Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Brad | Hayden Pike's Fanmail Recipient, Hayden Pike's Children, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Club Girl from Episode: s01e04 (Heated Rivalry), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Roger Crowell

Additional Tags:

BAMF Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Bottom Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Top Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Bad at Feelings, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Good Friend Rose Landry, Bad Friend Hayden Pike, Sasha the Unlikely Hero, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Competitive Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Being Idiots, Codependent Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Impact Play, Rough Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Kissing, Shane Hollander likes it Rough, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Ilya Rozanov Visits Irina Rozanova's Grave, Mentioned Dallas Kent, physical altercation, BDSM Scene, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Hospitalized Shane Hollander, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Coma, Scared Ilya Rozanov, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov's Last Year Playing in Boston

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-20 Updated: 2026-08-24 Words: 126,688 Chapters: 14/?

Ten Steps Back to You.

Summary

On the eve of his thirty-fifth birthday, Shane Hollander falls asleep beside his husband and thinks about everything his own fear had cost them.

He wakes up ten years earlier. Twenty-five. No wedding ring. No Anya at the foot of the bed. No Ilya beside him.

He still remembers it all: the years of hiding, the loneliness Ilya carried alone in Ottawa, the breakdown that nearly took him, the pain that could have been prevented if Shane had just chosen him sooner.

He also remembers their happy ending.

This time, Shane wants to change the cost. He wants to love Ilya openly, before it breaks him. He wants to be the person Ilya needed when he was most vulnerable.

Or: Mysterious Time-Travel AU/Fix-it feat. bad-ass Shane Hollander. Plans to take down a homophobic hockey-league included.

Chapter 1: May 9, 2026 / July 15, 2016 - Ottawa / New York City

His eyes had opened at 9:52 PM.

Less than two hours after Ilya had dragged him to bed following dinner, insisting—with that particular brand of playful bossiness—that he needed recovery time. You're Scott Hunter's age now, Ilya had teased, pressing him into the mattress. Like hot fossil or Silver Fox. Your body needs rest after sex. They'd made love slowly, and then Ilya had actually enforced the early bedtime like some kind of tyrant, pulling him under the covers around eight o'clock.

Now his body had decided sleep was over, even though Ilya remained completely unconscious beside him—dead weight and soft snores.

The sheets felt cool against his skin where Ilya wasn't touching him.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Their bedroom. The house they'd bought together two years ago, the one with the backyard where Anya dug holes every time it rained.

Ilya was pressed against his right side, one leg thrown over his thigh, one arm draped across his ribs. He slept like he was trying to pin him to the mattress, like if he didn't hold on tight enough he might slip away. His face was buried against his shoulder, breath warm and damp against his collarbone. He smelled like sweat and that fancy shampoo he insisted on buying even though there was no real difference between it and the drugstore brand. Something with bergamot and tea tree. Ilya's hair was longer than he usually kept it this time of year—maybe he'd been lazy about haircuts, or maybe he just liked the way it got pulled during sex. Either way, it felt soft against his jaw when he turned his head.

At the foot of the bed, Anya sprawled on her back with all four legs in the air, paws curled, belly exposed. She was snoring—actual snoring, the kind that sounded like a chainsaw trying to start. Her back leg twitched. Dreaming about something. Squirrels, probably.

She was a mutt, some kind of terrier-shepherd-who-knows-what mix, brown and white and scruffy, with one ear that flopped and one that stood up. Harris had taken her in at Drover Orchard after someone abandoned her there in April 2021—skinny, scared, covered in burrs. One day Ilya went over for dinner with the Drovers, and Anya just "accidentally" ended up in his car. She never left. She was already living with him when he moved in the month before the wedding, and while he wasn't a dog person at first, he'd fallen hard for this sweet little angel.

Lifting his left hand, the wedding ring caught moonlight—white gold shimmering through the bedroom. Ilya's matched. The ring had weight to it. It left a tan line in the summer. Twisting it with his thumb, he felt the smooth metal slide against his skin.

Thirty-four years old. In just two hours, thirty-five.

Sleep should have been claiming him by now. Rest before the morning birthday sex Ilya had been hinting about all week—something about pancakes and a rim job, in that order, because Ilya thought he was hilarious. Instead, he lay here in the dark with his husband's leg draped over his thigh and his dog snoring at his feet, thinking about all the years it had taken to get here. He should have been dreaming about nothing, or about hockey, or about the vacation they were planning for July. Not this.

But he was.

Their first time at the cottage had been July 15, 2017. He remembered the light filtering through the trees, the way the lake had looked in the early morning. He remembered Ilya's face when he finally said it—I love you—and the way Ilya had kissed him like he'd been holding his breath for years.

Ilya signed with Ottawa in August 2018. Shane stayed in Montreal.

That was the part that still sat wrong, even now.

Ilya never asked him to come along. He understood the contract situation—Shane was locked in through the end of 2019. There was nothing to ask, no choice to make. So Ilya went to Ottawa alone, and Shane stayed in Montreal, and they told themselves it was temporary.

Spring 2018, after the game against LA, he'd come out to his locker room. He didn't name Ilya—couldn't, because Montreal already hated Rozanov, and connecting the two of them would've only made everything worse. But he'd told them the truth about himself.

The locker room turned on him. Homophobic comments. His coach, openly abusive. Isolation. The only people who stood by him were Hayden Pike and JJ Boiziau. Everyone else made it clear: he wasn't welcome anymore.

But he still couldn't leave. Not yet. His contract ran through 2019, and he was trapped—stuck on a team that hated him, in a place that made him miserable, unable to be with the person he loved, unable to explain why.

That part, he could forgive himself for. He'd had no choice.

What he couldn't forgive was what came after.

His contract ended in 2019. He was free. Ilya was two hours away in Ottawa. Two hours. He could've requested a trade. Could've signed as a free agent. Could've followed Ilya the way he should've years earlier.

He didn't.

Staying in Montreal for nearly two more seasons—he'd told himself it was about his career, about stability, about not wanting to uproot his life. He'd told himself Ilya understood. He'd told himself they were fine.

They weren't fine.

Ilya had gotten quieter. Stopped posting on social media as much. Stopped answering his calls as quickly. Started showing up late to practice, missing team events, looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with hockey. He'd noticed all of it. Told himself Ilya was fine. Told himself it was just the adjustment to a new team, a new city, the pressure of being alone.

He'd been wrong.

Staying in Montreal had meant hating himself, hating his team, hating the choice he kept making every single day. And Ilya had stayed in Ottawa, alone, deteriorating, waiting for him to be brave enough to choose him.

It wasn't until the Brad video—until they were accidentally outed in spring 2021, their story ripped away before they could tell it themselves—that Montreal had finally let him go.

By then, it was almost too late.

March 2021. The hospitalization. Ilya had spent two weeks in a psychiatric ward while he sat in the waiting room, trying not to think about what would've happened if Ilya's teammate hadn't found him in time. The diagnosis: bipolar disorder and depression. Ilya's mother had killed herself when he was twelve. Ilya had been the one to find her. He'd come home from school and found her lying there.

Ilya had told him about it their first time at the cottage. His voice had been flat, distant, like he was recounting someone else's life. I found her.

He'd held him. He'd cried. He'd whispered I'm sorry until the words dissolved into meaningless sound.

But sorry didn't undo the years Ilya had spent alone in Ottawa while he'd stayed in Montreal, too afraid to follow. Sorry didn't erase the loneliness, the depression, the crushing weight of suffering in silence because he hadn't been brave enough to choose him openly.

After the hospital—after the therapy and medication and the slow, grinding work of learning to carry his mother's death—Ilya had adopted Anya.

He'd loved her from the start. Loved how she coaxed smiles from him. Loved how she transformed their house into a home.

And after the hospital, they'd made a decision. They were going to come out publicly. Together. On their terms. Not waiting for retirement like they'd originally planned. They spent months preparing—drafting the Instagram post, selecting the photo, mapping out the timing. Summer 2021. They'd post it and then silence their phones for weeks, vanish into the woods, let the world say whatever it wanted while they built their sanctuary of peace.

It had been their plan.

And then Hayden had fucked it up.

Not on purpose. Hayden would never. Allegedly. But he'd been filming a birthday video for some fan named Brad, standing in his den with the windows open behind him—windows that looked right out onto the driveway. He and Ilya had been fighting about something stupid (he couldn't even remember what now), and Ilya had followed him outside. They'd ended up making out against his car because that was what they did when they fought: they kissed until the anger melted away.

Hayden hadn't noticed. He'd been too focused on the camera, on wishing Brad a happy fucking birthday.

But Brad posted the video to Twitter. People noticed the background. The headlines exploded.

Just like that, their story was gone. Stolen. Reduced to a blurry background detail in someone else's birthday video.

Devastation, pure and simple. They'd spent months building up the courage to tell their story, and it had been ripped away before they could even open their mouths.

But they'd posted the Instagram photo anyway. Had turned off their phones anyway. Had gone to the cottage anyway.

And now he was lying in bed beside his husband, hours away from turning thirty-five, and he was grateful. He was. This life—this marriage, this house, this dog snoring at the foot of the bed—was everything he ever wanted and had spent years being too afraid to claim.

But he was also haunted.

Haunted by the years Ilya had spent alone in Ottawa. Haunted by the March 2021 crisis, by the image of Ilya in that hospital bed—small and tired and looking like he'd given up. Haunted by the Instagram post they never got to make on their own terms, by the narrative that slipped away before they could shape it. Haunted by the fact that he could have prevented so much of it if he'd just been braver sooner.

If he'd followed Ilya to Ottawa in 2019 instead of staying in Montreal for nearly two more seasons.

If he'd come out to his parents sooner, to his teammates sooner, to himself sooner.

If he'd chosen Ilya openly instead of making him wait in the dark for years.

Closing his eyes, he could feel Ilya's breath against his collarbone. He could hear Anya snoring at the foot of the bed. He could feel the weight of the wedding ring on his finger.

There was a choice right then. He could lie here in the dark and drown in regret, or he could move forward. He could hold onto the past, or he could hold onto Ilya.

He chose Ilya.

Wrapping his arm around Ilya's shoulders, he pulled him closer. Ilya made a soft sound in his sleep—something between a sigh and a hum—and burrowed deeper against his side.

He pressed his face against Ilya's hair and breathed in the smell of bergamot and sweat.

The past was fixed. There was no changing it. But he could be here now. He could wake up beside Ilya every morning. Hold his hand in public. Say I love you without fear. Love Ilya in the light.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe it had to be.

In two hours, he'd be thirty-five. In the morning, Ilya would wake him with kisses and pancakes and something kinky involving maple syrup. They'd walk Anya together, eat breakfast together, go to practice together. Come home together.

There was only this: Shane and Ilya. Not Hollander and Rozanov. Not anymore. Hollander-Rozanov, as his husband would clarify to the vulture journalists.

Still. He wished he could go back. He wished he could tell his younger self to be braver, to choose Ilya sooner, to stop letting fear make his decisions. He wished he could spare Ilya the years of loneliness, the years of suffering, the pain that almost took him away.

But he couldn't.

The past was fixed. The road they'd taken was the road they'd taken.

All he could do was be here now. All he could do was choose his husband first every day going forward.

He waited for morning. But he still wished.

✨🏒✨

When he woke up the smell came first.

Old sweat baked into cotton that had been washed a thousand times in cheap detergent—that soapy, medicine-like smell that never quite leaves fabric. Underneath, the sweet plastic smell of tape and bandages stuck to his skin. There was something else, too: something faintly metallic, maybe old blood or just the stale air of a room where sick people breathe. His stomach turned before his eyes opened. His mouth tasted like copper and something thicker like he'd been chewing on bandages soaked in rust.

There was a sound. A beep, too loud—like someone tapping a spoon against a glass every three seconds. It burrowed into his skull. He wanted it to stop, but he couldn't move his hand to make it stop. His hand was—

His hand was wrong.

The texture against his skin was wrong. Rough cotton, thin and scratchy, nothing like the soft sheets he'd fallen asleep in. The pillow under his head was flat and hard, covered in something that crinkled when he shifted. The air cut cold against his face. Light burned through his closed eyelids, fluorescent and buzzing.

He tried to open his eyes. His eyelids might as well have been concrete. His head felt packed with sand. Everything hurt. When his eyes finally dragged open, the ceiling above him was white. Acoustic tiles, dotted with little holes. One had a water stain in the corner, brown and spreading like a bruise.

This wasn't his bedroom.

This wasn't Ottawa.

His chest tightened. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. His arms felt like dead weight. His head pounded—a dull throb behind his eyes that made the fluorescent light unbearable. He turned his head slowly, because any sudden movement made the room tilt, and spotted a whiteboard mounted on the wall across from the bed.

The whiteboard had writing on it. Blue marker. Neat handwriting.

Patient: Shane Hollander

DOB: 05/15/1991

Admit Date: 07/15/2016

Attending: Dr. Demesa

Nurse: Ryne

He stared at the date. July 15, 2016. The numbers didn't make sense. They were wrong. They had to be wrong because it was May 2026, his birthday, and he had been lying in bed with Ilya while Anya snored at their feet and—

But the whiteboard said 2016.

His heart raced. He could hear it in his ears, a rushing sound like water through pipes. The beeping machine sped up. He looked down at his hands.

They were his hands. But they weren't.

They were younger. The skin was smoother, the knuckles less scarred. There was no wedding ring. His left hand was bare, the ring finger pale and empty. The absence was so wrong that his breath caught. He lifted his hand, turned it over, stared at the palm. The calluses were there but different. Less worn. The scar on his thumb from the skate blade in 2019 hadn't happened yet.

This wasn't his body.

Except it was.

His vision blurred. He blinked hard, trying to clear it, but the room kept tilting. He was in a hospital bed, wearing a thin gown that tied at the back. There was an IV in his left arm, taped down with clear adhesive that pulled at his skin. The beeping machine was a heart monitor. The numbers on the screen said 112 bpm and climbing.

He didn't understand.

July 15, 2016.

One year before the cottage.

His hands shook. He pressed them against the mattress, trying to ground himself, but the mattress was too thin and the sheets were too rough and nothing felt real. His head pounded, a dull ache at the base of his skull radiating up into his temples. When he reached back to touch it, his fingers found a bandage. Gauze and tape. Tender skin underneath.

What happened?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember. He had—

No.

Wait.

He had been in New York.

It had started three days earlier, in Montreal. He'd called Hayden on a Tuesday afternoon to say he was heading to New York for a Rolex shoot. Hayden had been quiet on the other end of the line. Then he'd said, "Jackie's kicking me out."

"What?" He'd laughed, thinking it was a joke.

"No, seriously. She's kicking me out. All four kids are going to her parents' place for the weekend. She wants the house to herself. She said—and I quote—'I love you, but I need forty-eight hours where no one is asking me for anything.'" Hayden's voice had taken on that particular tone he used when imitating his wife. "So she's essentially shoving me out the door and telling me not to come back until Sunday night."

He'd been sitting on his couch at the cottage, still riding the high of the Cup win, still adjusting to the strange quiet of being alone for the first time in months. "That sounds like Jackie," he'd said.

"I was going to check into a hotel or something, but then I thought—" Hayden had paused, and Shane could hear the grin in his voice. "You're going to New York. Come on. Let me come with you. We never do anything like that. We're always in New York for games, and it's all business. Let me come be a tourist. Let me see the Empire State Building. Let me eat a hot dog from a street vendor and pretend I'm in a movie."

"Hayden, no," he'd said immediately. "I'm going to be working. You'll be bored."

"I won't be bored. I'll hang out while you're shooting. I'll read a book. I'll go to museums. Come on, Shane. Please." Hayden had actually whined, which was ridiculous because Hayden was a six-foot-two professional athlete and father of four who had no business whining like a teenager. "Jackie's literally kicking me out. You're my only option. Well, you or my brother, and my brother's in Vancouver, and I don't want to go to fucking Vancouver."

He'd wanted to say no. He'd wanted the trip to be simple and uncomplicated. He'd wanted to be alone with his thoughts—which was ironic, because he'd been alone with his thoughts for weeks at the cottage and it had been driving him slowly insane. But Hayden had kept talking, kept pushing, kept making it funny. He'd described in elaborate detail all the things he was going to do in New York, all the tourist traps he was going to hit.

And he, exhausted from weeks of solitude and worn down by the weight of his own mind, had finally said yes.

"Really?" Hayden had sounded genuinely shocked.

"Yeah. But you're paying for your own hotel room. Rolex has me in a penthouse and I'm not sharing a bed."

"Deal. Oh man, this is going to be great. Jackie's going to be so jealous when I tell her I went to New York without her."

So Hayden had come. And now they were here, and Hayden wanted to see Central Park and the MET, and he'd wanted something quieter. They'd compromised on dinner in Midtown following his busy day shooting, and he'd been checking his phone the entire time because Ilya was in Moscow and hadn't texted back and—

They'd been walking through Midtown for twenty minutes when his brain started to split in half.

The heat was oppressive—July in Manhattan. The sidewalks were packed with tourists moving too slowly, businesspeople moving too fast, street vendors hawking knockoff sunglasses and I ♥ NY shirts that no actual New Yorker would ever wear. The air smelled like hot garbage and pretzels and exhaust fumes. Hayden was talking about the Rolex shoot—something about how the photographer had made Shane stand in the same spot for forty-five minutes while they adjusted the lighting. Wasn't that ridiculous? And did he think the watch would actually look good in the final ad, or would it just look like every other luxury watch ad ever made?

He wasn't listening.

He was checking his phone.

Again.

He'd checked it three minutes ago. No new messages. He'd checked it five minutes before that. Still nothing. He pulled it out of his pocket now—casually, like he was just glancing at the time—and opened his texts.

Lily.

The contact name stared back at him. No new messages. The last text was from him, sent at 9:47 AM: Hope training's going well.

Ilya hadn't responded.

His chest tightened. He refreshed the conversation. Nothing. He backed out, opened his email. Nothing. He opened Twitter and scrolled through his mentions—mostly fans congratulating him on the Cup win, a few reporters asking for interviews he'd never give—then closed it and opened his texts again.

Still nothing.

Ilya was in Moscow visiting family. Training with his old coach for a few weeks before the season started. He knew this. He'd known it for weeks. It was fine. It was normal. Ilya didn't owe him constant communication. They weren't—they weren't anything that required constant communication.

Except his brain didn't care about logic. His brain was stuck on the fact that Ilya had been gone for six days and had texted him exactly twice. Once to say he'd landed. Once to tease him about losing the cup next year.

That was it.

No I miss you. No Wish you were here. No Thinking about you.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket. His hand was sweating. The heat was unbearable. Hayden was still talking—something about Central Park now, about wanting to see Bethesda Fountain because Jackie had shown him a photo once after watching Friends—and he nodded like he was listening, but his brain was somewhere else entirely.

He wanted to throw the phone into traffic.

"You okay?" Hayden asked.

He looked up. Hayden was watching him with that concerned-friend expression that made him feel like a specimen under glass. "Yeah. Fine. Just checking something."

"You've checked your phone like fifteen times in the last ten minutes."

"No, I haven't."

"You have. I've been counting." Hayden grinned. "What, you got a girl texting you? You holding out on me, Hollander?"

His stomach turned. "No. Just—work stuff."

"Work stuff. In July. Sure." Hayden laughed and turned back to the street, pointing at a building he didn't care about. "Hey, isn't that the place where they filmed that scene in The Avengers? The one where—"

A taxi passed.

He saw the ad on the side.

Bold white letters on a black background. A woman's silhouette—curves, high heels, the universal visual shorthand for sex. And beneath it, in smaller text:

EXPOSURE — Midtown's Premier Gentlemen's Club.

He stopped walking.

The world didn't stop with him. People kept moving, kept brushing past his shoulders, kept existing in their own oblivious realities. But he was frozen, staring at the taxi as it disappeared into traffic, the ad seared into his retinas like he'd looked directly at the sun.

He knew that name and logo.

Paparazzi photos spanning multiple years across different platforms. Ilya Rozanov walking into Exposure with a group of teammates after an Admirals game, grinning at the cameras like he didn't have a care in the world. Ilya Rozanov leaving Exposure at 2 AM with his arm around a blonde woman he didn't recognize. Ilya Rozanov at a table inside Exposure—someone had snapped a photo through the window—surrounded by women in tight dresses, drink in hand, laughing like he was having the time of his fucking life.

