drugs, even if he was certainly more lucid. “It’s you!”

Nylander laughed and nodded his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. Nylander was in his late thirties and is starting to look older. Hockey aged you, both because it’s hard on your body and because you’re constantly surrounded by 19 year olds in peak athletic form. 

“Sure is. How you doing, Hollzy? You scared the shit out of me.” Nylander dropped into the large recliner chair next to Shane’s hospital bed, crossing his long legs and resting his arms on the arms of the chair.

“I’m alive!” Shane did something kind of like jazz hands and then giggled at his own joke. “Broken nose, concussion, whiplash... but nothing major to rehab. Just have to wait out the brain.”

“The famously unimportant brain, yes,” Nylander agreed, seriously unserious. “Are you… are you okay if I want to say something serious? Do you think you’ll remember it?”

Shane paused for a moment to consider this. He remembered waking up this morning. He remembered his frustration with his lunch tray. He remembered the episode of Family Feud he listened to the person in the room next to him watch just an hour ago. 

“Yes, I think I will,” he agreed, but didn’t nod. That hurt too much.

“We had a talk. The team. Last night in the locker room. After. And… that was fucked up what happened to you. We won’t let it get like that again. And we will stand behind anything you want to do about it now. Whether it’s a complaint, or pressing charges, or anything. Coach agrees. I think we can get the GM on board… Just, I want you to know you don’t have to pretend that didn’t happen out there last night. You don’t have to pretend it was an accident.”

“Yeah. I watched it. Once.” Shane admitted, his eyes focused on his feet under the white blanket. “And you’re right. It wasn’t an accident.” A deep breath in, and one out. Shane continued, “I want to thank you all. For protecting me, but also… I don’t want to be scared and ashamed anymore. It’s not my fault, you know? I think I realized that all this time, I assumed that *I* was the problem. But, really, it’s them. Them and anyone that thinks like them.”

“And if they don’t know they’re the problem, I’m about to show them how big of a problem they are.” Nylander smiled, wide and real and a little bit predatory. 

“Thank you,” Shane said quietly. For this, but also for everything. “That was really amazing. What you all did for me.”

“Shane.” Nylander stopped him. “No one treats a member of our family that way. Of course we did that for you. You score all the goals and always buy the first round. Of course we love you.”

The men smiled at each other a little goofily. Shane was so happy to know he had a captain and a team that loved him and supported him and hated this sort of thing just as much as him. Nylander was happy that it seemed like Shane was no longer stuck in the weird shame spiral he was in before the game. 

“Hey, Landie…” Shane asked just as the silence got a little too long. “Do you think I could tell the guys the truth? That I’m gay?” With the drugs came bravery, and with bravery came the desire to stop dancing around the truth they were all conveniently ignoring. 

Shane knew Nylander knew, and Nylander knew Shane knew he knew, but they had never spoken it out loud. Shane had been acting like a child who knew Santa Claus wasn’t real, but didn’t want his parents to find out. So Nylander was pretending. And Shane was pretending. And it was fucking exhausting. Shane was done with it. He wanted to be open. He wanted his captain to actually know him. And why couldn’t he? Because at the end of the day, Nylander did not care about his sexuality, just his wellbeing, and that was the most liberating thing to have ever happened to Shane.

Nylander was silent for a moment. His brows pinched just a little as he thought. It was clear to Shane that he was running scenarios. They were similar, he and Nylander, in the way they approached hockey. That they saw plays in their head and paused to work through things one at a time before making a plan. That’s what kept Shane from panicking. He knew that Nylander wasn’t trying to let him down easy or ask him to hide. He was planning. Figuring out how it would work out. For Shane and for the team. Then his eyes came back to meet Shane’s and he nodded. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He smiled a bit as he nodded. “I absolutely think you can come out to the team. I think they’d like it, actually.” Nylander laughed warmly, imagining it. “That you’d trust them and let them in. They believed the press when they said that you’re standoffish and distant, and they have already been very overly proud of themselves for getting to know you. This would make them insufferable… but like, in a good way?”

“I can absolutely see that.” It was Shane’s turn to laugh then, and he nodded. “Okay, so we tell them.”

“We tell them.” Nylander affirms and the two men continue beaming at each other. The glow of the good talk kept Shane’s pain at bay.

“Tell them what?” Yuna Hollander chose that moment to arrive in Shane’s hospital room. She put her purse down on the table by the door and stopped at the foot of Shane’s bed, looking over Nylander before beginning the evaluation of her son’s injuries.

“Hi, Mom. This is–”

“Liam Nylander, I know.” She pauses then to meet his eyes. “Thank you. That was very brave what you did for Shane. Not every captain would have gotten involved.” 

“It was my honor, Mrs. Hollander.” Nylander stood, then, and offered his hand to Yuna. Everyone knew about Yuna Hollander. Who she was, how good she was, and how she felt about Shane. Based on the fact that Shane hadn’t answered her, Nylander realized that she had no idea what was really going on. And based on the shocked look on Nylander’s face, Shane knew that the last place Nylander wanted to be was the third wheel while one of his players came out to his mother. “I’m going to head out, but we’ll catch up again tomorrow, yes, Hollander?” 

“Yes, Captain.” Shane winked. Liam then turned to go, laughing softly on his way out of the room.

“What was that?” Yuna asked as she proceeded to investigate her son’s injuries.

“Hello to you, too, Mom.” Shane sighed and leaned his head back on the pillow.

“You don’t remember that I called last night, do you?” Her brows furrowed, and then leaned over to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

“I do not,” he agreed. “I do not remember much of any of last night.”

“I have to make sure to tell your doctor that, when I see her… have you seen her yet today? I know it’s early for her rounds, but I thought maybe after the morning blood–”

“Mom–”

“--work she would want to come in and see if I’m here and if we wanted to talk, but–”

“Mom–”

“-- it looks like she didn’t even stop in yet to see you this afternoon. Maybe I’ll have her pa–”

“MOM!” That caused Yuna to stop her endless logistical rambling and look up, meeting Shane’s eyes.

“Yes?” She tilted her head and examined him again. Concussions worried her. She harbored the secret guilt of a parent who encouraged a sport with the certain eventuality of a brain injury. 

“Can you sit down? I want to tell you something.” 

“Alright...” 

“Something happened. In Montreal. Before the trade.” Shane swallowed. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, steeling himself to keep going. When he opened them again, he was looking at her hand laid on top of the sheets on the bed. 

“First, I need to tell you that I’m gay.” His voice was soft but sure. He paused and glanced up for a minute to see Yuna watching him carefully. Her eyes were soft, but her expression betrayed a combination of confusion and worry. 

“I’ve known for awhile, but when this happened it made me accept it much faster than I think I was ready for. I should have told you sooner. I hate hiding things from you. I know you deserve more than that. And I’m sorry.” 

“Shane–” Yuna’s voice was soft, and she reached for his hand now, putting her delicate hand over his, laying it on top, and curling her fingers around his. She was holding his hand, but he also had complete freedom to move it away. Shane appreciated that she knew him well enough to know he needed that type of support. Present. There. But leaving him the option to pull back. It made it easier not to.

“Mom, let me finish, okay?” He pressed on. “Before I was traded, one of my teammates saw something on my phone. A text I was responding to. From a man. And it was obvious that it was a man I was… involved… with. He told enough people that it totally changed how the team saw me and treated me. It impacted the team and the dynamic, so they traded me. That’s why.” 

“Oh, Shane–”

“I’m almost done.” He interrupted her again, holding his hand up to stop her. “What happened last night. It wasn’t an accident. I know you can tell it wasn’t an accident. I wanted it to be an accident, but Montreal was hard for a long time. I didn’t really fit in. They saw me as awkward, standoffish, less manly than them… all of that. But this made it so much worse. The Asian thing, that’s always been hard, but being gay… I was scared. I thought I was ridiculous for being scared, but.. well..” Shane shrugged then grimaced, his neck still sore. He closed his eyes for a minute, swallowed and took another breath. Yuna was letting him finish now, her eyes cast down on their stacked hands, knowing that Shane was doing the same.

“I was relieved I was traded, maybe, I don’t know. It’s complicated. I was angry and sad but also… it was over, you know? They were directing so much anger at me. And then I got to San Francisco, and it’s so different. I used to think I didn’t fit in hockey, but it was just that I didn’t fit in Montreal. Because my team now… they’re really something. I love them. And they love me. You saw what they did for me, and they didn’t even know why. They didn’t have to know why to know I didn’t deserve that. That I am one of them and we protect each other. So I think I want to tell them. About me. And I am going to need your help, Mom. Because of the brand deals and the–”

“Shane, baby, I love you so much,” Yuna interrupted softly, stopping him as he started to spiral. “Of course I’ll help you.” She reached out to take Shane’s other hand, also cradling it gently in hers as if it was fragile and precious. “I’m so proud of you and I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t come to me as soon as this happened. As soon as you knew.”

“I forgive you, Mom,” Shane said as he squeezed her hand. He wanted to tell her that he was scared and it wasn’t her fault. Or that he didn’t want to worry her, but he knew that was not what she wanted to hear. She needed her son to forgive her imperfections, as Shane often needed her to do the same. The silence stretched on for a while. She was holding his hands, leaning across the bed to reach them both, and he was squeezing them gently. Neither looking the other in the eye. 

