Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow

Additional Tags:

Forced Proximity, Snowed In, Oblivious Cliff Marlow, Oblivious Hayden Pike, There Was Only One Bed, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Mentions of Death, Language, Suggestive Themes, No Smut, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Tension, Cliff Marlow is an ally, Wedding, Hollanov - Freeform, Relationship Reveal, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-31 Completed: 2026-02-07 Words: 26,059 Chapters: 8/8

Neutral Zone

Summary

When more than half of the MLH gets stranded during a snow storm, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov find themselves not only roommates, but they get stuck with the one room that has only one bed. Who knows how long they'll have to deal with being stuck with one another, but at least their friends Hayden Pike and Cliff Marlow are also there, right? What could go wrong...?

Or Shane is forced to share a room with Ilya while Hayden is forced to share a room with Cliff for a few days and HayLow tries to play detective.

Notes

I had a loooot of fun writing this LOL I'm working on it being a chapter fic. I'm putting this as a mature rating for now, because I'm not sure what direction I'm taking, but I don't think it will cross to explicit. If it does, I will update ratings/tags, and put a note before the chapter.

Chapter 1: One

Chapter Summary

The best way to end an All Stars Game weekend? Getting snowed in and all the outbound flights are canceled. What could possibly be worse than that? There was some sort of mix up, and all the room assignments get shuffled around, and Shane Hollander has landed in a room with none other than Ilya Rozanov. And there's only one bed.

Chapter Notes

Airports always made Shane restless. It wasn't the crowds; that he was used to. It was the feeling of being suspended while waiting to board the flight, like life had pressed pause without asking his permission. Everything smelled faintly of burnt coffee and recycled air, and every surface was designed to keep people moving without ever letting them settle.

He stood near the departure board long enough to memorize the layout. The word CANCELED was still there, glaring and final. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back to bleed off the tension collecting between them.

Nearby, Hayden was pacing in a tight semicircle, phone pressed to his ear. His voice carried just enough for Shane to hear fragments of conversation. He was complaining to Jackie about how long they've been waiting for the airline to clear and announce that they could board.

“No, I get it,” Hayden said into the receiver. “I know it’s weather. I’m just saying…”

Shane tuned him out. He didn’t need the play-by-play. He knew Hayden hated delays as much as he did, but the thing that was bothering his best friend right now was being away from his wife and kids. He pulled his phone out, checking for new messages, knowing the one he was looking for wasn't going to come.

The overhead announcement crackled to life.

“Attention passengers. Due to severe weather conditions, all remaining outbound flights this evening have been cancelled—”

The terminal reacted immediately. Groans rippled outward. Someone swore. Someone else laughed, sharp and humorless. Shane felt it settle in his chest, heavy but expected. He had known it was coming the moment the snow started coming down sideways against the windows.

Hayden pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at Shane like he didn't just hear the same announcement. “They cancelled it.”

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly. “I heard.”

Hayden dragged a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

Shane nodded, already mentally cycling through the logistics. They would need to book a hotel room, and with the amount of people still stuck behind, he wasn't sure there would be much availability. He looked back down at his phone, his thumb hovering over the Lily text thread again.

He and Hayden weren't the only ones stuck. There were dozens of other players from other teams here with them. Along with some coaches, league representatives, and even some higher ups who didn't make the early morning flight before the storm got heavy. Among these, unfortunately, was Rozanov, who was across the terminal, leaning casually against a pillar, eyes glued to his phone. Shane hated the way he stood calm and collected, like the universe didn't just throw a wrench into everyone's plans. Classic.

He looked infuriatingly at ease, standing with his coat open, his bag slung over one shoulder. No tension in his posture at all, like getting snowed in was a mild amusement at best. His eyes flicked up and landed on Shane immediately. They always do. His lips curled up, in a knowing smile. Like he knew Shane had been thinking of him. He immediately looked down at his phone again, which didn't help because it was still on Lily.

Shane’s stomach felt uneasy and his throat felt tight. “Oh no,” he muttered under his breath. He knew Rozanov was going to make his way over without even looking up. He could just feel his presence. There always seemed to be some kind of electric pull between them. Or an invisible string tethering them to each other.

“What?” Hayden asked, distracted.

“Nothing,” Shane said quickly, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Just… nothing.” He looked back at the departure board, willing them to change.

Ilya tucked his phone into his pocket and pushed himself off the pillar. The announcement was still echoing through the terminal, a beautiful, robotic death toll for everyone’s travel plans. He didn't mind. In Russia, people learn quickly that the weather does not care about your schedule. They move on. They adapt. In America, they always act surprise when nature disagrees with them. Apparently, Canadians were just the same.

He made his way over to opposite wall of the terminal, unhurried, enjoying the way Hollander’s entire body seemed to brace for impact.

“Well,” Ilya said as he slid beside Hollander, voice low and teasing, “Looks like we get to extend our vacation.”

Hollander didn’t bother looking at him, eyes locked on the departure board like it owed him an explanation. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Ilya's smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m just here to enjoy the show. Watching you lose your mind over cancelled flights.”

Hollander's gaze flicked up, flat and unimpressed. “I’m not losing my mind. You’re just annoying.”

“Annoying?” Ilya leaned back, clutching his chest dramatically. "You wound me."

Hollander's jaw clenched, but the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed him. “Asshole.”

Marlow had drifted over, thumbs dancing across his phone. He settled next to Pike, who had been standing off to the side, observing. Looking up and catching the end of their conversation, he snorted. “You two always like this?”

“Yeah,” Pike and Hollander said in perfect time, voices low but unmistakable in their synchronicity.

Ilya's grin deepened. “Wow, so the only time Montreal can find rhythm is when you agree on me and Hollander?”

"Shut the fuck up, Rozanov!" They said again in unison. Marlow and Ilya guffawed.

A team coordinator approached, his shoulders slumped like a man who’d seen one too many spreadsheets and far too little sleep. “Alright, listen up. Hotels are scrambling to find extra rooms, but it's very limited. We’ll have to double up wherever possible.”

The names started flying.

“Pike, Marlow: you’re together. Hollander…”

Hollander’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“Hollander, you’ll be with Rozanov.”

Ilya caught the color drain from Hollander’s face, stark and almost poetic against the sterile airport lighting.

“What?” Hollander’s voice cracked, barely contained outrage.

Pike’s voice came out firm and sharp. “No way. Absolutely not.”

Ilya stayed calm, shifting the strap of his bag with a practiced ease. He leaned in slightly, letting his accent thicken just enough the way he knew Pike hated. “I do not mind. We are professionals, are we not, Pike?”

Hollander tore a sharp look at him. “You don’t get a vote.”

The coordinator raised his hands helplessly, voice strained. “Look, guys, I’ve already made the last minute adjustments. Everyone is accounted for. This is the only option and the hotel’s already confirmed it.” Without waiting for another protest, he moved away, leaving a charged silence behind.

Ilya’s gaze locked on Hollander’s. His eyes lingered on the freckles dusting Hollander’s cheeks, now flushed with a mix of frustration and something softer. “And neither do you.”

Hollander opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Ilya stepped closer. Just close enough for the subtle scent of his cologne to reach him, a quiet, intimate invasion. His voice dropped to a low, vibrating whisper meant only for Hollander. “You will survive,” he said. “You always do, Hollander.” Then, with a slow, deliberate wink, he added, “Besides, I’ll be right there.”

“This is ridiculous,” Pike muttered, his eyes glued to his phone screen as he followed Cliff through the underground parking garage. He wasn't even looking at where he was going, too busy typing a response to a text, his thumb moving at top speed. “We barely even know each other. I’ve spent years trying to keep you away from my goalie, and now I’m sharing a bathroom with you?”

Cliff grinned. He adjusted his bag, his massive frame barely noticing the weight. He didn’t hate Pike. The guy wasn't the most dominant winger in the league, but he worked hard and held his own on the ice. Off the ice, he was just... busy.

“You know my stats, Pike,” Cliff said, his voice a rumbling, easy baritone. “You know I lead the league in hits and I’m third in blocked shots. That’s a solid foundation for a roommate. You don't get a blue-liner with better defensive awareness than me.”

“That literally has nothing to do with us sharing a room,” Pike said, finally looking up as they reached the elevator doors. He didn't sound angry, just overwhelmed. He held up his phone, which was vibrating with a FaceTime request. “I haven't seen Jackie or the kids all week. It's not easy for her to deal with two toddlers and a baby with me traveling all the time.”

Cliff hummed, stepping into the elevator. He felt bad for the guy. Pike looked stressed. But there wasn't really anything they could do. It was out of their control. He'd rather not spend however many days they were stuck here being uptight about the fact that they were stuck. He decided to change the subject instead.

“You snore?” he asked, cutting right through the domestic chaos.

Pike stopped short, blinking. “Probably, but my wife hasn't complained too much about it lately.”

Cliff studied him for a second, head tilted. Pike wasn't wound tight like Hollander; he was just pulled in six different directions at once. “Okay. Good. If your kids don’t FaceTime you at midnight and scream, I won’t smother you with a pillow." They laughed, and the tension eased off Pike's shoulders slightly. "I’m a simple. I like my sleep and I like free breakfast buffets.”

“Ruby and Jade are almost three,” Pike said, and Cliff watched the guy’s face melt. “And Arthur is barely a few months. My wife definitely will call. She’s solo-parenting a circus right now."

“Well, you better say your last goodbyes on that call." Pike laughed. "It's fine. I can sleep through a goal horn if I’m tired enough. Don't worry about it.” Cliff shrugged his massive shoulders, leaning his back against the elevator wall. He could sleep through a riot if he had to. It was one of his best qualities.

As the elevator moved, Cliff caught their reflections in the doors. He looked relaxed, like he was on vacation. Pike, on the other hand, was already back on his phone, his brow furrowed with intensity.

“I hate this storm,” Pike admitted, finally lowering his shoulders and putting his phone away. “I just want to get home.”

Cliff laughed, a deep, warm sound. He reached out and rested a firm hand on Pike’s shoulder, steady and reassuring.

“I love it,” Cliff said, eyes shining. “The world slows down. Phones might still buzz, well, yours anyway, but the noise quiets. We get to stay in a free room. Relax, Pike. We’ll get you back to the circus soon enough. Tonight, we’re just two guys with nowhere to be.”

Pike glanced at Cliff’s hand, then up at him, letting out a weary breath and managing a small smile.

“Fine,” he muttered, not pulling away. “But if you wake me up early the one time I can actually get at least six hours of sleep, we’ll have a problem.”

Cliff’s grin grew wider. “Deal.”

As they stepped out, Cliff spotted Rozy and Hollander heading toward the front desk of the hotel. One looked like he won the lottery and the other looked like he was headed to his own execution.

Cliff snorted. Poor Hollzy. Rozy was going to eat him alive in that room.

“Check them out,” Cliff nudged Pike, nodding toward their own captains. “Imagine if you got Roz instead of me." He beamed at Pike.

"I'll definitely count my blessings on that."

"Man, imagine the tension in that room. Probably shouldn’t leave them alone with anything sharp.”

Pike let out a surprised laugh, distracted from his phone for a moment. “My money's on Shane.”

Cliff chuckled, swinging his bag. Pike isn't so bad. He wonders why Rozy's always talking shit on the guy.

The hotel lobby was a disaster of wet coats and angry hockey players. Ilya stood in the line, Hollander hovering beside him like a ghost. He could practically hear the other man’s heart. Every time a stray body pushed against them, their shoulders brushed. Hollander did not move away. He stayed rooted, a statue of panic.

At the front desk, the receptionist kept her gazed focused on her computer screen, clearly too tired to care about hockey rivalry. “Last names?”

“Hollander.”

“Rozanov.”

The receptionist’s fingers moved mechanically over the keyboard. “One room. Two keys.” She hesitated, glancing up at them. “It’s a king bed. I hope that’s alright. We’re fully booked.”

Ilya caught the flicker of discomfort in Hollander’s eyes, bracing himself for an outburst. But Hollander swallowed it down, silent and overwhelmed.

“Fine,” Hollander’s voice was flat, as if marking a funeral rite.

“Perfect,” Ilya said smoothly, snatching the keys before Hollander’s hand could reach them.

As they moved toward the elevators, the silence between them crackled like electricity. Ilya’s hands stayed casually in his pockets, while Hollander’s posture screamed punishment, like a player dragged off the ice for a brutal penalty.

“You could have said no,” Ilya murmured as the elevator doors slid shut, sealing them together.

Hollander stiffened, back pressed to the cold metal wall. “I did.”

Ilya’s smirk finally broke through his calm facade. “You said ‘fine.’ There’s a difference, Hollander.”

He watched Hollander’s reflection in the glass, jaw clenched so tight it seemed it might shatter, eyes locked on the floor numbers descending. A man clinging to the illusion of control. Ilya knew otherwise. They had one room, one bed. And Hollander had surrendered with that single word: fine.

The elevator slowed. Ding. Ilya stepped out first, the heavy, reluctant footsteps of his companion trailing behind him into the stillness of the corridor.

Hayden dropped his duffel bag alongside the wall, just inside the entryway. He didn't move for a second, his eyes immediately darting across the room to the two separate, glorious beds placed side-by-side.

He exhaled a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the cancellation announcement at the terminal. "Okay," he muttered, nodding once. "Good. Two beds. That’s… civilized."

Marlow followed him in, looking like he's never experienced a single moment of travel anxiety in his life. He didn't even stop to look at the view or check the mini-bar. He just took three strides and tossed his jacket onto the mattress closest to the window. It landed with a heavy thud, marking territory like a flag.

"Dibs," Marlow said.

Hayden blinked, looking from the jacket back to the massive defenseman. "On what grounds?"

"Standard shotgun rules. I'm in line of the bed, I called dibs," Marlow said, already unzipping his bag.

"Damn."

"Also, this one is farther from the door. Less chance of someone breaking in to murder me in the middle of the night."

Hayden stared at him, genuinely trying to follow the logic. "When the hell would that happen?"

"Statistically," Marlow said, sitting down to test the firmness of the bed, "it's never not a possibility."

Hayden sighed, the familiar weight of being the adult in the room settling onto his shoulders. He grabbed his back, walked to the opposite side of Marlow, and set it down on the floor at the end of the bed. He sat down and was pulling his phone out of his pocket by habit. He had four new texts from Jackie.

JACKIE 💛
Still snowing?

Kids are feral.

Ruby says goodnight.

Jade says you owe her pancakes.

Hayden felt his jaw loosen, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite the exhaustion. He tapped out a quick I love you all, tell them I'll be home soon, before glancing across the room.

Marlow was flopped backward onto his bed, boots still on the duvet, scrolling through his phone with a level of focus usually reserved for a power play. Hayden noticed he was switching between chats, three different ones from the looks of it, with such a pace that Hayden was almost impressed.

"You’re texting like three women," Hayden said, as he sat down, leaning back against his headboard.

Marlow squinted at the screen, his thumb never stopping. "Four. One might ghost. I plan ahead. It's called being prepared, Pike."

"That’s exhausting."

"That’s efficient," Marlow countered, finally locked his screen and looked over. "Have you ever been single? Or did you just skip that part of life?"

"Yes," Hayden said dryly. "Briefly. I didn’t like it."

Marlow grinned, a wide, effortless expression. "Man, you're whipped."

Hayden smirked, shaking his head. "Whipped? Maybe. Or maybe I just know what’s worth sticking around for." He paused, eyes narrowed playfully. "But hey, keep juggling those conversations, Casanova."

Marlow laughed, tossing his phone onto the bed. "This is just warming up, Pike. Efficiency is key." He gave Hayden a cocky grin. "Besides, being whipped sounds way too boring."

"Whatever you say. But here’s a serious question: do you snore?"

Marlow didn’t even hesitate. "Yeah."

Hayden closed his eyes and let his head thud back against the wall. "How bad?"

"Like a chainsaw with emotional damage."

“Fantastic,” he said, his tone blending resigned amusement with mild annoyance.

A brief, easy silence settled between them as snow pressed softly against the window. The quiet made the hotel room feel like a small island in a vast white sea.

Marlow glanced over. “So, you good with being stuck? Not planning to hot-wire a bus to Montreal?”

Hayden shrugged, checking his phone one last time. “Not ideal. But it is what it is. Jackie says the girls are pretending the living room’s a frozen tundra, so maybe I’m safer here.”

He settled back into his pillows, thinking of his captain stuck with a man who thrived on provocation. A flicker of pity for Shane passed through him, but just as he started to relax, his phone buzzed in his hand.