He'd seen those photos. He'd told himself they didn't matter. Ilya was allowed to go to clubs. Ilya was allowed to be seen with women. That was the whole point of the secrecy, wasn't it? They weren't together. They weren't anything. They were rivals who occasionally fucked in hotel rooms and then pretended it never happened.

But right now, his mind replayed every single one of those photos in rapid succession, a slideshow of humiliation he couldn't turn off. Ilya's arm around that blonde. Ilya's hand on another woman's waist. Ilya grinning at the camera with that shit-eating expression that said Yeah, I'm here, and yeah, I'm having a great time, and what are you going to do about it? Oh, right—nothing. Because I'll probably fuck a couple of these beautiful women tonight. Maybe at the same time.

His vision went spotty. The street closed in around him. Every sound amplified—car horns blaring, someone shouting, brakes screeching, a siren wailing somewhere far off. The air thinned. He gasped and got nothing. His chest clamped down. His lungs refused to fill. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he felt it pulsing in his throat.

Ilya was in Moscow.

Ilya hadn't texted him back.

Ilya was probably at a club right now—surrounded by women, touching them, letting them touch him back. Because that's what Ilya did. That's who Ilya was. He made it look easy, made it look fun, made it look like he wasn't carrying around a secret that could destroy his entire career.

His hands were shaking.

He shoved them in his pockets. Tried to look normal. Tried to breathe. Hayden was still talking—something about a $1 Pizza Slice place, about wanting to try an authentic New York slice before they left, about how Jackie would kill him if she found out he ate street meat without her—and he nodded, but he wasn't hearing the words. He was hearing the roar of his own panic, the static in his brain getting louder and louder and louder.

He needed to move.

He needed to get away from the street, from the people, from the open air pressing down on him. He needed somewhere smaller, somewhere darker, somewhere he could breathe.

"Let's take the subway," he said.

Hayden blinked. "What? I thought we were walking to the hotel."

"It's too hot. Let's just—let's take the subway."

"You hate the subway."

"I don't hate the subway."

"You literally said last time that you'd rather walk twenty blocks than get on the subway because it smells like piss."

His jaw clenched. "I changed my mind. Come on."

He didn't wait for Hayden to respond. He turned and headed for the nearest subway entrance, weaving through the crowd, his phone still in his pocket, his chest still too tight, his brain fucking with him.

The subway entrance loomed ahead. He could see the stairs leading down into the cool darkness, the promise of escape. He pulled out his phone again. Checked his texts. Still nothing. He refreshed. Nothing.

Hayden caught up to him at the top of the stairs. "Seriously, man, are you okay? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm fine," he said, and started down the stairs.

The panic had taken over completely now. His chest squeezed so tight he thought his ribs might crack. His hands shook so violently he nearly dropped his phone. His thoughts splintered into a thousand jagged pieces he couldn't grasp. He was halfway down the stairs when his vision started to blur.

He blinked. Tried to focus. His phone was still in his hand. He was still staring at it.

He didn't see the step.

The ground vanished beneath him.

For a split second, there was nothing—just weightlessness, his body tumbling in a direction it wasn't meant to go, gravity seizing control. Then everything came at once. The impact. Metal. The handrail jutting from the steps. His head slamming against it with a crack loud enough to make a stranger nearby flinch.

Pain detonated behind his eyes.

He tasted copper. Blood flooded his mouth.

Someone was shouting his name. Hayden. His voice pitched high and frantic: Shane, Shane, oh my god, Shane—

He tried to respond. Tried to say he was fine. Tried to move.

He couldn't.

The stairs above him dissolved into a smear of gray and sickly yellow light. His phone lay on the ground beside him, screen spiderwebbed with cracks, still open to his texts. Still showing Lily's name. Still showing no new messages.

Then the world went dark.

He didn't remember the ambulance. Didn't remember Hayden's frantic explanations to the paramedics, the sirens, the lights, the way his head lolled against the stretcher. He didn't remember arriving at the hospital or being wheeled through the ER or the doctors shining lights in his eyes, asking questions he couldn't answer. He remembered waking up. He remembered the feeling of his swollen jaw. And he remembered the whiteboard on the wall with his name and the date written in blue dry-erase marker: July 15, 2016.

He opened his eyes and the whiteboard was still there, the date staring back at him. This was real. He was in a hospital bed in New York City. He was twenty-five years old. He had a concussion. He had fallen down the subway stairs during a panic attack about Ilya, wasn't paying attention, and now he was here.

But he also had ten years of memory that shouldn't have existed.

Memories of a life he hadn't lived yet. His breath came too fast now, the heart monitor beeping faster—118 bpm, 122—and the room spun again. He gripped the edge of the mattress, trying to steady himself.

His vision blurred and he blinked hard, hands trembling as he stared at his left hand. At the bare ring finger. At the empty space where the white gold band should have been.

He wished he could go back. He wished he could tell his twenty-five-year-old self to be braver, to choose Ilya sooner, to stop letting fear make his decisions. But here he was. No one else would believe him. If he tried to explain—if he told Hayden, told the doctors, told Ilya—they'd think the concussion had scrambled his brain. They'd think he was disoriented, hallucinating.

He had a choice. He could lie. Pretend the concussion had made him confused, play along, act like his twenty-five-year-old self—and no one would know the difference. Or he could acknowledge what had happened. Not to anyone else, not yet. But to himself. He could accept that he'd been given something impossible: a second chance.

Chapter 2: August 12, 2016 - Ottawa.

The cottage smelled like cedar and lake water. It definitely had been closed up too long. He stepped through the front door and the air hit him. His jaw throbbed with every breath, the bruise faded from deep purple to sickly yellow-green, spreading from chin to cheekbone. The loose tooth—upper left incisor, still tender after the emergency dental work—ached when he breathes through his mouth.

Yuna was already moving through the space, opening windows while complaining about the heat. David was checking the water heater without being asked. Hayden hung back near the kitchen with grocery bags, guilt written across every line of his body in the way he won't meet Shane's eyes. They've been like this for three weeks. Treating him like he might break if they look away. He understood it. But their hovering made his skin itch with the need to be alone, to think, to process what the fuck just happened to him without an audience.

But he was happy to just be back at the cottage after his literally fall from grace in New York. He'd known this place for years. But now he knew it differently. He knew that in exactly one year, he would bring Ilya here. July 15, 2017. They would say I love you for the first time and Ilya would kiss him like he'd been holding his breath for years. He knew this cottage would become theirs—not just Shane's, but theirs. He knew they would spend weekends here, summers here, that Ilya would learn to fish off the dock and complain about the mosquitoes and fall asleep on the couch with his head in Shane's lap while the fire crackled. He knew all of this because he'd lived it. Except he hadn't. Not yet.

Eventually the group gave in, leaving Shane to his lonesome. Yuna making him promise to call every day, David checking the well before leaving, Hayden making Shane swear to text when he woke up just to prove he hadn't died in his sleep. They left in a line of worry: Yuna and David in their truck, Hayden following in his mini-van, both glancing back like they were abandoning him in the wilderness instead of leaving a professional athlete alone in his own home.

The silence that followed was wonderful.

He stood on the front porch listening to the lake. Listening to the water lapping against the dock, a loon calling from across the way, wind moving through the pines in a soft rush that felt like the cottage breathing. His jaw throbbed. His ribs ached. His head felt heavy, the leftover fog of the concussion still hanging at the edges of his thoughts. But underneath all of that was something else: relief.

Finally.

He'd spent three weeks trying to make sense of what happened. He'd looked up time travel, curses, witchcraft, astral projection, quantum mechanics, parallel universes—every possible explanation for how a thirty-four-year-old man could wake up in his twenty-five-year-old body with his memory intact. He'd scrolled through forums, read scientific papers he barely understood, watched YouTube videos by people who sounded half-crazy. And he'd come to a conclusion: it didn't matter. He didn't care how it happened. He didn't care if it was a curse or a blessing or something his concussed brain had conjured to make sense of trauma. What mattered was that he had ten years of knowledge and the chance to use it differently.

He needs a plan.

He moved into the kitchen and grabbed his laptop from his duffel bag. He sat it on the kitchen table. Opened up the laptop, pulled up a blank spreadsheet, and stared at the empty cells, cursor blinking.

He needed organization. He needed to map out the next ten years in a way that makes sense—something that gives him a roadmap and keeps him from spiraling.

He could already hear Ilya's voice in his head, that lazy drawl he uses when he's being deliberately obnoxious: Ty sozdayesh' tablitsu. Of course you are. Color-coded rows. Everything planned out. God, that's so fucking sexy, Shane. That brain of yours. I want to fuck you on top of that laptop.

Shane had rolled his eyes at that back in 2021, when Ilya caught him planning their wedding in an actual Excel file with tabs for catering, guest lists, and floral arrangements. Ilya had leaned over his shoulder, kissed his temple, and said, "I love you, but you are such a fucking nerd." They ended up fucking that entire day and no wedding planning was done. Thus, a damn backyard wedding with no chairs. Cheers!

His chest tightened. He started typing describing the upcoming milestones of their relationship.

November. Tunamelt gate©. Ilya joked about it constantly—from the day they got married until the day before Shane fell asleep and woke up in his twenties again. He told anyone who would listen. The poor girl at the grocery store never knew what hit her. He needs to understand everything that went wrong the first time so he can do things differently now. He remembers fleeing the house in a panic after Ilya said his name—right after they'd napped together and Ilya had made him lunch. This time he needs to be present. He needs to stay instead of running. He needs to show Ilya that he's not going anywhere.

December brings Rose Landry back into Shane's life, which means he needs to be intentional about building a real friendship instead of using her as a shield. Rose deserves honesty, not to be treated like a convenient cover story. He never should have gone on those dates with her in the first place. After weeks of silence, Ilya finally explained how much it hurt to watch Shane act so publicly happy when all Ilya wanted was to be in the daylight with him. It broke Ilya's heart. He can't do that again. He can't start dating Rose Landry, and he can't let his friends pressure him into being something he's not. He remembers sitting down with Rose at the bar, then talking to JJ afterward—JJ really pushing him to keep texting Rose, to go on more dates. But within just a few weeks, Rose was already diving into something more serious than any of his past high school girlfriends. She had a high sex drive, wanted to show him off in front of cameras, and texted constantly. Shane remembered thinking it was nice, but he'd scroll between Rose's texts and Ilya's, denying the heartbreak he'd left behind in Boston after Tunamelt gate©—denying that he'd run from the love of his life. It hadn't been fair, but he'd felt like he had to try to be "straight." Rose clocked him in February, realizing he was gay—but she'd been kind and understanding about it. This time around, he just wants Rose as a friend, one of his best friends. Shit, she helped him get dressed on his wedding day. She cried and held Anya after Anya walked down the aisle with the rings. Rose, Ilya, and most importantly Shane all deserved better than those first few messy weeks. And there are others—people who will matter later, people Shane needs to connect with authentically instead of keeping at arm's length because he's terrified of being seen.

There's also that lying, conniving bitch from around the same time in Boston that Shane will have to deal with separately. That'll require a trip to Boston around then too. But he'll manage.

January. Rose will be there, Miles will be there, Ilya will be in Montreal with the Raiders, and Shane should be by his side—without Rose—in her former capacity. He should be willing to be seen in public with Ilya despite that ugly-ass Versace shirt that looked like it came from Goodwill.

He remembered the night fondly. He was still dating Rose. After a bad game against Boston—Shane and Ilya had both played like shit, Montreal had lost—Rose still wanted him to go out dancing with her. He obliged. In the middle of dancing with Rose, he saw Marleau and Connors walk in. That meant Ilya was there. So while Rose danced with Shane, her hands sliding under his shirt to run across his abs, Miles pressed against his backside dancing and kissing his neck (which in hindsight was real fucking weird because he never consented to that; Ilya had brought it up at a dinner many years later)—Shane watched Ilya across the room dancing with a girl, his hand traveling up her skirt, his other hand on her tit. He was kissing her ear, licking it, sucking it, taking her tongue in his mouth. She had a tongue piercing, which Shane found repulsive. He just stared, his heart beating for someone else on the dance floor.

He had seen what it was like to be hurt. It was like—and later confirmed by Ilya—Ilya was trying to hurt Shane back after leaving him in Boston high and dry on the couch. Also for parading Rose Landry in front of him while they were obviously in love. Fucking Ilya knew how to cut the deepest when he needed to. But he rarely ever did with Shane. In fact, this was the one and only time he did. He remembered leaving that night, separating from Rose and going home alone just to cry into his pillows and pray to Hananim, or Buddha, or whatever his mother whispered prayers to in the dark to take this pain away because he could never have Ilya Rozanov.

Boy, did the Gods laugh at him.

February brought All-Stars, which meant Ilya and Shane competing on the same line together. The commentators went crazy. The entire hockey world tuned in. But before that, early in the month, Rose pulled Shane out for dinner one evening and broke up with him—essentially helping him realize he was gay and in love. Just not with her. The restaurant was already decorated with Valentine's Day decor. He'd walked in expecting a romantic evening with his girlfriend, who knew absolutely nothing about his closeted sex life. She hugged him outside the restaurant and said, "Let's be friends." Which was great.

It was all great. Until Shane walked into the hotel bar where the All-Stars were being hosted and saw Ilya sitting alone with a Corona in his hand—essentially shaking like a wet cat and bracing himself for the impact of Shane Hollander. But he didn't know how Ilya was feeling then. He just thought that maybe this wasn't as serious for Ilya as it was for him. Then Ilya immediately launched into a list of questions about Rose at the bar, making fun of Shane's new clothes (which he had hired a stylist to pick out specifically to impress the one and only Ilya Rozanov). Ilya almost seemed boyish when Shane said the word "compatible," implying that he and Rose were no longer dating.

Later, he would find out that Ilya tried to spell the word on Google eight different ways before calling fucking Cliff Marleau of all people to ask what it meant—because "Jane" had just told him that she was no longer compatible with her ex. Honestly, it was a miracle that Cliff or anyone else hadn't caught onto their shenanigans.

Either way, they played on the same team together. The crowd was rowdy. It was everything Shane had ever dreamed of—playing with Ilya on the ice instead of against him. It was like a preview of what the future would hold, even if Shane didn't know it at the time. Fuck, they were good together. The fucking best. ESPN talked about it for weeks, analyzing the chemistry between the hated rivals. It also helped that the girls, gays, and theys all over Twitter were posting a photo taken by one of the cameramen near the ice: Ilya kissing Shane's helmet and laughing after Shane scored off an assist from him. God, he felt fucking alive every time he remembered that game.

Later that night, Shane (comedically) admitted to being gay to Ilya—because yes, you still need to say it out loud and not just let your decade-long hookup figure it out. He admitted his feelings to Ilya, too. But Ilya was so scared and small, talking about his family and how he could never go back to Russia if they pursued a relationship. Still, he was willing to take whatever he could get. So afterward, they texted and called each other. They communicated more than ever. It was breathtaking every time his phone lit up with Lily's name.

March. Ilya's father dies, and Shane needs to be there for him. He needs to fly to Boston or maybe even Moscow, show up at Ilya's apartment, and hold him while he falls apart—instead of waiting for Ilya to reach out first. In the prior timeline, Shane had heard that Ilya wasn't going to Nashville with the Raiders and wouldn't be playing. That elicited panic because Ilya didn't say he was sick or that anything was wrong. Just poof. Ilya Rozanov, gone. But the reality was that Ilya had received the phone call in the locker room the night before. Alexei, that piece of shit, had called him to say their father was dead and he needed to come home. Back to Moscow.

The next morning, Ilya got on a plane with Svetlana. (Yes, he couldn’t curb that he was jealous even then as she was the first call for support when things went sideways in Ilya's life. But it was Ilya's fault, even after they got married. Ilya was always rubbing it in his face. Yes, Hollander, we used to fuck. No, Hollander just needed a good fuck because you were still hiding in the closet. No, Hollander, I didn't mean that, don't punish me. Please, Shane, don't do the week-long sex ban. I'll be good. I won't ever mention another woman's name or their tight pus—fuck, that hurt. Shane would hit him. Maybe they were a little domestically abusive.)

But Svetlana was a good friend to Ilya and made it abundantly clear in later years that she was never a threat—she just wanted to be there for it all. To watch Ilya flaunt the bright smile that Shane loved so much. To this, they both could agree. But one shining moment he'd looked back on in his past (or future—fuck, it was confusing) was when Ilya called him from Russia, speaking in Russian and confessing his feelings. Shane had been sitting in a stairwell of a hotel during a road trip in Chicago. Ilya called, and he sprinted to the first empty space he could find, away from Hayden. He could hear how upset Ilya was on the other end of the line, and Shane of the now was going to make damn sure he felt loved and supported this time around.

April means Ilya and Shane are in a good spot following Tampa, relying on each other more and more. They were scheduled to drop puck in Montreal at 7:00 PM. By 11:00 PM, Ilya was set to drop dick in Shane for the first time—at Shane's actual Montreal home. Not those sex condos Shane bought because, in his logic, he felt it was necessary to never bring Ilya to his real place. He didn't know why at the time and phrased the purchase as an investment. But now? He was selling that motherfucker immediately. He had no reason to go there ever again.

One interesting thing about April: Ilya admitted years later that he'd planned to break things off with Shane that night. He wanted to spare Shane from all the harm Ilya would cause him by being together. It would have been easier for Ilya to be alone and miserable than to watch Shane get hurt by his career, the media, or even the locker room. Well, current Shane wasn't going to let that happen. In retrospect, he should thank Marleau for the concussion and broken collarbone—at least Ilya couldn't break things off with him while he was injured.

Speaking of which, this is the month the facade started to crack for those around them. After Marleau knocked Shane out (not intentionally—it was a clean hit; Shane just wasn't looking where he was going and was being a "cocky little shit," according to Ilya), the walls came tumbling down. Ilya started screaming at the trainers, "Is he fucking alright? Tell me!" Shane hated watching that film later. The raw fear in Ilya's voice, the way he'd given everything away in that moment—it still made Shane's chest tight. Maybe this time they can both have what they want without the concussion and broken collarbone. Maybe this time, after the game, Shane can bring Ilya home for a candlelit dinner and ask him to the cottage. That sounds wonderful.

May. Boston. Ilya's team loses in the playoffs to Scott Hunter. What neither of them knows yet is that next year will be Ilya's final season with the Raiders before moving to Ottawa. And next year, Connors will break his wrist. Marleau will tear his ACL. And Hammersmith will be out with the flu during the first round of playoffs. So this year—this one—is the closest Ilya gets to the cup again until many years later when he and Shane play together in Ottawa. When they talked about it after their wedding, Ilya mentioned that he's a little sad he never won it for a second time with his Boston family, because that's what Boston is to Ilya. That team treats him with so much love and support.

Sure, in the moment, Ilya didn't know if the team would support him and Shane's relationship if they learn the real identity of "Montreal Jane." But it all becomes clear at their wedding. Ilya invited every single one of them, even though he hasn't spoken to them in nearly four years. He's was a bit ashamed—ashamed of being on a bad team, ashamed of leaving the team he loved so much. But that shame never outweighed the love he has for Shane. Shane was always priority number one, and getting Shane (with a side of Canadian citizenship) made him pant like a dog in heat. The only step left was to be closer—not in separate fucking countries.

Knowing now that they'd all show up in droves to said another country on such short notice to see their old captain get married to his Montreal Jane after a big public and humiliating outing? Well, Shane had love for those guys too. One time during the wedding, Shane caught Hammersmith and Marleau talking by the bar to Rose. Of course, Cliff was trying to get Rose's number—which she most definitely gave him. Cough cough slut.

But Shane had giggled walking up to them, and both Brad and Cliff looked at him with tears in their eyes and said, "Thank you. Thank you for taking care of him after he left us. We were so afraid he was alone, but all this time he always had you. So thank you." It made Shane cry like a baby, which set off Ilya's Hollander-senses from across the yard where he was talking to Kip Grady (no doubt those two were plotting something demonic). Ilya immediately rushed over and said, "Why is my beautiful husband crying?" Probably because you're so loved, you idiot, and I had too many glasses of Drover cider, he wanted to say.

He does feel bad about it when Ilya tells him he wishes he could have had one more run at the cup with those guys. But Ilya's perfectly happy in Ottawa with Hayes, Haas, Barrett, Boodram, Dykstra, and Chouinard. Oh, and they can't forget the great Chiron. All wonderful men Shane considered family now. All people who love and care for Ilya and Shane through their toughest times. He wasn't sure about them at first, but they showed up at the wedding too—without even knowing Shane, really. They showed up for Ilya, and the next season when they play together, well, they adopt Shane as their own. He misses them now in this moment and needs to get Ilya and himself back to them.