Shane was amazed at how similar they were sometimes. That he could see himself so clearly in his mother and his mother so clearly in himself. One day he was getting ready and looked up into the mirror and swore he saw her eyes looking back at him. It was gone as soon as it happened, but Shane knew what he saw. Another Hollander who was always planning to keep the panic at bay. Who needed to know she was absolved of her sins. Who needed space and time to process, without eye contact and often without physical contact, too. So he gave her the space and the time because he knew she was not done speaking. Not yet.

“Not just that, though, Shane… I’m also sorry that I pushed you to stay in hockey. When you were uncomfortable and unsure, I always told you that it didn’t matter. That being good would make them accept you, and that it was important to show that kids that look like you can play just as well. But, now, I see that I put you in this impossible position. Those locker rooms and buses and planes. So many places that can be so hostile to you that forgetting to hide your text message can end like this.” She waved her arm around the room. “I’m sorry. I should have listened better.”

“Thank you, Mom. It’s okay, I loved hockey. I don’t know that I would have been able to walk away, even if you gave me permission. But I forgive you for not knowing that you should have. I was so good at hiding.” A pause, then, to let the heaviness set in. They were both fighting back their tears, a pair of matching glassy eyes looking anywhere but at each other.

“Can I…can I tell the team, please?” Shane stopped to take a deep, deep breath, pushing it out through his mouth slowly. When Yuna didn’t jump right in, he kept going. “Without ruining the deals and everything? I know it’s a risk, if it gets out, but I really want to try. I want them to know me. I don’t want to be scared anymore.” Shane’s voice had gotten small and childlike. He needed his mother’s permission, but also his mother’s suffocating care. 

Yuna looked at his face then, and their eyes met. Shane held the gaze as long as he could. He felt like he was pleading with her, begging for her permission to live his grown ass adult life as he chose. He could also see that his mother recognized it. She pursed her lips, lost in thought, for what seemed like an eternity. 

“Okay. Yes. You will come out to your team. We’ll figure it out. Soon. I promise. But for right now, you have to let your brain rest. We have time. You have a whole rehab process ahead of you. We’re going to figure this all out.”  

Shane nodded silently. His eyes were still glistening and his mouth was pressed together in a line, clearly trying to stop himself from crying out. Yuna’s face softened and she squeezed his hands again as they continued to look at each other.

“Before I go find the doctor…” Yuna broke the silence carefully, as if she was approaching a mountain lion. Shane was sure there was a question coming next, and he braced himself, the room filling with silence and tension. “Do you want to tell me who you were texting?”

“No,” Shane answered honestly. “Not yet.” He softened the blow, because he meant it. He did want to tell her. And he wanted her to know him. The mystery man on the other side of the cell phone. The infuriatingly far away, handsome, emotionally wrecked man that caused Shane’s highly out of character carelessness. But Shane also knew that neither of them were ready for that. Not yet. 

“Okay, honey. I’m going to go get these nurses to page your doctor. I think it’s time we all had a chat we can remember.” His mom squeezed both of his hands, then carefully placed them back on the hospital bed. They lay across the white blankets, gently rested against the sheets. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead as she stood. And then Yuna swept out of the room. 

The room was suddenly quiet. And Shane blew a long, hot breath before pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“Holy shit.”

Chapter End Notes

The song for this chapter was Shake it Out my Florence and the Machine. I love it and I think it matches Shane's POV here. Would anyone actually want the playlist for this story? I listen to it a lot now, actually.

I'm hitting the end of my detailed outline and into the part where there's more arrows and question marks, so we may stay on the every 7-10 day schedule. Though, every time I say that, I end up slamming something out much faster. So, we'll see. I've been reading a lot of heavy angst fic, though, and it's hard to get in the mindset for something with less angst. I'm sorry if all these divorce fics send me into a third act breakup psychosis.

Chapter 17: want to dace with somebody

Chapter Notes

I ditched the chapter count. I have an outline through to the end, but the characters keep wanting to talk longer and run off on side quests and I just don't know how long they're going to take me on this journey. Probably more than 20 and less than 30. I'm sorry. My characters always mistreat me like this.

“It’ll be fun.” Svetelana called a couple of weeks after Shane’s accident with a request, and Ilya was just not in the mood. “Basically the same deal as last time, you say a few words the league writes for you, we take some pictures, everyone claps. Plus, your league could use the good publicity right now.”

“Sveta…” He sighed heavily into the phone. They had been talking regularly, but they hadn’t seen each other since Detroit. Svetlana had invited Ilya out a couple of times and he politely declined. She didn’t ask what happened, and he didn’t offer. So they retreated to sending each other hockey memes and occasionally discussing their families in Russia. “San Francisco is a seven hour flight.”

“You’re in Seattle right after. So you fly down on your day off, do the announcement, and then it’s a short hop up to Seattle to rejoin your team. Easy peasy,” she said matter of factly.

“You researched my schedule?” he grumbled. 

“I did.” Ilya could hear her smile spread over her face as she spoke. “You don’t want Hollander to show you up as the league’s leading feminist, do you?”

“It’s his city, Svete.” Ilya huffed, though his disagreement had less bite to it now. “He should be there.” Ilya and Shane had texted a few times since the hospital. Ilya had been too scared to call again, and Shane never even mentioned it. Ilya wasn’t even sure he could remember it. 

He wasn’t sure how Shane would feel about something like this. They were in a much better place than they were when the trade first happened, sure, but also Shane very much did not like when Ilya showed up in San Francisco unannounced. He wasn’t really one for surprises. 

“Does he know you’re asking me?” 

“I told Rose. She’s very persuasive. You should meet her.” Svetlana had clearly propped the phone between her shoulder and her ear and Ilya could hear the telltale noises of her packing.

“Where are you?”

“Seattle.”

“Sveta, it’s like 5am there.”

“Yeah, I know, Ilya,” she said flatly. “My flight is at 8. We fly commercial.”

“Fair. And I’ve met Rose. When you made me go to the other team announcement,” Ilya quipped.

“Oh, that was hilarious,” Svetlana laughed loud and bright. “You two were so mad at each other and we had no idea. Do you think you could do that again? The online attention would be fantastic. Pull something the night before so people tune in to see the show?”

“Sveta, I’m not fake fighting with Shane Hollander for ratings,” he said exasperated, yet amused. 

“Your loss,” she stated simply with the inflection of a shrug. 

“Really, Svete, if you all have Hollander, what do you need me to fly across the country for?” Ilya dropped down onto the edge of the hotel bed in his room, letting out a deep breath.

“It’s good for us. To see the league’s two biggest stars who can’t even stand each other coming together for our league. We need the buzz, but also I think we need the support. It doesn’t seem like much, but it is.” She let the bratty little sister drop away from her voice. 

“Alright, Svete. I’ll come,” Ilya said simply after they sat in a brief silence. “As long as Hollander is okay with it.”

“That is very fair. I’ll let Rose know. Thanks for at least pretending you want to do this.” 

“I want you all to succeed,” Ilya answered sincerely. 

—

The WHL released an announcement that they’ll be having a press conference at the arena in San Francisco, and the internet went nuts. Charlotte Traina, the youngest sister of the family that owns the Sea Lions, would be the official owner. She was 28, beautiful, and fast friends with Rose. The event had more of a party feel than the one in Detroit, as it was the last of the four teams being announced, and not as an add-on to an MHL event.

Svetlana promised Ilya that Shane was fine with his being there. He didn’t text Shane ahead of time, and Shane didn’t text him. The silence was awkward and uncomfortable, but also Ilya had never tried to convert occasional casual sex into a long distance relationship before. An impossible long distance relationship at that.

Sometimes Ilya would watch 90 Day Fiance. He wasn’t sure if it was masochism or research or what. But he related sometimes to a lovesick delusional person who would fly across the world for no more than two weeks and stilted conversations through Google translate. He was jealous that at the end of their courtship one would just pick up and move to the other. A complete surrender to the unknown of whatever country they chose. He resented their ability to choose where to live, when to visit, how long to be places --hese accountants and consultants and mundane people with mundane lives that became extraordinary through the same kind of ill-fated affection he was currently suffering.

“I always saw you as more of a Bravo kind of guy,” Marley chirped when he came back to the room early once to catch Ilya watching one of the multitude of 90 Day Fiance spin offs. Honestly, he probably was. Watching a self absorbed diva throw her prosthetic at a narcissist in a fancy restaurant was more Ilya’s style. And yet he watched and romanticized and wondered in a way that was dangerous and frivolous and maybe a little bit juvenile. He didn’t really care.

Ilya was leaning against the wall in the wings of the makeshift stage. Svetlana briefed him on the ride over that he and Shane would be some kind of surprise moment to up the excitement and production value. The area outside the arena where the stage was set was filling in with people. He watched the fans filter in and chat with excitement.

They were nothing like men’s hockey fans. Dyed hair, piercings, so many rainbows. Ilya had known that there were openly queer players in the WHL, but somehow it didn’t dawn on him that the fanbase would also be… different. He hadn’t spent much time learning American politics, not really, so the campaign shirts and political slogan pins held no meaning for him, but he did know punk music and Bad Bunny… he got the idea. 

The jealousy he felt in Detroit when he saw hockey players married and out and making out in public surged through him. They got to do that because their fans didn’t care. He knew that it probably was still rough in locker rooms. Hockey culture was hockey culture. Even for women. But these fans… they didn’t seem to give a fuck. Ilya wanted that. He wanted it so much he could feel his bones ache with it. 

He was being pulled under by the want just as Shane Hollander appeared next to him. Face still bruised, nose a little bumpier, but unmistakably Shane. He was maybe an inch too close to Ilya, crowding into his space in the unremarkable way someone who misjudged their distance would. Iyla did not step back to put more distance between them. He wanted to be in Shane’s space and feel his warmth and share whatever this complicated yearning anger was.