SHANE
Dinner in an hour? Rozanov is coming too. I don't think it's safe for us to be alone too long. I might actually commit a crime. I need a buffer. Ask Marlow too. Meet in the lobby?

He glanced over at Marlow, who attention was back on his phone, chuckling. “Looks like the peace and quiet is on a timer,” Hayden said, sitting up straighter. “Shane wants to grab dinner in an hour. And Rozanov’s coming.”

Marlow didn’t even bother looking up, his fingers dancing over the screen as he sent off a last message. “Perfect. I’m starving. Besides, I want to see if Hollzy’s still hanging onto any hair or if Rozy’s managed to annoy it all off. Count me in.”

Hayden sighed, already bracing for the headache that was sure to follow. “Right. Dinner with all four of us. This should be… interesting.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “At least it’ll break up the night.”

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 2: Two

Chapter Summary

The night continues with Shane finding out that Marlow and Hayden got two beds. Life was officially unfair, except he got to cuddle up against a strong, Russian man to fall asleep. Maybe their flights being canceled isn't too bad after all.

Chapter Notes

Shane wasn’t sure what he was expecting of the room. It was spacious enough, but the looming single bed at the center made it feel almost suffocating. Or maybe it was just how close Rozanov was standing behind him. Shane felt like his heart was pounding so loud in the empty room, he was sure Rozanov could hear it.

When Rozanov finally moved, he made his way to the opposite side of the room like he belonged here, like this was just another hotel room in another city with another storm outside. Like sharing a bed with Shane was not a seismic event.

Shane exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, thinking maybe he could drown in there. Because if this was a dream and he died, he'd be able to snap back into the real world. Rozanov simply nodded, settling onto his side of the bed. “We can grab dinner with the others after, if you want.”

“Sure,” Rozanov replied.

Shane sent a quick text to Hayden. He wasn't sure if he could handle a dinner alone with Rozanov and have to come back into their room to share a bed. He needed a buffer. Or two. Hayd and Marlow… a balance on both sides.

Almost an hour later, they were out of the room and heading downstairs for dinner. They stopped by Hayden and Marlow’s room, luckily on the same floor, and within five minutes, the four of them were waiting for the lift.

Marlow was carrying himself like this was the best possible outcome. Snowed in. No responsibilities. A captive audience. Rozanov was leaning back against the wall, arms crossed with that infuriating half smirk playing on his lips. It drove Shane insane.

"How's your guys' room?" Shane asked, to fill the silence.

“Not bad,” Marlow replied with a grin. “Room’s nicely stocked. Our beds are pretty comfortable.”

Shane froze. Beds? As in plural? He forced himself to keep his face neutral, though he felt heat rising to his cheeks. “So, you have two beds?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Hayden nodded. “Yeah, how's your room?”

Shane shrugged, suddenly aware of how heavy his jacket was. “It's nice”

Why hadn’t he asked earlier? He should have. He should’ve pushed for another option, done something. Instead, he’d stood there. Silent. Heart pounding. Letting it happen. Letting Rozanov happen.

The elevator dinged. Already carrying a small crowd of people, the four of them shuffled inside. Rozanov hovered close to Shane, standing just near enough to lean in and whisper. With the chatter of the other passengers, no one was focused on them.

“You didn’t fight it,” Rozanov murmured.

Shane exhaled sharply, staring straight ahead. “Fuck off.”

Rozanov said nothing, but Shane could feel the heat of that smug smile radiating against his skin.

He caught Hayden’s eye and realized he had been watching them. “Shane, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said tightly. “I'm fine.”

Marlow snorted from the corner of the lift. “Man, you say that, but you don’t look it.”

The hotel restaurant buzzed with the energy of stranded players, half-full but loud enough to feel like a party that no one had planned. The round table they snagged near the window framed a blurry snowstorm outside, the city lights softened into a fuzzy glow, like the world was taking a long, cozy nap.

Their waitress was undeniably pretty and made no secret of her interest in Rozanov, shooting him looks that were far too obvious. Rozanov, surprisingly, didn't pay much attention to her. Shane would've thought he would be obnoxiously flirting, but he maintained a charmingly polite conversation as the table looked at the menu. Shane tried to find something that would be fitting with his diet, but after looking a the menu front to back three times, he surrendered and settled on some grilled fish with steamed vegetables.

Dinner turned out to be a pleasant affair. Conversation bubbled up kind of on its own. Marlow and Hayden seemed to hit a comfortable groove, unfortunately the same can't be said about Hayden and Rozanov, who were acting like they were still battling on the ice.

“You still play like you’re allergic to defense,” Hayden said, voice mild but loaded.

Rozanov’s smile was sharp and a little dangerous. “And you still skate like you’re afraid of speed.”

Shane cleared his throat. “Can we not?”

Marlow laughed, eyes sparkling like a kid at a party. “I like this. Feels festive.”

Shane kept his face calm, but inside, he felt a hushed wave of warmth. He watched Rozanov knock down Hayden’s argument with that easy flick of his wrist. His leg brushed against Shane's under the table now and then. Small, deliberate touches they both acted like didn’t happen, but that Shane felt like little sparks. It was a weird, secret thing between them, and he was careful not to let it slip. Just sitting there with Rozanov, hidden in plain sight, felt surprisingly good and a bit nerve-wracking. His heart was steady but quick, hoping no one else could see what was really going on, while he soaked up the moment. With a tinge, he wondered if they’d ever get to have more of these moments like this. Without the need to hide, without the fear of people judging or speculating. Realistically, Shane knew the answer, and that thought made his chest tighten quietly.

After they finished eating, Marlow and Hayden threw out an invitation to hit the bar. Shane declined politely, feeling the emotional exhaustion settle in like a heavy coat.

“Hollander,” Marlow said, half-exasperated, half-teasing, “it’s not even ten yet!”

Shane waved a dismissive hand, already mentally retreating. He was taken by surprise a few moments later when Rozanov fell into step alongside him. He had expected the man to stay and have a drink, since they had no obligations tomorrow. Instead, Rozanov accompanied him back to the room, walking side by side in a silence that felt different than the one in the elevator.

Back in the room, the quiet felt earned. Shane moved slower now, like the night had pressed a hand between his shoulders and told him there was nowhere else to be. He set his phone on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet.

This was something new. Not the hotel room. Not Rozanov. Not even the bed. It was the absence of urgency that made this different. In the past, these moments only occurred when their hockey game schedules aligned, allowing for brief, stolen times together between matches in the same city. Behind locked doors, eyes constantly flicking to the clock, the air always charged with tension. Desire burned fiercely, intensified by the harsh reality that their time together would vanish within an hour or two. But now, there was room to breathe, to stay longer. An unspoken freedom to simply exist together.

Rozanov came out of the bathroom, moved to the other side of the bed, and slid under the covers. Shane felt him shift and knew he was looking at him.

“You okay?” Rozanov asked quietly.

Shane nodded, even though his pulse was doing something stupid. “Yeah, I'll just get ready for bed.”

Once done with his nightly routine, he climbed into bed. In his mind, he moved at an excruciating pace, like he might break the moment if he moves too fast. The mattress dipped, the sheets rustled, and then they were lying there. Parallel. Not touching. The space between them loud with everything they weren't saying.

He waited for the familiar pull. For Rozanov to reach out and turn this into something they already knew how to handle. It didn’t happen. Minutes passed. The storm hushed the city outside. Shane stared ahead, hyperaware of his own breathing, of the warmth radiating from the body beside him.

“This is… different,” Shane said finally. The words slipped out before he can stop them.

Rozanov hummed softly. “Hm?”

Shane swallowed hard. “We’ve never…” He trailed off, unable to name the thing hovering between them. "You know. Not…"

“I know,” Rozanov said gently.

That was the thing that almost undid him. Not the agreement, but the understanding. Shane turned onto his side without really deciding to, drawn by something quiet and steady. Rozanov was looking at him. He close enough now that Shane can see the softened line of his mouth.

No rush. No pressure. Just space.

Rozanov’s arm hesitated before reaching out, as if silently asking for permission. Shane responded with the slightest, almost imperceptible shift of his body. An unspoken yes. When he finally slipped his arms around Shane's waist, it was neither demanding nor possessive, but tentative and gentle. Shane tensed briefly, caught by the careful vulnerability in the gesture, then softened, allowing himself to melt into the quiet reassurance of the embrace. The warmth radiating from Rozanov was grounding, a silent promise of patience and presence that made Shane feel truly seen and safe without a single word spoken.

No hands wandering. No mouths colliding. No pretending this was just about heat.

It felt intimate in a way that scared him more than sex ever had. Shane closed eyes, heart thudding, and let himself stay.

Ilya had never been good at stillness.

Whether on or off the ice, he was always in motion, relentlessly chasing the next moment that could prove he was alive. That he was winning. That he was somehow ahead. Even with Hollander, even in the rare, stolen silences they had shared over the years, there was always an undercurrent of urgency. A restless, desperate need, as if time itself were slipping away too fast. But tonight, there was no clock ticking down.

Hollander was warm against him, solid and grounding. His breath finally settling into the steady, soothing rhythm of sleep. Ilya’s arm lay loosely around Hollander’s waist, careful not to confine him, acutely aware of the space the other man gave, and terrified of turning this fragile moment into something he hadn’t willingly chosen.

He exhaled slowly, resting his forehead lightly on the curve of Hollander’s shoulder. He didn’t push. He didn’t take. He didn’t ask for more. For once, he didn’t have to.

The quiet. The closeness. The freedom to simply be existing side by side without a looming departure, without the pressure of what comes next. It was rare. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with their careers and everything to do with the walls Ilya habitually kept around his heart. Instinctively, he tightened his hold just a fraction, a protective flicker of vulnerability, and instead of pulling away, Hollander shifted closer.

Ilya’s chest ached. Not with the sharp sting of loss, but with something warm, full, and heavy. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel it.

Hollander fell asleep first. Outside, the snow piled thick, the storm doing what it did best: shielding the world from them, letting something fragile and real take root between two guarded souls. Ilya felt a quiet contentment settle over him, the realization landing softly, almost catching him off guard. No performance. No strategy. No game. Just proximity. Just the profound weight of another man trusting him enough to lower his guard.

He laid there, listening to Hollander’s steady breathing. The presence beside him felt like an anchor, tethered deep inside Ilya’s core. When Hollander shifted slightly in his sleep, curling closer still, Ilya’s breath caught.

Careful. His eyes traced the shadows that were dancing on the wall. Be careful.

And so he was. His touches remained gentle, his presence unwavering. He stayed awake longer than he needed to, while the snow blur the window, guarding the fragile peace, making sure Hollander wouldn’t wake and regret the closeness.

When sleep finally claimed him, it was the deepest rest he had known in years.

The hotel bar was half-empty, the storm having scared off anyone without a serious reason to linger. Hayden sat with his back to the counter, a beer sweating between his hands.

It was a strange sensation, just... sitting. He never really had the chance to kick back in a bar and just hang out since the twins had been born. Even when they were on the road, the time after the games were so limited with curfew being so tight, and a best friend who was the captain, there was no sneaking out for extra drinks or late-night fun. And that was without factoring in the lecture he'd probably get from Jackie if she found out.

Even stranger was his companion for the evening. Marlow was sprawled out on the stool next to him, already halfway through his second drink, looking completely at ease. Haden was honestly surprised at how well they were clicking. Between Marlow's wild stories about his various "situationships" and Hayden's tiring updates on his twins' latest sleep strike,they somehow found a weirdly easy rhythm. Marlow didn't care about Hayden's expectations, and Hayden wasn't bothered by Marlow's reputation one bit. It was a rare, low-key truce that had built between two guys who spent their encounters trying to knock each other down.

His mind wandered to the other two unlikely pairs amongst the midst. The same ones who had ditched them for an early evening. Shane's absence didn't surprise him, but from Marlow's stories about the Raiders team, it seemed out of character for Rozanov to call it a night so soon. Still, Hayden can't say he was too bothered about missing out on hanging with the man.

“I still can’t believe they stuck us,” Hayden said, shaking his head before taking a sip of his beer.

“Dude, Hollander is like twenty-four going on sixty,” Marlow said, grinning. “Who goes to bed this early? It’s practically a crime against a free hotel stay.”

Hayden laughed. “Oh, yeah? And your captain is any better? He practically sprinted for the elevator after Shane said goodnight.”

“Yeah, man, that was weird. Rozy never goes to bed before midnight. And he never says no to going out for a drink,” Marlow shook his head, looking genuinely baffled.

They drank in an easy silence, watching the heavy snow press thickly against the windows, relentless and loud. It felt good to be off the clock.

“Well,” Marlow said eventually, staring into his glass. “Actually, that’s not true. About him saying no to me.”

Hayden raised an eyebrow.

“Dude, there’s this chick. Jane. In Montreal,” Marlow said, leaning in like he was sharing league secrets. “Every game we play against you guys, he sneaks off to see her. She must be a real loyal fan because she even travels for away games. He’s been talking to her for years, but he’s weirdly quiet about it.”

Huh. Something tugged at the back of Hayden’s mind, a small, nagging thought, but he couldn’t quite pin it down.

Marlow spoke again before Hayden could find it. “So, you’re the family man. What’s Hollander’s situation?”

“Why is that your business?” Hayden asked, though there was no real bite in it.

“It’s not. I just never hear about him with girls. Usually, a guy with that much media coverage has a different 'model' on his arm every Tuesday.”

"The man just went to bed before 10:00 PM and you think he would have a model on his arm every Tuesday?"

"Fair enough, but he never dates?"

Hayden doesn’t respond right away. It was practically true. He’d known Shane for years, and the guy had never really shown any interest in the typical pro athlete dating scene. Women constantly hit on him in every city, but Shane was always just... polite. He’d have a ten-minute conversation about the weather or the game they had played that night and then make an excuse to disappear back to his room. Hayden and Jackie even tried to set him up with some of Jackie’s friends over the years, but they rare make it to even the first date. Shane wasn't shallow; he just seemed fundamentally disinterested.

Except for one person.

“I mean," Hayden hesitated. "He has been texting this one girl. It's been going on for a while, I think. Boston girl named Lily,” Hayden added. “It's pretty low-key. Never seen a photo, but they text a lot.”

Marlow perked up, his eyes widening. “No fucking way. A Boston girl?”

They sat with that for a beat, the coincidence of two "secret" long-term girls in their rival cities hanging in the air.

“Think they’ll ever introduce us to these secret girlfriends?” Marlow asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

Hayden shook his head, thinking of how protective Shane was of his personal space. “Doubt it. Shane’s super private. If she’s stuck around this long without a single paparazzi shot, he’s keeping her under lock and key.”

Marlow raised his drink, clinking it against Hayden’s bottle. “Probably for the best. Keep the drama off the ice.”

“To Jane and Lily,” Hayden said.

“To the secret keepers,” Marlow agreed.

He clinked his glass against Hayden's bottle.

Chapter End Notes

HayLow are idiots lmaooo it's right there in front of them.

I have a few chapters already written, but editing for yourself is not easy. Thanks for reading! <33

Chapter 3: Three

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya wake up in a sweet embrace. The moment is short lived when Cliff fucking Marlow bangs on their door, jolting them back into reality. Ilya swears he's going to murder Marlow.

Chapter Notes

Shane woke up slowly, the way he only ever did when there was no alarm waiting to yank him back into himself. For a few disoriented seconds, he had forgotten where he was. The ceiling seemed unfamiliar. The light was wrong. The weight across his middle was the only thing that felt right.

He took a deep breath, catching the familiar mix of Rozanov's detergent and the man himself, a scent that Shane shamefully admitted he knew too well. It smelled clean and warm, with just a hint of citrus. Shane's body went still before his brain could catch up, his insticts kicking in. He suddenly noticed the arm resting over him, heavy and solid. It wasn't pushing down on him, but a steadying, quiet kind of comfort in it's weight.

Rozanov was slightly bigger than him. Always has been. Broader shoulders, thicker arms, a solidness that felt earned and deliberate. His shoulders were broader, arms thicker, carrying a strength that felt stable and sure. Even when they were asleep, Shane could feel it. The way Rozanov's chest rested against his back and how his thigh settled around Shane's own leg like it just fit. The way their bodies curved into each other was the most natural, comforting thing in the world.

Carefully, Shane turned his head to look at the man behind him. His face was relaxed in sleep, stripped of its usual sharpness. His lashes were dark against his cheeks. His curls fell loose and soft over his forehead, golden brown strands caught the warmth of the morning light. His eyes were closed, but Shane knew them well. Knew the way they danced between green or gold depending on the light, the mood, the moment.