But back to the Boston crew. Ilya loses in the playoffs, and he tells stories about how when they arrive as a team off the bus after elimination from playoffs, all of their families are there waiting for them. Everyone but Ilya, because Ilya has no one. Not this time around. Not on Shane Hollander's watch. This will be the perfect time to show the Raiders exactly who Montreal Jane is and her love for the great big and bad Ilya Rozanov.

June means telling his parents—coming out to Yuna and David. Last time around, this happened in late July 2017, but now he wants to make sure Ilya isn't some hidden skeleton in the closet. His mother and father need to know about their second son, as they would have called him in his memories. When David barged into the cottage (rude) and found Shane and Ilya making out against the glass door, then got into his Volvo and drove away without letting Shane explain—it was terrifying. But Shane has to thank his father for that moment. That's when Ilya showed Shane, for the first time, that he wasn't just lover or boyfriend material. He was soulmate material. Maybe he'd shown it before, but in that moment, Ilya took all of Shane's anxiety and panic in the cottage living room and proved that the only person who would ever ease Shane's fears—with words, tone, and touch—was going to be Ilya Rozanov. He paced back and forth, imagining his dad calling his mom on the way back to their cottage and telling her what he'd seen with his own eyes. How disappointed they'd be over him being gay and in love with Ilya. But Ilya told him he was brave and held him until they were both ready to face whatever came next... together. It was really quite beautiful to look back on. In that moment, he knew he couldn't breathe properly without Ilya Rozanov in his life.

Eventually, after a few awkward conversations and some really good pasta, the Hollanders came to love Ilya too. Yuna was busy setting up brand deals for him, and David was showing him his favorite puzzles around the house by the next visit. Watching Ilya with his parents used to make Shane's heart warm like nothing else.

Now, Shane wants to do it earlier, since Ilya's birthday is June 15th and Ilya always said his favorite birthdays were the ones spent with Shane's family. Yuna always made him his favorite cookies and cream ice cream cake, and David would always have a custom "Shane Hollander-inspired" crossword made for the two of them to tackle together while Yuna and Shane cooked chicken parm for the group. The birthdays always ended with Shane and Ilya cuddled on one backyard patio couch under a blanket while David and Yuna took the other. They'd all talk about the year to come, the hockey season, and make plans for a future summer vacation where all four of them would go somewhere fun. Unfortunately, they never really got to cash in on one of those vacations—everyone was too busy to coordinate schedules—but it was always nice to dream.

July. The cottage. Just the two of them together in the peace found just beyond the lake. On the 15th of the month, it was their "I love you" anniversary. Shane had stayed up all night in 2017 trying to find a plan to get him and Ilya together and happy. It was a long plan. It required a lot of sacrifice. Ultimately it didn't work. But the idea of a plan led to Ilya saying I love you to Shane and Shane saying it back. This is going to be the hardest date to reconcile because their I love you anniversary was Shane's favorite day of the year. Ilya was always such a hopeless romantic, and no one would ever know that about him given his past, but Shane knew.

On July 15th of every year, Ilya would spend every minute of the day thanking Shane for changing his life, giving him love, and for cherishing Ilya's heart in the palm of his hand. Most times they'd spend the day fucking slowly and passionately until Ilya had wrung five or six orgasms out of Shane. Then Ilya would grill something for Shane that was really far outside of his diet. After they were married, Shane would plan surprise dinner dates that would make Ilya feel like a kid again. Last year, or in the other life, they played glow-in-the-dark mini-golf and Ilya smiled the entire time. It was Shane's favorite sight—that beautiful fucking smile.

August means visiting Svetlana. This time things would be different. Before, Shane hadn't met Svetlana until just before the wedding. Ilya had kept her at arm's length while he was in Ottawa, afraid she'd realize they were a couple—though it never really mattered. She'd gone to dinner with them both before the wedding, and Shane had been desperate to meet her. A bit jealous, too, that she'd had Ilya first. He had also been deeply insecure about not being a woman, about not being able to give Ilya everything a woman could in the bedroom. But this time around, Svetlana would know sooner. She'd be there for Ilya, a strong source of support. He deserved that.

September. Hayden and Jackie. Shane needs to tell them, needs to come out to his best friend and build that internal support network before Montreal turns on him. Hayden will probably hate Ilya based on what he knows of him, but this time around Shane's not going to take any of Hayden's shit. If he can push Hayden through some of that hate sooner, he would have someone in his corner. Jackie is a delight and shamelessly loved both of them, but Hayden's always been a dick to Ilya. If Shane can't change Hayden this time around, though, it'll be time to move on and find new friends. But fingers crossed for helping Hayden see the Ilya who's full of love sooner.

Spring 2018. The locker room. Shane had decided to come out to his team to test the waters, to see if they'd support him. Well, in this life—or timeline—he already knew they were all homophobic pieces of shit. So yeah, he'd come out. Sure. But the idea of letting them run him over like some weak puppy? Not this time. This time around, they were going to learn exactly who the fuck Shane Hollander was. And he definitely didn't need their support, even if part of him still wanted it.

August 2018. Ottawa. Ilya moves. Ilya signs with Ottawa and moves alone because Shane's contract doesn't expire until the end of 2019, because Shane is legally trapped in Montreal. Shane can't go with him, but he can visit, he can call, he can make it clear that distance doesn't mean abandonment. He needs to stay connected instead of letting the loneliness erode everything they've built.

August 2018 through the end of 2019—Ilya in Ottawa alone, Shane still locked in Montreal, the distance threatening to unravel them before they've even begun. Shane knows how this plays out if he lets it: Ilya spiraling, Shane pulling away, both of them convincing themselves it's easier to let go. But he won't let that happen. When his contract expires at the end of 2019, he moves to Ottawa. Full stop. They find a house together. They stop pretending this is temporary, stop treating each other like a secret. 

Then 2020 locks them inside together for months, and it could break them or bind them tighter. He uses that time to strengthen what they've built, to talk about coming out, to prepare Ilya for the possibility of living in the light. March 2021 is a breaking point: Ilya's hospitalization, the psychiatric hold, the diagnosis. The attempt. He can hold Ilya's hand and listen to the worst parts of his story and make sure he knows he's not alone when he's sad.

After recovery, after therapy and medication begin to stabilize him, they make the decision together: they're coming out. Summer 2021, they'll post to Instagram and disappear for three months. It's their choice, their moment, their story. And then—because the timing didn't work any other way—they get married. A backyard ceremony followed with all of those that lifted them to get there. Hayden and Jackie. JJ. Rose. Scott and Kip. Yuna and David. The Centaurs. The Raiders. He wishes he could have given Ilya more though—a real wedding, time to plan, something that felt like it belonged to them instead of a rush job. But Ilya had just wanted to be married, and Shane had wanted to give him that. So they did it fast and did it together. It wasn't perfect. But it was theirs.

He closed the laptop.

He knows he can't prevent every moment of pain or engineer a perfect future. He can't fix Ilya's bipolar disorder or undo his mother's suicide or make the years of secrecy disappear. But he can choose Ilya sooner.

He can love him in the light.

Chapter 3: November 18, 2016 - Boston

Chapter Notes

For all intents and purposes, please imagine that the phone call is in Russian. I considered using Google Translate, but it has betrayed me far too many times for me to trust it anymore.

Also, while you are reading, please keep in mind that, in my head, the second Ilya is given an inch of room to lower his guard/remove the mask and become a complete lover boy, the pet names start flowing and he gets a little loosey-goosey with his feelings.

I also firmly believe that he spent hours researching everything Shane liked to eat and drink before Shane arrived in Boston. At some point, he was standing in the middle of a local Aldi, crashing out because he could not find Canada Dry. Wal-Mart had the better selection.

TW: Smut - 3 orgasms and 3 showers. Welcome to TunaMelt Gate.

The weeks before Boston feel like preparing for a test he's already failed. He knows the answers now—knows where he messed up, what he missed, how badly he misunderstood the questions. But knowing doesn't make him feel better. It makes everything worse, because this time there's no excuse for getting it wrong.

He had let his hair grow over the past few months. It fell across his forehead now with dark bangs that previously framed his face at thirty-four, the way it looked in photos from their wedding, from mornings in Ottawa when he'd wake to find his husband watching him sleep. He looked good—better than good. He knew it, and more importantly, he felt it.

He'd bought the Balenciaga specifically to make the man waiting for him in Boston lose his mind. In his other life, after the wedding, he'd become a brand ambassador for them. But now with one reckless afternoon and one insane credit card bill he was the proud owner of a leather jacket, tight black jeans, three other outfits he hadn't touched yet. The jacket and jeans hung in his closet with the tags still attached, waiting. 

On the ice, he had been playing like a king. Ten more years of experience compressed into a twenty-five-year-old body, and it showed. The coaching staff was so suspicious and they had pulled him aside twice now for drug tests—both clean, obviously—and kept asking about his new routine. Which is almost funny, because there isn't one. Same diet. Same workout. The only addition is hot yoga on Saturdays, and he didn't even make it to every week. What had changed was clarity. He sees the ice differently now and he's stopped engaging in the bullshit with his asshole teammates because he knew—really knew, from the other timeline—that some of them have qualities that are fundamentally unredeemable and there was no reason to invest in them.

His teammates, the assholes, would make jokes. Shane would still give his captain speeches before games and before practice. But he was logically moving through the flow and not wanting to deal with their bullshit chirping regarding his new performance. Hayden though was being odd because he knew of the undisclosed concussion and near broken jaw with bruised ribs from the summer, to which he said nothing to anyone about—but Hayden was definitely taking a closer look even though they should all be happy for him and the prospect of the team being successful this year.

But none of that mattered today. Today, he'd be landing in Boston for the first time since waking up in that New York hospital bed, and he was going to see his Ilya again.

The plane touched down, and before he even unbuckled his seatbelt, his phone buzzed.

Lily: Want to come over?

His pulse kicked hard against his ribs. It was Pavlovian, really. Boston equals this. Boston equals him.

Back in their shared hotel room, Shane dropped his bags and immediately went for the clothes he'd packed specifically for this occasion. The dark jeans that fit just right. The shirt that makes his shoulders look good. Hayden's had already sprawled on his bed, watching him with a smile.

"Going out."

"Yeah, I figured." Hayden doesn't even look up from his phone. "Lily?"

Shane doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

"You gonna be back before curfew?"

"Probably not."

Hayden chuckled. "Fine. I'll cover with coach."

He was halfway to the elevator when he pulled out his phone.

Jane: On my way.

The Uber dropped him in front of the house, and he took a moment to absorb it. Horizontal mahogany planks for the exterior. Windows that aren't floor-to-ceiling showpieces but perfectly proportioned grids that make the whole face of the house feel methodical. A copper gutter system was already developing that green patina. The front door was a single slab of walnut with grain so beautiful he had to run his hand over it before knocking.

Ilya had always teased him—Mr. Real Estate, he'd call him, claiming he had some kind of fetish for architecture and design. But the truth is standing right in front of him: Ilya had the same impeccable taste, evident in every deliberate choice of this first Boston home. Shane filed that away for later, for years from now when Ilya calls him Mr. Real Estate again and he can throw this moment right back at him.

The door opened, and there he stood—not his husband yet, but Ilya at twenty-five, shirtless in the doorway.

His chest was broad and ripped, pectoral muscles carved with definition. His pale skin glowed luminous in the evening light, covered—covered—in moles. Dark freckles scatter across his shoulders, collarbone, and ribs like constellations Shane had memorized across years of touching him in the dark. Shane's eyes traced the familiar landscape, and his own ribs feel too narrow for this. It was getting too hard to breathe.

But it's Ilya's eyes that undo him every time.

The blue-green catches him like looking into the ocean on a clear day—fucking beautiful and captivating. Almost like Medusa’s. One look and they’ll turn you to stone. They drug down his body accompanied with a smirk that was pulling at the corner of his mouth.

His hair was still damp from the shower, curls darkened from their usual blonde to deep honey-brown, water still locked in the strands. A few drops of moisture cling to his collarbone.

He looked like home.

Shane's pulse—which had been beating in a regular rhythm for months—suddenly remembered how to sprint. It had been so long. It had been so long since he had seen this version, this body, this face, these eyes looking at him like a buffet.

"Wow." Ilya leaned against the doorframe, completely unaware that he had just stopped time. "You look great."

Shane knew the leather jacket was doing its job. He knew the jeans were doing their job. He knew Ilya was already mentally undressing him, and the thought made something hot and smug curl low in his gut.

"Thanks." He stepped forward and kissed him.

They didn't make it to the kitchen.

Shane kissed him in the doorway, one hand fisted in Ilya's hair, the other braced against the doorframe. Ilya made a growling noise and pulled him further into the house, kicking the door shut. Shane's back hit the wall and Ilya's mouth found his and he thought, God, I missed this. I missed you.

When he pulled away just enough to breathe, he said it out loud without regret.

"I missed you."

Ilya's eyes darkened. He didn't say it back—not yet, at this age everything still felt like it was held together by scotch tape. Rather, he showed him instead. He picked Shane up like he weighed nothing, hands sliding under his thighs, and carried him down the hall toward the bedroom.

Shane laughed against Ilya's mouth, legs wrapped around his waist.

They undressed each other slowly. Ilya's hands were careful sliding the jacket off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Ilya's hands went to his hair, fingers threading through the longer strands, and he made a noise that was an absurd groan.

"This." He tugged gently and the newly styled hair. "I like this."

"Yeah?" Shane's voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

"Yeah." Ilya kissed him again, slower this time, and the world narrowed down to this: his mouth, his hands, and the body he was pressing back toward the bed.

Shane pushed Ilya down onto the mattress and dropped to his knees between his legs.

Ilya's eyes widened. "Hollander—"

Shane didn't answer. He just leaned forward and took him into his mouth.

Ilya gasped, hips jerking up involuntarily, and Shane steadied him with both hands on his thighs. He knew exactly what he was doing—knew the angle, knew the pressure, knew how to use his tongue in ways that the other version of himself would never have thought to try. He took him deep, sliding his mouth down the shaft, and then he did the thing he knew would break Ilya.

He pulled back just enough to work his tongue under the edge of his foreskin, sliding it along the sensitive ridge, teasing. Ilya made a noise like he'd been punched, hands flying to his Shane’s hair, gripping hard.

"Bozhe moy—Hollander, what the fuck—"

Shane didn't stop. He worked his tongue deeper, exploring every inch of skin, and Ilya was shaking now, thighs trembling beneath his hands. He knew the signs—the shift in his breathing, the way his grip tightened—and he doubled down, sucking hard and using his tongue the way that always made his husband's toes curl.

Ilya came in less than three minutes.

He came hard, gasping Shane's last name, whole body going rigid as he spilled. Shane pulled back just enough to let it hit his face—warm and thick across his lips, his chin, his cheek. He kept his eyes locked on Ilya's as he licked it off his own lips then dragged his fingers through the mess on his chin and sucked them clean.

Ilya stared at him like he was seeing a ghost.

"What the fuck, Hollander." His chest was heaving, eyes wide and dazed. "What—how did you—what the fuck."

Shane wiped the rest off his face with the back of his hand and grinned. "Good?"

"Good?" Ilya's voice cracked. "I—Hollander, I've never—fuck. What did you just do to me?"

Shane climbed onto the bed and kissed him, slow and filthy, letting him taste himself on his tongue. When he pulled back, Ilya was still staring at him like he'd been fundamentally altered.

"Who are you?" The words came out quiet. "You're—I don't know. What the fuck? You’re so different."

Shane's throat tightened. He needed to be careful—he couldn't give himself away.

"I just missed you." He kissed him again before more questions could come.

They showered separately. Shane went first, standing under the spray and trying to steady his breathing. He'd been too confident, too sure of himself, too familiar with Ilya's body in ways that a twenty-five-year-old version of himself shouldn't be.

But God, it felt good.

When he came back into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, Ilya was already showered and dressed in sweatpants. 

"Come here." Ilya patted the bed beside him.

Shane climbed in. Ilya pulled him close, one arm around his waist, and he let himself be held. They didn't talk. They just lay there, breathing together, until their eyes drifted shut.

Shane woke to Ilya's voice.

"Baby." His lips brushed his temple. "I'm hungry. I'm going to cook for us."

He blinked, disoriented. Baby. Ilya had never called him that before. Not in this timeline.

"Okay." His voice came out rough with sleep.

Ilya kissed his forehead and slid out of bed. Shane watched him go, wondering what those three simple words—I missed you—had done to instill this much confidence in Ilya. Enough confidence to call him baby. He wasn't complaining, but he still wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Instead, he decided to take it with a grain of salt and just enjoy it. Because it was one of the first of many steps to get them where they deserved to be.

After twenty minutes of tossing and turning—his body refusing sleep while his mind raced with guilt over potentially changing the future for his own selfish reasons—Shane finally gave up and followed the smell of butter and toasted bread into the kitchen.

Ilya stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand, barefoot, his hair still messy. A sandwich sizzled in the pan—tuna, cheese, bread turning golden-brown at the edges. He glanced over his shoulder when Shane appeared in the doorway, and his whole face lit up.

"Hey. Is tuna melt, you want one?"

"Yeah. You'd make me a tuna-melt?"

"Yes, it is not a big deal, Hollander. I make one for myself and one for you."

Ilya grinned and turned back to the stove. Shane sat at the kitchen island and just watched him work. It was so domestic. 

Ilya plated the first sandwich and slid it across the counter, along with a can of ginger ale. "Careful. It's hot."

Shane picked it up and took a bite. The cheese was melted perfectly, the tuna was seasoned just right, and the bread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside.

"This is really good."

Ilya looked pleased. "Yeah? I make a good tuna melt."

Shane smiled. Tunamelt. He was never going to hear the end of this.

Ilya made himself a sandwich and they ate together at the counter, shoulders touching, content just to be near each other. When they were done, Shane led him to the couch and they collapsed onto it. He turned on the TV and they settled in together, Ilya's head on his shoulder, Shane’s hand in Ilya's hair.

"This is nice," Ilya murmured.

"Yeah. It is."

Ilya's phone rang twenty minutes later.

He groaned, reached for it on the coffee table, and squinted at the screen. His expression shifted—not softening, but hardening. His jaw set. His eyes went flat.

"I need to take this." He got up from the couch and walked toward the kitchen.

Shane watched him go. He heard him answer in Russian, voice already tense.

"Hello, Alexei."

Shane's stomach dropped.

He stayed on the couch, but listened.

Ilya's voice was tight. "No, I can't come. I have games. You know this."

There was a pause. Shane could hear the faint sound of Alexei's voice on the other end.

Ilya's voice dropped lower. "I already sent you money last month. How much do you need?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Alexei, I can't—"

Alexei cut him off. Shane could hear the tone of his voice even from across the room.

Ilya's shoulders slumped. "He's my father too. I know he's dying. You think I don't know?"

Silence.

"I can't quit hockey. It is all I have."

More shouting from the other end. Shane could hear Alexei's voice rising.

Ilya's voice cracked. "How much? How much do you need to leave me alone?"

A pause.

"Fine. I'll transfer it tomorrow."

Alexei said something else—something that made Ilya close his eyes and press his free hand against the counter like he was bracing for impact.

"Yes. Goodbye."

He hung up. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the phone in his hand, then set it down on the counter and leaned against the edge, head bowed.

Shane didn't move. He wasn't sure if he should. Maybe Ilya needed space to process everything—his abusive brother, the scam for more nose powder. Or maybe he wanted Shane there, witnessing it all.

But then Ilya turned around, face carefully blank. He walked back to the couch and sat down beside him, close but not touching.

"Sorry. Family stuff."

Shane looked at him. He took in the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was still clenched. "You okay?"

Ilya didn't answer right away. He stared at his hands.

"Yeah. Just—my brother. He's always—" He stopped. Shook his head. "It's fine."

But it wasn't fine. Shane had heard the whole thing. He'd heard Alexei demanding money, heard the desperation in Ilya's voice when he asked how much it would take to make him stop. His jaw tightened with anger on his behalf, and before he could stop himself, the words just came out.

"He shouldn't be asking you to quit hockey. That's—that's not fair. You're already sending him money. He can't just keep—"

He stopped. Realized what he'd just done.

Ilya's head snapped toward him, eyes wide. "What?"