“Fuck, right?” Ilya spoke first, gesturing to the crowd with his chin. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded without turning his head from the crowd. “Fuck.”

They both turned their heads at the same moment, and they were too close, and too raw. They really should not have been standing there like that, inches apart, while trying to process the fact that there is another way to play hockey. To be queer and exist in a world with hockey. 

“You think any of those people give a fuck that we’re here?” Ilya turned back to the crowd, breaking eye contact.

“They would if we kissed,” Shane quipped. A huge Cheshire grin spread across his face. Proud of his joke, Ilya thought, but maybe also imagining it a little?

“I think Sveta and Rose would not be pleased,” Ilya responded. “It would certainly take the attention away from the team.”

“All press is good press.” Shane was still smiling.

“Nice to see that concussion didn’t ruin your sense of humor, Hollander.” Ilya took a small step to the left so he could turn and look at Shane without accidentally kissing him. Shane didn’t step back into him, but also didn’t seem hurt or offended.

“Rose told me you’d be here, but I didn’t really think you’d come,” Shane said, changing the subject. “You have a game tomorrow in Seattle.”

“It’s a short flight.” Then Ilya paused, taking a breath and bracing. “I came because Svetlana asked.”

“I thought you weren’t–” Shane’s voice did that little cracking thing it did when he was upset and surprised at the same time.

“No, no. We are not. But she is my oldest friend and thought this would be good for league.” Ilya shrugged, looking over Shane’s face to gauge his reaction. His face was unreadable, so Ilya swallowed and went on. “Plus, how often do I get to see you, eh?”

It was silent for a moment, Shane’s face still unreadable. He cast his eyes down so he could think better, Ilya realized. He raised them again and nodded just a teeny tiny bit. An acceptance of some sort. Ilya wouldn’t question it.

“I am glad for that,” Shane says quietly. The backs of their hands brush. Ilya is not sure if he did the reaching or if Shane did the reaching, but the incidental looking touch is electric and intentional and far, far too little.

“If it isn’t the Montagues and Capulets of hockey!” Rose exclaimed as she came around the corner. Both of them shoved their hands in their pants pockets.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Rose,” Shane said with feigned annoyance. 

“Sure it does. I have a masters in theater, Shane Hollander. I know about these things!” She was laughing as she tossed her arm around him, pulling their heads together. Ilya understood then that they had never been anything even vaguely romantic. The energy between them was magnetic, but easy and familial. Very much familial. 

“Hello, Rose,” Ilya nodded at her. “Do you own this team, too?” 

“Funny, but no.” She turned to him fully. “Thanks for coming, Rozanov.”

The event was just as boring as the last one, really, but this time it involved Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov delivering some highly scripted lines about how they will put aside their differences to watch women’s hockey together. Ilya got to put his arm around Shane, and pulled him close as Shane tried to wiggle out of his grip. It was as much an act as it was a reality, and it was fun. Everything about these WHL appearances had been fun and low stress, and yet somehow fucking fraught, too. 

—

Rose hadn’t mentioned Ilya would be there until they were in the cab on the way over.

“Oh, Shane, by the way, I asked Svetlana to bring Rozanov. That’s cool, right?” She asked it in that breezy way that acknowledged she knew it was probably not in fact cool, but also he couldn’t really stop it, either.

“Um. Sure.” He smiled at her, tight lipped.

“Great! Svetlana made me promise I’d tell you. She said he was very clear about that.” Rose said while tapping away on her phone. Her practiced non-chalance was not tricking Shane. “Slipped my mind, though, with helping Char with all this…” 

“It’s okay, Rose, don’t worry about it.” Shane stared at his phone, wondering why Ilya hadn’t bothered to tell Shane himself. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

He didn’t remember their conversation in the hospital, not clearly. But he had pieced together that it happened. His phone told him, yes, but he could also feel it around the edges of his memory. The softness of it, and that he had fallen asleep with the phone pointed at his face. Though he was sure it was tender, neither of them reached out after. Nothing real anyway. A text about some gossip from Shane. How’s your head from Ilya. Nothing seemed to grow. More of the same, he figured.

So when Rose offhandedly mentioned that Ilya would be there, while Shane was hurt that it wasn’t Ilya that told him, he was also very excited for this rare moment  *together*. Because barring both teams making the Stanley Cup Finals, they wouldn’t be in the same place again until the MHL awards at the end of June. 

“You both just need to read what’s on the teleprompter, take photos, and you’re free to go. No press, even.” Rose is still selling it, but Shane has already bought in. He pats Rose on the knee. 

“I said it’s okay. I’m excited,” he reassures her. Rose looked up to disagree with him, butwhen she looked him in the eyes, she realized that he was telling the truth. He did actually seem excited.

Shane hated the appearance itself. Ridiculous lines. Silly photos. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Ilya while also pretending they hate each other. The brief moment they got to talk between them was too swift and infuriatingly vague. Shane didn’t get to ask him anything he really wanted to, and it left him a little on edge, punchier than he’d usually be. Something Ilya seemed to enjoy. 

They got invited to some after party at a sports bar nearby. Just as Shane was about to decline, he was ambushed by the rag-tag group he was somehow a part of now.

“One drink, I demand it,” declared Rose.

“What happened to free to go?” Shane replied.

“You’re free to leave, but why would you want to?” Svetlana strolled up, Ilya trailing behind her. “You need to see how we party, Hollander. Much better than your silly league.”

“Ah, Sveta, you mistake Hollander for someone who parties. It is past his bedtime.”

“It’s seven o'clock!" Shane replied in his indignant squeak voice.

“Exactly,” Ilya replied smoothly. This set Rose off, and she giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Fine. Okay. One drink.” Shane pouted and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

They arrived at the bar and it was full. There were fans and players and sponsors all milling about. And it was so fucking different than he expected. Or than he was used to. Sure, it’s hockey. The players, especially, at least some of them, still had that conservative jock thing about them that comes from years in locker rooms and buses with other hockey players. The girls come from the same families as the boys, after all. But also it’s… loose, and fun, and quirky, and everyone in that room has the drive of someone who knows they had to fight to be there. 

Shane understands what it’s like to not belong in hockey but to earn your spot there through sheer force of will. He was one of the only Asian kids, and now also one of the only gay players. The sport is punishing and dismissive of people like him. People like them. He knew that so many of these women were once the only girl on a boy’s team. Or had nowhere to play and no one to play with unless their families drove them hours away. He knew that girls all over had to use broom closets as locker rooms and go home sweaty and smelly without the hugs or high fives a winning locker room brought. And now, after all that, they got paid a fraction of what even the lowest paid NHL player got. They flew economy, crushed into too small seats, and shared rooms in outdated hotels. But they fought for their league. They fought to get to play in it. They fought to have a place where they belonged. 

He loves it. He loves everything about it.

Shane can see an outline of a world where he fights for something like that, and it exhilarates him. Not because he’s going to do it, but because he can. Because someone did. Because Rose saw that he needed this beautiful, delicate, tentative thing in his life more than it needed his fame or his money or his approval. Not a single player in this room was there for his approval.

He fucking loves it.

Rose pressed a drink in his hand, and lead him over to a table where Svetlana and Ilya were standing with the married couple he remembered meeting at the All Star Game, Annika Stensrud and Dani Beaulieu. They seemed to be attracting the more “alternative” people in the room, Shane thought. Tattoos, colored hair, and very gay. This may be the first time Shane had ever been purposefully in what appeared to be a queer space, and certainly the first time the other people there treated him like a participant rather than an interloper.

“If it isn’t the mascots of women’s hockey!” Stenny exclaimed as Shane approached. “I never thought I’d see you again, and yet, here you are.”

“Rose asked,” Shane said simply, “and I like coming.” He took a spot at the table, leaning.

“Not sure our fans give a shit about you two, but hopefully the girlfriends of your fans will come watch.” Beau chirped Shane and he laughed, full and bright. He wasn’t used to affectionate chirping, not yet anyway, after too long with the Metros and their passive aggressive disapproval. Even before they knew. Especially before.

“If you didn’t love us, you wouldn’t keep inviting us, da?” Ilya smiled at the women before turning his smile on Shane, raising an eyebrow.

“They keep inviting you, we tolerate you!” Stenny replied.

Stenny and Beau were comfortable with each other, and in each other’s space, and no one seemed to care. They leaned on each other, passed their drink back and forth, and shared an easy affection that was unhurried and not at all self conscious. Shane was jealous, yes, but also… curious. He wanted to dissect all the reasons why they could skate together on a line the fans affectionately dubbed the “Wife Line,” and cuddle at tables, and kiss in the press. He wanted to know how they captained rival teams in the Olympics, while no one seemed to care they were also married. He wanted to know how the little sisters of the men who called him slurs and slammed him into boards found themselves laughing and drinking and playing with these two loud, brash women who were also so unabashedly in love. 

He wanted to study every aspect of it. He wanted to dissect it until he understood everything about it. He wanted a PhD in it. To be the world’s number one expert in how they got to be here in this bar with their arms around each other on top of the world.

No, that was not what Shane Hollander really wanted. He wanted it for himself.

He wanted a solution to the maddening equation that made this normal and uninteresting in the WHL but an endless scandal in the MHL. He wanted the blueprint of it. He needed a plan to follow with a binder and numbered steps. Color coded, peer reviewed. Proven. Guaranteed.