It hit Shane then, quietly but completely. This was the first time he’s ever woken up wrapped up in Rozanov's arms like this. It was peaceful. Nice. He could probably get used to this.

Rozanov’s hand flexed slightly at Shane’s stomach, fingers spreading like he was making sure Shane is still there. The touch is absent-minded. Protective. Shane swallows hard. No. He couldn't get used to this. Because this isn't their normal. This can't happen between the two of them.

He thinks of all the hotel rooms before this. Rushed, dimly lit, filled with urgency and want and restraint barely holding together. This bed feels different. Less like borrowed space. More like something they’ve stepped into without meaning to. This feels dangerous in a way he doesn’t have a rulebook for.

Rozanov shifts again behind him, pressing closer, forehead settling against the back of Shane’s neck. A quiet breath ghosts over his skin. Shane closes his eyes again. Maybe just for today, he'll let himself stay. Maybe just for today, he won't worry about how he may never have another moment like this. Before he knows it, he drifted back to sleep.

Ilya woke up, slightly disoriented. The warmth hit him before the realization of where he was does. Hollander fit against him like a missing puzzle piece. Smaller, but not fragile. Solid in his own way. Strong. Familiar. Ilya’s arm was still wrapped around his waist, hand resting just below his ribs, like it belongs there.

He doesn’t move. Instead, he opened his eyes slowly, taking in the curve of Hollander’s neck, the dark sweep of hair at the nape. Ilya could see the freckles peaking ever so slightly on the side of his face. His fingers itch with the impulse to trace them, count them, commit them to memory.

He doesn’t, worried any movement could cause Hollander to wake up. Worried the slightest touch would ruin this moment. The first time they’ve shared a bed without any rush. Ilya felt something loosen in his chest. He adjusted his grip, trying not to wake the other man, easing the weight just enough. Hollander made a small sound in response. Not a protest. Just acknowledgment. Something warm and unfamiliar blooms behind Ilya’s ribs.

Safe. He realized. The word surprised him. He pressed his face into Hollander’s hair, breathing him in, and let himself linger in the feeling. He allowed himself to believe that, in this moment, he doesn’t have to perform or provoke or chase. That he can simply exist here, wrapped around someone who knows him better than most and still hasn’t walked away.

When Hollander shifted, Ilya tightens his arm without thinking, a quiet, unconscious promise. I’m here. He knows the world will come rushing back soon enough. Rivalries. Flights. Seasons. Distance. He just wants to stay like this for a while longer.

As if right on cue, a loud banging comes from the door.

“Hollzy! Roz! You fuckers killed each other yet?”

Ilya was pretty sure he’d be arrested for the murder of Cliff Marlow.

Shane's eyes shot open. His heart slammed against his ribs with a violence that made his vision swim. In the hazy, tender half-light of the room, for one beautiful, idiotic moment, he’d forgotten who he was. He had forgotten the Metros, forgotten the storm. But as the voice carried through the door, the weight of the world rushed in with it, cold and uncompromising.

“Hollzy! Roz! You fuckers killed each other yet?”

Marlow. Oh, fuck. It was Marlow.

Shane scrambled internally, his brain frantically cataloging every piece of evidence in the room. Beside him, Rozanov was still. Too still. Shane can feel the weight of his arm across his middle still. A weight that, just three seconds ago, had felt so secure. Now, it felt like a live wire.

He felt Rozanov’s grip tighten instinctively, his fingers curled into the fabric of Shane’s shirt as if he was trying to hold onto the sleep-heavy quiet of the morning for just one more breath. It was a slow, drowsy slip of character that made Shane’s throat tight. Rozanov wasn't moving. He was lingering.

“Rise and shine, lovers!” Marlow bellows, followed by another sharp bang-bang-bang on the door.

The word lovers made Shane’s stomach twist. It was a joke, a chirp. Something Marlow would probably said to anybody. But here, in this room, with the heat of Rozanov's body still pressed against his back, it felt like a quiet, undeniable truth.

Rozanov finally exhaled, a long, ragged sound of a man counting to ten to avoid committing a felony. He slowly, almost reluctantly, lets his hand slide off Shane. The loss of the contact is immediate and chilling.

“I will murder him,” Rozanov mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the mattress. “I will bury him under the rink in Boston and no one will find the pieces.”

Shane forced himself to sit up, the sheets twisted around his legs like a trap. He ran a hand through his hair, his palms slicked with sweat. “Please don’t,” he whispered, though a part of him wanted to stay tangled up in the moment, hiding away so the world could just disappear for another hour.

“For you,” Rozanov replies, his voice losing that soft morning edge, “I’ll consider maiming.”

The door banged again. Shane was already on his feet, his heart racing like it was trying to burst free from his chest. He glanced back at the bed. Rozanov was lying there, shirt gone sometime during the night, hair a complete mess, one arm still stretched out toward the empty space Shane just left. He looked human. Vulnerable. Like a disaster waiting to happen.

“Fuck,” Shane hisses, his voice cracking with the onset of a panic attack he’s trying to swallow. “Put on a shirt. Please. Just... put on a shirt.”

Rozanov was already stirring, his movements slower than usual, as if he was fighting the urge to crawl back under the covers. Shane grabbed a hoodie, and pulled it over his head while crossing the room. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, flushed face, wide eyes. He looked like a man who’d been caught, even though nothing had happened. Nothing had happened. He repeated the lie to himself, willing it to be true.

He opened the door just a crack. Marlow was standing there, looking disgustingly caffeinated, with Hayden lurking a step behind him like a grumpy shadow.

“Fucking finally,” Marlow said, trying to peer past Shane’s shoulder. Shane blocked his view instinctively. “Mooorning, Rozy! You guys look... well-rested.”

Marlow wiggled his eyebrows, and Shane felt the heat in his face intensified. He fixed Marlow with a glare. “Shut the fuck up, Marlow,” he snapped, his voice low but dangerous. “You’re waking up the entire floor.”

“I’m waking up the legends,” Marlow corrected him, unbothered. He doesn't even look like he remotely cares. “Breakfast. Ten minutes. Don't make me come back and drag you out,” he said and stalked off with Hayden trailing behind him.

Shane closed the door and leaned his forehead against the cool wood. His adrenaline was buzzing, a frantic, staggering energy that made his hands shake.

“That,” Shane said to the empty room, “was the end of the nice morning.”

Behind him, Rozanov was standing by the bed, tugging a shirt over his head. He caught Shane’s eye in the mirror, his mouth curved into that annoying, effortless smirk, but his eyes were still heavy with the remnants of the morning. “Or you can come back,” Rozanov said quietly. “We could continue.”

Shane looked at him, really looked at him, and the “tempting” that left his throat is the most honest thing he had said since yesterday. But he knew they couldn't. The door was closed, but Shane knew they had let in more than just the draft from the hallway.

Shane's footsteps felt heavy as they walked to the dining hall. Every inch of him was fighting the urge to break the invisible boundary and touch Rozanov. Rozanov’s shoulder brushed agaisnt his every once in a while. It made Shane flinched because his brain was screaming distance, he wanted to scream touch me. He had spent years mastering the choreography of their "rivalry," but right now, he already felt like he forgot the steps.

When they reach the table, Hayden was already slumped in a chair, staring at a cup of coffee like it was a religious icon. He looked like he was ready to retire on the spot.

“No one speak to me,” Hayden muttered. “I am unpleasant.”

“You’re a delight, Pike,” Marlow said, sliding into a seat and looking between Shane and Rozanov with terrifying intensity. “So... one bed, huh. How was the cuddle session? Did Rozy share the covers, or is he as greedy in bed as he is with the puck?”

Hayden groans, burying his face in his hands. “Jesus, Marlow. I’m trying to eat.”

“If I’d known you assholes had two beds,” Shane said, his voice coming out tighter than he intended, “I would’ve started a riot to get that room.”

“Tragic,” Marlow sighs, eyes dancing with mischief. “But you both look remarkably un-maimed. I’m disappointed. I expected at least one black eye.”

“We’re professionals,” Rozanov said, sitting down beside Shane. They weren't touching, but the proximity is loud.

Shane stood and went off to the buffet line, really to just get away from the table for a brief moment. He grabbed some fruit and a plain yogurt, knowing he wasn't going to eat much. He came back and settled back into his seat from earlier, felt Hayden's gaze on him. He avoided it. He also avoided Rozanov's. He just focused on the clatter of silverware and the hum of the room.

“You sleep alright, Shane?”Apparently, Hayden has had enough coffee to start conversation.

“Yeah,” he said, and truthfully added. “Actually... very well.”

He caught Rozanov’s profile out of the corner of his eye. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but Shane saw his jaw softening. And in that moment, the panic didn't recede, it shifted. He felt the truth sitting like a stone in his throat, heavy and impossible to ignore. His skin felt too tight, his pulse a frantic warning that the outside world was too close. The fortress was being picked apart piece by piece by Marlow’s jokes and Hayden’s observations.

He knew he needed to build the walls higher, thicker, more impenetrable. He needed to figure out how to be invisible again, how to play the part of the Montreal Captain so perfectly that no one would think to look for the cracks. But beneath the fear, there was a new, treacherous ache. He wanted to hide. He realized with a jolt of terror that he only wanted to hide if Rozanov was there alongside him. He wanted the world to stay in the dark, as long as he could keep the warmth of their morning behind a locked door.

The lounge had that easy, lived-in vibe most of the people were soaking up, quiet jokes drifted through the air, casual chatter hummed softly like background noise that was barely noticed. The dim, warm light softened the edges of the room, making everything feel relaxed, almost comfortable. The worn leather and faint, clean scent settled over the group, nudging them toward a sense of ease.

Except for Ilya. In their corner, the air felt different. Thicker. Tighter. Underneath the light chatter, a sharp tension stretched silently between himself and Hollander, unspoken but impossible to ignore. While the people around them leaned into the easy mood, the silence that had grown between them pulled tight, loaded with everything they were both trying to avoid. The room stayed the same, but the space between them felt like a quiet standoff.

Ilya stood by the dartboard, legs planted wide, jaw set in a practiced mask of boredom. To anyone watching, he looked like a guy just enjoying a beer. But inside, he was wound tight, vibrating with restless energy he couldn’t shake.

He didn’t have to look to know where Hollander was. It was always felt like an invisible string pulled him toward this man, a quiet connection that didn't make sense any way you look at it. No matter if they were on the ice or in a crowded room, the thread was always there, guiding him without a word. Hollander was at the pool table, his movements stiff, his focus too sharp for a casual game. Ilya noticed the tension in Hollander’s hunched shoulders. The Captain’s armor was back on, locked down tight, but the cracks were there. Every time a dart hit the board, Hollander’s eyes flicked toward Ilya, quick, subtle.

“You’re up,” Marlow said, sliding a dart into Ilya’s hand with a grin.

Ilya stepped forward, got into position, and threw. The dart landed just off the bullseye. Close, but not quite.

“Slippin’,” Marlow teased, his voice light.

“Chill,” Ilya said, voice low with a cocky drawl. “I’m just saving my energy. Not all of us run on your never-ending supply of useless hype, Marlow.”

Marlow snorted, spinning a plastic dart flight between his fingers, and Ilya laughed, the sound blending right into the room. A perfect cover. But all the while, his eyes flashed toward Hollander, catching the hesitation in his wrist, the flicker of doubt he’d seen too many times before. He missed his shot.

Ilya took a long pull from his beer, the bitter taste grounding him. He needed to put space. The morning had been a mistake. Not just because he had lost control of himself, but, if he was being honest, because the softness kind of scared him. There were no walls. There was no armor. Without those things, he didn’t know how to keep this thing between them safe.

Their eyes met briefly. He knew Hollander would feel the distance between them. Ilya looked away first, a slight feeling of guilt burning low in his chest. The space between them was supposed to be protection. Right now, it felt like a blade.

“Oh, this is dumb,” Marlow said, pressing his face to the window. For a second, Ilya thought he read his mind. But then Marlow continued. “It’s gorgeous out. We’re going outside.”He spoke loud enough for his voice to carry over to the pool tables.

Pike groaned, but he was already reaching for his coat.

“We’re not going outside,” Shane said, voice clipped, like a reflex.

“Why not? You’re Canadian. You're used to snow.”

“Doesn’t make me immune, Marlow.”

Five minutes later, coats on, they stepped into the cold. The parking lot was a soft white blur, snow drifting down in gentle, quiet flakes. It had stopped falling heavily, just enough to coat everything in a thin, silent layer.

Ilya made sure to keep his distance. They usually didn't interact much in person, but on those rare occasions where they were in the same vicinity, Ilya would be bumping Hollander's shoulder, pushing boundaries in public. Tonight, he hung back. Marlow lobbed a snowball at Pike. It hit him and Pike swore loud enough to cut through the calm.

Hollander stood still, staring out into the white. “You cold?”

The question was careful, measured. Ilya turned his head. Hollander wasn’t looking at the snow. He was watching Ilya. He’d noticed the pullback, like Ilya knew he would.

“I’m fine,” Ilya said too fast, forcing a smirk. “You? Or is the great Montreal Captain scared of a little frost?”

“Yeah,” Hollander replied low, no laugh.

Ilya’s fingers itched to reach out, brush snowflakes from his dark hair. To tell him the distance was for their own good. Because if Ilya touched him now, he would never stop.

“Hey! How's the weather?” Marlow shouted, a snowball falling short.

Ilya exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The mist vanished into the storm. He looked away before meeting Shane’s eyes again. The cold was sharp, clean, sinking in.

He welcomed it. The cold was something he could handle. This version of himself. The one alone, guarded, needing nothing. He could survive. He just had to keep moving until morning felt like a distant memory.

Chapter End Notes

I appreciate the kudos and everyone for reading! <33

Chapter 4: Four

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya dance around the distance that's wedged it's way between them all day, while Hayden and Cliff play detective trying to find Boston Lily and Montreal Jane.

Chapter Notes

I am sorry in advance... this is a heavy chapter. I updated the tags, so please check that for trigger warnings before reading. I told myself I was writing a fluffy, comedic story, but the angst just came out... I'm sorry...

The tension from the day doesn’t dissipate, but instead relocates to the hotel dining room. The restaurant felt different from the lounge, quieter and more refined. The rich scent of wood smoke and red wine filled the air, mingling with the soft clink of cutlery and low murmurs from other tables. It was polished and deliberate, a place that demanded normalcy.

The four of them sat as they had at breakfast: Shane and Rozanov on one side, Hayden and Marlow on the other. Rozanov’s leg brushed Shane’s under the table, a steady, grounding pressure that pulled at Shane’s attention. It confused him. Above the surface, Rozanov seemed cold and distant. His eyes avoided Shane’s, his movements clipped and efficient, as if carefully pruning away any sign of what had passed between them. Yet beneath the table, that touch was warm and unyielding, a silent contradiction Shane couldn’t ignore.

They were playing the part, keeping the conversation light and casual. Rozanov and Hayden debating a power play, Marlow tapping a fork and humming a tune. But Shane’s mind was tangled in the coldness he felt just beneath Rozanov’s composed exterior, clashing with the quiet contact that felt anything but distant.

He tried to focus on the conversation at the table, but every time Rozanov shifted, the brush of his thigh was a sharp reminder of the complicated space between them. Something unresolved that Shane wasn’t sure how to reach.

"So,” Marlow broke in, cutting through the hockey talk and Shane’s swirling thoughts with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, “Pike and I were talking at the bar last night.”

Shane felt a tickle of unease at his neck. He took a sip of water, keeping his eyes on Marlow. “That sounds dangerous.”

“We were talking about consistency,” Marlow continued, leaning back like he was about to drop a truth bomb. “Some guys are just... reliable. On and off the ice.” He glanced at Rozanov. “Like my boy Rozy here. Reliable as a clock. Every time we’re in Montreal, game’s done, and he’s gone. Poof. Ghosts the guys to go see his girl, Jane.”

Shane froze. The water felt like lead in his mouth.

Jane. The fake name Rozanov had came up with for the contact in his phone when they first started hooking up. Hearing it from Marlow felt like a punch in the gut.

“Jane?” Hayden said, his voice deliberately curious, edged with a hint of challenge. “Never heard of a Jane, Rozy.”

“I don’t share anything with you, Pike,” Rozanov said, voice flat and bored. No glance toward Shane.

“She's loyal too,” Marlow grinned. “Even travels to our home games. True love, man. It’s disgusting.”