Shane's stomach dropped. "I—"

"You speak Russian now?" Ilya's voice was filled with shock.

"Some." Shane said it carefully, but it was too late. The damage was done. He'd understood the whole call. He'd heard everything. "Not fluently. But enough."

Ilya's expression was a mixed bag. Was it distress? Excitement? He stared at him like he was trying to decide whether this was real or just some kind of joke.

"How long?"

Shane took a breath and let out a deep sigh.

"I've been learning for a little while. There's this guy I like and—well. I want him to be able to talk to me in Russian if he needs to."

He could feel his pulse pounding.

Ilya's eyes immeditaly filled with tears. Just one spilled over, tracking down his cheek. Shane reached up without thinking and wiped it away with his thumb. The touch was so tender. His thumb lingered there for a moment, and Ilya closed his eyes.

"You're learning for me," Ilya whispered.

"Yeah. I'm trying to anyway."

Ilya didn't say anything. He just moved and climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands cupped his face and he kissed him, slow and deep and full of hope. When Ilya pulled back, his forehead rested against Shane’s, and his eyes were still wet.

"I wanted to surprise you. One day when I was good enough. Just—you know. I wanted to make it a little easier for you."

Fresh tears welled in Ilya's eyes. He didn't say anything. He just kissed him again, harder this time, like he was trying to pour everything he felt into it.

They didn't make it back to the bedroom.

They stayed on the couch, kissing slowly with wandering hands. Ilya ground down against him and Shane groaned, hands tightening on his hips. This was different from before—a swap in positions, a swap in control, as if Ilya had given him complete bodily authority in this moment. In the other timeline, it was always Shane leaning on Ilya as a strong shoulder in those earlier years, always Ilya picking up the pieces in the ways he knew how. Once the mask was off, they were able to be vulnerable for each other. It wasn't until much later in their relationship that Ilya needed that pillar to lean on for himself. Now, in this moment, euphoria sets in because yes, he should be able to hold Ilya and tell him it was going to be okay while making out and grinding together. He should be allowed to cradle Ilya's weight in his lap, feel the heat and friction building between them, and know that this is what they both need.

That euphoria continued as Ilya's mouth moved to his neck, kissing and biting gently. Shane tilted his head back to give him more room. Ilya's hands slid under his shirt and he arched into the touch.

"You feel so good." The words came out murmured against his skin. "So fucking good."

Shane's breath quickened. He rocked up against him, their dicks pressing together through layers of fabric, and the friction was perfect. Ilya made a low noise in his throat and ground down harder, hands gripping his shoulders.

They moved together like this for a while, building heat without rushing toward the edge.

"Bozhe moy. Hollander—"

And then he stopped. His whole body went still. His hands were braced on Shane's shoulders, eyes locked on his face. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed.

"Shane."

The air left his lungs.

Ilya had never said his first name before. Not once. Not in all the times they'd fucked, not in all the texts they'd exchanged, not in all the years they'd known each other. It had always been Hollander. Always. At least in this timeline. 

But now Ilya was looking at him with something unguarded in his eyes, and he said it again, softer this time, like he was testing the shape of it on his tongue.

"Shane."

Shane's throat tightened. His hands came up to cup Ilya's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. He said the only thing he could say.

"Ilya."

Ilya's body tensed. His eyes searched his face like he was looking for something—permission, maybe, or confirmation that this was real, that they were allowed to have this.

Shane kissed him. Pouring every word into Ilya’s soul that he couldn't say yet. I love you. I've always loved you.

When they pulled apart, Ilya's forehead rested against his again. They were both breathing hard, still pressed together, still moving in that slow, grinding rhythm that was more about connection than release.

"Stay." Ilya whispered it. "Don't leave tonight. Stay."

In the original timeline, this was where he would've panicked. This was where he would've made an excuse, pulled away, put distance between them because the intimacy was too much.

But he wasn't that person anymore.

"Okay. I'll stay."

Ilya's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really."

Ilya kissed him again, harder this time, and they moved together. Shane felt Ilya shudder against him, felt the moment he came with a broken gasp against his mouth, and that was what tipped him over the edge. He came in his pants like a teenager, gasping Ilya's name, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

Afterward, they laid tangled together on the couch, sticky and satisfied and breathing hard. Ilya's head was on his chest. Shane's fingers were in Ilya's hair. Neither of them moved.

"We're disgusting," Ilya murmured after a while.

"Yeah."

"Shower?"

"Yeah."

They showered together, laughing and shoving each other under the spray. Ilya threw soap at him, and Shane retaliated by smacking his ass. It was playful and easy and exactly what he needed. When they were clean and dry, they pulled on sweatpants and t-shirts and collapsed back onto the couch.

The TV was still on—some West Coast game. Ilya sprawled across the cushions and pulled Shane down against him, one arm around his waist, the other hand massaging the scalp. Shane's head rested on Ilya's chest. He could hear his heartbeat.

"Comfortable?" Ilya asked softly.

"Yeah." Shane's eyes were already drifting shut.

Ilya's fingers traced lazy patterns across his shoulder blades. The game played on in the background, but neither of them was watching. Shane felt Ilya's breathing slow, felt the weight of his arm around him.

He fell asleep like that.

Shane woke to the sensation of being lifted.

His eyes fluttered open. The TV was off. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the kitchen light Ilya must have left on. And Ilya was carrying him—one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back, bridal-style.

"Where—" Shane's voice came out rough, half-asleep. "Baby, come cuddle me."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, muscle memory from a life that hadn't happened yet, from mornings in an Ottawa bedroom that didn't exist in this timeline. He realized what he'd said the moment it left his mouth, but it was too late.

Ilya's eyes went soft. He was smiling—genuinely amused and touched. "I am, solnyshko," he murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'm taking you to bed."

Shane's head lolled against Ilya's shoulder, too tired and too caught off-guard to protest. Ilya carried him through the house, down the hallway, into the bedroom. Instead of setting him down, Ilya climbed into bed first, settling onto his back, then pulled Shane against his chest. His arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close, and Shane fit perfectly into the curve of his body.

"Sleep." Ilya whispered it, lips against his hair. "I'll set an alarm. You won't oversleep."

Shane felt Ilya's arm tighten around him. Then he was asleep again, warm and safe and exactly where he was supposed to be.

When the alarm went off the room was still dark.

Ilya's arm was heavy around his waist, breath warm and even against the back of his neck. He could feel Ilya's chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Carefully, he lifted his arm and slid out from under it, moving slowly to avoid waking him. Ilya shifted slightly, murmuring something, but didn't open his eyes. Shane watched him for a moment and felt something fierce and possessive settle low in his gut.

He moved down the bed.

Ilya was naked under the sheets. He pulled the sheet down slowly, exposing him. His cock was soft, resting against his thigh, and Shane took a moment just to look and admired his husband's beautiful body.

He leaned down and took him into his mouth.

Ilya made a sound—half-asleep, confused—hips shifting instinctively. Shane worked him slowly, using his tongue, his lips, feeling him harden in his mouth. Ilya's hand came down to his hair, fingers threading through it, and he heard him gasp.

"Bozhe moy—"

Shane didn't stop. He took him deeper, hollowing his cheeks, using everything he knew about his body—ten years of knowledge compressed into this moment. Ilya's hips started to move, fucking up into his mouth, and Shane let him, let him take what he needed.

"Wait—wait—" Ilya's voice was rough, desperate. He pulled him off, breathing hard. "I want—come here—"

Shane climbed up his body and kissed him. Ilya groaned into his mouth.

"Condom."

Ilya reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the box. He tore one open with his teeth and rolled it on. Shane straddled him, positioning himself, and sank down slowly.

They both groaned.

Shane took his time, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness. Ilya's hands were on his hips causing bruises, eyes locked on his face, watching every flicker of expression. When Shane started to move, it was slow.

"Fuck." Ilya breathed it. "You're so—fuck—"

Shane rode him harder, faster, chasing the pleasure building in his gut. Ilya's hands tightened on his hips, guiding him, and he could feel himself getting close, the tension coiling in his spine.

Then Ilya flipped them.

Shane's back hit the mattress and Ilya was over him, inside him, taking back control. Ilya's eyes were dark, possessive, and he started fucking him hard and deep, exactly the way he needed it.

"Mine." Ilya growled it, and then he pulled out and leaned down, mouth on his hip bone, sucking hard.

Shane gasped. "What are you—"

"Marking you." Ilya said it against his skin. "So everyone knows who you belong to."

Shane's hand came up to Ilya's hair, holding him there. "I'm yours. I'm all yours."

Ilya pulled back, admiring the dark bruise blooming on his hip, and then he was fucking him again, harder now, angling his hips until he found that spot inside Shane that made him melt. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, pulling him deeper, and suddenly Ilya was drilling directly into his prostate with every thrust.

"Ah!" Shane's moan was high. "Fuck—right there—"

Ilya hit it again, and again, relentlessly. Each thrust punched another moan out of Shane's throat, each one louder and higher-pitched than the last.

"Oh god—oh god—" Shane couldn't form words anymore, just broken sounds of pleasure as Ilya pounded into him. "Ah! Ah! Ah!"

"That's it," Ilya growled, watching Shane fall apart beneath him. "Let me hear you."

He was lost to it, moaning with every stroke, the pitch climbing higher as Ilya fucked him harder. They were both close now. Their orgasms chasing each other. The lion chasing its prey. The roar of life excelling into the silence of the bedroom.

"Come for me." Ilya's voice was low and commanding. "Come on my cock, Shane"

And he did. Nearly on command he shot up this body . He came hard, body arching off the bed, vision whiting out. Ilya followed seconds later, groaning his name, hips stuttering as he spilled inside him.

They collapsed together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked and satisfied.

The shower was quick but tender. Ilya stepped in first and pulled Shane in after him, positioning him under the spray. Water sluiced down his back, and Ilya's hands followed. He leaned forward, bracing one hand against the tile, letting Ilya wash him. When Ilya's fingers found a particularly sore spot low on his back, he made a small sound and Ilya paused, pressing his thumb there in a circle until the muscle loosened. They traded places. Shane washed Ilya's hair, working shampoo through the dark strands while Ilya tipped his head back with his eyes closed. A kiss pressed to Ilya's shoulder. Another to the curve of his neck. When soap slipped into his eyes and he swore, Ilya laughed and pulled him back under the water, thumbs brushing carefully over his eyelids.

When they got out, Shane dried off and pulled on yesterday's clothes. Ilya made coffee while Shane sat at the kitchen island, still feeling the aftermath. The ache in his hips, the bruise on his hip bone as a simple reminder of the precious time they had just spent in the bedroom.

Ilya set a mug in front of him and leaned against the counter, watching him over the rim of his own coffee. His gaze held longer than necessary—curiosity written across his eyebrows.

"You're different," Ilya said finally. I don't know what happened, but you're different. It's not bad—is good!"

Shane smiled, wrapping both hands around the mug. The heat seeped into his palms. "Maybe I'm just tired of not having what I want."

"What? Hockey is too boring now? You have to look for new goal? Turning playboy into housewife?"

Shane laughed, shaking his head. "Careful, Rozanov. I'll have you doing my dishes in Montreal the next time you visit. Which would be sad because I'd sweep your ass and then send you to the kitchen. Oh! Maybe you can make me another tuna melt and wear a Hollander jersey while you do it?"

Ilya's eyes narrowed, but there was a bit of amusement there. "Don't threaten me with a good time, Hollander. You know I'll only cook if I can fuck you after."

"Not to quote you," Shane said, "but 'don't threaten me with a good time,' Ilya."

Ilya clicked his tongue. "Okay, Shane," he said, drawing out the e in an exaggerated pronunciation. "But I think we should make a deal. The next home game in Montreal, the loser has to wear the other's jersey and make tuna melt in the kitchen for the winner."

Shane straightened, his competitive instinct kicking in immediately. "Oh, you're fucking on, dude. I'll make sure my kitchen is stocked with all the ingredients for when you're ready to cook."

Ilya laughed. "Oh please, Hollander. You're putting the horse before the cart. Is obvious I'm going to win, but that's okay. You'll look sexy in black and gold."

Shane rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop the smile. "I look good in anything. But that's besides the point. Also, it's cart before the horse."

Ilya waved a hand dismissively, his grin widening. "Mmmm, yes, I agree. You would look really good in any of my clothes. In no clothes. In my jersey. Whatever—you know you're pretty."

Shane felt the heat rise in his face, the blush creeping in. He looked down at his coffee, trying to hide it, but Ilya was already laughing.

When it was time to leave, Shane stood and Ilya walked him to the door. Before pulling the knob and walking out to his Uber, he turned, grabbed Ilya by the chin, and kissed him hard.

When he pulled back, he looked him in the eyes. "Mine."

Then he walked out without waiting for a response. He knew he was leaving Ilya gobsmacked, and it would only be a matter of time before he got exactly what he wanted: Ilya Rozanov on a leash attached to his hip.

Ilya stood there frozen, hand coming up to touch his lips. His pulse pounded. He didn't know what to do with himself, didn't know how to process what had just happened, didn't know how to reconcile the version of Shane who'd just walked out with the version he thought he knew.

All he knew was that if Shane Hollander told him to bark, he'd ask if he wanted that bark in Dalmatian or German Shepherd. Oh, maybe in the tone of a Chihuahua—they're cute! Shane is somewhat like a Chihuahua, actually. A cute little thing that barks a lot but has no bite. It would be perfect!

When he arrived in the visitors locker room, he started pulling on his gear. Undershirt first. Then he reached for his jersey.

JJ was the first one to notice.

"Hollander." JJ's voice carried with a devious tone. "What the fuck is that?"

Shane froze mid-motion, jersey half-pulled over his head. He knew exactly what JJ was looking at. The hickey bloomed across his hip bone, right where Ilya's mouth had been this morning, right where the waistband of his boxers didn't quite cover.

"That," JJ continued, walking over with a smirk, "is a hickey. On your hip. Hollander, you absolute animal."

"Fuck off." Shane was already blushing, already pulling the jersey down to cover it.

Too late. Mitty had noticed. Then Hayden. Then half the locker room was suddenly interested in his morning activities.

"Who's the girl?" Mitty asked, grinning.

"Yeah, come on, Hollander," another voice chimed in. "You've been quiet about your personal life. Spill."

He sat down on the bench and started lacing his skates, trying to look casual. He could feel the heat in his face, the way his ears were burning. But underneath the embarrassment was something else. Confidence.

"She's kinda wild." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The locker room erupted. Whistles ensued. Catcalls purred. Someone threw a towel at him. That was disgusting.

"That's all you're giving us?" Hayden shook his head. "Come on, man. We need details."

"Nope." Shane stood and pulled on his shoulder pads. "That's all you get."

"Pussy," JJ laughed, but it was good-natured. The kind of ribbing that meant he'd been accepted into the fold.

He stood, fully dressed now, and looked around the locker room. His teammates were still buzzing with the energy of the discovery.

"Alright." His voice cut through the chatter. "Let's go. Ice. Now."

It wasn't a request. The locker room quieted. Guys started moving toward the door, grabbing their sticks, focus shifting from his hickey to hockey.

Hayden fell into step beside him as they headed toward the tunnel.

"You good?"

Shane nodded. "Yeah. I'm good."

And he meant it. He was more than good.

They stepped onto the ice. Shane could already see Ilya on the other side of the rink, warming up with his team. Their eyes met for just a second. They smiled at each other. Then Ilya looked away, back to his warm-up routine, and Shane did the same.

Chapter 4: December 12, 2016 - Montreal

Chapter Notes

Just as an FYI, Chapters 5 and 6 are already drafted and are currently being edited, so I’ll be posting those throughout the week. After Chapter 6 is released, my goal is to post once a week. I have the story outlined through Chapter 15, and that only gets us to the beginning of the 2017-2018 season, so this is going to be a long fic with a huge buildup as everything slowly begins to implode. Enjoy the fluff over the next couple of chapters while Shane’s plans go to hell in the best possible way!

But as always happy endings guaranteed! #ScrewPike.

Everything was going as planned. A little too well, actually. The original plan was simple: go to Boston, let Ilya see how hot Shane looked in his new clothes, new hair (man-bun with whispy bangs included), and new attitude towards life. But the reality was they could never be casual with each other. Shane hadn't intended to be so possessive during their conversations. He hadn't intended to be so aggressive in the bedroom. He hadn't intended to open the door to a potential 'I love you' with Ilya on their first day back together. But it was a really close call. So many times he'd had to bite his tongue and wait it out because even after fucking for seven casual years, you can't just show up and say 'hey! I'm changing the rules of the game and locking you down. Also, if you so much as think about another person, I will rip your ballsack from your body and shove it down your throat.'

Yeah, you can't just do that. So instead, he played it vague and ambiguous, letting Ilya draw his own conclusions. As much as Shane wanted Ilya to stay home after he left Boston—to not go out, not sleep with other people—they hadn't discussed the rules or even what they were. There was no label on it. Ilya had physically marked him, and Shane had called him a possessive 'mine.' So by his standards, by Hollander standards, he was on track for success.

Now, onto the next step: building his own personal support system. While the overarching goal was and will always be getting Ilya the support and love he needed, Shane would definitely need some friends in his corner. After all, he was coming out first to his team, and they'd most likely treat him like the scum of the earth. Which brought him to the next day on his Excel sheet: December 12th, 2016.

The laptop screen glowed bright in his dark Montreal apartment. The coffee in his mug had gone cold, but he kept sipping while collecting his thoughts on how to proceed. He'd been staring at the screen for too long when his phone finally lit up, illuminating his face even more.

Lily: Miss your mouth.

Shane could tell the crow's feet by his eyes would be giving away his emotions about receiving a text like that from Ilya. Giddy and full of joy. Unlike in the past, when he would've hidden this kind of text even if someone was twenty feet away. Tonight, sure, he was alone in his apartment with a bit of red dusting across his cheeks, but he wanted to match his husband's energy and give him exactly what he wanted.

He typed: Miss you too. Wish I could taste you right now.

The response came fast enough that "Lily" must have been waiting.

Lily: Fuck. Don't say things like that when I'm at practice.

Lily: Now I have to think about Marly to get my dick to behave.

Shane laughed. He typed back: Sorry. I'll behave.

Lily: No you won't. You never do.

Lily: That's why I like you.

There was that word again. Like. Not love. Shane stared at the word until it stopped looking like a word at all, just shapes on a screen. He knew what was underneath it, though. He just had to get them to that next step—to the place where they could admit their true feelings and wear their hearts on their sleeves.

He closed the text thread and looked back at the spreadsheet.

Tomorrow night he would be meeting Rose Landry.

He remembered that night in flashes: JJ's voice on the phone. The restaurant—what was it called? Delante's? The table in the back. Rose's laugh, the way it made him smile. It was so much easier to laugh and smile with her over a basket of fries and Michigan hockey than it was with Lily. She was easy to talk to. And objectively, she was sexy. She was fun and knew how to draw a crowd. She was the polar opposite of what Shane was used to.

Jessica, his high school girlfriend, was quiet and reserved. She loved physics class and spending time in the library with her friends. She'd met Shane briefly when the hockey team did a mixer with the AT club to make visuals for upcoming home games. She was easy to talk to about random things. But as soon as he knew he was going to be drafted—and when Ilya Rozanov walked into his life—he knew he didn't have the time or energy to put into a relationship like she wanted. She was heading to MIT on a full scholarship while he was going to be traveling the world as an elite athlete. There was never going to be time, and it wasn't fair to her. So he did the one thing he'd learned from his high school teammates, which 17-year-old Shane thought was very mature: he broke up with her over text. It was clean and honestly, super easy. She didn't even reply! To him, that was a success.

But that night at the restaurant—and the weeks that followed with Rose—there was a bodily disconnect in how he felt about her. He loved looking at her. He loved the idea of bringing her home to his parents. Look Mom and Dad! I'm dating someone more famous than me! He loved the idea of having a nice traditional wedding where they'd blow over a million dollars without blinking twice. He loved the idea of having a traditional, happy family. He loved that he never had to hide her and that every Hollywood gossip outlet talked about their relationship with glee. He loved all of those ideas in theory. But the reality? They were compatible when it came to conversations, social circles, status. Hell, they were even compatible when it came to schedules because Rose filmed most of the year and Shane played hockey most of the year. They'd discussed how much free time they'd have together. And honestly, it was a relief not to have to take care of someone and cater to their needs when all they required was a text or two a day.