“You wound me!” Ilya exclaimed, putting a hand over his heart in an exaggerated display. His eyes shifted to Shane, and his expression darkened, just a little. Shane caught his eye and immediately realized that Ilya was watching him. Watching him be decidedly not there, alone in his head, thinking and clawing and planning.

“It’s okay, Rozanov. Not everyone can be as beloved as me.” Shane tried his hand at chirping now. It was tame, yes, and the intonation was all wrong, but it was on purpose and it was aimed at Ilya. 

Shane got the brightest smile in return. A straight face splitting, eyes twinkling smile. As if Shane coming back to the world solely to roast Ilya Rozanov was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And Shane couldn’t help but smile like that in return. 

Maybe Ilya felt it too? Maybe he had the same weird hope that things could be different? Shane knew they couldn’t have the conversation here. Not with Svetlana chirping Stenny and Stenny putting Rose in a headlock. Not with Ilya unable to get a word in edgewise when the third in their line, Addie Rook, appeared and changed the subject to the upcoming expansion draft. Not when a rookie coming from UMN Duluth cornered him to ask very specific questions about her game. And not when Beau put Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)” on the TouchTunes, and everyone in the whole bar sang the chorus in unison. 

So the night passed in moments like that. In laughs and too many drinks and very serious hockey talk interspersed with very silly sing alongs. Suddenly it was 1am, and Ilya was saying his flight leaves at 9am, and Svetlana was ribbing him about getting old. Then the two of them disappeared while Rose got in a cab with Shane, and he found himself standing in his entry way, tipsy and happy and alone. Very, very alone.

Shane’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

LILY: Your apartment?

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Shane knew how he would answer before he even got the text. He knew he would answer as soon as Ilya said the time of his flight. As soon as they were bundled into separate cabs by separate women they were not sleeping with. He knew how he was going to answer because he also knew that if Ilya didn’t reach out first, he would have invited him. He knew because they were real, and alive, and so close that they were almost touching all night. Because Ilya threw his arm around Shane to sing some pop song Shane had never heard. Because Ilya winked over the top of his glass when he thought no one was looking, and Shane saw Svetlana notice. But he didn’t panic. He almost didn’t care. And so he knew he was going to answer, and for once he didn’t hate himself. He didn’t even torture himself. 

SHANE: Fuck you.

And just like Shane knew he would to answer, Ilya knew that Shane didn’t mean no.

Chapter End Notes

I listened to a lot of queer ballads and pop songs while writing this. I'm a season ticket holder to the Minnesota Frost, so the past three weeks have had me on a roller coaster. I have been thinking a lot about how the fans are more progressive than the players and how that atmosphere actually allows the players who want to be out and political and free to be so. And how the fans of the NHL are in large part holding back change. And if Heated Rivalry does anything for players it will be easing up on the fan pressure a bit. The institutions are still going to suck, though. You even see that in the PWHL right now.

ANYWAY. I hope you enjoy all these OCs I have running around. I love them. I'm really proud of this chapter, so please enjoy. And as always I'm reading and feeding off your comments and kudos. Tell a friend, too, if you want to pass on the women's hockey love. <3

Chapter 18: as is

Chapter Summary

The one when they finally admit that this isn't about convenience anymore and maybe they have to start actually coming up with a plan. Also they're jealous af of the women's league, as they should be.

Chapter Notes

Guys! Guys! Guys! I get to write an unhinged author's note. Sorry this is delayed but I had to deal with a debilitating infection in my right thumb's nailbed AND THEN my first floor flooded cause the little fill stopper thing on my toilet broke and so my entire first level flooring is ruined. Weeeeee.

I mean, it's been a crazy week and I finally had time to pull this extremely complicated and emotional chapter out of my brain. Enjoy it, please.

Ilya arrived less than 20 minutes later. From the look of him, he hadn’t even gone into the hotel before calling himself another car and arriving at Shane’s apartment. Shane opened the door to him, and he stood there with his jacket draped over his arm wearing a slutty little tank top and a big dopey smile on his face.

He smelled vaguely of smoke and a little of beer. Shane moved out of the way to let him in down the hallway, and before Rozanov could turn around, Shane closed the door behind him. They turned to face each other in the dim glow of the street lights filtering through the windows. 

“Shane,” Ilya said quietly. He smiled that soft yet sad smile he saved for these sort of meetings. It partially infuriated, partially ignited Shane. He loved it. He hated it. Fuck.

“Cm’ere,”  Shane said lowly in a little growl as he grabbed Ilya around the waist and tugged him closer. “You infuriating man,” he muttered into Ilya’s lips before Shane pulled him into a kiss. 

“You like it,” Ilya muttered back into his mouth as Shane pushed him back into the wall. They immediately fell into their pattern. Hands in hair, thumbs splayed over cheeks, tongues pressed together. Kissing, for them, just worked. There was none of the awkward stuttering start where both people needed to adjust to each other. To learn to work together. Their bodies just worked. They communicated with each other physically in a way their brains never had (or maybe ever could, Shane worried vaguely). And for one fleeting second, Shane wondered if he should stop them. If they should just… talk. Sit. Be still and listen.

But then Ilya was rolling them along the wall, Shane’s back was pressed under Ilya’s weight, Ilya’s knee slotted between Shane’s legs. Oh, yes. This was better. This was easier. Or, at least, this was needed first, even ifthey still don’t have time for after. 

They broke apart long enough that Shane pulled Ilya’s tank top off and over his head. As they were crashing back together, they traded places again, Ilya back against the wall, Shane unbuttoning his pants. 

“Slow down, slow down,” Ilya laughed, moving Shane’s hands long enough to pull his shirt over his head. The desperation of the thing started to dissipate, Ilya still laughing as he kissed lazily down Shane’s neck, hooking fingers in the back of his waistband. “I want to enjoy you.”

Shane stopped moving, stopped breathing,his mind rebooting. They spoke so rarely, saw each other so rarely, communicated so rarely that the repercussions of each meeting never had the chance to settle into Shane’s brain. Had they decided to say things like that to each other? To be vulnerable and sweet along with hungry and needy and on fire? He thinks they probably did. 

He knows they did. Because why else were they doing this thing, anyway? When the convenience went away, so did the excuses. When Ilya flew across the country for a two hour media event, and Shane chose not to sleep before a division game, they had stopped pretending it was only about sex.

But Shane’s brain hadn't had time to catch up over the broken up, stilted conversations peppered through hook ups and arguments and so, so much time apart. It was April now. Since Shane got on that plane in November, they’d only spoken, what? Three times? Four? And one Shane was high out of his mind. So when Ilya was openly soft, Shane bristled. Just for a second. 

He knew immediately that he hurt Ilya. It was here one moment and gone the next, but it flashed across his face either way. Shane responded immediately, his brain coming back online with the single-minded desire to fix it. 

“I can do that,” Shane responded sincerely. He took Ilya’s hand and held it. “Come on.” 

Shane led him down the hallway to the bedroom. His eyes burned and a wave of emotion rose from his stomach and overtook him. His first thought was that they had never really chosen this. Not consciously. Not rationally. 

But that wasn’t true, either. That wasn’t the miracle of it all. 

The miracle was that they kept choosing this. That even as they got deeper in and the reasons to stop piled up around them, Shane could reach out a hand and Ilya would take it. 

—

Inside the bedroom, Shane paused at the foot of the bed to take off his socks, then his jeans. Ilya stopped beside him and did the same. There was something more intimate about silently undressing next to each other compared to the desperate trail of clothing they’d always left before -  Shane folding his pants and leaving them on the bench at the foot of the bed, Ilya discarding his in a puddle around his feet to step out of. 

Ilya took Shane by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length to look at him. The smile returned, stretching across his face, showing his teeth. There he is, Shane thought. The real Ilya. The goofy, silly, easily hurt Ilya. Not suave. Not endlessly charming. Just a bundle of adoration. Shane wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but based on how soft Ilya’s eyes got, and how he reached to gather Shane up in his arms, he had a guess.

They came back together. Calmer this time, if you could call it that. Their kisses an expression of affection rather than hunger. For that moment, at least. Ilya opened his mouth first, pressing into Shane’s, and Shane, as always, gave way. Ilya grabbed Shane by the hips, fingers splayed over the bones across his lower back. In response Shane pressed himself closer so their bodies were touching from mouth to toes, his hands pushing up into Ilya’s curls and grabbing on, holding their heads together. 

Ilya pushed against Shane’s hips to spin them around and push him back over the bench onto the bed. Once Shane hit the mattress, he started shimmying back up towards the pillows as Ilya climbed over him, keeping their lips together, the kiss unbreaking. They slotted together– two pieces that fit. Ilya’s leg between Shane’s legs, Ilya’s arms bracketing Shane’s head, Shane’s fingers still in Ilya’s hair. They stayed that way for a while, kissing, pressing, enjoying. Slowed down. 

Ilya pulled back, breaking the kiss, holding himself over Shane and looking down over him. He smiled lazily and Shane smiled back at him. They looked into each other’s eyes, and then they both started laughing. 

“What?” Shane said, unable to control his giggles.

“Nothing, you look pretty.” Ilya was laughing now too, and it was hard to take him seriously.

“No, really?” Shane pulled one of his hands free of Ilya’s curls to lightly punch him on the shoulder. “What?”

“No. Really.” Ilya stilled to project his seriousness. “You’re beautiful. It’s hard to believe I get you at all.”

“Ilya…” Shane blushed, averting his eyes, somehow both preening and demuring at the same time. He was embarrassed, yes, but he also felt naked. Like actually naked. As if Ilya was seeing him in a way he hadn’t been seen before, or even wanted to be seen. And it made him squirm. 