Shane’s heart hammered hard. He gripped his glass tighter, eyes fixed on a spot on the tablecloth. His stomach twisted. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air thick and hard to breathe.

Then Hayden turned to Shane. “Funny enough,” he said thoughtfully, “Shane’s got his own secret. Only his girl lives in Boston.”

Shane’s lungs seized. His face drained of color so fast he thought he might faint.

“Lily,” Marlow said, pointing at Shane with a grin. “That’s the one, right? Boston Lily.”

It was like watching a bad play unfold. Was this planned? A confrontation?

Lily. The name hung in the air like a live grenade. Shane had spent years mastering his phone tilts, swapping texts for weather apps in seconds. But Hayden, who’d had always been by his side, had clearly taken notice.

“She’s... private,” Shane said, voice barely his own. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Must be one hell of a girl,” Marlow mused, looking between them. “Funny, huh? The two biggest stars in the league, both with secret long-distance girlfriends they never talk about. What are the odds?”

Rozanov’s leg pressed harder against Shane’s thigh, a steady, heavy warmth, not a shove or warning. Shane’s breath caught, his body leaning into the pressure before his mind could stop it. A quiet, physical “I’m here” that kept him from drifting away.

“The odds do not matter,” Rozanov said, voice sharp and low, slicing through the tension. “Some people have lives outside the rink. Not everyone needs to post their breakfast on Instagram like you, Marlow.”

Shane wanted to retreat. To disappear into the surface of the table and get away from the eyes that seemed to see right through him. The laughter around him faded into a dull roar, replaced by the sharp, insistent thump of his own pulse. They don’t know. They can’t know. But the cracks were showing, and his control was slipping.

Rozanov’s presence beside him was a paradox. A comforting, grounding reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone in this. That leg pressed against his thigh was a silent anchor, steady and unyielding, pulling him back from the edge of unraveling. Shane leaned into it, even as his thoughts spiraled.

The mention of Jane and Lily, the coded names they'd been using for years, suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable in the glare of casual conversation. The thought twisted in his gut like a knot tightening with every breath.

His fought the urge to flee. Not yet. He needed to remain calm enough to get through dinner. But the weight of the evening pressed down on him, and when the bill arrived, the decision was made before his mind could catch up. He had to get away, had to find a moment to breathe, to gather the pieces before the facade shattered completely.

“I’m heading up,” he said, not looking around or waiting for a reply.

He made it to the elevator before his shoulders dropped, the weight of the lie pressing him into the carpet. The doors slid open, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for their floor. Just as the doors started to close, a hand caught them. Rozanov stepped in.

The ride was silent, heavy with unspoken words. Shane watched the floor numbers tick up in the mirrored doors, feeling Rozanov’s presence inches away. Hands in his pockets, they weren't touching now, his face unreadable. Cameras watched from the corners. Voices echoed down the halls. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, heart racing, adrenaline still buzzing.

They reached their floor and walked down the quiet, carpeted hall like strangers sharing a path. At the door, Rozanov swiped the card. The lock clicked, and they stepped inside. The door shut softly behind them, muffling the hallway sounds.

Shane didn’t turn on the lights. The bedside lamp casted a dim glow as Rozanov moved to the desk, shedding his coat and laying it down on the back of the chair.

“When did they get so friendly?” Shane asked quietly, voice dry and low. He stayed by the door, feeling like he might crack apart if he moved. “I never would've thought Hayden would swapping gossip with a Raider.”

Rozanov didn’t look back. “They share a room, Hollander. They get bored. They drink. It’s natural they talk about their captains.”

“They talked about Jane and Lily,” Shane pressed, the names tasting like ash. He shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers curling tight. He waited, but Rozanov just placed his watch on the desk with a soft clink.

“We've been careful,” Shane murmured to himself.

“They said nothing dangerous,” Rozanov finally said, turning. His face was a blank wall, the same expression he wore during after game interviews when he done answering questions. “They talked about names that don’t exist. That’s good. It means they believe the lie.”

Shane looked at him, a sudden ache spiking in his chest. Logically, Rozanov was right. But logic felt cold.

“Right,” Shane said. "Is that why you've been quiet all day? For the lie?" It came out before he realized what he was saying.

Rozanov tilted his head, eyes tracking Shane as he paced toward the bed’s foot. “We are rivals. This is how it’s been. I’m just... playing my part.”

Shane stopped, jaw tight. He wanted to say he hated that part, that the distance felt like erasure. But the words were too heavy. Too honest. He stood still, simply looking at Rozanov. The man stepped closer, moving quietly into Shane’s space. Shane looked away. The electricity in the air was too much for him. Rozanov reached out to grab Shane's chin and gently tilted his face. For the first time since they've left this room, they were really looking at each other. Something flickered across Rozanov's face. Shane didn't catch what it was. It was gone too quickly.

“As long as they’re chasing Jane and Lily,” Rozanov said, voice low and soft, “they’re not watching us.”

Shane had expected a kiss. He had wanted it. He realized as he watched Rozanov drop his hand and headed for the bathroom. He wanted their lips to lock, to be held tight by the other man. He headed over to his side of the bed, heart hammering a frantic rhythm. He needed to do something about this. He knew lust was nothing new to them, but whatever he was feeling inside, it wasn't lust.

The bathroom was too bright. After the dim, suffocating tension of the hotel room, the unforgiving white glare of the vanity light felt like an interrogation.

Ilya leaned over the sink, his hands gripping the cold porcelain until his knuckles turned white. Lying was a muscle he’d spent a lifetime strengthening. It was as natural to him as a backhand shot. To the league, to the fans, and to his teammates, he was the Ilya Rozanov: a Stanley Cup winner, a cool-headed jerk with a model on his arm, and a lethal edge on the ice. He was the definition of untouchable.

But the mask was feeling heavy today. Behind the effortless smirk and the "womanizer" reputation was a man still haunted by the sharp, jagged edges of his childhood in Russia. He had been forged in a house where affection was a weakness and silence was the only true safety. His father, a cop who had mastered the art of the bruise and the barked command, had taught him that a man’s value was measured only in what he could provide or what he could withstand. Love was a fairy tale for people who didn't have to survive the winter.

He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror yet. He wasn't ready to see the man who had just spent his day pretending to be a ghost, while his heart tried to hammer its way out of his ribs at every brush of Hollander’s knee.

He turned the tap on, letting the water run hot, scalding hot, until steam began to cloud the glass. Jane. The name felt like a slur suddenly. He had spent years building her, this phantom woman in Montreal with the "stubborn mouth" and the "high-maintenance" attitude. Ilya knew why the details were so vivid. He wasn't describing a woman. He was describing the man currently five feet away on the other side of that door.

He splashed the hot water over his face, the sting a welcome distraction from the psychological weight of the performance. He thought about that morning. He thought about the way Hollander had looked, soft and unguarded in the half-light, before the world came knocking. He had felt a moment of genuine safety, a terrifying, seditious thought. Safety was for people with different passports. Safety was for men like Pike, who went home to wives and children and lives lived in the light.

Ilya wonders if he would ever have that. A wife and kids. Did he deserve that? Would he be a good husband? A good father? These questions lingered in the quiet moments, unanswered. He finally looked up, his reflection hazy and distorted through the rising steam. He knew, deep down, that what he wanted wasn't a wife. Kids, maybe. He had always been good with kids. But when he envisioned his future, all he saw was hockey. The roar of the crowd, the weight of the cup in his hands. And always, just beyond the noise, he saw Shane Hollander. Cheering him on, celebrating beside him, a presence impossible to ignore. But the truth settled like a cold shadow: he couldn’t have both. Not Hollander and hockey. The world they lived in wouldn’t allow it.

It wasn't a sudden clarity, but a slow, insistent truth that had grown in the quiet corners of his mind. He noticed how Hollander's absence felt heavier these days. How his thoughts returned again and again to the other man's smile, his voice, the way he seemed to belong in spaces Ilya didn't even realize he was guarding. The line they had both drawn was getting more unclear for him.

Becase he loved him. The thought didn't come with a flourish or a sense of relief; it came with a cold, hollow dread. It was a truth he’d been carrying like a smuggled prize, tucked away where no one could see it. But loving Shane Hollander was a luxury he couldn't afford to be reckless with. Because beneath the fear of the league and the fear of the Kremlin was a much older, deeper fear: that Ilya Rozanov simply wasn't a man designed to be loved.

His father’s voice, raspy and distant in the back of his mind, reminded him that he was an instrument, not a person. He was a tool for the team, a paycheck for his leech of a brother, a soldier for a father who forgot his name half the time. He was convinced that Hollander was here for the heat, for the rivalry, for the adrenaline of the secret, but never for him.

If Hollander ever found out that Ilya’s heart was as bruised and needy as a child’s, the man would run. Hollander needed someone who could match his strength off the ice, not someone who was secretly falling apart under the weight of a twelve-year-old’s trauma. Ilya was certain that if he ever let the mask slip for real, he would see the precise moment the other man’s attraction turned to pity, or worse, disgust.

He thought of Russia. The laws, the danger, the duty. He didn't have a vast family to protect. His mother was the only one who had ever truly mattered, the only one he had ever permitted himself to care about, and she had seen to his isolation long ago. Ilya doesn’t blame her, he’s never blamed her for the decision she made. But the weight of finding her like that… it never left him.

Ilya looked at his reflection now, and felt a sudden, sharp pang of grief. It was a wish that his mother could have known who he’s become. That she could have seen him make it to the MLH. Seen him take his team all the way to the end, and bring home the cup. Seen him beside the man he loved. His greatest, most impossible wish was that the two people he loved most could have met, bridging the gap between the boy who found a body and the man who had found a home he didn't feel he deserved.

He couldn't be the one to break the seal. He couldn't be the one to ask Hollander to stand in the light, because the light in Russia burned everything it touched, and Ilya was certain Hollander would never choose to stand in the light with him anyway. He had to be the wall. If he let the wall crumble, he wouldn't just be outed; he would be rejected. And that was a death he wouldn't survive. He grabbed a towel and wiped the steam from the mirror. His face looked back at him; calm, bored, perfectly composed. The mask was back on.

He could hear Hollander moving in the room outside, the quiet rustle of clothes, the heavy silence of a man who was waiting for something Ilya was too terrified to give.

I am helping you build the lie, Hollander, he thought, his chest tightening. I am being the perfect rival so that you can keep being Shane Hollander. And I am doing it because I cannot lose you to the truth of how much I need you.

He turned off the light, took a breath, and opened the door.

Cliff wasn’t a detective, but he was a bored professional athlete with a high-speed internet connection and a very specific lack of hobbies.

“I’m telling you, Pike. The geography is the problem.” Cliff leaned back against the mahogany bar, swirling a scotch. The hotel lounge was thinning out, the blizzard outside turning the windows into sheets of opaque white.

Pike looked like he was about five seconds away from face-palming. He had his laptop open, but he was mostly just scrolling through photos of his kids. “It’s a long-distance relationship, Marlow. People have them. It’s a thing.”

“No,” Cliff said, wagging a finger. “People have long-distance relationships with people. Rozy has a relationship with a ghost. I’ve shared countless hotel rooms with that man on the road. I have never seen him take a video call. I have never seen him buy a gift. He doesn't even have a lock screen photo of a girl. It’s just the default Apple wallpaper. Who does that?”

“Maybe he’s just private,” Pike countered. “Or he’s dating a spy. Or he’s just boring.”

“Jane in Montreal?” Cliff leaned in. “Pike, you live there. Montreal is a fishbowl. If Ilya Rozanov, the guy who literally just won the Cup, was dating a local girl, the fans at Joe Beef would have leaked a blurry photo of them sharing a steak by now. In that city? It’s impossible.”

Pike paused, his fingers hovering over the keys. He looked up, his brow furrowing as the logic finally, slowly, began to leak in. "Okay... that’s a fair point for Montreal. The fans there are basically the CSIS. But Shane is different. He’s obsessed with his image. He’d bury a relationship under ten layers of NDAs if he wanted to keep it private."

"Right, with 'Lily from Boston,'" Cliff scoffed. "Your guy is the Captain of the Metros. He’s the face of the team. If he’s disappearing for a whole night every time you guys are in Boston, my cousins in Southie would have texted me about it. Boston is a small town with a big mouth. You're telling me 'Lily' is so invisible that even the gossip rags in my own backyard can't find her?"

Pike sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, fine. Let's look at the facts. They both have secret girlfriends. The girlfriends both live in the other guy's city. And both girls have the most generic names in the history of the English language.”

“Exactly!” Cliff hit the table, making the glasses rattle. “Jane and Lily. It’s like they picked them out of a 1950s textbook. It’s a cover, Pike. They're clearly... I don't know, joined a secret society? Starting a rival league? Maybe they're just obsessed with mystery?”

Pike squinted at his screen. “I found a Lily from Boston on Instagram. She’s sixty-four and owns a knitting shop.”

“Not his type,” Cliff muttered. “Unless he has a thing for cardigans.”

“And I found a Jane in Montreal who tagged Rozanov in a photo three years ago,” Pike added, leaning in. “Wait. No. It’s a picture of her dog wearing a Rozanov jersey. The dog's name is Jane.”

Cliff huffed. “See? Shadows. It’s like they’re coordinated. Two secret girlfriends, two identical levels of 'she goes to another school' energy. It’s suspicious.”

Pike looked up, a weird look on his face. “You think they’re... what? Faking it? Why would they both fake having girlfriends?”

“I don’t know!” Cliff threw his hands up. “Maybe they’re actually best friends and they spend their off-seasons antiquing? Or maybe..." He trailed off, a strange, half-baked thought sparking. "Maybe they're just using each other’s cities as an excuse to get away from us.”

Pike snorted. “Hollander and Rozanov? Best friends? They’ve been trying to put each other through the boards since they were nineteen. They hate each other, Marlow. That’s the only thing in the league that's actually real.”

“Yeah,” Cliff said, narrowing his eyes. “But they’re both 'seeing' someone in the other guy’s city. Doesn't that strike you as... convenient? Like, they could just say 'I'm going to see Jane' and everyone stops asking questions.”

Pike stayed quiet for a long time. “You’re reaching. It’s a coincidence. A weird, statistically improbable coincidence.” He finally snapped the laptop shut. “Go to sleep, Marlow. You’re seeing conspiracies in the snow. If you stay down here any longer, you’re going to start telling me the MLH is run by lizard people.”

Cliff opened his mouth to argue, but the fatigue finally hit him, a heavy, bone-deep ache that scotch couldn't quite numb. He looked at Pike, who was already standing up and slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Cliff grumbled, pushing himself off the bar stool. “But when the 'lizards' take over the Eastern Conference, don't come crying to me.”

Pike rolled his eyes, heading toward the elevators. “I’ll take my chances. Let's go, detective. Before you find a way to link the weather to the draft lottery.”

Cliff followed him, still unconvinced, but willing to let the ghosts rest for the night. He didn't have the proof yet, but he knew one thing for sure: Jane and Lily were the most boring secrets in the world, and Hollander and Rozanov were anything but boring.

Chapter End Notes

I didn't want to leave on such a heavy tone, so here's some HayLow friendship comedy. As always, thanks for reading!! <33

Chapter 5: Five

Chapter Summary

Shane establishes a no touching rule, which backfires when he wakes up in the middle of the night to find half the bed empty and begins to panic. Ilya, meanwhile, goes back to the one thing he's been craving that he could hold in his hand. A cigarette.

Chapter Notes

Ilya stood by the bathroom door for a second too long, steadying himself, his skin still humming from the heat. The realization he’d reached in front of the frosted glass, the one that made his breath hitch more than the hot water, felt like a bruise. I love him. It was a simple, devastating realization. A death sentence for the easy, sharp-edged rivalry they've been pretending to have.

He glanced over at Hollander, seated on the bed, propped up against the headboard with a tablet Ilya knew he wasn't really reading. He was wearing a pair black brow-line frame glasses that perched low on the bridge of his nose.

Fuck. Ilya’s pulse didn't just quicken; his entire body gave a traitorous leap of desire. He’s seen Hollander naked countless times over the years; seen him vulnerable, eager to please. But this. This is what’s going to make Ilya come undone on this hotel floor. Something as mundane as fucking nearsightedness. It made the love he’d finally admit feel even heavier, more dangerous. It made him want to cross the room, close the distance he’s tried to put between them all day, and pull those glasses off just to see if his eyes looked as vulnerable as the rest of him did.

"Bathroom's yours," Ilya said, when he finally found his voice again.