They'd even exchanged "I love you's" because that's what you did with a girlfriend, right? You locked it down when it was that great. But the reality was that things weren't that great. They were piss poor because Shane—this version of Shane—thought about one person and one person alone during the weeks he dated Rose. His beautiful Lily. He couldn't get the face of that broken, wilted flower out of his head—the one he'd left alone on a couch in Boston after making a huge mistake. So instead of bringing that flower back to life, he moved onto a new one. A Rose. A Rose who wanted him to fuck her into the bed frame and fuck her throat because she was a freak in the bedroom. She liked it rough. They were similar in that regard. But the problem was that every time his dick was out around her, he thought about the piercing blue eyes of Boston looking up at him, back at him, up and down him. It was chilling, and he couldn't get hard or cum. Ever. Their nights always ended the same. Rose dropping to her knees, a semi-erection, Rose bending over the bed, Shane losing said semi-erection, and Rose huffing until Shane ended up between her legs eating her out until she came at least twice. Once for the frustration and once for enjoyment. He was good with his tongue—what could he say?

Rose had figured it out in February. She sat him down and looked at him with those beautiful eyes. He thought it was just going to be a nice, private dinner with his girlfriend. Nope. Rose essentially grabbed him by the neck and pulled him out of the closet. But she'd done it so kindly. He knew she didn't want to hurt him. Shane had almost cried from relief. In turns out they weren't compatible at all.

But the damage was done by then. “Lily” had spent weeks watching Shane date a woman while refusing to even say his first name more than once.

He closed the laptop and unlocked  his phone again.

Shane: I'm going out tomorrow night with JJ and some other guys from the team. Just wanted to give you a heads up so you're not wondering where I am or anything.

He watched the screen. He knew that Ilya didn't have any say as to his daily activities. The text was more like a test of the waters to see if Ilya would bite and admit that he cared that he was out and about with drunken teammates who always led to trouble.

Lily: That's cool. Have fun with them.

Lily: Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Lily: Actually, do whatever you want.

His stomach dropped. That last message—it was obviously a test. Ilya was waiting to see if Shane would correct him. The casual tone didn't match the weight of what Ilya was really asking. Do whatever you want. Translation: Are you going to be with someone else?

Shane: You have nothing to worry about, Ilya. I am yours. Don't forget that.

The response was super slow. It was like watching paint dry. 

Lily: Okay.

Lily: Text me when you get home.

Shane exhaled. Typed: I will.

He set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. They'd been texting on and off since November, but they hadn't said anything out of the ordinary to each other. Just nice daily check-ins and the occasional chirp. But the moment he'd returned to Montreal, Shane had decided he was going to text Ilya at least once a day—something to let him know, in some form, that he hoped he'd had a good day. It would give Ilya something to look forward to and keep his mind off running the streets of Boston, hopefully. There was a glimmer of hope that Ilya understood the assignment and really took his final remarks to heart. Mine. And Ilya would be. One way or another. But this Ilya wasn't the same as his open-hearted, tender husband with undivided attention for the one and only Shane Hollander. Not yet, anyway.

JJ called at 7:43 PM the next night.

"Hollander! Where the fuck are you?"

Shane was already reaching for his keys. "Home. Why?"

"Because the entire cast of X-Squad is at Delante's right now and you need to get your ass down here. Rose Landry is here, man. Rose Landry. She's even hotter in person. You have to meet her."

Last time, Shane hesitated and made excuses. He'd only gone because JJ guilt-tripped him into it.

"I'll be there in twenty," Shane said.

Silence. Then: "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. Text me the address."

"Dude, I already texted it to you like three times."

"Then I'll see you soon."

He hung up, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door before he could change his mind.

Delante's was one of those Italian restaurants where actors and local celebrities huddled around the bar and tables throughout the room, either having dinner or drinking until they laughed loud enough to be heard on the street. You had to have a reservation to enter the place and those were booked months in advance but if you were of celebrity status... then you got an invite. But, really, it just looked like one of those restaurants you went to with your friends for a pre-game before hitting the bar or club for a longer night out. After walking in, Shane made a quick turn for the bar. It ran along the left wall—dark wood with brass fixtures that could use some polishing. JJ sat at a table in the back, waving like an idiot.

Shane didn't go to the table. He walked to the bar first.

The bartender looked up, and Shane felt the man stalk up and down him. The man was very easy on the eyes.

But Shane felt absolutely nothing. He and Ilya would have their fun in later years, and that would turn terrible—but in this moment, looking at this beautiful man, Shane felt nothing. The sight didn't rile him up or even tempt him to step away from Ilya for a moment.

"What can I get you?"

"Just a beer. Whatever's on tap."

The bartender poured it and slid it across the bar. When Shane reached for his wallet, the bartender waved him off.

"On the house." He pulled out a napkin, wrote something, slid it across with the beer. "And my number. In case you want to call sometime."

Shane looked at the napkin. The handwriting was neat. He looked back up at the bartender and felt a laugh building in his chest.

He could picture Ilya's face if he were here. The way his jaw would tighten. The way he'd lean across the bar and say something in Russian that sounded like a threat but was probably just fuck off, he's mine. Then he'd drag Shane outside and fuck him in the car just to prove it.

Shane pushed the napkin back. "I'm with someone. But thanks for the beer."

The bartender's smile faltered for just a moment. He nodded. "Fair enough, man. Enjoy your night."

Shane picked up the beer and turned. His shoulders felt lighter.

Rose Landry was sitting at a small table near the back, away from the main group. She had a basket of fries in front of her and was scrolling through her phone, her auburn hair falling over one shoulder.

He walked up and sat down without asking.

"Rose Landry," he said. "How are you?"

She looked up and blinked. Then her face broke into a smile. "Shane Hollander. I'm good. Better now that someone interesting finally showed up."

They fell into easy conversation about hockey and Montreal. Rose was funny. She talked about the movie she was filming, about how surreal it was to be recognized in the most random places, about the time a fan followed her into a Starbucks bathroom and asked for a selfie while she was washing her hands.

Shane listened and asked questions. He felt the same easy connection he'd felt the first time they met.

But this time, he caught the exact moment the conversation shifted for her. She leaned forward, her body language turning deliberately flirtatious. He recognized the look—she was trying to find her way back into his bed.

Sweet, but unfortunately for her, he preferred being the hole rather than the peg. Not that she couldn't provide the peg. She did tell him a story once about a peg and one of their baby rookies from Ottawa, Haas. Fuck, that was a night filled with cackling as Ilya cried and asked all the questions. Apparently, Rose ended up drunk at a Bood cookout with Shane and Ilya. She was pissed off that Svetlana was making her chase across all of Europe just for some sense of security, and she landed in bed with Luca. Rose had too many gay boyfriends in her lifetime—Shane included—so luckily, packed in her Hermès bag, she still had the double-sided strap-on packed away. Claiming that she kept it in the event of emergencies. Well, Luca loved it. Although, he made comments about not loving the feeling of tits laid across his back, which made Ilya scream and Anya skirt to the other room in annoyance.

Oh well.

He set down his beer. "I feel like I can trust you."

Rose leaned in listening intently. "You can."

"I'm kinda’ seeing someone."

Her face fell—just slightly, just for a second—but quickly gathered herself. "Oh. Well, she's a lucky girl."

Shane shook his head and chuckled. "Yeah. He is."

Rose's eyes went wide. She stared at him. Then she let out a laugh and reached across the table to grab his hand.

"Shane Hollander!" Her voice rose. "Oh my god. We're going to be best friends. Tell me everything."

Shane laughed, suddenly reminded of wine-soaked nights where he and Rose traded dirty secrets about their lovers. "Let's get out of here first. Find somewhere away from my asshole teammates. Maybe I'll tell you more."

Rose was already standing, grabbing her purse. "Yes. Let's go. Now."

They walked toward the exit together. Rose looped her arm through his. As they passed the table where JJ and the rest of the team were sitting, JJ looked up. His eyes went wide. He mouthed, Oh my god.

Shane rolled his eyes.

The paparazzi were waiting outside, clustered like vultures near the restaurant's valet stand. There must have been at least a dozen of them, cameras poised, ready to pounce.

He didn't see them at first. He was too focused on Rose—on the way she was laughing at something he'd said, on the warmth of her arm linked with his. He was still riding the high of their conversation over those really good truffle fries.

"Shane! Shane, over here!"

"Rose, are you two together?"

"Shane, is this your girlfriend?"

"How long have you been seeing each other?"

"Shane, give us a smile!"

Rose froze beside him. He felt her body go stiff. Shane kept walking, pulling Rose close against his chest to shield her from the harassment. He guided her toward his jeep, his hand moving to the small of her back.

"Ignore them," he said quietly, leaning close so only she could hear. "Just keep walking. Don't look at them or say anything."

The photographers surged forward, jostling each other for better angles. One nearly tripped over a parking barrier trying to get his lens as close as possible to their faces. Their voices blended into a high-pitched roar of questions punctuated by a flurry of clicks.

They reached the car and Shane opened the passenger door for her, using his body to block the worst of the flashing lights. Rose practically dove into the seat. He closed the door behind her, then walked around to the driver's side, ignoring the questions hurled at him and the cameras tracking his every movement. Even as he slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, they persisted like gnats at his windshield.

Rose stared at him, eyes wide, face pale in the glow of the dashboard lights.

"Does that happen to you a lot? I mean, shit, Shane—I'm in several Spielberg movies and I've never had to deal with that. That was scary," she said.

"Sometimes," Shane said, keeping his eyes on the road. He checked the rearview mirror—no one was following them, at least not yet. "Depends. If they think there's a story with the team, they show up. Someone must have tipped them off that I was there tonight. Or that you were there with some of the team." He paused, then added, "The photos will be all over the internet tomorrow with a headline about how we're dating or some bullshit."

Rose laughed and ran her fingers through her hair. "Are you okay with that? With them saying we're together?"

Shane shrugged, his expression softening as he glanced at her. "It's irrelevant. Let them think what they want. They'll write whatever generates clicks, regardless of the truth. I stopped trying to control what they write about me years ago. I should probably call my mom in the morning and warn her though." He signaled and changed lanes. "I'm more concerned about whether you're okay."

Rose studied him briefly trying to gather her thoughts. Then she smiled. "Shane Hollander, you're so much different than I expected."

"Different as in bad?"

"No, definitely good," she said without hesitation. "Definitely good."

When they settled into his apartment he poured them each a glass of wine—red, like Rose had asked—and grabbed cheese and crackers from the fridge. They settled on opposite ends of the couch with their shoes off getting comfortable.

"This is so out of character for me," Shane said, holding up his wine glass. "Drinking during the season."

Rose raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're a rule-follower?"

"Usually."

"So why break the rules tonight?"

Shane looked at her. "Because I need a night like this. I need to talk to someone who won't judge me."

Rose's expression softened. "I won't judge you, Shane. I promise."

So Shane told her.

He told her about the man he was in love with. Their shared years of secrecy. The time they spent yearning for each other but could never choose each other. About how during sex, he makes his mind leave his body, and how on the darkest days, Ilya brings him into the light. It was so nice to speak about his husband in ambiguities. Ultimately leading him to smile at the thought of his Ilya.

Ilya had never made fun of him for being "different." He'd called Shane "boring" before, but it was endearing—because many years later Shane would realize that boring, to Ilya, meant reliable. Ilya hadn't had anyone like that until Shane. Anyone besides Svetlana, anyway, and sure, they were thick as thieves, but they had separate lives to lead. Of course, Svetlana would be there within a phone call, but the reality was that Ilya needed a pillar of support in his daily life. Shane was that boring pillar that always held him up.

Rose listened without interrupting. Her wine glass sat forgotten on her knee. When Shane finally stopped talking, she was quiet for a long moment.

"Do you love him?" she asked.

Shane nodded. "Yeah. I do. So much."

"Does he know?"

"Not yet. But I think he's starting to figure it out. I've been trying to show him more—showing him how much I care."

Rose leaned forward slightly. "Wait. Is he—is he a player? On your team?"

Shane hesitated. "Not my team."

"But he's in the league."

"Yeah."

Rose sat back, quiet for a moment as she processed. "Okay. That's... that's a lot, Shane."

"I know."

"Like, a lot a lot." She set her wine glass down on the coffee table. "Are you asking me to help you hide this? Because I don't—I'm not trying to be part of some cover story or—"

"No," Shane said quickly. "That's not what this is. I'm not asking you to be a beard or whatever. I just—" He stopped. Tried again. "I needed to tell someone. Someone who wasn't going to make it about hockey or my career or what people would think. I just needed a friend who would listen to me talk about this stupid, goofy man who makes me feel stupid and goofy."

Rose smiled, studying him for a long moment. Then she exhaled. "I'm so tired of fake people," she said quietly. "Of people who only like me because of what I do. Or what they think I can do for them. When I came to Montreal to film, I thought maybe I'd meet a boyfriend here or have a fling here being far enough away from California. I was looking for someone that I could pour as much of myself into as I do for others." She paused. "All my friends back home are just leeches who think I can get them their next role. I miss actual wholesome relationships."

"But it’s not any better here? Away from all the Hollywood bullshit?"

"I think it’s somewhat better. I mean, I met you—it's been good so far!" She picked up her wine glass again, took a sip. "And honestly, I'm more than happy to be your friend. It's not what I thought would happen when you sat down at my table and started stealing my fries, but I'll take what I can get. My costars on this movie are assholes and I'd love a friend here that I genuinely like."

Shane laughed. "Thanks, Rose. I appreciate that."

"So what do you need from me?"

Shane took a breath. "Nothing, really. But Boston comes to town on January 9th. There's this club—Ciel. And I think... I think I'll need a friend around if you're still filming then. I'm really tired of hiding, of not being in my boyfriend's space without worrying everyone will make it a spectacle. I want to take him there. I'm not saying I'd dance on him or anything, but I'd like to be in public with him. Ease the image of our relationship into the world, you know? Just two guys out having fun. Maybe you could come with us as a buffer?"

Rose went still. Her eyes narrowed slightly, thinking. "Wait. Is your guy from Boston? I mean, why line up our night out on the day they're in town?" She set her wine glass down. "Shane. Is he—"

He didn't say anything. Just looked at her.

Rose's mouth opened slightly. "Oh my god. He plays for Boston."

Shane still didn't confirm it. But he didn't deny it either.

"Of course, I'd love to meet him," Rose said slowly. "When his team's in town, and maybe I can even meet a man of my own while we're all out." She paused. "But you're being really obvious about this, you know. Aren't you scared of it leaking from someone inside the club or something? I mean if you’re not careful and someone sees something between the two of you…"

"Yeah, it's a minor worry right now, but I'd rather have some time with him—even with a bit of danger—than not see him at all. I just wish I could be in public with him more often. You know?"

She laughed nervously it seemed. "Okay. Okay. That's—wow. That's a lot of trust to put in someone you just met."

"I know. You can say no. I won't—"

"I didn't say no." Rose reached across the couch and took his hand. "I'm just saying it's a lot. But I get it. I think I get it."

"Yeah," Shane said quietly.

"It's fine. Let's do this. I'd love to meet your man and be your friend. I can't believe we only met a few hours ago. Honestly, I feel like I've known you for years."

He smiled at that because he had known Rose for years. He'd watched her speedy relationships unfold, seen her come out as a bi-sexual, and witnessed her turbulent on-again, off-again thing with Svetlana—but that was a future Shane problem. At nearly 35, Svetlana and Rose still hadn't figured out if they were going to commit to each other, and Rose was left wondering if she could ever pin down the sphinx that was Svetlana. Svetlana was so much like Ilya pre-the cottage—always drifting in and out of clubs with another man or woman, hating the idea of being tied down. Those early years of Svetlana and Rose's relationship reminded Shane so much of him and Ilya. He wished he could just shake them both and tell them to go be happy together.

Rose picked up the wine bottle and topped off both their glasses. "So," she said, settling back into the couch. "Since we're apparently best friends now, let me tell you all about this movie I'm filming."

Shane laughed. "What's it about?"

"Oh god." Rose groaned. "It's this indie drama thing. I play a woman having an affair with her therapist, which is deeply unethical and deeply boring to film. We've been shooting the same therapy session for three days."

"That sounds awful."

"It is. But the director's supposed to be brilliant, so." She shrugged. "What about you? What's it like playing for Montreal?"

"Stressful," Shane admitted. "The fans are intense. The media's worse. But the team's good, my linemates are solid. I wish they were more accepting, but hockey's always been a deeply problematic sport. The guys aren't that smart and, well, sometimes that means they're judgmental and mean. They're always making inappropriate jokes about me being Asian. I can't imagine if they actually found out about—"

"Do they know? About—"

"No. Not yet."

Rose nodded. She didn't push. Instead, she said, "Okay, next topic. Who's the hottest player in the league?"

Shane choked on his wine. "What?"

"Come on. You have to have opinions. You see these guys every day."

"I'm not answering that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's weird."

"It's not weird. I need tea." Rose grinned. "Fine. I'll go first. Matti Jalo. Hands down. That man is gorgeous. He looks like a fucking tank and I need that tank to—"

Shane laughed. "Wow, I thought I was at the top of the list."

"You were until, you know. You enjoy pegging other things." Rose said, and Shane followed, "I mean, sure, but I prefer being the hole rather than the peg." Rose spat her wine back into the cup, laughing. Shane laughed too. "Wow," Rose said, "I almost dated a bottom."

Shane laughed harder. "Well, of course I'm good at other things, but yeah, I like being the submissive one and yeah..."

"Okay, beside the point. Your turn. Give me one name."

Shane thought about it. "Scott Hunter's objectively attractive." He knew Ilya would lose his mind if he heard him say this, but he needed to take some heat off Ilya's name to avoid being exposed. He was honestly shocked that Ilya didn't come up before Matti Jalo for Rose.

"Scott Hunter," Rose repeated. "The guy from the Admirals?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, yes. Agreed. He's hot in a daddy type of way." Rose took another sip of wine. "What about your guy? Is he hot?"

Shane felt his face heat. "Yeah. He's—yeah."

"That's it? Just 'yeah'?"

"He's the most beautiful person I've ever seen," Shane said quietly. "He doesn't even know it. That's the worst part. He thinks he's just—I don't know. He doesn't see himself the way I see him. Everyone thinks he's this asshole, but behind all those layers, he's just a big teddy bear who loves so hard with his whole heart. He always puts others before himself. He's difficult to work with sometimes, but when he pushes back on something, there's usually a good reason. He tries to help me understand his perspective before just going rogue and doing it his way. He really is the best partner, and I can't wait for the future when I just get to be...with him."

Rose got teary eyed. "That was beautiful. You must really love him."

"Yeah. I really do."

They kept talking. Rose told him about her last relationship—a director who turned out to be married to a man. Shane told her about growing up in Ottawa, about his parents, about the pressure of being a first-round draft pick.

At some point, they opened a second bottle of wine. Shane wasn't sure when. The clock on the wall said 1:47 AM.

"Okay," Rose said, her words slightly slurred now. "Fuck, marry, kill. JJ, Hayden Pike, and—who's that guy on your team with the ridiculous hair?"

"Mitty?"

"Yes. Mitty."

Shane groaned. "I'm not playing this."

"You have to. Those are the rules."

"Fine. Fuck JJ. Marry Hayden. Kill Mitty."

Rose cackled. "Why kill Mitty?"

"Because objectively, he's just not for me. He took forever to figure out how to play with the Metros. He's lazy and doesn't work for his spot when he has all this potential. He makes dumb, stupid jokes about America constantly—like he's just waiting for the opportunity to get invited to the White House by Donald Trump, and it's fucking disgusting actually. And his hair—I don't know why his wife let him get that haircut. He's 30. He doesn't need shapes drawn into his scalp by a barber. We don't need 'asshole' cut into his hair to know he's an asshole."

They laughed for ten minutes straight, gossiping like mean girls.

By 2:30 AM, they were both exhausted. Rose was curled up on her end of the couch, eyes half-closed, her wine glass empty on the coffee table.

"I should go," she said, though she didn't move.

Shane looked at her. "It's late. And you've been drinking. You can stay if you want. I have a guest room."

Rose hesitated. "I don't know. We just met. That feels—"

"I know. But it's almost three in the morning. And I'm gay, so." Shane shrugged. "You're safe here. I promise."

Rose studied him, then nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Thank you."

"Guest room's down the hall. Second door on the left. There's a bathroom attached."