“Shut up, Shane.” And he kissed him again. And again. Slowly trailing down his body, nipping and sucking, kissing the dip of his hip, the stretch marks and bruises and scars that made up the topography of Shane’s body. Ilya took his time learning him, and Shane felt like he was glowing. Like each tiny bit of affection was lighting up his soul. Like he could be seen from space.

Ilya kissed down the length of his cock, pausing to take Shane’s balls in his mouth, sucking lightly before pausing to hook his arms under Shane’s legs to push them up and out. Ilya hauled him up by the hips and licked from his balls to his crease.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane gasped beneath him. “Holy shit.” 

Ilya got to work on Shane’s hole with little kisses and gentle touches, working on relaxing him. Shane felt himself drift off a bit. Not out of his body, not at all, but relaxed enough to feel in his body, something so rare it was almost transcendent. The more Shane relaxed, the more work Ilya put into opening him up. Pairing a finger with his mouth and using it to work him open.

“You’re always so hungry for it,” Ilya marveled. It’s meant to be a trope, but his voice sounded almost awestruck. 

“Please,” Shane heard himself whine before he realized it. Ilya hit his prostate with two fingers and he lost the ability to wait any longer. 

“Please what?” 

“Get inside me already, Rozanov,” Shane said, getting a little bratty. Ilya reached into the nightside table to grab the lube and condoms, not bothering to hide that he was going to readily comply.

“Mm,” Ilya hummed happily. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Ilya lined himself up and pushed into Shane. They both gruntgroanmoaned in relief. Ilya paused to settle himself and Shane took a breath. He was overwhelmed yet content. Feral yet tender. Completely outside of himself and also fully aware of the voice in his head saying this this this. The wrongness had faded away to rightness, Shane realized. He didn’t feel dirty or angry at himself. No more uncertainty filled him, just the joy of being together.

“C’mon, move,” Shane demanded.

“Now, now,” Ilya clicked his tongue. “That isn’t how you ask.”

“Please.” Shane sounded pained. Was pained. He wasn’t sure how Ilya was keeping his composure when they were attached and everything was hot and fit so damn well. Shane moaned again with the need of it all. “Move, please.”

“Much better,” Ilya smirked as he started pounding into Shane. Not in a gentle way, but not in a violent way, either. In a you asked me to fuck you into the mattress and I’m going to comply way. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Shane panted as he was hanging on for his life. “Fuck.”

Ilya felt himself getting close already. It had been weeks– no, months– since he’d done this in a way that was satisfying and tested the limits of his restraint. Ilya reached around to grab hold of Shane’s dick, eliciting a long low noise from the man. His hips and his hand moved together in concert as he continued to slam into a now very fucked-out looking Shane. Ilya held his orgasm for a few minutes before spilling into the condom. He was able to sustain long enough for Shane to join him, making a mess of the sheets.

Ilya collapsed on Shane’s back, and Shane turned a bit to let him slot against him. Ilya always kissed his body a ton during, but especially after, sex. Pressing doting little kisses up Shane’s spine, over his shoulder, to his neck, over the collar bone. If Ilya’s mouth could reach it, he worshiped it. Each little nip of skin. 

“I hope you don’t mind I came to San Francisco,” Ilya whispered against Shane’s shoulder as they lay there still sweaty and sticky and a whole mess. 

“What? No. Of course not,” Shane replied, aghast he’d even ask.

“The last time I showed up unannounced you weren’t nearly as welcoming,” Ilya chirped. They laughed together, both of their bodies vibrating. 

“You were an asshole to me! It had nothing to do with you being here. I always like you being here.” Shane shook his head softly as Ilya looked down at him with bright eyes. He knew that they needed to shower. That Ilya needed to leave. He was a mere handful of hours from his flight now. 

But Shane didn’t want to care about that. He wanted to say stay. Fuck it, we can figure it out. Who needs morning practice? Seattle isn’t very good anyway. The team will be fine without you. But that was not the world they lived in. They lived in a world where players didn’t miss a game for the birth of their own children. Where even being with a man was a disaster, let alone this man. 

The bitterness welled back up in Shane. The unfairness of it. The fact he had spent all night in a joyous cacophony of hockey players who kissed and danced and sang while no one around them seemed to give a shit about it. A life so different from the life he lived that its very existence seemed impossible, here in his apartment wrapped up with a man he couldn’t even be polite to in public without starting an international press event. 

“I hate this,” Shane muttered. Ilya looked wounded then, his brow furrowing. Shane could feel him start to pull away, retreat back into himself. His walls closing in. 

“No, no, Ilya. Not this. This.” Shane waved his hand in the air to try to explain it. The leaving, the distance, the need for a surprise and the relief of it. Ilya relaxed back into Shane. He got it. How could he not get it? “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, yes. I hate this,” he mirrored the hand movement, “too. I’m tired of wanting.” 

There was a long silence between them, their breathing echoing in the quiet of Shane’s apartment louder than seemed reasonable to Shane. Finally he pressed his eyes closed. He wasn’t sure if it was a relief or an agony that Ilya felt the same way. That the wanting was all consuming. That he felt like a black hole, wanting and wanting so much as to be able to suck up the entirety of the universe with the force of it. Shane was unable to remember a time without the clawing, thrashing, aching wanting. He never could describe it, whether it was out of fear or the fact that the very language lacked the intensity he would need to explain it. But he figured that he should try. He owed it to Ilya, who apparently could feel it too, to try.

“I want so much I don’t remember what it feels like not to. Even here. Even together, like this. I want. I want. I want. And then tonight. I’m standing there in the bar and everyone around us is just…”

“Free.” Ilya finishes. “They were free. They did not care because they did not have to.”

“I hate it,” Shane sounded bitter, and also sad. But then, a moment later, “I love it, though.”

“Yes, it is very nice.” Ilya lowered himself next to Shane so they were laying side by side, curled together. “Stenny, the tall one, she told me that when Canada beat the US at the Olympics, and she won the gold medal… her wife kissed her on the podium and their medals clinked. Silver to gold.”

“I remember that,” Shane says. “It was on SportsCenter.”

“Could you imagine?” Ilya scoffed. 

“No,” Shane responded. “I can’t.”

“I can,” Ilya says just over a whisper. “I d–”

“I don’t know if I like being with them, or if it hurts too much,” Shane unknowingly interrupted Ilya’s confession. 

“Mm, I think it is good. To be with others. Like us, ” Ilya said carefully. They hadn’t talked about this, the two of them. The labels of it all. 

“Gay?” Shane asked, is voice cracking, betraying that it wasn’t an easy thing for him to say. 

“Queer, also, yes,” Ilya confirmed. “It’s good to see what a life like that could be. We don’t get many chances. In our line of work.”

“I guess we don’t…” Shane quieted, staring over Ilya’s shoulder, past him to the faint glow of light through the frosted window. “It still hurts though.”

“Yes,” Ilya confirmed. “It still hurts.”

They lay like that for a bit, holding onto each other, but maybe not clinging. Not this time. Because there was an ease in knowing that the other person wanted to be there. That the question that lived between them for so long, do you want this? has been answered by the effort it took to keep finding each other. 

Maybe that is what made Shane brave enough to say more. Being chosen. Or maybe it was just that he’d spent the past month being brave over and over again in the face of people who wanted him to be scared. Wanted to beat him and degrade him and make him small. And that all of this, the fear and the loss and the pain, had purpose. That while he hadn’t chosen to fight the world for Ilya, he hadn’t hidden from the fight when it came. 

“I’m going to tell my team,” Shane said quietly, still looking over Ilya’s shoulder. “That I’m gay.” 

“Oh,” Ilya responded. He was being careful, Shane could tell. He was doing that thing where he acted as if Shane was a bomb ready to go off if he said the wrong thing, took the wrong tone… and he wasn’t really that wrong, Shane thought, considering how the past six months had been going. 

“Are you sure? What if they’re not–”  Shane saw the anxiety get the better of Ilya as the question tumbled out before he could school his face into that unbothered calm. Safe. The next word was going to be safe.

“I told Nylander, and he was cool. They’re all cool. And I don’t want to… I don’t want to be scared anymore of what they might think.” Shane felt his reluctance melt away. “Obviously I wouldn’t say anything about us, but maybe being open... just to them. I’m not announcing it to the press or anything. I just want them to know me.” 

Because the guys stood up for him. And protected him. And they deserved to know him. Just like Ilya deserved to know him. Shane wanted that now, now that the worst had happened, and actually, things seemed the best they’d ever been for him. He had friends, a team that loved him, and he was playing amazing hockey. Top of his game, the blogs had said. He could run outside, even in January, and his best friend was an A-List movie star. Sure, he was far from his parents, and sure, he couldn’t see Ilya as much. But he didn’t want to peel his skin off from the stress of it all, either. 

But that didn’t mean Shane wanted to look into a camera and say he was gay, either. He didn’t want the attention of it. The magazine covers and the TV specials. Shane was tired of being consumed by the press. He wanted to be gay the way most people were gay. To come out to his parents, his friends, and then just get to live his life. No public declarations, no press conference, no think pieces. No feedback from Carl who lives in Idaho and thinks he gets a say on how Shane Hollander lives his life. 

“Wow.” Ilya seemed in awe, but Shane couldn’t tell of what. “You’re going to get invited to all the good lesbian hockey parties now.” The chirp made Shane smile. Ilya was okay. This was okay. They could joke about it.