Hollander stayed glued to tablet, his jaw set in that particular way that Ilya knew meant he was overthinking. "I'm okay," he muttered.

Ilya moved to his side of the bed. Every movement felt heavy, calculated. The silence in the room was a weight, heavier than the snow piling up against the hotel window. He laid down, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling as if the white stucco held the answers to the mess in his chest. Outside, the wind brushed the glass with a rhythmic, ghostly sound, a reminder that they were trapped in this small, pressurized space.

"You're thinking so loud I can't hear the storm," Ilya said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, dry, exhausted. He didn't dare to move.

"Rozanov."

Ilya doesn't speak, instead he turned to see Hollander set his tablet on the nightstand, slide his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn't look back at Ilya, just stared straight ahead at the darkened television across the room. “We should probably…” Hollander started, then stopped. He clears his throat, a sharp, abrasive sound. “We should set a rule."

Ilya felt his heart give a painful, erratic thud.

"We're stuck here, with one bed—"

"I am aware of the furniture, Hollander," he interrupted, turning back to stare at the ceiling.

Hollander sighed. "Listen, I think, it's better for us to have a rule. No touching. Just stay on our own sides. Clean break."

The words hit Ilya like a cross-check to the ribs. No touching. He didn't flinch, but his fingers spasmed against the duvet. Hollander was setting the boundary, building the wall before Ilya could even try to climb it. To Hollander, this was a mistake to be managed. You're a mistake. He’d been trying to create distance to save himself, but hearing Hollander codify it, making the isolation official, was a different kind of pain.

"A rule," Ilya echoed, his throat tight. "Is that what you want?"

"It’s better this way," Hollander said, finally sliding down into the pillows and pulling the duvet up to his chest. "For both of us. Otherwise, it just gets... messy."

Messy. "Okay, goodnight, Hollander."

Ilya faced the window, his back to Hollander, and watched the snow continued to blur the world into nothingness. He curled his fingers into the sheets, anchoring himself to his half of the mattress. He felt the space between them was expanding into miles of frozen tundra rather than six inches of linen.

Ilya listened to the rustle of the sheets as Hollander settled. He could hear the heavy, measured cadence of his breathing, a sound he knew from shared benches and post-game exhaustion, but here, in the quiet of a hotel room, it sounded like a countdown.

Minutes bled into an hour. The rhythmic sound of Hollander’s breath smoothed out, deepening into the steady, heavy pull of deep sleep. He was gone, anchored in the safety of unconsciousness, while Ilya remained adrift in the wreckage of the night.

Ilya turned his head slightly. In the pale blue light of the storm, he could see the silhouette of Hollander’s shoulder, the line of his jaw, softened, now that the rule was successfully in place. He laid watching Hollander for a long time, wanting sleep, but it never came.

The proximity was a physical ache, a magnetic pull that felt like it was trying to rip the skin right off his bones. No touching. Hollander’s voice echoed in his head, a final, cold whistle.

In the time he laid watching Hollander, the snow outside had slowed, settling into a harmless, steady drift. He was sure going outside was still a bad idea, but he couldn't stay. He couldn't lie here for hours until sunrise, pretending that this half of the bed wasn't a cage. He needed to get out.

Fuck, I need a cigarette. Ilya hasn’t had a cigarette in almost six months. He’d finish his last pack months ago, never buying another one. Forcing himself to resist the temptation. For Hollander. Because the man had always hated his filthy habit. Hollander hated the sharp, chemical scent that clung onto Ilya. And Ilya hated that it was the only reason Hollander ever recoiled when he leaned in for a kiss.

Tonight, however, he didn’t give a fuck. Fuck Pike and Marlow for bringing up “Jane” and “Lily.” Fuck the "no-touch" rule. Ilya was starving for the only vice he had left, so fuck it all.

Moving with the agonizing slow precision of a man defusing a bomb, Ilya got out of bed. He didn't let the mattress groan. He didn't let the duvet rustle. He watched Hollander for a heartbeat longer before walking away from the bed.

He grabbed his boots and his heavy wool coat from the chair by the door. He didn't put them on. He just held them against his chest, a different kind of armor. His hands were slightly trembling, less from the cold and more from the hollow, gnawing hunger in his chest.

He eased the hotel door open, stepped out, and let it close gently behind him. He had no idea where he could buy a pack of cigarettes after midnight during a storm. The gift shop in the lobby was probably closed, but there had to be a convenience store or some forgotten corner of the hotel that sold the one thing that would let him breathe again. He needed the cold air and a light he didn't have to hide, to remind himself who he was supposed to be when Hollander wasn't there to worry about him.

* * * * * 

Shane woke up all at once, the kind of sudden alertness that usually only came with a whistle or a heavy hit against the boards. The room was still bathed in that flat, cinematic blue from the snow outside, but the temperature had dropped. Or maybe it just felt that way because the other half of the mattress was empty.

He didn't move at first, feeling like it was a forbidden area he's not allowed to touch. He eventually does, brushing his fingers against the linen where Rozanov should have been. The sheets were pulled taut, smoothed over as if he had never been there at all.

No touching. The rule hung in the air between them, heavy and absolute, turning the mattress into their own dead stretch of neutral zone. It had been his idea. His boundary. He’d wanted to protect their secret. To protect them.

But looking at the empty space next to him, Shane didn't feel protected. He felt hollowed out.

They didn't have the luxury of a shared life. They didn't spend time during the off-season together. There were no quiet weeks spent at Shane’s cottage, hidden away from the weight of everything in their lives. They lived in opposition: different cities, different jerseys, different worlds. They only existed in the same space when the schedule allowed it, stealing a few short moments in random hotel rooms during those grueling months of the season. Every hour of stolen peace was just a countdown until they were required to be enemies again, scheduled to tear into each other in front of thousands of screaming fans.

This had been the one time where he and Rozanov were able to exist within each other’s space, even with the whole world watching, without it being the MLH's biggest scandal. He’d been handed the one thing he always wanted: a night where they didn't have to be a secret. Instead, he’d dismantled it with a rule meant to keep them safe. But who was he protecting, if the cost was losing Rozanov? This was a high-stakes game of discipline, a physical obsession that required the same cold management as a penalty kill. He just had to outlast the hunger until the flights started moving again.

Shane sat up, the springs of the bed groaning in the silence. He scanned the room, his eyes taking a few seconds to adjust to the darkened areas. He knew it was pointless. If Rozanov had been in the room, Shane would've already felt it. Felt him. He looked toward the bathroom door. It was cracked open, the light off. No steam. No sound of water.

He checked the clock on the nightstand: 1:04 AM.

Rozanov just stepped out to clear his head. Maybe he was restless. Shane assured himself that the man would be back in no time. He slowly eased back into a horizontal position, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of the latch, the familiar weight of the door closing, the soft thud of Rozanov's boots hitting the floor. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

1:30 AM

The silence in the room began to feel like a physical presence, something heavy and suffocating. Shane found himself tracking the red glow of the digital clock, the minutes ticking by with agonizing deliberation. How long had Rozanov been gone before Shane had woken up?

1:45 AM

His annoyance had shifted into a cold, sharp-edged worry. Shane rolled onto his side, staring at the door as if he could force the man to walk through it with sheer will. The storm outside was over, but the air was still brittle and sharp. He thought about how little Rozanov cared for his own safety when he was angry.

He’s fine. Shane tried to convince himself. He’s just sulking. He figured Rozanov was probably in the lobby or the gym. He thought back to that night of the draft. He was sure if he headed down to the hotel gym, Rozanov would be there, the same way he had found Shane all those years ago.

He tried to tell himself that Rozanov was just being difficult, that he was staying out specifically to make Shane sweat, but he knew deep down, it wasn’t even close to the truth. He might be many things: impulsive, sharp-tongued, and devastatingly reckless, but Rozanov had never been capable of that kind of calculated pettiness where Shane was concerned. He may play those games with anyone, but never with Shane. If he was gone, it was because he couldn't stand to be in the room, not because he wanted to win a psychological standoff.

2:10 AM

All rationalizations failed. The bed felt even more massive and freezing. Every second that passed without the sound of the door opening felt like a confirmation of a mistake Shane couldn't name yet. He’d pushed too hard. He’d enforced a rule that had driven Rozanov out into the night, and now the silence wasn't just professional; it was terrifying.

Shane felt like a monster. He didn’t think. Thinking was what got him into this mess. The over-calculating, the risk-assessment, the constant checking of the wind. Shane grabbed his jeans from the floor and his boots, pulling them on with jerky, uncoordinated movements.

He racked his brain for all possible places the man could be. This was a hotel in a city that wasn't theirs, during a storm that had turned the world into a quiet, white blur. There were twenty floors, a sprawling lobby, a darkened gym, and a dozen service hallways. He could be anywhere, pacing the lobby or sitting in some quiet corner of a service wing, just trying to find a version of the air that didn't feel like a trap. Shane would check every spot. He slipped his room key into his pocket, grabbed his jacket, just in case he had to go outside as a last resort, and stepped out into the hallway. The air was warmer out here, but it felt thin.

Shane hesistated for a moment, lingering in the hallway. He wasn't quite sure what he would even say when he eventually found Rozanov; all he knew was that the empty bed was a haunting. He needed to stop thinking. Taking a a deep breath, Shane forced his feet to move and headed for the elevators, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Inside the lift, he hit the button for the gym. He would go there first. The hall leading to the gym was empty. Shane knew from looking through the small glass window of the door that Rozanov wasn’t there. But still, he wrenched the door open and walked the entire room anyway, just in case.

Next was the gift shop, closed.

Bar, closed. Restaurant, closed.

Fuck. This asshole didn’t really go outside, did he? Shane put on his coat and braced for the cold. Fucking idiot. He didn’t know if he was thinking about Rozanov or himself.

* * * * * 

The nicotine hit him like a slow-moving train, steadying the frantic vibration in his nerves. Ilya leaned against the salt-stained concrete of the service alcove, his fingers numb where they gripped the cigarette. He’d been out here for about an hour. It had taken him about half an hour to find a convenience store that was still open past one in the morning. Although, he did feel lucky to find them carrying his brand of choice. Ilya took his time with his walk back to the hotel and found this secluded area to finally be able to enjoy the thing he’s deprived himself for months.

It had been six months since his last cigarette. Six months of chewing that disgusting cinnamon gum until his jaw ached and drinking water every time his lungs felt hollow. All that because of the way Hollander’s nose would wrinkle in distaste whenever Ilya leaned in close. He’d done it for him; a silent, grueling marathon of discipline that he didn’t even think Hollander noticed. Hollander had a way of filing people into categories inside his own mind, to make the world easier to manage. In his mental archive, Ilya was a smoker. He wasn't being unkind for not noticing; he had simply stopped looking for evidence to the contrary. The six months of clean breath and the gradual fading of ash from Ilya's coat hadn't been ignored, they had just been invisible to a man who was already so overwhelmed by the weight of everything else he was trying to keep in place.

Ilya took another drag; he was on his third one now. The smoke burning his throat in a way that felt like home. The first cigarette had died out too fast. Immediately after putting it out, his hand already felt empty. The second one, he took his time, savoring the feeling and scent. Now, Ilya was starting to feeling something else. Guilt, perhaps?

The world had been erased. The grounds were a vast sea of white, shifting only when the wind caught the loose powder and sent it dancing in ghostly ribbons. It was a punishing, bitter freeze that made his skin ache. The only sound was the wind, a low, rhythmic howl that shivered through the dead trees. Ilya liked it. Out here, there were no cameras, no coaches, and most importantly, no Hollander laying down laws about where Ilya was allowed to put his hands.

No touching. The memory of Hollander's voice, controlled, logical, and injuriously distant, made Ilya's jaw ache. He’d left the room because the air in there had become unbreathable. Every time the duvet rustled, every time Hollander unknowingly shifted an inch toward the middle of the bed, Ilya had felt the rule like a physical slap on his hand. Hollander lived for the structure, for the clean lines and the predictable outcomes. But Ilya was a creature of the gray areas, the messy collisions, and the desperate, late-game scrambles.

Ilya pinched the cherry off the end of the cigarette, watching the embers die in a patch of slush before tucking the filter into a small trash receptacle near the service door. He was freezing. The damp cold had seeped through his jeans and settled into the old injury in his shoulder. He looked at his phone.

2:47 AM

If he went back now, he could probably slip back into the room before Hollander even realized he was gone. He’d just be another shadow in the corner, another secret the man could manage in the morning. Ilya reached for the handle, his hand trembling slightly from the cold, when the door suddenly groaned on its hinges. It was pushed with a frantic, uncoordinated force. Ilya stepped back into the shadows, his pulse spiked for a split second. Then the figure stumbled out into the freezing air, and Ilya’s breath caught in his throat.

It was Hollander.

He was wearing a coat, though he hadn't bothered to button it, the fabric flapping uselessly in the wind. Ilya watched him, stunned, as the man stood there shivering. He looked frantic, his eyes darting through the dim light of the alcove until they locked onto Ilya’s silhouette. To Ilya, the sight was surreal, Shane Hollander, the man of a thousand plans, looking completely unmoored.

"You fucking asshole!" Hollander’s voice cracked.

Ilya stepped out from behind the concrete pillar, the shock of seeing Hollander so unraveled overriding his own frustration. He looked terrible; his skin was pale and pebbled with goosebumps, the cold making the freckles across his face stand out in high contrast. Ilya’s fingers twitched with a phantom ache, suddenly a desperate urge to reach out and trace the familiar patterns he loved so much. The ones he usually touched when no one was watching, when the rule didn't exist. Now, they were just turning a worrying shade of blue-white in the harsh light of the service lamp.

"Hollander? What the fuck are you doing out here? It’s fucking freezing."

Hollander didn't answer right away. He just moved, closing the distance between them in three heavy, determined strides. Ilya watched his hands come up as if to grab him, hovering in the air with a hesitation that felt like a physical ache.

"I woke up and…,” Hollander breathed, his voice a ragged whisper. “You weren't there.”

"I was just having a cigarette, Hollander," Ilya said, though his own voice was shaking. He felt a surge of protective instinct he didn't want to have. "Go back to the room."

"No," he snapped back, the words coming out in a sharp puff. He looked at Ilya with an expression hovering somewhere between fury and heartbreak. "I spent a fucking hour staring at the clock, you asshole. Thinking about how I drove you out of the room and then spent another fucking half an hour trying to find you everywhere in this hotel." He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. "I don't want to go back alone."

Ilya felt the words hit him harder than any check on the ice. The scent of the smoke was still thick between them, a tangible reminder of the boundary Ilya had just broken, but for once, Hollander didn't flinch. He didn't look disgusted. A shuddering breath escaped his lips. His shoulders finally dropping as the sharp edge of panic was replaced by a visible, bone-deep relief. He looked like he was about to break, but also like he had just found the only thing that could keep him whole.

"You made the rule," Ilya reminded him, his heart hammering against his ribs. "You said it gets messy."

"It's already messy, Ilya," he whispered.

The name hit Ilya like a physical blow. They didn't do first names. Not in the hallways, not in the locker rooms, and certainly not when they were alone. Last names were the armor they wore to keep the "messy" parts from leaking out into their professional lives. It was the only thing keeping them from falling apart. Hearing his name, actually hearing it, made the cold in the alcove feel suddenly, searingly hot.

Ilya didn't move as the other man finally crossed that final, agonizing inch. He felt him curl his fingers into the wool of Ilya’s coat: a desperate, anchoring grip. When he pulled him closer, Ilya let him, leaning in until their foreheads touched. The heat from his skin was a shock against the freezing air, and for the first time all night, the "no-touch" rule felt like a ghost story from a different life.

"It’s been messy for years," Hollander said, his breath warm against Ilya's lips. "I’m just the only one who kept trying to pretend it was a clean sheet of ice."

Ilya closed his eyes, his own hands finally coming up to grip the open lapels of Hollander’s coat. He felt the trembling in the other man’s frame, a deep, rhythmic vibration that matched his own.

"I know, Shane," Ilya murmured, the name feeling strange and heavy on his tongue, a secret password they had finally both agreed to use. "I know."

He didn't wait for permission or a logical explanation. Ilya reached out, his hand finally defying the rule as he hooked his arm around Shane’s waist, pulling him toward the heavy service door. Shane didn't resist; he leaned heavily into Ilya’s side, his strength seemingly spent now that the hunt was over.

They moved through the hotel like ghosts, avoiding the main elevators for the service lift that smelled of industrial cleaner and laundry starch.

"How did you find me?"