Rose stood, a little unsteady. Shane stood too, just in case, but she steadied herself. She walked over and hugged him.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For trusting me."

"Thank you for listening."

Rose pulled back and smiled. "Goodnight, Shane."

"Goodnight."

She disappeared down the hall. Shane heard the guest room door click shut. He stood in the living room for a moment, taking in the empty wine glasses and the crumbs scattered on the coffee table.

Then he walked to his own bedroom, crawled into bed, and picked up his phone. No new messages from Ilya.

He typed: I hope you had a good night.

He set the phone on the nightstand and fell asleep.

The buzzing woke him.

His first thought was that it was his alarm, but the sound was wrong. He groaned and reached for his phone without opening his eyes, fumbling across the nightstand until his fingers found it.

The screen was too bright. He squinted, disoriented, his brain still half-submerged. 8:47 AM. Six texts from JJ. One missed call from his mother. Two texts from Lily.

His stomach dropped so fast it felt like the bed had vanished beneath him.

He sat up too quickly. His head spun, the room walls tightened around him. He blinked hard, trying to focus, and opened Lily's texts with trembling hands.

Lily: I see you have a girlfriend now. Happy for you.

Lily: I won't bother you again. Sorry Hollander.

The words didn't make sense at first. Shane read them twice, three times, his brain struggling to catch up. Then it hit him all at once: the paparazzi outside the restaurant, the photos, Rose on his arm, the internet doing what it does best.

And Ilya saw it all without an explanation.

His breath came shallow. This was just like TunaMelt Gate. He thought he'd fixed this problem—thought he wouldn't have to worry about Ilya feeling betrayed again. He just wanted friends, and the fucking media and fucking useless hockey fanatics in their basements with their theories were going to hurt Ilya again. He couldn't have that. He couldn't destroy Ilya again, fuck. He pressed call without thinking and slammed the phone to his ear so hard it hurt.

Voicemail.

"Fuck," Shane whispered. He called again.

Voicemail.

Ilya had declined. On purpose. Shane could picture it perfectly.

Now his hands were trembling so badly he nearly dropped the phone. He typed with his heart pounding in his ears:

You either answer me now or I miss my game tonight and catch a flight to Boston. You have five minutes to decide.

He hit send and stared at the screen.

He listened to his own breathing—it came in near sobs. He counted the seconds, trying to pace each breath. Counting back from one hundred, in attempts to pull himself back from the edge of a panic attack. He really couldn't lose it with Rose down the hall. She'd think he was insane. And Ilya wouldn't be there to hold him, to put pressure on his neck and keep him still. He'd have to resort to his old tricks—hockey gloves to keep from pulling his own hair, ice packs to decompress his neck. He'd be miserable the whole fucking day before heading to the rink.

The phone rang before he had to do any of that.

Shane answered before the first ring finished. "Ilya—"

"So how was Rose Landry?" Ilya's voice was cold. "Do you love her? Did you sleep with her?"

His stomach twisted with the retch of last night's wine as if someone stuck a knife inside and the box was being emptied into the floor. He could hear the hurt beneath Ilya's anger, the way his voice was wound tight. "Ilya—"

"Pictures are everywhere, Shane. You and her, arm in arm, looking very fucking happy together. So congratulations. I hope she makes you happy."

"Ilya, stop—"

"No, it's fine." Ilya's voice cracked as he continued the assault. "I just wish I'd known. I could have been going out with my team and finding my own Hollywood star. I'm sure Miley Cyrus would want to see me again. But it's fine, I'm just going to—"

"Ilya!" Shane's voice cut him off, louder than he meant it to be. "What part of mine didn't you understand a few weeks ago? Huh? Unlike others, I don't go around swinging my dick at every pretty person I meet at a bar. Now, I hope you can hear me clearly through this phone. Clean out your ear if you need to. I'll give you a second."

Silence.

Shane took a breath. He knew he was being mean, but he needed to make it crystal clear that the idea of losing Ilya over something on the fucking internet would make him lose his goddamn mind. He was also still triggered about the Miley Cyrus comment because she'd dragged Ilya to the stupid ass VMAs last year. Ilya had a front fucking row seat watching Miley fight with Nicki Minaj. What a wreck. Though he did look good in that pinstripe suit.

Regardless, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Not after his last visit in Boston. Some fucking photos weren't going to derail his plans. He let out a sigh and pressed his free hand against his chest, steadying himself before continuing. "You're mine and I'm yours. And I'm not sleeping with Rose. We're just friends."

"Friends." Ilya's voice was flat now, drained of anger and replaced resignation. "You looked very friendly."

"I told her about you, Ilya. Fuck!"

A pause. "What?"

"I told her about you. Not who you were exactly, but—everything else. She knows I'm with someone. Well, at least she knows I'm trying to be serious with someone. Not that I'm with someone because, well, you know what I mean."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Shane could picture him sitting on the edge of his California king in Boston, phone pressed to his ear, trying to process what he'd just heard. When he finally spoke, his voice was small. "You told her."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I needed to tell someone," Shane said. "And she's—she's safe. She gets it, I think. I'm just excited, ya' know? I wanted someone who isn't involved in hockey to be my friend and gossip about the hot guy I like. I met her at the bar last night when J.J. invited me out and she was kind. We struck up a conversation and now we're friends."

He listened to the faint sound of Ilya's breathing. This was like a chess game—Ilya being careful and selective with his words. But it also wasn't, because Shane knew he was being rushed and harsh, trying to get his point across. The roles kept flipping, which was perplexing and much different than the memories that Shane had from the other timeline. When Ilya spoke next, though, he didn't bother weaving through the thoughts in his head. He got straight to the point.

"Have you been sleeping with other people?"

Shane could tell Ilya was hurt by his non-response to the heartfelt message that came before the question. But he had to make it clear that Ilya shouldn't be concerned. If anyone should be worried, it was Shane—with all the women across North America begging for a chance to jump into bed with Ilya. But, also, logic had gone out the window and he decided to come  in like a wrecking ball.

"What? No. Fuck no. Have you?"

"No." Ilya slowed. "I only want you, Shane."

"Good. Then we're on the same page."

Then a sniffle. It was soft and barely audible. After being with Ilya for so long, Shane knew all the tells. The sniffle was always one of Shane’s least favorite; it meant a sad husband. Ilya always tried to be this hard exterior person who never let anyone or anything phase him until he was alone and able to break down in solitude. It had taken a long time and a fuck-ton of therapy to break down those walls his father built so high, and knowing now that these stupid fucking pictures caused the love of his life to cry—he was ready to climb those walls with an ice pick and shout from the top that anything that hurt Ilya would go through Shane Hollander first. It was so upsetting that their relationship still felt so fragile, and fuck if Shane wasn't trying everything to weld it together strong enough that it wouldn't break or bend.

"Ilya," His voice barely above a whisper. "Baby, are you crying?"

"No. I just have allergies."

Shane could picture Ilya so clearly in his mind—trying so hard to hold it together. "Allergies in December. Come on, Ilya."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Hollander."

The use of his last name stung. Shane opened his eyes and stared at himself in the body length mirror across from the foot of the bed that he recently bought. "Don't call me Hollander unless you want me to actually come to Boston and embarrass you in front of your teammates."

"You could never embarrass me in front of my team, Hollander."

"That's it. I'm looking at flights now. Fucking asshole."

"Shane—Shane—Shane!" Ilya's voice shifted, panic bleeding through. "Is joke. I'm kidding."

"You better be. Because I will. Don't fuck with me."

Ilya laughed—a little breathless—and relief finally threaded through it. "Oh, I believe you, Shane. I really believe you."

"Good." Shane exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening. "Now promise me you won't worry about anything on Twitter or YouTube or Myspace or whatever and just—trust me. Okay? I'm really trying here."

"Myspace? What the fuck, Shane? You must be as old as hockey's eldest spinster, Hunter!"

"Spinster? Really? And fuck you. You know what I mean. I am really trying here."

"I know you are," Ilya said quietly, with a hint of a laugh.

A longer silence stretched between them before Ilya finally broke it. "It's like you woke up and became another person. It's really fucking with my mind."

Shane swallowed. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No. It's just—it's a lot. I need to think about things, okay?"

"Okay," Shane said. "But Ilya, I need you to know I care about you as a person and—well, as someone I like. A lot. And I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you decide—even if it kills me—I'll be here."

Neither of them knew what to say. They were both waiting for the other to make some deep-seated admission about their feelings, but Shane knew he wasn't going to be the one to drag that conversation into an already tense moment. Then: "I need to go to practice. Call me later?"

"Of course. I'll call you tonight after my game."

"Okay."

"Ilya?"

"Yeah?"

"Miss you."

"Miss you too."

The line went dead.

Shane sat on the edge of his bed, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the silence for a moment. He eventually lowered the phone and stared at the screen. Lily's name was still there, the call log showing the duration: 7 minutes, 37 seconds. It felt like a lifetime.

The emotional rollercoaster of their conversation had packed a lifetime into those minutes—everything they said and everything left unsaid, dying in the space between their words. Shane knew he hadn't done anything wrong by having a friend. It was heteronormative society's fault that seeing one hot guy with one hot girl in public automatically meant they must be dating or some stupid fucking shit. He hadn't made a mistake. Sure, he could have told Ilya that Rose stayed in the guest bedroom, but that probably would have escalated things to another extreme. He also could have messaged Ilya last night to warn him about the potential photographs. But he was so used to his husband, who would have laughed at something so trivial, that explaining it preemptively wouldn't have made sense. So maybe yes, maybe no to a mistake there.

But rewinding the conversation later, replaying it in his head from back to front, he realized where he actually fucked up. He'd told Ilya he could take time to think and "decide" what he wanted to do next. That was almost laughable. There wasn't a world where Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov didn't fall in love and didn't get their horribly mangled happy ending, even in this fucked-up reality. Ilya was never going to have a choice. Even if Shane had to stand up and object at Ilya's wedding to some rando. There was not going to be a world where he didn't get his husband. So he was wrong. Ilya wasn't going to have a decision, because in just over a week, Shane was going to show him exactly how abundantly he cared.

He'd just take the choice away from him, or at least make it much easier, he thought with a huge smile on his face.

Chapter End Notes

Oh, next chapter is a doozy with our friendly neighborhood Boston family!

Chapter 5: December 23, 2016 - Boston.

Chapter Notes

Upcoming: Love bombing from two silly, goofy, stupid boys who are hopelessly in love and letting it spill into the streets of Boston.

Shane remembers the day he signed for the papers.

Summer 2023. Late July. He and Ilya had been home for three weeks post-season, enjoying the quiet stretch before training camp. Anya was sprawled across the living room floor, belly-up in a patch of sunlight. Yuna had driven over for a visit while David was at work, and she sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, telling them about her book club's latest drama. Ilya had been making lunch, and Shane watched from beside his mom with his laptop open—pretending to answer emails but mostly just observing the way his husband listened to his mother-in-law and the way he laughed.

Ilya and Yuna were a troublesome duo. They gossiped together. They talked shit together. They ganged up on Shane about the bird-food diet his Montreal nutritionist had him following his whole career. Ilya and his mother had essentially come to the same conclusion about his diet. They theorized that the nutritionist who set Shane up with it during his rookie season wasn't really certified or educated enough to provide proper information on how this diet was supposed to look in theory. When he'd received the instructions and food prep planning, he wasn't educated enough himself to know what was harmful or healthy to his body. He was just following the professional's direction.

Turns out that Tony the nutritionist with the team was nowhere near educated enough to give such direction. Tony had been fired from Montreal the same year they were outed for telling some new transfer from the farm-league that he should follow a similar regimen. The transfer went back to his brother-in-law—a physician with a background in nutrition before going to med school—and showed him the instructions. Well, apparently anyone who followed the instructions to a tee was destined to be malnourished and have vitamin deficiencies on multiple levels. But Shane had always taken his vitamins, always went for normal check-ups, and supplemented his diet in other ways with an extensive Microsoft Excel sheet that made sure he met his daily calorie goal.

Once questioned and pressed by Montreal leadership, Tony cracked very quickly. Unfortunately for everyone he'd worked with, though, they'd been ill-advised and some had even become sick following Tony's instructions. Needless to say, Tony was now unemployed and facing charges of fraud. Tony had apparently failed out of school and decided he just wanted to work with the Metros, with a little of help from Photoshop and the dumbass employers like the Metro human resources department, Tony was hired in 2009. But hey! Fake it until you make it. Nearly 12 years without being caught was quite impressive.

Fuck Tony.

So, after some soul searching, Shane did still keep to his original plan and calculate the calories per day, but at the same time he allowed himself to enjoy a nice meal or two per week—especially if it was cooked by his husband. And as hard as his husband tried at making chicken kebabs on the grill, they were never as good as Boodram's Caribbean chicken. It didn't matter though because when Ilya grilled it just made his biceps glisten with sweat and his pits smell a little musky, which became a new kink they had been exploring.

Ilya and Yuna also had inside jokes about the neighbors. Hell, they'd even gone to Boston together last August for the Lady Gaga Chromatica Ball. They'd sent pictures all night and referred to themselves as "little monsters," which perplexed David and Shane, but it was fun to watch the relationship blossom. This time, Shane was determined to be part of those moments—even if he hadn't known who Lady Gaga was back then. His husband had educated him shortly after the concert, and well, Ms. Gaga was real catchy!

Anyway, the peace and joy were interrupted—

The doorbell rang.

Shane answered it. A courier stood on the porch with a clipboard and a manila envelope. Shane signed for it without thinking, closed the door, and turned the envelope over in his hands. The return address was a law firm in Boston.

"What is it?" Ilya called from the kitchen.

He didn't answer. Instead, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the documents inside. On top sat a cover sheet. He flipped past the initial pages and found a complaint and summons buried underneath. Too many words, too many numbered paragraphs—but then he found the caption: Kelley Bronson v. Ilya Hollander-Rozanov

As he started reading the facts section, he felt like he was going to puke. The allegations were clear: a sexual encounter on or about December 23rd, 2016. The location where it occurred. Another individual involved. A pregnancy resulting from that encounter. A child who was nearly six years old now. The relief requested: child support.

He walked into the kitchen and set the papers on the counter without a word. Ilya looked up from the cutting board, his expression shifting from curiosity to confusion to fear when he saw Shane's face. Yuna set down her teacup and looked up with the same concern.

"What?" Ilya asked.

"You need to read this," Shane said quietly.

Ilya wiped his hands on a towel and picked up the complaint. Yuna stood and moved closer, reading over his shoulder. Shane watched them both. Watched Ilya's eyes move across the page, his brow furrowing, his mouth opening slightly, though no words came out. Ilya's hands started to shake, the papers trembling as his bottom lip curled into an expression Shane had only seen when Ilya's depression dragged him into a dark hole of despair.

"No," Ilya whispered. "No, no, no."

He read faster, flipping through the pages, his breathing shallow and ragged. Yuna's hand came up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with shock as she scanned the pages. Shane moved closer, reaching for Ilya, but Ilya stepped back, still reading.

"She says I picked her up at Marly's party," Ilya said, his voice breaking. "She says—" He stopped, scanning the page. "She says we met at the party. That I took her to the bathroom at the club. That we had sex there. Then at my house." His throat worked. "I got her pregnant."

"Ilya—" Shane started.

"Dark hair," Ilya whispered, still reading. "Freckles. She had dark hair and freckles." He looked up at Shane, his eyes wet and wild. "I remember her a little, but not a lot. She looked like... like you. I was trying to—I was so fucked up over—and I—"

"You wore a condom," Shane said firmly. "You always wore a condom. Right?"

"But what if it broke? What if I was so drunk I don't remember? What if I—" Ilya's voice cracked. He looked back down at the papers. "She's asking for $17,278.00 a month. For a child I didn't even know about—" The complaint included allegations about Ilya's annual income based on public knowledge of his contract with the Centaurs and a fair estimate using the Government of Canada's child support guidelines.

"Ilya, stop." Shane took the papers from his hands and set them down, then gripped Ilya's shoulders. Yuna was crying now, tears streaming down her face as she watched her son-in-law fall apart. "You didn't do anything wrong. You wore protection. You were careful. I know you were."

"But I slept with her," Ilya said, his voice raw. "I must have. I was so lonely, Shane." He looked at Yuna, shame flooding his expression. "I'm sorry, Mama'. I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Yuna said. She reached out and took Ilya's head and brought him down to her shoulder. "Nothing."

Shane couldn't speak. His own spiral was starting—questions piling up so fast he couldn't sort them. Would he be a stepfather to a child his husband didn't even know existed? How would this work? Would Ilya have to move back to Boston? Would the child live here? Would this just be a payment thing and the woman would leave them alone? So many questions. But Shane finally forced out, "It's okay, Ilya," even as his mind raced.

Ilya wasn't listening. He was slipping into a dark space. "What if he's mine? What if I have a son out there and I didn't even know? What kind of person does that make me? I don't want to become my own father and abandon my child. Shane, oh fuck. Shane, I'm sorry. I just keep making your life harder. I was so fucking stupid back then. I hated who I was. Fuck. I can't believe I did this to us."

"It's okay, Ilya, baby, calm down. You're not making my life harder. I promise. We'll figure this out. That's what we promised each other in marriage, right? Through sickness and in health. Through rich or poor. Through whatever this turns out to be and everything else that comes after it." He tried to coax a chuckle out of Ilya, but it didn't work.

When he realized Ilya wasn't going to laugh at anything he said, he pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. Ilya shifted away from Yuna and collapsed against him, his body shaking with sobs against Shane's shoulder and neck.

They stood like that for a long time, Ilya crying into Shane's shoulder while Shane and Yuna held him and whispered reassurances that felt hollow because they all knew the truth: it didn't matter whether Ilya was the father or not. The accusation alone would haunt him. The litigation would drag on for months, maybe years. Shane and his mom both knew this would be horrible for Ilya's mental health.

And it was.

For a year and a half, the lawsuit consumed their lives. There were depositions in Boston squeezed between games. There were legal fees for attorneys in both Canada and America because if this child was Ilya's, he'd need to understand the implications of sending a random woman thousands of dollars each month from his credit union—and whatever else was required on Ilya's end to resolve this mess. Kelley's lawyers constantly demanded more and more. First, it was just the general monthly support costs calculated based on the guidelines in the complaint. During mediation, the attorneys brought up back-pay for the past five years of the child's life. Ilya said he'd accept the financial costs as long as the parties agreed to a paternity test first.

Yuna and the hotshot attorneys they'd collectively hired were annoyed with Ilya for wanting to take responsibility for the kid's finances—considering that if everything was true, he'd wave the white flag and make up for lost time. But Ilya made it clear during the initial mediation session that he wanted a paternity test first, and then he wouldn't hesitate to provide in whatever way he needed to. Shane held his hand under the table while the same lawyers rubbed their temples in frustration over Ilya's stubborn heart in the matter.

During depositions, Ilya never denied sleeping with her. He admitted it all: Yes, he'd been at Cliff Marleau's holiday party. Yes, he'd danced with the woman. Yes, he'd had sex with her. Yes, he'd worn a condom. No, he didn't remember her name until the lawsuit. No, he wasn't aware that she had a child. No, he didn't recall what happened after their single evening together. No, she hadn't spent more than two hours with him in total.

Shane never doubted him. He knew Ilya had been careful. But something in his brain kept insisting this was all his fault. If he hadn't left that stupid fucking Boston home when Ilya said his name, would Ilya be in this mess? Probably not. Little did Shane know at the time, he'd been so close to caging the Raider and taking away any opportunity for someone else to claim the most eligible bachelor in the country. He should have seen it then, but the fucking fear of losing his career and public perception kept him from the only thing that would ever matter.

But the worst part—the part that broke Shane's heart—was watching Ilya slowly come to terms with the possibility of fatherhood. Watching him research co-parenting arrangements late at night. Watching him sit at the kitchen table with a small notepad, sketching out custody schedules. Watching him look at pictures of little Tanner Bronson that had come with the exchange of discovery—a six-year-old boy with dark curls and a gap-toothed smile—and say with a bit of joy, "He kinda looks like me. Like little monster."

"I want to be a good father," Ilya had said one night, lying in bed. "If he's mine, I want custody or visitation. I don't know. I think—I think I want to bring that to the lawyers for the next mediation session. I don't want him to grow up thinking I didn't want him. I don't want to be like my father. He was so horrible to Alexei and me. I don't want that. I want him to be loved. Would that be okay? Could we raise a kid with a woman we don't know?"