“Only in San Francisco,” he laughed. “I’ll invite you when you’re in town.”

“Mm, what makes you think I need your invite?” Ilya pushed Shane back so that they were looking at each other again. 

“Hey, Shane,” Ilya said, looking down at him in a way Shane would describe as lovingly, if he was thinking about things like that. “I’m glad you invited me.”

“I didn’t invite you, Ilya,” Shane said through a wide toothy grin. “But I’m glad you came anyway.” 

Shane watched Ilya pull on his shoes with a soft wistful feeling that both exhilarated and terrified him. They weren’t being careful anymore with their feelings, and Shane was starting to feel the suffocating reality of their impossibility closing in.

“So, we won’t see each other again this season,” Shane started. He meant it as a logistical reality. A puzzle to be discussed and solved. But it came out emotional and sad. Broken a bit around the edges.

“No. Unless we both play in final,” Ilya smirked up at Shane, his eyebrows pinching in the middle when he took in Shane’s expression. 

“Mm,” Shane nodded. He had a feeling the cup wasn’t in the cards for them this year. The team was good, very very good, but he hadn’t fully found himself. The jello wasn’t completely set. And losing over a month of play to a fucking concussion didn’t help. No, Shane was sure they’d get to the playoffs, but not the finals.

“I’m not sure that would be the best time to see each other.” Shane chose his words carefully, because yes, even if the Sea Lions made the finals, it wasn’t the best time for Shane to be tearing his heart out and wistfully dreaming of another life. Not a peak performance activity.

“So boring, Hollander,” Ilya teased, but didn’t push. 

“So, Vegas then?” 

“Yes. Vegas.”

Chapter End Notes

As Is by Ani Difranco has been on my playlist this whole time and I think this chapter is finally where it fits as the emotional resonance of the chapter. So take a listen as you read.

Also, I am officially completely outlined. 36 chapters, my loves, we're HALF WAY through. I'm VERY excited for where we are going and where we land, so I hope you're in for the ride. Tell your friends, give me all the positive comments because my self esteem is that of an eldest daughter eldest millennial.

Love you bye.

Chapter 19: Scott Hunter's year

Chapter Summary

The one where Scott Hunter gets outed by the assholes at TMZ. Also, Shane finally takes control of his life and tells his friends he's gay.

Chapter Notes

My new outline is working really well for me, so here have another chapter. America is 250 years old today, I'd like to release this chapter which is the little glimmer of hope that queer joy can come for all these characters.

It was Scott Hunter’s year. Shane heard it over and over again through the month of March. That’s what all the podcasts were saying. The press was saying. He was playing phenomenally. He was nearing the peak of his career. He had the right team behind him. No one was injured. So as March rolled into April, it became more and more clear that it was, in fact, Scott Hunter’s year. Scott Hunter’s cup.

But as Shane knew from his cup runs, with the anticipation came the attention. A lot of attention. Sure, Scott was the face of an original six team. An original six team that played in the most famous arena in the world. An original six team with the second most obnoxious fan base in the league. An original six team that hadn’t held the Stanley Cup since 1994. So, of course, Scott was getting a lot of attention. 

NYC was obsessed with him. His face was on billboards, he was in commercials,  and he was being interviewed everywhere. He popped up on Good Morning America. He was a guest weatherman on ABC 7. He was a hometown hero in the most self absorbed hometown in the world. Even Shane could see it all the way from the other side of the country. As a result Scott’s personal life had become valuable to outlets like TMZ and Page Six, a fact he had never really had to deal with before. Because yes, while Scott Hunter was the face of an original six team, he also was decidedly and predictably boring. No family, no partying, absolutely no scandals. 

Which is why it shocked Shane when his mother sent him a text that was just three exclamation points and a link to a clip of TMZ. He dropped onto a stool at his breakfast bar and clicked the link, setting the phone on the counter as he took his hoodie off to settle in.

“Who is this attractive man with Scott Hunter?” It was one of those videos where the staff was all sitting in the news room talking shit to each other. Shane was a little annoyed at his mom at first. He hated these stupid videos, but Yuna was terminally online when it came to league gossip. 

“We don’t know! But he was photographed with Hunter three separate times this week! At the smoothie shop he appears to work at, sitting in the crowd at the Garden, and again at a charity event Hunter was speaking at.” The woman in the video was ticking these off on her fingers as the paparazzi photos splashed across the screen.

“Wait, so he’s hanging around with a barista?” An intern popped up out of her cube.

“Can you call a smoothie guy a barista?” The balding head dude quipped. 

The “newsroom” devolved into theories and chatter. Shane closed the video. Oh. His mom was texting him voyeuristic theories about Scott Hunter’s maybe boyfriend? Shit. Of course. He felt sick. His phone kept lighting up with Yuna’s very dignified crash out on Hunter’s behalf. Shane breathed in and out through his nose, clenching his eyes shut.

They were outing Scott Hunter. Fuck. 

Shane wasn’t sure if he should call Scott. Should he tell Scott what happened to him? His secret was still a secret, at least to the press. For Shane, all the speculation was happening between players in locker rooms and on charter planes. But Hunter had interns and paparazzi following him around to speculate about whether the rather attractive man that appeared to suddenly and regularly pop up in his orbit was his boyfriend. Shit.

YUNA: I don’t know, Shane, do you think he has a crisis PR person on retainer? He really should be responding to this stuff. The longer he doesn’t, the less control he’ll have.

YUNA: We should probably hire someone for you. Just in case.  

YUNA: Call me when you have the time, okay, Shanebear?

Shane flipped his phone over so he wouldn’t see the notifications anymore. He took several more deep breaths, in and out. Closed his eyes and then opened them again. It was just the tabloids. Those rags loved to blow these things up. Look at what happened with Rose. Look at what happened with every single game he played against Montreal or Boston. The press were vultures. 

It still unsettled him, though. Not only because the same thing could happen to him. But also because it felt wrong to sit and read and watch this happen to someone he respected. Liked playing against. A genuinely good person. And not do anything about it. But to do something about it was to risk bringing attention on himself. And Shane’s wasn’t ready for that yet. He had a plan. He wanted to tell his team. He wanted to try out a quiet life before becoming fodder for TMZ.

Ugh. But Scott.

A few days passed, and Shane hadn’t decided what he was going to do. But they were going to play the Admirals in NY the last week of April, so Shane figured he could talk to Hunter then. What was two weeks, anyway? He brushed off his mother, deciding to look at the resumes of crisis PR firms she sent him when the season is over, and willed himself to forget all about it.

Until a week later, when Scott Hunter held a press conference.

Shane watched it standing in the locker room in his compression layer. The guys were chatting and gearing down, equipment managers working quietly in the background. He caught Hunter’s face sitting behind a press table on the monitor and just started watching. The sound was low, but the captions were on. At first no one noticed him. But after a minute, Nylander appeared at his side.

Hunter didn’t make any long declarations. Nothing poetic. Not yet. He just stated simply to a room full of vultures aching for the flesh on his bones, “The press has been speculating about the nature of my relationship. Yes, I’m gay, and he is my boyfriend. While I have chosen this public life, he has not. So we ask for your privacy in this matter. Who I date does not and has never affected my ability to play hockey. I look forward to the end of the season and a long playoff run. Thank you.”

Someone whispered in Scott’s ear and then he stood, raised a hand to the press, and left the table. Shane noticed Nylander, turning around before he bothered listening to how the Admirals’ front office handled the press.

“You okay, Hollzy?” Nylander asked quietly. No one else in the room had even noticed the TV. It was really just them.

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. “I just wish he’d had a choice, you know?”

“I know.” Nylander looked at Shane for a moment, and he could feel the weight in it. That little nudge for Shane to stop waiting and just tell the team already. 

“At the end of the season BBQ,” Shane answered the unasked question. Nylander squeezed his shoulder gently and headed off to the shower. 

—

It turned out that Shane didn’t need to offer support to Scott Hunter. By the time he arrived in New York for their last game of the year, Hunter had become the unofficial mascot of gay hockey players. Well, to be fair, at the moment he was the only gay hockey player. But after his press conference, he kept doing appearances. Except now all anyone wanted to talk about was Scott Hunter’s boyfriend. And how many other secret gay players there were.

But Scott was as classy as he always was. Shane was relieved to see him steer away from speculation and voyeurism and talk about what it was like growing up gay in locker rooms. The trolls on the internet screaming that he should shut up and focus on his hockey seemed ridiculous in the face of the fact that it remained Scott Hunter’s year. 

So when Shane skated up to Scott at the red line during warmups for their game, it wasn’t as a support person for Hunter. It was as a very secret mentee. Hunter wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. He knew why Shane left Montreal. 

“Hollander,” he nodded to the man as they stood on either side of the MHL provided divide. 

“Hunter,” Shane nodded back. Warmups were public. They were part of the game. Shane talking to Hunter was a show of support. Especially given that Shane wasn’t the captain of his team. Just a player. “What you’re doing is really brave. And I’m sorry… that you didn’t get to choose.”

“Thank you, Hollander.” Scott smiled at him and reached out a hand. Shane skated in and tapped his helmet to Hunter’s instead, a show of support and solidarity almost always reserved for your own teammate. 

“Oh, and Hunter,” Shane leaned in so only Hunter could hear. “I’m going to need you to sweep Montreal in the first round. For the gays.” Shane winked and could hear Hunter cracking up as he skated away.

—

Shane’s season ended the first week of May. The Sea Lions made the playoffs handily, but the team was young and they had too many injuries to make it past the first round. Shane was okay with it. He had a long year. He had a long summer coming up. He was ready to rest. 