Shane didn't answer right away. "I was looking for you around the restaurant area, when…," he bit his lip, "when I smelled the scent of your cigarettes. From the vents, I think. I just followed it."

"Hm."

"Ilya?" Shane stopped walking, Ilya's hand slipping from his back.

"Yeah?" He turned around to see Shane's eyes were glossy.

"You stopped smoking." Ilya doesn't say anything. "I realized I hadn't smelled the cigarettes on you the last couple of times we…" He let the sentence trail off.

Ilya shrugged, taking a step forward and leaned down to give the top of his head a brief peck. "Well, I've had about three tonight, so."

"I kind of missed it." Shane's voice came out soft and quiet.

"Ah, so I can start smoking again?" Ilya grinned.

"Shut up, asshole." But he was smiling as they made their way back to their room.

The moment the door clicked shut, the sudden shift in temperature felt almost too much to take; the warmth was a heavy weight that made Ilya’s ears slightly ring against the quiet. Shane stood by the door, his coat still open, He looked at the bed, the site of his "reasonable" rule, and then back at Ilya, his eyes dark and wide, stripped of all his defensive posturing.

Ilya didn't give him time to retreat into logic. He stepped forward, his boots shedding slush onto the carpet, and cupped Shane’s face with both hands. His thumbs brushed over the bridge of Shane's nose, tracing the freckles he’d been craving, feeling the frantic heat rising in Shane's skin. Shane let out a broken, hitching breath and collapsed forward, his mouth finding Ilya’s with a desperate, freezing hunger.

It was a collision, not a kiss. It was the desperate, starving release of two men who had spent years fighting for inches on the ice and the last few hours fighting for distance in a room. Shane’s hands moved from Ilya's coat to his hair, his fingers tangling in those soft, golden light-brown curls with a possessive, trembling force. He ran his hand through them as he had done a thousand times before, a familiar, grounding reflex that anchored them both. He kissed Ilya like he was trying to inhale him, like the scent of tobacco and cold air was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Ilya backed him up against the door, the thud of the wood muffled by the layers of their coats. He could taste the winter on Shane’s lips and feel the frantic, uneven rhythm of Shane’s heart against his own chest. There was no room for rules here, no room for "professionalism" or the fear of what anyone might see. There was only the heat of Shane’s mouth and the way he was making a low, soft sound in the back of his throat, a sound of total, unmanaged surrender.

The rule was gone. The ice had finally shattered, leaving nothing but the messy, beautiful wreckage of them.

Chapter End Notes

The boys are no longer fighting! No HayLow in this chapter, but they'll be back for the last two. I've decided to end the fic with 7 chapters. So hopefully I'll be able to finish editing both of them tonight or tomorrow. As always, thanks everyone for reading, and for leaving kudos and comments! <33

Chapter 6: Six

Chapter Summary

The storm has come to a complete stop, both for the outside world and for Shane and Ilya. But their sweet morning is once again short-lived, as they receive notice of an afternoon meeting addressing the move back into their normal lives. At breakfast, Shane braces for more interrogation from Cliff.

Chapter Notes

The world was too bright.

Ilya woke up to a room flooded with a soft, diffused glow, the kind of heavy white light that only comes from a sun fighting its way through a sky filled with fresh, deep snow. The light wasn't direct; it hit the far wall and the heavy hotel carpeting, bouncing back to fill the room with a hazy, dreamlike brightness that erased the shadows of the night before.

Then he felt the weight. Shane was still asleep, his body anchoring Ilya to the mattress in a way that made moving feel like a crime. Their no-touching rule hadn't just been broken; it had been demolished. Somewhere in the dark hours of the early morning, they had tangled together, a chaotic knot of limbs and shared heat that defied the king-sized dimensions of the bed. Shane’s face was pressed into the curve of Ilya's neck, his breathing slow and rhythmic, puffing warm air against Ilya’s collarbone.

Ilya stayed perfectly still. He watched the light catch the very edges of Shane’s hair, turning the dark, unruly spikes into a shimmering halo. The short strands appeared softer and less disciplined than they ever did under a helmet. He felt... grounded. The frantic, hollow restlessness that usually drove him toward a vice or a distraction had finally gone quiet, replaced by the solid, undeniable reality of the man holding him.

He reached out, his movements careful, and let his fingers find their way back to Shane’s face. In the reflected morning light, the freckles were strikingly prominent, a bold constellation across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. They were a map of everything Ilya was allowed to have again. He traced them with the tip of his finger, his touch lighter than a breath.

Shane stirred. He didn't pull away; instead, he made that same low, soft sound from the night before and pulled Ilya in tighter. His eyes fluttered open, blinking against the ambient glare, as he tilted his head up. For a long, silent moment, he just looked at Ilya, a steady brown gaze.

"Good morning," Shane murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Ilya felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun gleaming into the room. He couldn't bring himself to look away from the raw, quiet vulnerability in Shane’s expression. "Morning," he said. He kissed his forehead. "How was sleep?"

"The best."

The peace lasted exactly three more minutes.

The synchronized chirp-buzz of two phones on two different nightstands cut through the silence like a whistle at the end of a period. They both groaned in unison, a shared reflex of athletes who lived and died by their schedules. Shane reached out blindly, grabbing his phone and squinting at the screen. Ilya did the same.

TEAM OPS
The storm has cleared. There is a brief meeting at 1:00 PM in Conference Room B to go over the new flight manifests for the return and the rescheduled media availability. Please be there on time.

Ilya dropped his phone back onto the nightstand with a dull thud.

"One o'clock," Shane murmured. Ilya was surprised when, instead of getting up, he let out a long, slow exhale and settled deeper into him, hiding his face against Ilya's chest once more. The analytical edge he usually carried was nowhere to be found; he seemed determined to ignore the clock for as long as possible. "That's nearly four hours."

"Four hours until we have to be professionals," Ilya agreed, his arm tightening around Shane's waist. "The league can wait."

Shane let out a soft hum of agreement, his fingers tracing idle, absent patterns against Ilya’s back. He just stayed there, letting the reflected warmth wash over them, his presence heavy and warm.

"I don't want to move," Shane whispered into him. The warmth of his breath tickled.

Ilya tilted his head down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Shane’s head, breathing in the scent of hotel shampoo and the lingering heat of sleep. "Then don't. We can be here for a little longer."

Ilya watched the light move slowly across the wall, counting the minutes not by a clock, but by the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest. He let himself memorize the way Shane felt when he wasn't trying to win.

Shane started moving his hand over to Ilya's front, slow and deliberate, his touch heavy with an intent that made his skin burn. Ilya felt his heartbeat pick up, his mind hovering on the edge of a dangerous territory. He didn't move as Shane inched closer, erasing the space between them until they were nothing but a tangle of limbs and shared heat. When Shane planted a lingering, open-mouthed kiss against his collarbone, Ilya’s eyes slid shut. He felt the shift of weight as Shane slid his hands up to his shoulders, pinning him lightly down on the mattress, before hitching a leg over Ilya’s hip to straddle him. The slow, grinding pressure made Ilya’s breath hitch in his throat.

"Shane…," Ilya warned, his voice breaking into a rough, breathless rasp that betrayed him completely.

His lips were on Ilya's neck. "Hmm?" English left Ilya's brain.

Shane didn't stop. Ilya felt the graze of teeth against his shoulder, a sharp spark of friction that drew a low, guttural moan from deep in his chest. Then he felt the deliberate hook of Shane’s thumb into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them low enough for the cool air of the room to hit skin that had been burning only seconds before. Shane paused, propping himself up, and Ilya forced his eyes open to find him looking down at him. His brown eyes had gone dark; a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You know," Shane murmured, leaning back down to drag his tongue over the sensitive nook of Ilya's neck. Ilya’s fingers twitched against the sheets. "We are elite athletes." Shane shifted to the other side of Ilya's neck, his breath hot and damp against his skin. "We should really be using this time for... active recovery."

Ilya let out a short, surprised huff of a laugh that broke into a sharp gasp. He reached out, hands diving to grip Shane's hips and pull him flush against him. The contact was electric. "Is that what they're calling it in Montreal now? Active recovery?"

"It’s about cardiovascular health, Ilya. Very important for top-tier hockey players," Shane said, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and hunger. Shane dipped back down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below Ilya's ear, his hand straying lower with agonizing precision. "I'd hate for us to be stiff during the meeting because we didn't get our morning warm-up."

Ilya’s grip tightened, his knuckles white against Shane's skin as his breath came in short, jagged bursts. He was losing the fight to stay grounded. "You're fucking unbelievable," he whispered.

Abruptly, the movement stopped. The sudden stillness, the absence of Shane's touch, left his skin feeling cold and abandoned. He blinked, trying to clear the haze of desire as Shane pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. Shane's expression was a mask of pure, playful innocence that fooled no one; the look of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to Ilya's pulse.

"Oh," Shane whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he made a show of loosening his grip, starting to pull away. "Do you not want to?"

"Fuck you, Hollander," Ilya growled, his hand tangling in Shane's hair.

"Promise?" Shane smirked, before Ilya pulled him in for a kiss.

* * * * *

Hayden was currently winning at life, mostly because he’d managed to secure the last three blueberry muffins from the breakfast buffet before the Western Conference guys could descend like a swarm of locusts.

"I’m telling you, Marlow, the secret is the crumb-to-berry ratio," Hayden said, taking a seat across from the man. He dropped a muffin onto a napkin in front of him. Their table was tucked just far enough away for privacy but had a direct line of sight to the main lobby, where players were beginning to gather. "Eat up. You look like you’ve been staring at scouting reports in the dark again."

Marlow laughed, finally putting his phone face-down on the table, though not before a string of notifications lit up the screen. "No scouting reports today, Pike. Didn't sleep much last night, but I’m still treating this as a vacation. No need to rush back to doing any of that, yet."

"Spoken like a man who doesn't have a wife and three kids under the age of three waiting for him in Montreal," Hayden said, tearing into his own muffin. "Jackie sent me a video this morning from last night. The twins were trying to 'teach' baby Arthur how to crawl by bribing him with Cheerios." He shook his head. "I need to get back before these kids completely reorganized the house. Especially Ruby, she’s a sweet kid, but a total menace. One time, Jackie FaceTimed me to show her trying to negotiate a later bedtime with a half-eaten crayon."

Marlow was smiling as he reached for the muffin and broke off a piece of the top. "She's funny. Clearly she gets it from your wife."

"Fuck you. You sound like Rozanov." Hayden glared, his jaw tightening with a slight irritation. "Neither of you would last a day babysitting the twins."

Marlow shrugged. "I like kids. I'm a very charismatic man, Pike."

Hayden rolled his eyes. "Check back in with me when you have your own."

Marlow scoffed. "I'm way too young for that"

"You're literally my age."

"I have other priorities."

"Such as?"

"Like I’m currently debating between a girl in Boston who likes hiking and two girls in New York who apparently think I’m an architect. It’s a lot of work maintaining the illusion, Pike."

"That sounds fucking exhausting, you social butterfly of the night," Hayden said with a grin. "You should just pick one and take a nap."

"What's the fun in that?"

They continued to eat their breakfast as more people were filing into the dining area. Hayden was surprised Marlow hadn't continued talking about the detective work he was doing last night. He half-expected to wake up to find the man with blood-shot eyes glued to his laptop.

He looked over at him curiously. "What? No MLH conspiracies to keep you occupied today?"

Marlow pivoted without a flicker of hesitation, leaning back with a relaxed shrug. "Like I said, Pike. I have other priorities. What's going to happen if one of these girls realizes I can't actually draw a floor plan?"

"Where do these girls live? Under a rock? How do they not know you're a pro hockey player?"

Marlow shrugged. "They're not hockey fans, I guess."

Hayden let them sit in silence before squinting at the guy, skeptical about the shift in the energy. "So, you've seriously dropped the detective act? No 'Jane' and 'Lily' update? I thought for sure you'd have a whiteboard brought up to our room by now."

Marlow waved a hand dismissively, his expression perfectly neutral. "Nah. Dead end. Just a coincidence, like you said. I think I was just bored yesterday. Today, I’m just focused on getting a decent cup of coffee and making sure I don't have to sit next to a goalie on the flight home. If we're going home"

"Don't fucking jinx it," Hayden chucked a piece of muffin at him, which surprisingly he caught in his mouth, smirking as he chewed. "But I'm glad. I was worried I was going to have to stage an intervention. I just want to get through this meeting and get home."

Hayden looked up, and through the crowd, spotted the heads of two familiar people entering the dining hall. Rozanov was adjusting his tailored overcoat, looking suspiciously well-rested, while Shane walked half a step behind him, checking his watch with practiced precision. They weren't talking, just radiating their usual aura of mutual tolerance, as they headed towards the breakfast buffet.

Hayden looked at the two of them, then back at Marlow, who wasn't even looking. He really didn't expect it, but Marlow was staying true to his word as he took a slow sip of his coffee, focus still on the muffin in front of him.

"Looks like they had a good night sleep," Hayden whispered, mouth full of muffin. "Look how relaxed they look. Well, maybe not Shane, but he's always tense."

Marlow laughed. "Well, they're both alive. Again. So, count your blessings, Pike."

As the pair navigated the buffet line, Hayden’s gaze lingered on Rozanov with a flicker of habitual distaste. The guy looked entirely too refreshed for a man who’d been trapped in a blizzard, especially compared to the bone-deep exhaustion Hayden felt from his own hectic morning of parenting-via-video-call. Shane finally caught his eye, so he raised a hand to wave them over.

When they reached the table, he offered a brief, dry nod in Rozanov's direction, "Rozanov.”

"Pike," his response was equally cool. Dick.

Shane sat down onto the seat next to Hayden, while Rozanov dropped into the spot beside Marlow with a familiar, easy grin, clapping a hand briefly on Marlow's shoulder in greeting.

"Hayd," Shane said, his voice sounding tired but relaxed. "Hi, Marlow. Any word on the runway clearance?"

"Might be open by this afternoon. But they’ll go into detail at the meeting," Hayden said, leaning back into his chair. He gave Shane a quick, searching look, checking to make sure he was okay. Shane looked slightly flushed, his eyes a little too bright and his fingers drumming restlessly, but other than that, he looked good. Hayden relaxed, satisfied that Shane had survived another night without being driven completely up the wall by the Russian man, even if the ordeal had clearly left him wired. "I’m hoping to be in the air before it gets dark. Personally, I'm dying for a real coffee."

Hayden turned his attention to the other half of the table. Marlow is back to being glued to his phone, his thumb dancing across the screen as a half-smile played on his lips. He looked like a man elbow-deep in a flirtatious group chat, his posture relaxed and entirely carefree. Hayden remembered the intensity of "Detective Marlow" from the night before, the man convinced of a grand conspiracy, but looking at him now, checking his notifications and radiating harmless charm, that version of Marlow seemed like a fever dream brought on by the scotch.

"So, who else thinks this meeting is going to be a waste of time?" Marlow asked, finally tossing his phone onto the table with a light laugh. His tone was easy and bright, the perfect picture of a man with zero hidden agendas.

"As long as they tell me I can get on a flight today, they can bore me all they fucking want," Hayden responded.

"Right, so you can get back to your menace of a daughter."

"She is a menace. A genius menace. Shane knows. Tell Marlow how Ruby's going to be running a front office by the time she’s ten."

Shane gave a small smile. "Definitely, since she’s got all the smarts from Jackie."

Marlow guffawed and Rozanov lips curled to a crooked grin.

"Fuck off, Hollander," Hayden laughed along, standing up as he finished his muffin. "Well, I'm going to go check the updated weather boards. See you guys at one."

As he was walking away, he spared one final look at the table. Marlow and Rozanov had begun to talk about their upcoming game in a few days as they continued to eat. Shane, also eating, simply observed their conversation. Hayden couldn't help but notice a softness to the way he was looking over at their rival captain and his teammate. Maybe the storm really did these two a favor and taught them how to be amicable.

* * * * *

It had been a lot harder walking together through the lobby exposed by daylight, rather than the safety of the darkness from the night before. The moment they stepped out of their hotel room, both of their masks had to be firmly back on. Shane had known they would eventually have to go back into the real world, but he selfishly did not want to leave the bed today. He had been mentally kicking himself the whole way down to the dining hall for wasting a whole night he could've had with Ilya. For setting that stupid no touch rule in the first place.

When Hayden had waved them over, Shane had been nervous about joining him and Marlow for breakfast after their dinner last night felt so much like an interrogation. Ilya made it clear he hadn't dropped the idea of murder. Said he had connections in Russia that he wasn't shy about getting in contact with, which had made Shane laugh, easing his tension for a brief moment.