Shane had cupped Ilya's face in his hands and kissed him. "Of course, baby. No matter what happens, we'll do it together. And you will be an amazing father."

And then the DNA results came back.

Not Ilya Rozanov. Kelley didn't seem to care too much. Because she proceeded with filing a second lawsuit against a Bradley Hammersmith in the weeks following the dismissal of her initial action. Bradley wasn't so lucky, though. The shock came later, when Ilya found out that Brad had spent a night with Kelley the day after Cliff's party.

The relief hit him hard. Ilya cried. But his tears held something else too—a sense of loss he hadn't expected.

"I was ready," Ilya had said on their drive from the practice rink one afternoon after everything cooled down. "I was ready to be his dad."

Two weeks later after the complaint was dismissed, Yuna and Ilya set up a $100,000 trust for Tanner Bronson, to be released when he turned eighteen. Kelley would never know about it or have access to the money. Just like that, Kelley disappeared from their lives as quickly as she'd entered them.

But Shane never forgot.

He never forgot the way Ilya had looked at those pictures of Tanner. The way Ilya had been preparing so hard to start his own family, even in the most unconventional of ways. Losing that opportunity led to more sessions with Galina, and while Shane never knew what they discussed, he understood that the complete impact of having something ripped away—something Ilya didn't even know he wanted—was hard on him.

And to be honest, Shane was kind of excited too. He'd loved the idea of Ilya being a dad and the two of them enjoying the company of a child together. All the potential family activities they could do. Which led to conversations about adoption, fostering, and the possibility of surrogacy. Because the incident opened both of their eyes to actually wanting a kid, and they promised each other they'd complete whatever process they decided on by the prime age of 39. They might not even be retired then, but at least at that point they would have given two decades to the league and could justify quitting hockey and becoming parents within the next few years.

Ilya smiled like the Cheshire cat at that plan.

The lesson learned, though, was that Ilya didn't deserve to spend eighteen months drowning in guilt and fear over something that wasn't his fault. He didn't deserve to have his heart broken by a child who was never his to begin with. And Tanner didn't deserve to be put in the position that his mother put him in.

He opened his laptop and pulled up the airline website. He looked at December 23rd flights from Montreal to Boston. The 11:30 AM departure would arrive at 1:00 PM.

Cliff Marleau's party would be that night. Kelley Bronson would most likely be there. Ilya would be there, alone, because Shane was supposed to be in Ottawa with his parents, dating Rose fucking Landry.

He stared at the screen.

Christmas was usually just the three of them. It always had been. Shane, Yuna, and David made up the trio. His mother made Japanese strawberry shortcake—what her mother made every December, a tradition that bridged her heritage and the Western holiday. It was something she learned in her childhood in Kyoto and carried forward to this snowy city in Canada. They exchanged gifts. They drank tea. They watched whatever hockey game was on, whichever team was unlucky enough not to get the holiday break. It was quiet.

New Year's was the big family event—his dad's parents in Calgary, aunts and uncles and cousins piling into the house with casseroles. But Christmas was theirs, alone.

And he had never missed it.

His mother was expecting him tomorrow morning. She had already texted twice asking what time he was driving in. Yuna Hollander didn't do spontaneity. She didn't do last-minute changes. She planned everything. Like mother like son, right?

He knew exactly what would happen when he didn't show up.

She was going to call. Her voice would be worried and angry. It would be tense. She would demand to know what was wrong, what could possibly be more important than Christmas with his family. And when he couldn't give her an answer that made sense—because how could he explain this without explaining everything?

Hi Mom. Remember Ilya Rozanov? Yeaaah, so we've been fucking for years. Yes, I know we're rivals. Yes, I know he plays for Boston. Yes, Mom, the one from the Raiders. Yes, I'm aware Ilya's always in the media with some random woman. No, we weren't exclusive. No, we're not in an open relationship. Yes, I love him. Yes, I'll marry him one day. No, there weren't any nice men in Montreal. No, we won't do the Pride Month advertising for Nike.

Even for 2016 Shane with 2026 Shane's memories, that conversation would be too much in one sitting.

But Yuna Hollander was a commanding woman. She was a mom-ager in every sense of the word. She had managed Shane's life, his career, and his public image since he was scouted. And she didn't let people just skip Christmas. That was for sure.

Shane clicked "Select" on the flight.

He entered his credit card information and clicked "Purchase."

The confirmation email arrived thirty seconds later. Flight 2847 would depart at 11:30 AM and arrive at 1:00 PM.

Shane closed the laptop.

He would let his Mom and Dad know at some point about this mysterious Christmas getaway.

But right now he had to pack for Boston.

The Uber dropped him off in front of Ilya's house at 2:47 PM. For a moment, he just stood there on the sidewalk with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, staring.

Shane walked up to the door and knocked on the mahogany frame just to hear the sound it made.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time. Ilya's flight from New York should have landed fifteen minutes ago. That meant another thirty minutes, maybe forty, before he got home. Plenty of time.

Shane punched in the door code: 1410.

The lock clicked open.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Shane set his duffel down in the entryway and looked around.

The house was quiet and spotless. There was a coat rack by the door with a single jacket hanging on it. His heart raced at the idea of surprising Ilya like this—what if he didn't come straight home after the flight? What if he brought Marly with him? What if Ilya was in a bad mood and needed some alone time? God, this was stupid, but it was far too late to bail now.

He made his way into the bedroom and took in the space. He knew Ilya had a maid who sometimes came during away games. Her name was Sylvia, and she'd been mentioned in one of his calls with Shane earlier in the week. Apparently, Sylvia wouldn't take time off for the holidays, but Ilya had insisted, telling her not to come over and paying her a generous holiday bonus so she could breathe and relax with her family. So when Shane noticed the whole house was spotless, he had to assume Ilya had done it all himself before leaving. Butterflies formed in his stomach at the thought of Ilya being so thoughtful to take care of his home before leaving on a roadie. It reminded him of other times of when they were married and living in Ottawa together.

He headed for the bathroom next. He knew he was in a sweet spot with time, but he also wanted to make sure he was fully prepared for Ilya's arrival. After setting down his duffel bag, he locked the bathroom door behind himself and brought out his razor, scissors, body wash, lotion, and electric trimmer. The razor was for getting that faint line of shadow off his upper lip. The scissors were for trimming his pubes—because while he liked to be well-kept, he knew that Ilya loved nuzzling his pubic hair with his nose. He's a freak, but Shane had caught him a couple of times even during his last Boston trip, sniffing around. The electric trimmer was obviously for his balls.

Now, freshly shaven, he looked into the mirror and used his newest addition: his lucky hair tie in hazel. He tied up his hair into a bun, leaving strands falling loose at the back and his wispy bangs draped across his forehead. It wasn't as long as it had been in the other timeline, but it was getting there, and he loved his long hair. So did Ilya. He stepped into the shower, careful not to get his head wet, and scrubbed his body with a rag, washing away the airplane grime. He made sure even his taint and hole smelled fresh of mint tea leaves because he wanted Ilya close enough later this evening to catch the scent.

After drying off, he wiped the fog from the mirror and applied lotion to his thighs, legs, and lastly his ass. He felt smooth and ready for a spanking if Ilya would give it to him. The lotion would rub off on Ilya's hands at some point and smell fantastic as he put his hand over Shane's mouth to muffle the yells coming from the bedroom.

With one last look in the mirror, he found himself a bit nervous. Of course, he had to do a bit of self-reflection—literally and metaphorically. He had never done this before. He had never gone out of his way with a grand gesture for Ilya. At least not in their earlier years.

But the truth was that he couldn't stand to be away from Ilya without his heart feeling like it was being split in half. He could bear it, legitimately, because he knew that they both had jobs to do. But the reality was that Shane in this timeline had done a terrible job of caring for Ilya when he needed it the most. It was partially Ilya's fault for not letting him in, but most of it was his own fault because he'd allowed the perception of others to steal his joy until there was almost nothing left to give.

Now, as he looked at himself, he didn't care if Ilya threw him out or let him stay. He truly just wanted Ilya to feel the love he deserved, especially during the holidays when Ilya normally didn't have anyone but Svetlana to enjoy it with. And at this point, Shane didn't even know if she was in town this year. He knew that they didn't celebrate on the same schedule as everyone else, but he couldn't imagine being alone for the holidays, and Ilya shouldn't have to be either. Not anymore.

He had kept telling himself that all of the old restraints that used to hold him back weren't going to work in this timeline because above everything, the priority would be Ilya. His job after getting married to Ilya was to protect him at all costs. They did that for each other. The Ilya of the future, his husband who he missed so fucking much that it hurt, would be doing the same for him and making sure that they found their way back to the cottage, back to Ottawa, back to lazy days in bed in their brand new home with their baby girl, Anya. He had come to terms with the reality that he may not get back to his version of Ilya in the immediate future, and he prayed with all of his might that his husband was happy and alive and smiling. Perhaps celebrating together over birthday dinner. He prayed so hard that version of Ilya was safe too. But right now, the only thing he could control was how much he could show this Ilya how much he loved him. And that was what he was going to do.

So, he left the mirror and went back to the bedroom to dig through his duffel bag for his secret weapon: the extra Raiders practice jersey with Rozanov written across the back that he'd stolen during his last trip to Boston while they devoured TunaMelts. It was carefully folded and tucked away. He dropped the towel, made sure he was completely dry, and slid on nothing but the jersey.

He went back to the bathroom mirror and looked at himself, and he knew that he looked good. The final step of the plan was to make sure his ass was out and exposed. He positioned himself in the kitchen so that he'd be in full view when Ilya walked in through the foyer and looked to his right. Shane hunched over the granite counter, facing away from the front door so that Ilya would see nothing but the back of his head and his ass sticking out from the bottom hem.

Again, the nerves picked up because the anticipation was killing him. He knew how long it took to get back from the airport, and yesterday Ilya told him that his flight would land around 2:30 and he would call as soon as he got home so that he and Shane could talk before Shane had to go to his parents' house for Christmas. So now, leaning over the counter and scrolling through his phone, he smiled to himself and waited for his man to walk through the door.

The sound of the door code being entered made his stomach flip. He heard the lock click, the door swing open, and then footsteps in the entryway. They were light, accompanied by the thud of someone setting down a bag. He didn't turn around. He stayed exactly where he was, hands braced on the counter, back to the door, letting the moment build. The footsteps got closer, moving down the hallway before turning into the kitchen.

Shane grinned. "Well, surprise. I didn't expect you to be speechless, but I'll take it."

He turned around and screamed.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD."

Svetlana stood in the kitchen doorway with one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth as she tried to stifle her laughter. She wore a white puffy coat with her curly hair pinned back in a ponytail, and her eyes glittered with mischief. He knew that from this moment forward, he was never going to live this down. Ilya and Svetlana would tease him about this for the rest of his life.

"Well, hello, Jane," she said, her accent thick and her grin devious.

He ran across the room, jumping like a hurdler clearing the living room table, and grabbed a pillow from the couch to hold in front of himself.

Svetlana stared at him with a slight bit of confusion. With a sprinkle of lust and with a dash of comedic humor. She was giggling like a school girl.

"OH MY FUCKING GOD, SVETLANA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

Svetlana laughed even louder. "Wait. You know who I am?"

Shane's brain was short-circuiting because wasn't that a bitch. Now he had to make up an excuse because the first mention of Svetlana in his other timeline was during the TunaMelt fiasco. Ilya had said, I have a girl here, Svetlana. Something. Something. Rage bait. Something. Good mouth I like girls do you like girls? In more confusing words, of course. But right now, right now, this Shane wouldn't know about her because he didn't let Ilya have stupid ass vague conversations on the couch with his hand down his pants while looking at Shane inquisitively.

He was still clutching the pillow like a lifeline, his voice strangled when he managed to speak. "Well, yeah. Ilya talks about you all the time." A lie.

Svetlana's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, he does, does he?"

"Svetlana. What are you doing here?"

She shrugged, still grinning. "I guess we both had the same idea." She unzipped her coat slightly, and he saw it. She was wearing a Rozanov jersey too. Number 81. But this one looked like it may have been purchased at TD Garden because it looked brand new. Not quite the worn version that he was repping right now which internally, the little green monster inside his brain, was keeping a scorecard of 1 point Shane 0 points Svetlana. At least his smelled like Ilya and his leather-ish smelling cologne that he wore every day.

"Oh my god," Shane said again, quieter this time.

Svetlana's face showed nothing but elation. "I came for Nadia's Christmas presents. And, you know." She made a vague gesture. "A quick fuck. But it looks like you had the same plan."

Shane's face was so hot he thought he might actually combust. "I'm going to go put on shorts."

"You do that, Jane."

Shane retreated to the bedroom, clutching the pillow, and as he turned around quickly to retreat, Svetlana whistled behind him. "Nice ass!" she called.

"Oh my god," Shane muttered, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

When he came back out wearing shorts, Svetlana was perched on the couch, looking completely at ease. There were two mugs on the coffee table, steam rising from both.

"I made you tea," she said, gesturing to the second mug. "You look like you need it."

Shane sat down on the opposite end of the couch and picked up the mug. It was warm in his hands, and the smell was soothing. Chamomile, he thought. He took a sip and closed his eyes, releasing some of the tension that had been creeping up his shoulders after being hole out in front of the wrong person.

"So," Svetlana said, her voice gentler now, less teasing. "Should we surprise him together? Or should I leave and we never speak of this again?"

Shane opened his eyes and looked at her. She was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Curious, maybe, but not unkind. He should tell her to leave. He should say thank you, but I came here to be alone with Ilya, so if you could just go that would be great. He should stick to his plan: stop Kelley, fuck Ilya, spend Christmas together.

But bringing Svetlana into the plan might actually help. She mattered to Ilya. She'd been there for him in ways Shane hadn't—couldn't, not yet. And if he was serious about building a life with Ilya that wasn't all secrecy and isolation, then maybe this was the right place to start.

"Stay," Shane said.

Svetlana blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean..." Shane set down his mug. "The whole point of this trip was spending Christmas with Ilya. Enjoying the holidays with him for the first time. And if you're part of that, then yeah. Stay."

Svetlana's expression softened as she looked down at her cup. "I always assumed it was you," she said quietly.

Shane's chest tightened. "What?"

"His Jane. I always assumed it was you. He never told me, but I assumed." She paused, her voice growing warmer. "He was so obsessed with everything you did, and he would light up like a firework for Montreal games." She smiled, but it wasn't teasing this time. It was genuine, almost affectionate. "I asked him about his Jane many times. He would never tell me about her. But I knew."

He had to take a moment to collect himself and assess how he was going to react to the comment. Normally, he would feel like running away and deleting every piece of evidence that connected him and Ilya off the ice when someone suspected something. But Svetlana had always been kind. A bit of an asshole, sure, but everyone he loved was a bit of an asshole. She felt safe to him in this moment, and he couldn't think of any way this would screw up his plans for the future.

"Thank you," he said finally. "For always being there for him. I care about him a lot. Things recently have become a bit more serious, and I'm trying to show him that I'm serious about him. So I decided to fly down and surprise him."

Svetlana reached over and squeezed his hand. "Shane Hollander." She paused briefly. "You are just so charming. And good for Ilya. I'm always worried about him, and now I can finally breathe. It seems his Jane has their heart in the right place, and he may be safe with someone who isn't me." She grinned. "Plus, your ass is amazing."

Shane laughed, surprised and a little embarrassed, and Svetlana laughed with him. They sat for a moment enjoying their tea in sips and in the quiet of the Boston suburbs. Then Shane asked, "Really, though. What are you doing here? I don't care, but I didn't know if Ilya had Christmas traditions with you or something. I don't want to intrude."

Svetlana shook her head. "No. No traditions. I was here for a fuck, and then to pick up Nadia's Christmas presents for my trip to Moscow."

"Who's Nadia?"

"Ilya's niece."

"Ah. Got it."

He set down his mug and looked at her. "Sorry about taking away your quick fuck."

Svetlana raised an eyebrow.

"But I don't share," Shane said firmly.

Svetlana's eyes widened. Then she laughed. "Wow. You're just as possessive over Ilya as he is over you. Good for you, Jane. Never thought I'd say I lost good, reliable dick to Shane Hollander, but today's full of firsts." She grinned. "And I got to see your butt, so I guess I owe Ilya for such an amazing day."

They were both laughing when they heard it: the sound of the door code being entered. The lock clicked. The door opened. A large thud echoed through the house as Ilya's bag hit the floor.

They both looked at each other with wide-eyes.

"Ready?" she whispered.

He nodded.

They both settled back on the couch, legs tucked under them, mugs in hand, looking like two besties who'd claimed the house for a good old gossip session about a boy.

Ilya rounded the corner and stopped dead in the entryway. His eyes snapped wide, his mouth falling open. He blinked hard, like he was trying to clear his vision, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

"What the actual fuck?" he said.

Svetlana spoke first. "Well, your Jane and I both had the same plan—to surprise you. I came by for presents and dick. Jane came by for just dick, I think." She gestured at Shane. "And then I walk in and your Jane is wearing nothing but a jersey with his ass hanging out, and well, I got a full show."

Ilya's face turned red. "Sveta."

She grinned. "But do not worry, your Jane is respectable. He yelled and ran to your bedroom, and now we're just sitting here getting to know each other. Unfortunately, Jane informed me that he does not share, so this girl has to go find another reliable dick to bounce on in Boston." She stood, setting down her mug. "And since you are late, I must leave soon to catch my own flight. I will leave you in Jane's hands."

She walked over to Shane and hugged him. Shane hugged her back, and when she pulled away, she patted his face gently—her touch was almost maternal.

"Take care of him."

Shane nodded. "I will."

Svetlana crossed to Ilya and kissed him on the cheek. "Why don't you mail Nadia's presents to me? I'll pick them up at the post office and take them to her. You enjoy this time with Jane, okay?"

Ilya hugged her, his arms wrapping around her tightly. "Thank you," he said, and Shane could hear the smile in his voice even though he wasn't sure what Ilya was thanking her for.

She pulled back, grinned at both of them, and headed for the back door. She pulled on her puffy coat, waved once, and disappeared into the cold. Once the door closed, the house fell silent.

Ilya was still standing there, staring at Shane, who hadn't moved from standing where he hugged Svetlana. Ilya wore a beanie with his curls sticking out from under the edges. His puffer coat was still zipped up, slightly damp from the cold. He smelled faintly of cigarettes.

"What?" Shane said, trying to sound casual.

Ilya just kept staring, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"What are you doing here?" Ilya asked.

Shane shrugged. "Well, I mean, I can just leave if you want. I thought it would be a nice surprise, but if you don't want to spend the holidays with me, I understand. I can still catch Svetlana before she gets too far."

Ilya tackled him. Shane went down against the couch cushions, and Ilya was on top of him, straddling his hips, his hands framing Shane's face. The beanie was askew. His coat was still cold against Shane's bare legs.

"You're here," Ilya said, his voice gravelly.

"I'm here," Shane confirmed.

Ilya kissed him. Shane kissed him back, his hands going to the coat, fumbling with the zipper.

"Off," Shane said against Ilya's mouth. "Get this off."

Ilya pulled back just enough to unzip his coat and shrug it off. It fell to the floor. Underneath, he was wearing a tank top, white and tight, clinging to his chest and shoulders. His biceps were glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, and there was a thin line of moisture at his collarbone that Shane wanted to lick.

"You were here," Ilya said, his voice low and hoarse. "In my home. With just my jersey on. Your ass was out for everyone to see."

Shane grinned, drawing out the word as he said, "Yep." He bit his bottom lip, feeling bold and reckless. "But I was hoping that you would see me and just decide to fuck me right there in the kitchen as soon as you walked in. But then Svetlana walked in instead, and it was definitely a different kind of scream that came out of my mouth than the one I'd been anticipating."

Ilya growled low in his throat, and Shane couldn't help but giggle at the sound.

"Well," Ilya said, his hands sliding down Shane's sides, gripping his hips possessively. "That can still be fucking arranged."

He picked Shane up like he weighed nothing, one arm sliding under his knees while the other wrapped around his back, and carried him toward the kitchen. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya's neck and buried his face in the curve of his shoulder,

Ilya stopped at the kitchen island. The granite was cold against the backs of Shane's thighs as he sat, making him shiver. Ilya stepped between his legs, hands moving to Shane's waistband.

"These," Ilya said, tugging at them. "Off."