So he sat in Jojo’s backyard, nursing a mostly full beer, watching his team all around him. The comfortable chirps, the ridiculous bets, the way they seemed to genuinely enjoy each other. No one was angry or blaming anyone else for their season ending “early.” It was such a relief after years of the pressure cooker that was Montreal. 

Nylander dropped down next to Shane holding an identical half-empty beer. He sat back, took a sip, and then turned, raising an eyebrow at Shane. 

“Okay, okay.” Shane was amused, even if he was being very subtly bullied. “Now?”

“Yeah” Nylander nodded. “Now.”

Shane leaned forward, grabbed someone’s fork off a plate, and used it to tap on his beer bottle, making that annoying clinking clanking noise that was the international signal for “shut the fuck up”.

“Hey, uh,” Shane looked around at everyone, now all very focused on him. “It’s Shane. Hollander.” A low murmur of laughter went through the group. Yes, if anyone had any doubt they were listening to Shane Hollander, they would not now.

“I want to thank you all for a really welcoming season. I feel so grateful to be here. Instead of… well, anywhere else.” Shane had to pause then to swallow. He found himself getting a little emotional, his throat tightening. He paused to take a sip of his warm, flat beer. It did not provide the courage he had hoped, but Shane pressed on.

“I want to tell you guys before someone else does. I’m gay.” He paused to look around at his teammate’s faces. They were listening. Some looked surprised, but most just looked… worried? No. Concerned? Maybe. No, caring. They seem like they genuinely cared about the struggling, emotional, thankful man giving the world’s most awkward coming out speech. 

“I don’t want to tell everyone. I’m not ready to be Scott Hunter. But I want you all to know me, and I hope you’ll have me back another year?”

“Have you back? We have your ass locked down for another year,” Nylander spoke first. “You’re not going anywhere.”

And now, with the captain’s permission, the team erupted into a mixture of good-natured chirps and sappy encouragement.

“Finally,” Jojo said with a laugh. “Now I can set you up with my brother in law.”

“Oh, I don't know about that.” Shane was laughing now, too. He got a hug from the goalie, and many many back thumps. At least one wife asked him if he had a secret boyfriend they could add to the WAGs chat. In general the excitement lasted about 20 minutes, and then everyone went back to what they were doing. 

“There,” Nylander said, still sitting next to Shane. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No,” Shane laughed. “I guess it wasn’t.”

“So, next year no more of this sad sack bullshit, right? That’s our fucking cup.” Nylander was dead serious now.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Shane clinked their bottles. “Our fucking cup.”

—

“I told them.” Shane was sitting on his couch, the last game of the Stanley Cup finals playing in the background. He was looking down at his phone where Ilya was looking back at him. 

“How’d it go? Are you…?” Ilya seemed concerned, Shane noticed. Worried. It made sense, given how Montreal had been. Given how locker rooms are. Ilya didn’t know how much different San Francisco felt. Was.

“It went great,” Shane smiled, something wide and real that morphed his face into someone else entirely. Someone almost childlike, free of the anxiety of his very demanding life. “The WAGs want your number,” he teased.

“Your WAGs could not handle me, Hollander,” Ilya deadpanned.

“They absolutely could not,” Shane kept laughing. 

The game was ending on the TV and they fell into silence to watch it. The Admirals won. Scott Hunter was hoisting the cup, tears in his eyes, while a very attractive man stood by his side. Just another face in the crowd of friends and family on the ice.

“Do you think he’s happy?” Shane heard himself ask it before he knew he would. Ilya didn’t answer right away. They are both stunned into silence while they watch Scott’s boyfriend reach up and wipe some champagne off of his face after he finished his sip from the cup. It was so small, and normal, and domestic.

“He certainly looks like he is,” Ilya answered quietly. 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded “He really does.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm proud of this one. I think in general I like how my writing is growing and changing and I'm having fun releasing it as I go. This one just came to me, and the next chapter is going to be a BLAST but could take me a hot minute to write. <3

As usual, I am a fairy who exists on praise and claps.

Chapter 20: i know a place

Chapter Summary

The one where the boys go to Scott Hunter Night and play Never Have I Ever with a table of queer hockey players (out and not) and Kip.

Chapter Notes

I had such a blast writing this. Please enjoy it.

The official afterparty for the MHL awards was boring. Ilya absolutely hated it. It was supposed to be for the players, but there was not a player in the league who liked to stand around in a tuxedo sipping beers out of fancy glasses and chatting up some owner or manager or something. It was dumb and exhausting, and Ilya always found an excuse to get out of there as quickly as possible. 

So when Scott Hunter announced that the Piranha, the gay destination in Vegas, was hosting a Scott Hunter night, Ilya was in. He shot a text to Shane just as the awards ended.

ILYA: Scott Hunter night?

JANE: You’re already there, aren’t you?

ILYA: Maybe. I promise I will only call him old an appropriate number of times.

JANE: There is no appropriate number of times.

ILYA: Come on. The WHL draft was here yesterday and Svetlana said our first round is on Stenny.

JANE: Fine. One hour at the party, then I’ll meet you there.

ILYA: (kissy face emoji)

Ilya stopped at his room to change before slipping out of the Wynn, a fancy hotel on the strip, to find his way to the Fruitloop, the historic LGBT area of Las Vegas. The name delighted him. Even though English wasn’t his first language, he got the pun, and he loved it. 

When Ilya arrived, he took a double take at what he saw. The bar was full of people dancing in bedazzled rainbow Admirals jerseys and hot pants. Large swaths of the women’s teams seemed to be there, gathering along the walls, in the booths, and on the dance floor. There was a drag show going on where a very attractive looking drag king was taking off hockey pants and dancing to It’s Raining Men. There were even some men’s hockey players scattered throughout the room. The room had a come as you are vibe that was overwhelming in its simplicity. Everyone belonged there. No questions.

Ilya spotted Hunter and his entourage of Admirals. Carter Vaughn, Eric Bennett and a few others. With Hunter was his boyfriend, the smart, bespeckled, very hot barista. Ilya paused at the bar to grab a beer before finding his way over to the Admirals’ table. 

Ilya could see Scott’s reaction to him before anyone else at the booth. Hunter’s eyes were raking over Ilya and taking in the extremely slutty black tank top and the very well-fitting jeans that showed off his perfectly pert ass. 

“Rozanov,” Hunter nodded tentatively as Ilya dropped down at the booth with the men.

“So, Scott Hunter night. Is this your retirement party, old man?” Ilya smiled devilishly and looked around the table, daring anyone to ask him why he’s there.

“Kip, this is the infamous insufferable Ilya Rozanov,” Scott said to his boyfriend Kip beside him. 

“Pleasure.” Ilya raised the glass of champagne someone had just handed him in salute. Kip shook his head and laughed.

“I think the pleasure is mine,” he retorted.

The men chattered around Ilya and he made quips when he could, chirping here and there. The night had motion to it, Ilya felt. People seemed drawn around the room into and out of conversations in a natural rhythm that the official MHL parties never had. No one had to be there, but they all wanted to be.

As Ilya was chatting with Kip, a newly drafted Las Vegas women’s player came and snatched him away, excitedly explaining that their mutual high school friends and new teammates wanted to meet the first HAB of professional hockey. Ilya smiled to himself as he let himself imagine starting a HAB chat and adding himself and Shane to it. 

“I don’t want to know what kind of trouble you’re dreaming up right now.” Svetlana took Kip’s place in the booth, sliding in next to Ilya, and placing her hand on his knee. “Nothing good comes of that face.” 

“You’re not wrong, Sveta.” Ilya idly patted her hand, laughing under his breath.

Vaughn left to get drinks, and twenty minutes later, Ilya spotted him across the room expertly dancing to a bad cover of some 90s pop song as a rookie Ilya didn’t recognize looked on in baffled amusement. As he was about to ask who it was, Kip returned with the captain of the Ottawa women’s team, a twenty-year old Minnesotan named Anderssen, and Bennett stood to make room for them and then silently left when he thought no one was watching. 

“Okay, push in! We’re sitting with you fools,” Stenny and Beau appeared in front of the group. Stenny waved her arms together indicating she wanted everyone to squish so they could sit. And, because everyone did what Stenny said, the round booth of very large hockey players squished to fit Stenny on one end and Beau on the other. 

Ilya found himself squished into the booth surrounded by a completely improbable group of people. Somehow they all fit, knees pressed together in cramped comfort. Scott and Kip in their rightful place at the center and the rest gathered around them.

And then, finally, Shane Hollander arrived.

“Well, if this isn’t the cool kid’s table,” Shane said, smiling directly at Ilya as he pulled an empty chair up to the end of the booth.

Ilya returned the smile, wide and bright and just for Shane. So much so that he didn’t notice Stenny raising her eyebrow across the booth to Beau who replied with a tiny little shrug. 

“If you say so,” Ilya said easily. He looked around at the table made up completely of queer hockey players (and Kip) and realized no one here cared. Not about his slutty tank top. Not about the way he smiled at Shane. Not that he was at Scott Hunter Night in the first place.

It was exhilarating. Ilya found himself more drunk on that feeling than on the second glass of champagne he was drinking.

“Earth to Ilya,” Stenny said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Where’d you go there, buddy?” Ilya could see Shane’s eyes on him. Concerned, yes, maybe a little, but also… soft. Like maybe he also went away for a moment.

“Mm, I was just distracted by whatever it is Vaughny is doing on the dance floor over there. He’s too old to be gyrating that much,” Ilya said smoothly with a click of his tongue. “Very distracting.”