It wasn't as bad as he expected it to be. As Hayden got up to leave the table, Shane sat across from Marlow and Ilya now, and simply watched them talk. He had watched the way Ilya’s face had stayed relaxed since they'd woken up together. Gone was the tension he saw yesterday. Today he was almost like a new person. Shane watched as Ilya teased Marlow about a missed save in the third period of a previous game, and the way Marlow shot back with a story about Ilya’s questionable taste in per-game music. Watched as they talked about hockey strategies and their upcoming schedules. As he sat there, he felt every ounce of nervousness he had dissolve.

"Hold on, Rozy," Marlow stopped suddenly. "We haven't been cleared of enemy territory yet." He winked at Shane, smiling. "What if Hollzy memorizes this conversation and starts planning his plays around it?"

"Come on, Marlow," Shane returned his smile. "I don't need to hear your strategies to know how to beat you." They all laughed.

Marlow seemed relaxed too, probably a little tired, but for the most part at ease. The conversation revolving around “Jane” and “Lily” from the night before, which had felt like a looming threat, now felt like a distant echo. He had clearly moved on from the strange curiosity he'd shown at dinner. He was leaning back with a coffee in hand and a grin that was genuinely warm. Shane felt a slow, easy coziness spread through his chest. He didn't tense up. He didn't scan for traps. He simply looked at them while he ate, Ilya's foot touching his own solidly under the table, a steady, grounding presence, and enjoyed the moment.

"You guys look like you're singing a different tune about each other since the storm," Marlow commented after a few moments of comfortable silence.

Shane's stomach lurched slightly. "I mean, we really didn't have a choice," he replied, keeping his voice smooth. "The league was the one that put us in a room together. After two days of sharing space, you either find mutual respect or you kill each other. We opted for the respect."

"And the coffee," Ilya added, his eyes twinkling. He reached out and, with a casualness that would have terrified Shane forty-eight hours ago, snagged a piece of toast off Shane's plate and ate it. "Caffeine does wonders for this guy, Marly. He's not so boring after I've had two." Shane threw a piece of grape at him, and they all laughed again.

This was Ilya in the broad daylight, unfiltered, vibrant, and happy. There was no shadow of a secret hanging over them, no sharp line of questioning from the tables around them. To the rest of the world, they were just two rivals who had been forced into a truce by a blizzard. To Shane, watching the sunlight catch the gold in Ilya’s hair, it was everything.

The restless hum that usually lived in the back of Shane’s mind simply drifted away, leaving a rare, ringing silence. He realized then that he wasn't just enjoying the breakfast; he was enjoying the fact that they got to exist like this. They were in the open, in the middle of a crowded hotel, and they were safe.

"See, this is nice," Marlow said, snapping Shane out of his thoughts. He looked between the two of them, his expression soft. "No jerseys, no scrums, just breakfast. I could get used to the 'respectful' version of you two."

"Don't get too comfortable, Marlow," Shane teased, finally leaning in to reclaim his toast. "I still plan on ruining your save percentage at our next game."

"And there he is," Marlow cheered, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast.

Ilya caught Shane’s eye then, a small, private smile playing on his lips. It was a look of total acceptance. Shane smiled back, feeling a profound sense of peace. The meeting would start soon, and the world would go back to being loud and demanding, but for now, the air was light, the coffee was warm, and they were exactly where they were meant to be. He was just a guy having breakfast with friends.

Chapter End Notes

we're so close to the endddd. as always, thank you for reading!! i really appreciate everyone leaving kudos and comments <33

update: I forgot to mention that this chapter and next have a little suggestive content, but nothing crazyyy.

Chapter 7: Seven

Chapter Summary

Reality sets in as the league makes plans for everyone to go back to their normal lives.

Chapter Notes

Conference Room B felt capacious and cold. The air was thick with the low, restless energy of about eighty professional hockey players crammed into rows of folding chairs. At the front of the room, a league representative stood against a flickering projection of flight numbers and standby lists.

"As you can see," the representative said, tapping a laser pointer against the screen, "the airport is operating at thirty percent capacity. We’ve secured one large charter for late this afternoon. It will take a combined group of forty personnel to a regional hub in Newark, where connecting travel has been pre-arranged. Priority goes to those with family or urgent team obligations. The rest will depart on the first available slots tomorrow morning."

Shane sat toward the back, his posture perfectly straight. Beside him, Ilya was slumped slightly in his chair, his long legs stretched out, the toe of his sneaker occasionally brushing against Shane's dress shoe. It was a small, silent tether.

"I should get back today," Hayden whispered from Shane’s other side. "Jackie’s been handling the kids alone for too long. I told her I’d try to make it to have dinner with them."

Shane nodded, the weight of his responsibility clicking into place. "Of course. Go ahead and put both our names down for the afternoon slot. I’ll catch up with you in a second."

Hayden stood, offering a grateful pat to Shane's arm before heading toward the front of the room to handle their sign-ups. Shane watched him go, feeling a hollow ache settle in the pit of his stomach. He didn't look at Ilya, but he felt the absence of that sneaker against his shoe like a physical chill as Ilya shifted, likely sensing the impending goodbye.

Shane stood, intention brushing his arm with Ilya's, signaling to let Ilya know he wasn't the only one craving a touch. He was about to follow Hayden when a hand clamped onto his shoulder, steering him toward a quiet corner by a stack of extra chairs. It was Marlow.

"Hey, Hollzy," he said, his voice low enough to stay under the radar of the room's murmur. "I heard you talking to Pike. You’re taking that Newark flight today?"

"Yeah, Hayden needs to get home, and I should probably be on that first transport."

Marlow looked at him for a long while, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He glanced back at the row where Ilya was still sitting, who was aimlessly scrolling through his phone, then looked back at Shane.

"Listen," Marlow said, dropping his voice even further. "There's this PR event in Boston tomorrow that I didn't really want to go to. I was going to use the excuse of not enough seats being available to get one more night of freedom. But if you're… not in a rush to get back… Take my morning slot and stay for one more night. I’ll tell the rep you're doing me a favor."

Shane blinked, completely caught off guard.

"Hey, how often do you get to relax?" Marlow gave him a knowing smirk. "Sometimes you just need an extra twelve hours to... decompress.” He winked. “Don't say anything to Pike. Let it be a surprise when I'm the one sitting next to him on the shuttle. He'll survive without his captain for another day. Plus, I’ve had a lot of fun annoying him the last two days. I’m not ready for it to be over yet."

Before Shane could even process the offer, Marlow gave his shoulder a firm pat and headed toward the representative to quietly adjust the manifest, ensuring the names were swapped without a scene.

Shane stood there for a second, his heart hammering a strange, frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked back at Ilya, who was still glum, still scrolling. Hayden was already sitting down. Neither of them were acknowledging each other's presence, Shane's chair acting as a wall between them. He began to walk back. When he was finally in front of them, Hayden spoke first.

"Alright, we’re locked in for the five o'clock," he said, checking his watch. "That gives me just enough time to throw the rest of my gear in the bag and check out. I’ll meet you in the lobby for the shuttle?"

"Sounds good," Shane said, offering a practiced, steady nod. He didn't correct him, he'd plan on texting Hayden an explanation later, but for now, the mask held firm. "I'll see you in a bit."

Hayden gave a quick wave and disappeared into the crowd. Shane turned his gaze to Ilya, who was still staring at his phone, his jaw set. Boston had no urgent obligation, so he knew he was staying for the morning flight, but the reality of Shane leaving in a few hours clearly wasn't settling well.

Shane leaned onto the back of his chair, dropping his voice low. “Let's go back upstairs." Ilya simply nodded, not looking away from his phone. The room was almost empty now; the area they were sitting at was practically deserted enough for Shane to lean in close to Ilya's ear and whisper without anyone really noticing. "I have a surprise for you... and I think you'll want to take your time with this."

Shane watched Ilya’s thumb freeze mid-scroll, the screen coming to a dead halt as the meaning of Shane’s words sank in. When Ilya finally looked up, Shane saw that his hazel eyes had a heavy, familiar heat flickering behind them, before he sighed.

"The bus is coming in a couple hours, Shane." Funny how for once, Shane was not the one worrying about schedules. "You have not even packed. If we go back there and..." He trailed off, looking at Shane. "If we get distracted…" The protest dying in his throat as his gaze drifted, helpless, down to the curve of Shane’s mouth.

"Just trust me," Shane interrupted, a small, uncharacteristic spark of mischief in his eyes.

They stood together, careful to maintain a distance still as they weave through the crowd of players and league officials. The instant they were back in the quiet sanctuary of their room, Shane leaned his back against the door, feeling the careful composure he’d worn for the meeting finally disappear.

Ilya had already crossed the room and was standing by his suitcase, apparently resolute with not being distracted by Shane's antics. His shoulders tight as he stared down at his belongings, clearly bracing for the inevitable moment they’d have to start saying goodbye.

Shane sighed. "Ilya," he sang his name, watching as Ilya closed his eyes to steady himself. Shane laughed.

"Hollander…"

"Oh, so we're back to last names, now?"

Ilya finally looked over at him. "You're killing me."

"I'm not going on the flight with Hayden." Ilya looked genuinely surprised. "Marlow swapped with me. Said he's got a PR event tomorrow."

"So you're staying?"

"I'm staying," Shane confirmed, pushing off the door.

"You are on the morning flight with me instead of Marlow?"

"I'm on the morning flight with you instead of Marlow." He watched the tension drain out of Ilya's face to be replaced by something much deeper. "We have one more night."

Ilya shoved his suitcase off the bed so fast it made Shane laugh again. "Come here." His voice was low, his hazel eyes dark and focused.

"No, you come here."

They were both making their way towards each other, meeting halfway across the room. When he was finally within reach, Ilya stretched out his hand to grab hold of Shane's face and pulled him in until their lips met. Shane's hands automatically went up to take hold of his hair. He loved the way the curls felt soft between his fingers, the faint scent of vanilla from Ilya's shampoo drifted to his nostrils. He deepen their kiss.

Ilya was pulling him towards the bed now, stopping when the back of his knees touched the edge of the bed, and turned them around. He broke apart. "What were you saying earlier?"

Shane was moving his hands underneath the hem of Ilya's polo, trying to get him to take it off. "Hmm?"

"Something about…" He grabbed onto Shane's hands, anchoring them down to his sides. He was leaning into his neck now. "Taking my time?" Shane leaned back, making room for him, the heat from his breath sent a shiver down Shane's spine.

He was unbuttoning Shane's jacket, giving him room to wiggle out of it, and letting it fall onto the floor. Ilya gently guided him down to sit on the bed, positioning himself between Shane's legs. Shane tried again to take off Ilya's shirt but was stopped a second time. He couldn't help letting out an impatient huff of annoyance that made Ilya laugh.

"Your words, Hollander."

The height difference forced Shane to look up, his pulse quickened as Ilya’s fingers moved to the first button of his shirt. He worked it free in an instant, his gaze never leaving Shane’s.

"I just want to be thorough," Ilya whispered. "I want to see every inch of you."

A groan escaped as Shane sank onto the mattress. He was sure this man was going to kill him. Ilya followed, pinning him with a heavy, solid warmth. His cool palms slid beneath Shane’s unbuttoned shirt, tracing the line of his ribs with a focus that made Shane gasp, his back arching instinctively into the touch. Ilya’s fingers tangled softly in Shane’s hair, tilting his head back to expose the vulnerable line of his throat.

"I’m going to memorize you," Ilya promised, his lips hovering a fraction of an inch from Shane's skin.

He started at Shane’s jaw, a row of slow, biting kisses that made Shane’s hands grip the bed cover. Ilya moved lower, his mouth grazing the sensitive hollow of Shane’s throat, lingering there until Shane let out a broken, low hum. Every time Shane tried to pull him closer, to speed the friction, Ilya simply gripped his wrists, pinning them to the mattress.

"Not yet," Ilya murmured against his skin, his lips catching the pulse point beneath Shane's ear.

"Ilya…," he whined, no trace of embarrassment for the need of the man on top of him.

"Yes, sweetheart?" He trailed his lips down as he began to unbutton Shane's shirt at a hellish slow speed.

"Fuck, Rozanov." He closed his eyes.

"You're shaking," Ilya noted, a small, dark edge of satisfaction in his voice. He didn't stop. Shane's shirt was completely open now, Ilya's mouth still moving across his chest, slowly inching down.

Shane felt each touch of his lips burn on his skin. It was driving him insane. By the time Ilya’s mouth reached the waistband of Shane's slacks, Shane was vibrating with a sudden, sharp need.

"Look at me," Ilya commanded, his voice a gravelly rasp.

Shane forced his eyes open, his vision blurred by the intensity of the moment. Ilya was hovering over him, his face flushed and his eyes dark with a hunger that felt like it could consume them both.

"Everything," Ilya whispered, his mouth finally descending for a kiss that tasted like a claim. "I want everything. Every sound you make, every way you move. Just for me."

Shane let himself be pinned down, his hands sliding into Ilya’s hair. Inside the sanctuary of the room, time had stopped. There was only the heat of skin, the weight of a body, and the intoxicating, reckless reality of being exactly where they wanted to be.

Cliff and Pike stood beside each other in the hotel lobby amidst a sea of weary athletes and rolling luggage. They were stationed near the revolving doors, Pike's eyes kept darting between his watch and the elevators, his jaw set.

"Relax, Pike," Cliff said, moving to lean against a pillar with his carry-on slung over his shoulder. "He's not going to be left behind, the league still needs the Prince of Hockey after all. Think of all the media coverage they still need Hollander for."

"He’s not answering," Pike muttered, waving his phone at Cliff as he paced back and forth. "I’ve texted him three times. He hasn’t even read them. That’s not like Shane. He never turns his phone off or ignores a travel schedule. I even tried to call him. It’s like his phone is on ‘Do Not Disturb.’ Went straight to voicemail."

Cliff suppressed a grin, checking his own watch. It was five minutes to departure. He knew exactly why Hollander wasn't answering, but he wasn't about to let Pike in on the secret. If he was Hollander, and he suddenly got an extra twelve hours to be with Ilya Rozanov, he probably would've chucked his phone out the window at the first chance he got.

"He's probably finishing something up with the league reps," Cliff lied. "You know how they love to bend his ear about 'leadership' and 'image.'"

The shuttle had been waiting for everyone to load their luggage and board, now gave two short honks signaling last call for boarding. A few last minute people started to making their way through the front doors, while Pike genuinely started to look distressed. His gaze was still fixed on the elevators that were releasing groups of people, none containing the one he was looking for.

"I can't just leave him here," he said with so much concern, Cliff was starting to feel slightly guilty.

"Get on the bus, Pike," Cliff said, gently but firmly steering him toward the doors. "He’s a grown man. He can handle himself."

"But—"

"You want to miss the flight, and not make it home to your family?"

Pike sighed, reluctantly allowing Cliff to push him through the revolving door. They loaded their suitcases into the baggage bay of the shuttle, then settled into the only seats available near the back. The engine idling with a low, vibrating hum that seemed to mimic Pike’s nervous energy. He was still staring at his phone, his thumb practically twitching, as if he could manifest a reply through the sheer intensity of his focus. The driver shifted the shuttle into gear and the tires crunched over the icy slush, just as a chime came from his phone.

"Finally," Pike exhaled, although the tension did not leave. His brows furrowed as his eyes made it's way across the message. Cliff couldn't help smirking. "Wait... what?" Pike turned in disbelief to face him. "He switched flights with you?!"

"Surprise!" Cliff burst out laughing.

"You fucking piece of shit,Marlow," he looked annoyed.

"Aw, come on, Pike," he coaxed, place his arm around him. "Another few hours with me won't be so bad."

Pike rolled his eyes, and went back to his phone, probably cursing Hollander. "Can't believe he switched with you and didn't tell me until now. All because you have some stupid PR obligation."

Cliff leaned back, crossing his arms and letting a small, enigmatic smile play on his lips. "Yeah, he’s a real martyr, that one. Very selfless."

"Jesus, now he has to spend another half a day with Rozanov," Pike said, sympathetically. "Maybe he'll push for a different room."

Cliff let out a soft, knowing chuckle. "For one night?" He scoffed. "Not worth the trouble. Plus, Hollzy's gonna be fine." He removed his arm from Pike's shoulders and settled back into his seat comfortably. "He and Roz... they’ve reached an understanding these past two days. They don't need us as a buffer anymore. In fact, I think they’re probably going enjoying the lack of one for tonight."

Pike suddenly whipped his head to the side, facing Cliff, a sharp realization on his face. “Wait...," he said. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me all this when I was waiting with you?!"His voice rose an octave, drawing a few looks from the other players in the front of the bus. Cliff laughed again. “I was worried for fucking half an hour,” Pike hissed, shoving Cliff’s shoulder. “And you were just watching me sweat?”

"It was very entertaining," Cliff replied, still chuckling as he turned his head toward the window.

The hotel slow shrank as the shuttle pulled further away. The storm had stopped since yesterday. The snow that had been thick and covered every inch of the ground, now a steady thaw of dirty gray slush. Everything looked wet and muted as the hotel finally disappeared from view.

For some reason, it had been hard for Cliff to fall asleep last night, which was rare. After tossing and turning, he got concerned his rolling around in bed might disturb Pike and wake up the poor guy. So he resorted to putting a movie on, hoping it would eventually tire his eyes out enough. When he went to grab his laptop, however, he realized the charging cord was missing. He must've never unplugged it from the spot they had been sitting at in the hotel bar.

Cliff decided to go downstairs, hoping his cord hasn't moved from it's place underneath the table they had been sitting at. It was about 2:30 AM now, and the bar would've been closed for half an hour, but there might still be a staff around that he could ask if the area was closed off. He was careful to move as lightly as possible, not daring to wake up Pike. Most of the hotel was practically deserted. Luckily for him, the bar area wasn't closed off, and Cliff was able to navigate the shadows to find the spot where he and Pike had been sitting. He retrieved the charger, and made his way back upstairs.

Upstairs, he had gotten out of the elevator and turned the corner down the hall leading to their room, when he saw two figures walking ahead of him. Cliff stopped right at the edge of the wall. It was Rozy and Hollander walking to their room at the end of the same hallway as his and Pike's. But they weren't just walking together, they were… close. Dangerously close. Hollander was leaning slightly onto Roz’s shoulder, Roz was resting his hand on the small of Hollander's back, almost possessive.

It wasn't the posture of two rivals forced into a truce. It was the posture of two people who were not only comfortable with one another, but also familiar with each other. It was the posture of two people who seemed to have stripped away the world's expectations of them and were now simply existing for themselves.

That was when it clicked in for Cliff. The missing puzzle pieces that he and Pike had tried to look for tonight on wasted Instagram feeds and tags.

Montreal Jane. Boston Lily.

It wasn't their secret girlfriends. It was phonetics. It was a play on words that had been staring him in the face the whole time.

Shane and Ilya.

He slipped back against the wall and stood there for a few minutes, wanting to make sure that they were completely inside their room before he made his way into his own. Back inside, he laid there thinking about what he'd just witness.

He thought back all the women Rozanov's been with over the years. Suddenly realizing they all had some very similar features. All brown-eyed dark-haired brunettes with freckles scattered across their face and a sharp tongue. Cliff actually wanted to laugh out loud. This idiot had been looking for a different version of Hollander in every girl he ever hooked up with. He wasn't just an idiot. He was an idiot in love.

Now, Cliff shifted in his shuttle seat, a private, amused smile spreading across his face as he watched the frozen landscape pass by. He turned back to Pike, who was hauntingly oblivious, and saw him typing vigorously on his phone.

"Stop worrying, Pike," Cliff said, pulling his cap down over his eyes to catch a few minutes of sleep. "Hollander is a fully grown adult. I'm sure he's handling Rozy just fine." He couldn't help a smirk.

Chapter End Notes

actually can't believe I made it to the end of a chaptered fic. thanks everyone for all the love <3

Chapter 8: Epilogue

Chapter Summary

Cliff reveals some truths at the Hollander/Rozanov wedding.

Chapter Notes

please turn on work skins for this, it's my first time doing a texting skin

The sun peeking over the fence was giving the yard a soft, warm glow making the the perfect view for a summer wedding. The evening's light breeze rustled the leaves on the trees surrounding them, and the air smelled faintly of charcoal and pine. White fairy lights were strung all around the tent and trees, twinkling like stars against the darkening sky.

Shane lingered at the edge of the lawn, watching the beautiful chaos of their lives unfold in a way he never would have dared to imagine eleven years ago. To the left of the makeshift dance floor, Ilya's teammate, Troy, stood with his boyfriend, Harris. His arms casually draped around Harris’s waist, clearly distracting him, who was fidgeting with a laptop, trying to craft a seamless playlist that would keep the celebration alive.

Over on the dance floor, Hayden’s twins, Ruby and Jade, were a whirl of pale blue sundresses. The fabric shimmered with the iridescent glow of the bulbs as they spun, seemingly impervious to the exhaustion of the long day. Nearby, Shane’s parents swayed slowly, lost in the music’s embrace. Hunter and Kip were close by, anchored to each other. Kip’s head resting gently on Hunter’s shoulder as they moved with the rhythm.

Near the bar setup, Marlow and Hayden stood shoulder-to-shoulder, beer bottles in hand, deep in conversation with Hazy and his wife, Lisa. Boodram and Haas standing a little ways away chatting. It felt surreal to see so many people, some from the league, others from their charity foundation, all here to celebrate them.

"You’re staring again," a low, gravelly voice murmured in Shane’s ear, sending a slight shiver down his back.

A familiar hand touched his back, then moved to hold his waist, and Shane leaned into the solid warmth radiating from his husband’s chest. His eyes followed the string lights crisscrossing the yard like a luminous net, holding them all in a moment of improbable safety.

"Just taking it all in," Shane whispered, his voice barely rising above the soft strum of an acoustic guitar drifting from the speakers. "I still can’t wrap my head around it. Us, married. Different people from different parts of our lives, here to celebrate. It feels... unreal."

Ilya pulled him closer, nuzzling his face into Shane’s hair. The scent of expensive cologne, cedar wood, and the faint salt-tinged sweat of a man who had danced half the night grounded him. "Mm, you smell good."

"Ew, Ilya. I’m literally sweating in this suit."

"Okay, so let’s take it off," he teased, pressing a smirk into the side of Shane's face.

He laughed, turning in the circle of Ilya’s arms, his hands looping around his husband. He pulled him flush, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of Ilya’s heart thumping against his own chest.

"Later, lyubimy," he murmured, drawing a groan from Ilya. Shane brushed the tip of his nose against Ilya’s, letting the world slip away for a heartbeat, savoring the fact that he could call this man his husband.

"Get a room!" Marlow’s voice boomed from across the yard, shattering the moment, a trait that never seemed to fade over the years.

"It’s literally their wedding, Marlow!" Hayden shot back, though his grin was unmistakable, even from a distance.

Shane caught Ilya’s hand, fingers intertwining as they walked across the grass. By the time they reached the group, Haas, Bood, and Jackie, who had a sleepy Arthur clinging to her hand, had also joined the circle. The space widened to welcome the newlyweds, but before Shane and Ilya could settle in, a blur of blue streaks dashed past, colliding into Hayden and Jackie. The twins, as it seems, had abandoned the dance floor.

"Congratulations, you guys," Lisa said warmly, pulling Shane and then Ilya into an embrace. "The reception is stunning. You really pulled it off."

"Credit goes to my mom and all the women that helped," Shane replied, glancing toward the glowing tent. It really was a beautiful sight. He made a mental note to remind Ilya they needed to get really good gifts for Rose and Svetlana as a thank you. "They made all the decisions."

Ilya scoffed beside him, prompting a lighthearted glare. "Yeah, okay. You let them make all the decisions?"

"What? I did!"

"Right... Svetlana and Rose told me how many caterers you scared away."

"I didn't scare anybody away."

"Okay, and how many cakes did you make me eat?"

Laughter rippled through the group as Shane waved dismissively.

"I still can’t believe you idiots are actually married," Hayden muttered, shaking his head, eyes flicking between Shane and Ilya. This immediately earned him a jab in the ribs from his wife. "Ow!"

Ruby scoffed nearby. "This isn’t even their real wedding!" she declared, hands on hips.

"Yeah!" Jade and Arthur chimed in, sparking another round of laughter.

"Uncle Ilya told me the real wedding was at our house last year," Ruby added, crossing her arms now. "There were rings and everything. And no boring speeches. And I saw him cry."

"It’s true," Ilya admitted, unfazed by the child's breach of secrecy. He leaned in for a possessive kiss on Shane’s cheek. The girls bursted into a fresh fit of giggles.

"Jeez, how many people were keeping your secrets?" Hazy teased, leaning back and taking a long pull from his beer.

"Me," Hayden and Jackie said in weary unison.

"Also me," Marlow added smugly, clearly proud of his long-held secret.

Shane’s head snapped toward Marlow, eyes wide. "What?" Then flashed his eyes over at his husband. "You told Marlow?"

"Nope," Ilya popped the p with a mischievous grin. "I did not tell him anything."

"You didn’t know shit, Marlow," Hayden muttered, rolling his eyes. Jackie gave him another sharp jab in the ribs. "Right, kids. Sorry. Anyway, this guy tried playing detective one time and failed miserably."

Marlow didn't say anything. He simply continued smiling, simply taking a sip of his beer. Troy finally successfully got Harris' full attention, and they were now joining the mini party by the bar.

"What are you guys talking about?" Harris asked.

"Apparently, how bad the grooms are at keeping secrets."

Shane couldn't believe this. "How long have you known?" He pressed, redirecting the attention back to Marlow.

"Remember that All-Star game when we got stuck in the blizzard?" Marlow asked, a slow grin spreading.

"What?!" Shane and Hayden shouted in unison.

"You’re a—" Hayden stopped, glancing at his kids. "You’re a frickin’ liar, Marlow. I was with you the whole time. You didn’t figure anything out."

"Just because you were oblivious, Pike, doesn’t mean the rest of us were," Marlow shot back.

Shane looked over at Ilya, who was too quiet, his eyes gleaming. "You knew," Shane accused. "You knew he found out back then."

Ilya shook his head, before conceding. "Okay, yes. I knew he found out. But not back then. He told me just before I was traded to Ottawa."

"What the f—I can’t believe you never told me!"

Shane swatted playfully at Ilya’s hands as his husband tried pulling him into a hug, eventually winning and pressing kisses behind Shane’s ear. The group watched, expressions mixing amusement and mock disgust.

"Okay, so how did you actually find out?" Shane insisted. "We were careful."

Shane's memories came flooding back. Their flights being cancelled. Him and Ilya forced to share a room by the league. Finding out the only one left available had just one bed. He practically wanted to have a meltdown at the reception desk of the hotel. Then Marlow and Hayden obsessing over "Jane" and "Lily," the code names they'd use for each other's phone contacts.

It was like a hell personally curated just for him, at least for the first day and a half. That was the trip that made him recognize how important Ilya was to help, when he had been on the verge of losing him. Thinking back, being snowed in for those two days really became a blessing in disguise.

It was all so long ago. Back then, hearing Marlow and Hayden as about Jane and Lily had made his stomach drop. He could've thrown up right at that dinner table. He has no idea how he survived that conversation, let alone the entire dinner, feeling like he was being interrogated. But the next day, Marlow had completely dropped the subject. Now he wonders if it was because the guy finally figured it all out.

Shane forced the memories back into his mind as Marlow continued.

"Pike and I spent two nights at the hotel bar talking about 'Jane' and 'Lily'—"

"Who are Jane and Lily?" Troy interrupted, eyeing Shane and Ilya.

"Exactly!" Marlow laughed. "We thought they were these idiots' secret girlfriends back then." Hayden chuckled, shaking his head. "We tried for hours to find any trace of them on the internet."

Shane groaned, covering his face, peeking through his fingers.

"Uncle Shane is Jane, and Uncle Ilya is Lily," Arthur announced, cutting through the chatter like a whistle.

Silence fell. Even the wind seemed to pause. Hayden stared, bewildered. "Who told you that, buddy?"

Arthur shrugged. "Because Shane sounds like Jane. And Lily sounds like 'Ilya.' It’s easy, Dad."

Laughter exploded, filling the night. Ilya’s booming laugh shook Shane, who felt a flush rise, not from the July heat, but from being outsmarted by a six-year-old.

"You picked those names!" Shane hissed, pointing at Ilya.

"That was your cover?" Troy shook his head in mock disappointment. "Pathetic."

"Marlow, finish the story," Hayden demanded, unamused by the child’s wit.

"On the second day, I decided to ask these guys, but they were being so weird about it that it got me even more curious. We spent like two hours at the bar scouring Instagram tags for these girls. No luck. Pike eventually made me drop it and go to bed."

"You're welcome."

"My ass… I didn't sleep. Anyway, around 2:30 or so, I'm about to watch a movie when I realized I left my laptop charger at the bar. I went down to get it, and on the way up..."

He gestured a nod towards the newlyweds, who were still embracing each other.

"I saw these two walking down the hallway, Rozy clutching Hollander like someone was going to steal him away."

"He’s still like that! Look at them," Jackie said.

"And Hollzy was leaning so far into him, they could've merged into one," Marlow added, sipping his beer. "That’s when it clicked. Jane and Lily were really these idiots. And I was the only one in the MLH who knew that the two biggest rivals of the league were actually obsessed with each other in a whole different way."

Shane stood, mouth agape, as laughter filled the air. The shame of being caught vanished, replaced by a lightness he hadn’t felt in years. He looked at Ilya, whose gaze was soft and loving, eleven years in the making.

“Actually,” a quiet voice interrupted. Everyone turned to see Hunter approaching with Kip. “I found out their rookie season. Didn’t want to ruin the show.”

“What?” It was Ilya's turn to be surprised. “You knew?”

“Yeah... remember that fight before the Sochi Olympics?”

“You mean the only time Shane Hollander dropped his gloves?" Bood added.

Hunter nodded. “He chirped me. I was having a bad day and snapped back that he was starting to sounded like this asshole," he nodded at Ilya, who plastered on a winning smile. "Things escalated.”

“Unbelievable,” Hazy said. “Hollz, buddy, you gotta look up 'careful' in the dictionary.”

Laughter rippled again.

“F all of you, seriously.”

“Wait, Hunter,” Marlow said. “How did you find out?”

“At their first All-Star game, I was sitting next to Hollander. After the skills competition, Rozanov skated by and practically shouted his hotel room number.”

The yard erupted in laughter.

“You were next door, Hunter. Did you like what you heard?” Ilya teased.

“ILYA!” Shane pushed him away, face crimson, but Ilya held on, laughing.

“Wait...” Haas finally spoke, looking like he was mentally calculating something. “If that was your rookie season... you’ve been together for...?” The kid looked genuinely confused.

“Eleven years,” Shane whispered, a quiet thunderclap.

“Wow, since your rookie season?” Lisa asked.

“Mm, summer before,” Ilya added.

Hayden’s beer nearly fell to the ground, caught by Marlow.

"That means… since your draft?” Hazy’s eyes widened. “Before your rivalry ever kicked off on the ice? You’ve been… this... the whole time?”

Shane scanned the circle of stunned faces, feeling the grudging respect for a eleven year game of keep-away. Ilya’s arm tightened around him, a heavy, grounding weight.

“Every single minute,” Ilya confirmed, his voice thick with pride finally laid bare.

"Wow," Haas breathed, awestruck. The group fell into a brief, reverent silence.

"Wait," Harris looked curiously at Marlow. "If the four of you were there, how did you end up sharing a room with Hayden? Wouldn't the league have arranged rooms for teammates if they had to double up because of capacity?"

“Rozy bribed—” Marlow started, only to be cut off by Ilya clearing his throat. Shane narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Ilya’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I told Marlow I'd smother him in his sleep if he kept me up with his snoring,” Ilya explained with a smirk. "He decided to ask to switch rooms. That simple."

Shane raised an eyebrow, still unconvinced. “Ilya, what did you bribe him with?”

"Tebe ne o chem bespokoit'sya, dorogaya."
"You have nothing to worry about, dear."

"You're impossible."

"But you love me."

"Debatable."

"It's too late for that, Hollander."

"Yeah, eleven years too late, I guess."

"Eleven years," Ilya agreed, leaning down to press his forehead against Shane's as the music swelled into a faster tempo, signaling a new chapter.

Chapter End Notes

the end! I know I said I would end it at 7 but this is just a cute like short insert of Shane & Ilya's wedding

thank you to everyone who read this! my first completed chaptered fic so I'm super proud <33

credit for texting skin. I just made changes to the colors to match iMessages :)))
Texting Skin by cursedcuriosities