“Sure, that’s why you’re staring at him gyrate,” Svetlana joked, and for a moment, Ilya tensed up. But the table laughed and no one seemed surprised or upset, and Ilya let himself relax into it. 

“I have standards,” Ilya said definitively to a chorus of laughter from the table.

“Is he always this funny?” Stenny asked Svetlana, and she shrugged and moved her hand back and forth to indicate eh, soso. 

“Hold on,” Hunter said over the giggles. “Hold on. Hollander. I thought you hated Rozy? Didn’t you try to kill him at the All Star Game?” 

Ilya turned with the rest of the table to see Shane’s reaction. He was blushing, just a bit, and looked sheepish. The table got quiet, waiting for whatever it was he was going to say. Ilya didn’t realize he was holding his breath at first, but he was.

“We had a debt to settle from before, and I uh… I got a little carried away,” Shane said sheepishly and with a shrug. “I can be intense.” 

The awkwardness dissolved into laughter so quickly that by the time Ilya caught his breath, they’d all forgotten it had even been awkward. Shane was funny. Like many things about Shane, Ilya always forgot until he found himself doubled over and breathless. 

“We made up. We’re friends now.” Ilya waggled his eyebrows and blew a kiss to Shane. The table kept laughing, but Ilya could see the blush creeping up Shane’s neck and above his collar. He also noticed Beau smiling into her beer as she watched Shane blush. Hm. Ilya tucked that away for later.

“Well, if we’re all friends.” Rose Landry appeared next to Shane holding two bottles of champagne in one hand and dragging another chair in the other. She plopped the chair next to him and dropped down on it, thunking the bottles on the table. “Then it’s time we play Never Have I Ever.” 

The women cheered, the men groaned, no one got up to leave. Svetlana grabbed one of the bottles and popped the cork while Rose popped open the other. Everyone’s empty glasses were refilled. 

“So, for those of you who are straight, newly gay, or men,” Rose announced as she commandeered the table, “Never Have I Ever is an easy game. Someone says never have I ever and then something they haven’t done. If you have done it, you drink. If you haven’t, you don’t. Repeat until someone throws up or we all are too drunk to keep playing.”

“No one is drinking till they puke,” Svetelana adds. 

“You are no fun, Sveta,” Ilya rebukes.

“I’m literally in charge of the player safety committee, Ilya.”

“After season drinking games are not under the purview of player safety.”

“What if we just don’t puke here because it’s a nice bar and we’re adults?” Hunter chimed in.

“Buzz kill,” Ilya huffed. Shane tipping forward in laughter.

“Me first,” Rose announced over the chatter, as if anyone else had a chance at going first. “Never have I ever made out with my barista.” She saluted to the table.

“I am NOT a barista!” Kip protested as Scott took a sip from his glass. Stenny, Andersson and Beau followed suit. 

“You do make breakfast drinks,” Scott sayid.

Shane blinked. “Wow.” 

“Like 80% of baristas are lesbians, Hollander.” Andersson, who hadn’t spoken up until now, deadpanned. 

“Never have I ever driven over 80 miles an hour.” Svetlana went next, staring straight at Ilya as she spoke. 

“You aren’t supposed to attack people, you know, Sveta.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a long sip. But when he broke eye contact with her and looked up Stenny and Kip were also drinking.

“Hell yeah, Kip!” Stenny put down her glass to give him a fist bump. “And I thought you were a city kid!”

“I’m from Brooklyn! I had a car!!” Kip threw his hands up. Ilya thought that maybe he should actually get to know Kip at some point, but probably not right now because it was his turn.

“Never have I ever played hockey while hard,” he paused, pursed his lips, then decided he could say it. “Or wet. Aroused.” Ilya looked straight at Shane then with both eyebrows raised. Luckily everyone else was too busy hooting and hollering at Shane taking a sip to notice Ilya’s look.

“Never have I ever…” Everyone fell silent when Shane Hollander began speaking. “...lied to a referee.” And he smirked as he took a sip to his own question. God. He was cute, Ilya thought. Everyone at the table drank but Kip and Rose. 

“You are all incorrigible!” Rose laughed, but she was clearly impressed.

“Never have I ever stole a traffic sign.” This time it was Benny who spoke. All the Americans drank, the Canadians looking on in horror.

“What is it about you weirdos and stealing signs?” Shane exclaimed, shaking his head. “When I was in Juniors, every time we played the US there would be some high profile sign heist going on.” 

“Did you rat them out, Hollander?” Ilya teased. “Beat your opponents by getting them arrested for taking a No Parking sign? Very sneaky.” Shane threw a crumpled up napkin across the table at Ilya, but it just made him smile wider.

“My turn!” Andersson called. “Never have I ever jerked off on a roadie while my roommate was asleep.” Everyone drank but Hunter.

“YOU ARE ALL DISGUSTING!” Scott was yelling and the people at the next table were looking over and laughing at his indignant face. “Even you, Hollander?!”

Shane shrugged with that innocent smirk on his face. Ilya could eat him.

“You’re just repressed, honey,” Kip patted him on the arm as the laughter died down. 

“Never have I ever left with something that wasn’t mine from a one night stand,” Beau chimed in as she drank.

“Story. I am going to need the story,” Kip demanded.

“It was a very nice dick,” Beau said with a shrug. “Like really nice.”

“Wait, what?” Scott was squinting as he tried to put the pieces together.

“The strap, Hunter,” Beau said exasperated. 

“You stole it?” Shane asked in that cracking voice thing that he does.

“Well, she wasn’t using it on herself,” Beau retorted.

“Imagine if you could take the dick and leave the prick!” Stenny added, both defending Beau and making a very good point. Ilya almost choked on his own saliva. 

“Wait, so are you fucking Stenny with a stranger’s dick?” Rose asked, leaning all the way up in her seat. 

“OKAY, MY TURN!” Stenny announced. “Never have I ever woken up somewhere with no memory of how I got there.” This time everyone drank but Scott.

“Wait, wait…” Scott narrowed his eyes at Shane. “You have gotten black out drunk? You? Mister ginger ale?” 

“I’m Canadian, Hunter. I lived with a billet family at 15.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I was going to say no one is responsible all the time, but it appears like maybe you are.” 

“I am–” Scott sighed dramatically. “Never have I ever been outed by the national news.” Scott drank. Kip drank. Stenny and Beau drank.

“I forgot about that,” Ilya said quietly. 

“I didn’t,” Beau replied. “I don’t regret it, though.”

“I’m glad it happened,” Stenny said defiantly. “Now we have a whole league full of hot lesbians and fans that adore us.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Svetlana held up her glass and they all drank again. Rose stood, grabbing the bottles and refilling the cups that needed refilling. She rolled her eyes at Hunter’s almost untouched glass. 

“Do better.” Rose winked at Scott. “Okay, me again. Never have I ever gotten caught by my parents.” She drank.

“Caught doing what?” Andersson asked.

“You know.” Rose responded.

“Okay, with someone… or just like with yourself?” Kip asked.

“Yes,” Rose responded simply with a shit-eating grin.

“Well, then…” Shane said as he took a sip.

“Oh my god, Hollander.” Ilya laughed, but did not drink. “I cannot imagine the look on Yuna and David’s faces.”

“Shut up, Rozanov.” Shane started turning red again, and Ilya adored it. 

“Never have I ever made out with my teenage crush as an adult,” Kip asked. He had meant it as a romantic gesture to Scott, and the way they were looking at each other, it had worked. But as everyone awwwed at the couple of the hour, Shane locked eyes with Ilya as he took a sip from his glass. Ilya, smiling like a fox, reciprocated. 

Stenny cleared her throat, eyes on Ilya as she did. Shane and Ilya looked away from each other, Ilya turning a light shade of red as well. Stenny caught his eye and she raised an eyebrow at him before lifting her glass once more. 

“Last one for me,” she said. “Never have I ever fallen in love with someone I can’t have.” 

The table fell silent as Scott drank, then Kip, then Stenny, then Beau, then Rose, then Andersson, then Svetlana, and then as if in slow motion, Ilya watched Shane drain the rest of his glass. 

Ilya gulped. He drank. 

Moments later, Shane and Ilya found themselves sitting alone, side by side. After her last prompt, Stenny had left, taking Beau with her onto the dance floor. Vaughn, spotting an opening, returned to pull Scott and Kip along. Then, lamenting their empty glasses, Svetlana and Rose went with Andersson to get another bottle of champagne. 

They sat for a moment watching the chaos retreat into the bar. The silence was comfortable, welcome even. Shane tapped his foot against Ilya’s under the table and looked up at him through his lashes. Ilya reached his hand under the table and laced their fingers together. Time stopped. Neither of them breathed. 

Finally, Shane nodded and slid from the booth without letting go. Silently, Ilya slid out beside him, and they walked out together, their hands linked under the hem of Shane’s suit jacket. They didn’t let go until they reached the door.

Chapter End Notes

The song for this one is "I Know a Place" by MUNA! I was listening to it a lot before I wrote this and it's the song that this channels. I hope you can feel the joy and fun and freedom of it. The fact they get to just be themselves and no one cares is so important to me. When I started this story it was going to be more about how they can find each other and work out a huge obstacle but as my original characters came into view it became more and more about finding a place in the queer community. I think that's the thing they are missing in the canon and I'm excited to give them it.

We're headed into a stretch that is... less fun. So soak it up while you have the chance. This next one could happen really fast or take me a couple of weeks. It depends on how much I cry (I'm sorry).