Shane lifted his hips, and Ilya pulled the shorts down and off, tossing them somewhere behind him. The jersey rode up slightly, exposing his cock. He was half-hard already, flushed and leaking.

Ilya's eyes darkened.

"Turn around and knees up on the counter," he said.

Shane turned, crawling further up on the granite, and Ilya's hands were immediately on him, palming the globes of his ass. His fingers grazed over Shane's hole, teasing with a playful tap that made it clench at the feathered touch. But Ilya could never resist getting Shane wet and working him open. Especially not like this—with him laid out in his kitchen like a meal.

So Ilya predictably spat in his hand and slapped the wet palm against Shane's hole, making his ass jiggle. He rubbed his index and middle finger over it, slicking him up, and Shane moaned and dropped his elbows, fully giving himself over to Ilya's control.

"Bozhe moy," Ilya breathed. "You're so smooth."

"I wanted it to be perfect for you."

"You wanted me to fuck you," Ilya finished. His hands kneaded Shane's ass. "You wanted me to see this and lose my fucking mind, didn't you Shane?"

"Yeah," Shane said, his voice shaking. "Fuck yeah, I did."

Ilya spanked him. Firm enough that Shane gasped. The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen.

"You're mine," Ilya said, and he spanked him again. "Say it."

"I'm yours,"

Another slap. "Say it again."

"Fuck, baby, I'm yours."

Ilya leaned down and kissed the curve of Shane's ass and then his tongue was there, licking a slow stripe up the cleft. His knees started shaking against the hard surface, and Ilya's hands tightened on his hips, holding him steady.

"Ilya," Shane gasped.

Ilya didn't answer. He just kept going, licking and kissing, his tongue circling Shane's hole, teasing but never breaching. Shane's cock was fully erect now, leaking against the granite, and he was shaking, his forearms slipping on the counter.

"Please," Shane said. "Please, Ilya, I need you inside me."

Ilya pulled back, and Shane heard the sound of a belt buckle, the rustle of fabric. Then there was a pause. A long pause.

"Fuck," Ilya muttered.

Shane turned his head, looking over his shoulder. "What?"

"Condom. I need—hold on." Ilya was already moving, yanking open a drawer near the sink. He rummaged through it—spatulas, whisks, measuring spoons clattering—then slammed it shut. "Not there."

Shane watched, bemused, as Ilya opened another drawer. Then another. His bare ass was still on display while Ilya frantically searched his own kitchen like he was on a scavenger hunt.

"Ilya, what are you—"

"I know I have one. I put one—" Ilya opened the cabinet above the stove, stood on his toes to peer inside. "Aha!"

He reached behind a row of spice jars and pulled out a single wrapped condom, holding it up like a trophy.

Shane burst out laughing. "You hid a condom above the stove?"

Ilya grinned as he tore open the wrapper. "You never know when you need one in kitchen."

"Well, I wouldn't know. I've never had sex in a kitchen. I guess the answer is different for you and all these women you bring around."

"Oh no no no. Not anymore. I haven't done that in months. But I did hide it up there after your last visit. You know, for emergency purposes. I have fantasies too, Shane." Ilya rolled the condom on, then pulled Shane off the counter so they were waist level with each other.

"Fantasies, huh? And what would these fantasies include?"

"Hush, now. You're interrupting the best part. You're only allowed to make pretty noises."

He stepped back between Shane's legs and used his feet to spread him apart farther for perfect access. "Now, where were we?"

Shane was still laughing, his forehead pressed against the granite, his body shaking with it. "You're insatiable."

"And you love it," Ilya said, his voice dropping back to that low register. His hands spread Shane open again, and Shane felt the blunt head of Ilya's cock—now wrapped—pressing against him.

"You ready for me, solnyshko?" Ilya asked.

"Yes, yes, please. I'm ready. I'm so ready."

Ilya pushed in, slow and steady at first, and Shane's world narrowed to the sensation of being filled. The girth of his shaft burned, but only just—Ilya's tongue and fingers had done most of the work already. Still, there was no amount of prep or stretching that would prepare you for taking something the length of a forearm and the width of a Canada Dry can. Ilya held him in place while his body stretched around Ilya's cock, allowing for the full adjustment of the pressure snaking around his prostate.

As the tension eased and he fully adjusted, Shane focused only on sound and turned everything else off. He trusted Ilya so much, knew him so well, that he could tell exactly when he was about to cum by the speed of the slaps between Ilya's abs and his own ass. He knew when Ilya was troubled by the sighs he released while merged with Shane. He knew when he wanted to savor the moment by the heavy panting and the sounds of Ilya smacking his lips to wet them because they were dry from the exhaustion of fucking.

Shane moved when Ilya told him. He arched when Ilya told him. He came when, and only when, Ilya told him. It was the most peaceful part of their relationship—being controlled but in a caring way that allowed Shane to just listen and act on demand. There was no hockey. There were no business deals. There was no fear, because what was there to fear when Ilya Rozanov was there to protect you?

"Fuck," Ilya said. "You feel so good. So tight. So perfect."

Shane could only moan, his forehead pressed against the cold granite. The sound of skin against skin filled the kitchen, punctuated by Shane's gasps and Ilya's low, guttural groans.

"You're mine," Ilya said again, his voice fierce. "Say it, Shane. Fucking say it. This hole, your body, your pretty fucking freckles—they're mine."

Oh. Well, that turned the brain on for half a second. Because damn. There was a lot of possessiveness and territorial language in those words that eased his mind about doing too much and being too clingy over the past few weeks. Maybe this was going to be different this time around. Maybe Ilya would mark his claim like a dog on a fire hydrant and they could weather whatever storms they faced in the future together. And just like that—the brain is back off—

"I'm yours," Shane gasped. "I'm yours, Ilya. All of me. I'm—fuck. Only yours."

He was so close, so fucking close, and Ilya knew it, could feel it in the way hole was constricting on Ilya's cock.

"Come for me," Ilya said, his voice commanding. "Come for me, Shane."

Shane did just as he was told. He came hard, his cock pulsing as his release dripped onto the side of the kitchen island—some of it caught in Ilya's hand as he reached out. Ilya followed a moment later, burying himself deep and groaning Shane's name, but not before licking the come from his hand with a moan of pleasure as he finished inside Shane's warmth.

They stayed like that for a long moment, connected and trembling, catching their breath. Shane's cheek pressed against the cool granite, Ilya's weight warm and solid against his back.

"You're here," Ilya said, his voice tender.

Shane pushed up from the granite and turned to meet Ilya's eyes. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." They kissed, sloppy and satisfied, before collapsing against each other again.

Ilya pulled out carefully, stripped off the condom, and tossed it in the trash under the sink. Then he turned Shane around fully and pulled him into his arms.

After the kitchen island, there was the shower. After the shower, there was the bedroom, where Ilya bent Shane in half. Twice.

Now they were lying in bed, naked and spent, the sheets tangled around their legs. Condom wrappers littered the floor. Shane stared at one near the nightstand and thought about how much he hated them. In the future—months from now, years ago, whatever—they'd stopped using condoms entirely. Why wouldn't they? They were monogamous. Shane made a mental note to speed up that conversation, but carefully. Ilya was already looking at him like he'd pulled a 13 Going on 30, and Shane knew too much change too fast would spook him.

In their first life, Shane had been the one afraid of change. It had been disorienting, watching the league's most notorious playboy cook him lunch and ask him to stay on the couch. But now? Now Shane couldn't imagine not loving Ilya. His humor, his smile, the way his body moved, the curl of his hair, the moles scattered across his skin. Ilya was intoxicating. If past Shane had fucked this up permanently, he'd have ended up alone in retirement with a cat. Maybe two cats. Definitely miserable at the cottage with his purple dildo.

But Ilya was noticing. Shane could tell by the way Ilya watched him during sex, the way his eyes widened when Shane showed up in a Rozanov jersey—something Shane swore he'd never do unless he lost a bet. He hadn't been subtle. He'd stopped calling Ilya exclusively by his last name. They'd both started saying "mine" during sex. They'd accidentally said "baby" multiple times. The changes were piling up, and Ilya was too smart not to see them.

Shane combed his fingers through Ilya's hair. Ilya's head rested on Shane's chest, his breathing slow and even. Shane spoke first.

"Hey. You awake?"

"Da." Ilya's voice was soft, drowsy. "Feels good. Your fingers."

"Good."

"Thank you," Ilya murmured. "Thank you for surprise."

Shane took a beat. "I think we should probably talk."

Ilya went still. Then he lifted his head, and Shane saw the fear flash across his face. Ilya's eyes were wide, his mouth already forming the words before he spoke.

"Oh. Okay. I get it. You need to go? I can get—"

"No, you big dummy," Shane said, cutting him off. He pressed Ilya's head back down to his chest. "Lay back down."

"Okay," Ilya said slowly, dragging out the word.

"I just want you to lay here and listen to me for a second, okay?"

Ilya nodded against Shane's chest.

Shane kept running his fingers through Ilya's hair, calming himself with the motion. "I wanted to come here because I'm ready to be more serious with you. I want to try this. Whatever you can give me, I know it's going to be hard, but I really like you, Ilya. The past few weeks of just being able to text and sometimes call you has been so much fun." He paused. The word "like" felt insufficient, but "love" was too much too soon. "We've been doing this for so long, and I know it started as something different. I get that. But I have feelings for you, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about you. It's like my body's screaming at me because I'm missing an organ."

Ilya's breathing had changed, but he was listening.

"I can see a future where we're together and very happy," Shane continued. "I know it'll be hard. There's the league. There's Russia. I did my research. There's our teams, too. But if you're willing to have me and try with me, then I'm willing to try with you."

Ilya lifted his head again. His eyes were wet. "Shane we cannot be anything. You don't understand. I would never be able to go home."

"No. I do understand, Ilya. And hear me when I say this—I will wait for you until it can be more. I'm patient. I promise you. I want to try. Please."

Ilya stared at him. "Shane, what happened? From Vegas to my house in Boston? I did not treat you well. Did something happen? I'm not upset. I promise. But I want to know why the change. You used to be so scared, and now you're in Boston before the holiday, and I'm just... I think confused?"

Shane sighed. Vegas. He wasn't going to linger on that. "I had a lot of time without you to think about what you truly meant to me. And I mean a lot. You didn't have to ghost me the entire summer and leave me high and dry. You also didn't have to be so mean to me in Vegas. But I'm not going to dwell on those things because I think I understand why you did what you did."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I think so. I think that you may have been feeling the same way I was, and it led you to pushing me away in the worst ways imaginable. I feel like maybe you were trying to protect me. I've always been ShaneHollanderPlaysHockey"—reiterating his Instagram handle that he used solely for promotional material—"and hockey has and will always be a part of me. But until I met you, t II never knew I could enjoy something more than hockey. Actually, I know I enjoy you more. And it's not just the sex. It's everything with you. My fucking chest hurts with excitement every time my phone lights up with a notification from 'Lily.' And of course, this summer sucked. I did try to get over you—"

Remembering that week in Mexico with JJ and Hayden at the end of June, before flying back to the cottage. Meeting Jeff at the bar and going back to his hotel to get his brains fucked out was a blast. He even enjoyed how rough Jeff was—his scalp hurt for three days after getting blissfully railed and having two orgasms with the guy. They even watched the sunrise together before Shane had to slip out and make it back before JJ and Hayden's drunk asses woke up. While he didn't think of Ilya during the sex—Jeff definitely got him to subspace like Ilya always does—Jeff wasn't Ilya. He didn't make Shane laugh like Ilya did. He didn't push Shane to be a better person. He didn't kiss like Ilya. He didn't have beautiful golden locks like Ilya. And the world came crashing down when Jeff took Shane's phone and put his number in, texting himself. The fucker even put an emoji beside his saved contact in the phone. Shane's heart felt broken and mended together with a shitty bandaid—the bandaid being Jeff's uncut dick. It all felt wrong. Sure, Jeff was objectively hot and looked like Cristiano Ronaldo but he was no Ilya Rozanov.

Honestly, it was probably a good thing New York happened the next month—even considering the bruised jaw, ribs, broken tooth, and concussion. He probably would have tried other ways to get over Ilya.

"But none of that matters. What happened over the summer doesn't matter. I know you're probably confused. And you said you wanted some time to think. But after everything that's happened over the past few years with us, I think I'm ready to do something for me. I'm ready to be clear with you and tell you how I feel. I was always worried about what other people think. But I should get to be happy too, right? I have two Stanley Cups. Professionally, I've been very successful. Now I'm ready to be happy on a personal level. With you. If you'll have me." Rant over.

Ilya's mouth curved into a smile. "Hollander, are you... are you asking if I'll be your boyfriend?"

Ilya giggled.

"Maybe, asshole," Shane said. "Is that a horrible thing?"

"I just did not realize you were so romantic," Ilya said, laughing loudly. Then he leaned down and bit Shane's nipple.

"Ow! God, you're an asshole."

"Nooooo," Ilya said, grinning. "I am a boyfriend. Wait, no. I am a boyfriend if you ask me nicely."

Shane sighed. He knew all of Ilya's tricks. But Shane had tricks of his own.

"Baby," Shane said, drawing out the word.

Ilya's eyes went wide.

"Will you be my boyfriend and spend Christmas with me? Here. In Boston?"

Ilya's eyes filled with tears. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Yes, Shane. Yes, I will be your boyfriend, and yes, we will have our first Christmas together. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya whispered. "This is crazy."

Then Ilya pulled himself up and kissed Shane full of desperation and he felt Ilya's hands pulling his legs apart. Round five, apparently. God, Shane loved this man. He was already starting to moan at the idea of boyfriend sex when they both heard it.

A thud.

By the bedroom door.

The bedroom door that was open.

The bedroom door that gave whoever made that thud a full, unobstructed view of Ilya and his voluptuous ass on top of Shane, Shane's legs hooked around Ilya's waist, Ilya's clenching as he lined himself up.

The thud was a human being.

Cliff Marleau.

"Marly, what the fuck?!" Ilya shouted.

"Is that—is that Shane fucking Hollander?!" Cliff's voice was high pitched like a teenage girl.

"Get the fuck out, Marly! Fuck!"

Ilya turned back to Shane, his face stricken. But Shane was laughing—he couldn't help it. The sound bubbled up despite the absurdity of the situation. Ilya looked bewildered, reaching out to rub Shane's cheek like he was checking for a concussion.

"Dude, you're like a god," Cliff screamed from the doorway. "You pulled Shane fucking Hollander! Holy fucking shit. This is fucking hot."

"Get the fuck out, Marly!" Ilya roared. "Don't make me tell you again!"

Cliff scrambled away. Shane heard him stumbling into the living room.

"Shane, I'm so sorry," Ilya said, his voice panicked. "I'll get rid of him, and he will not tell anyone, I promise. Just stay here."

"No, Ilya. It's okay. I'm fine." Shane cupped Ilya's face. "We should talk to him together. He'll be okay, right? I can only assume based on the combination of words that just came out of his mouth."

"Yes, I guess so. Marly is good people."

"Okay good. But we are going to reassess how many people get the code to your front door."

"Yes. Yes." Ilya nodded rapidly. "If I told you that all three people who knew it have used it in the past four hours would you believe?"

"Oddly enough, yeah. I'd believe that." Shane grinned. "But the other two have no clue what 1410 means, and as long as they know you're off limits and mine, there's no problem."

Shane said it because he knew how insane Ilya got when Shane was possessive. Sure enough, Ilya blushed and bit Shane's neck.

They left the bedroom five minutes later, after more making out, of course. Ilya couldn't stop slapping his ass, like he needed to verify Shane wasn't upset about the whole Marleau intrusion. Shane made a mental note to scold him later for one particularly ridiculous comment—something he'd never heard from present or future Ilya: I just can't help it. Your cheeks make waves like the ocean beating sand. My dick is sand. Your cheeks just beat my poor dick all the time. Shane had no response other than a sigh.

Ilya also cracked a joke about not being able to consummate the relationship, but that one actually made him laugh.

When they walked into the living room, Cliff was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall like he'd seen a ghost. He looked up when they entered, and his face broke into a grin.

"Dude," Cliff said, standing up. He dabbed Rozanov up, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a god amongst men. A fucking god." He made a little hand gesture at Shane, like he was tipping an invisible hat. "The whole league knows you're hot, Hollander." Then turning to Ilya, "Good for you, Roz."

Ilya snarled something in Russian, and Cliff held up his hands.

"I won't tell anyone," Cliff said quickly. "I swear. I promise. On my life."

Ilya glared at him. "You better not."

"I won't! Jesus, Roz, I'm not an idiot."

Shane watched the exchange with satisfaction. This wasn't on his agenda for a few more months, but looking at Ilya now—smiling—it was worth it. The foundation of a support system, built by accident with Svetlana and Marly. It seemed like a win.

"So," Cliff said, glancing between them. "I'm guessing you're not going to be able to come to the Christmas party tonight?"

"Yeahhhh," Ilya said.

"No, we'll come!" Shane interrupted.

Ilya turned to him. "Shane, what?"

"No, we'll go. It'll be fun." Shane looked at Cliff. "The Raiders—will they be good about us? Keep it a secret? Or do you think it's too risky?"

"Uhhh," Ilya said.

"Dude! No, they'll be good!" Cliff said enthusiastically. "I'll make them sign NDAs if I have to. And the bar already has a no cell phone policy. When we go to this place, we usually just leave our phones in the DD's car anyway."

Ilya looked at Shane. "Shane, are you sure? We can stay here and just have dinner. We've never gotten to do that before."

"I'm sure, Ilya." Shane smiled. "I want to go out and dance with you and meet your team if you want me to meet them. Only if you think it's going to be okay. I'm happy either way. I don't suspect we'll stay long anyway."

Shane wiggled his eyebrows. Ilya's caught on immediately.

"Yes," Ilya said slowly. "I think they will be okay. But I think we should talk about how we will go and stuff."

"Okay, great," Cliff said. "And at some point, I want to know all about this, because while it makes sense in a fucked up—but like, a good fucked up kinda' way—I still want to know how it all happened. Poor Jane is going to be fucking heartbroken."

Ilya and Shane looked at each other and laughed.

Cliff stopped in his tracks at the laughter. "Oh, wait. Holy fuck. HOLY FUCK. Shit, dude, that's been years. Holy fuck."

"Yes. Yes." Ilya grinned. "Tonight I will introduce team to Jane."

"Holy fuck. This is serious?"

"Yes. Okay, goodbye, Cliff." Ilya waved him toward the door. "I will go fuck my boyfriend now and get ready for party. See you in few hours. Oh, and Marly, tell the boys that they will get to meet Jane tonight. I love to surprise."

"Boyfriend?! Holy fuck," Cliff said again.

He walked out the door without even saying why he'd walked into the house in the first place.

Shane turned to Ilya. "I think we broke your friend."

"Yes. Maybe. I do not know." Ilya's grin turned wicked. "But I want to break the bed. Come on, boyfriend." He made the word sound filthy. "I must fuck you and figure out what slutty clothes I can put you in before we go dancing."

"What if I told you I packed some slutty clothes already?"

"Fucking hell, Hollander." Ilya grabbed Shane's wrist and pulled him toward the bedroom. "Fuck you. I'm going to make you walk funny for a week. I will need to carry you around this house for the next few days."

"You promise?"

Off to the bedroom they fucking went!

Shane and Ilya took separate cars. They'd decided that while some of the Raiders would learn about their relationship tonight, the mainstream media didn't need to know yet.

Ilya was already inside the club. He'd arrived about ten minutes ago, by Shane's calculations. The place was ironically called "the Rose." Jesus. No wonder Ilya had been so upset about coming here years ago in the other timeline.

But once inside, the club was really fucking nice. And it was clearly invite-only. The attendant and several bouncers at the front checked names against a list. Marleau had rented out the whole place for the night and invited literally every puck bunny in the 617 and 857 area codes. Women in gowns of every cut and style. Sequins in all different colors. They were all beautiful. And each of them sized up Shane as he walked past, but his sights were set on finding his North Star.

He probably should have worn something less exposing, but fuck it. Fuck everyone else. Ilya had nearly lost his mind when he saw Shane's version of "slutty" after he'd changed before they parted ways. The outfit: tight leather pants and a thin black silk tank top to match. No overcoat. He'd figured the club would be hot, and he was right. His arms were the focus—along with his pits, the side of his chest, his rib cage. Easy access for Ilya on the dance floor, he'd thought.

Over the years of their marriage, Ilya had played his Boston playlists on Spotify constantly, obsessed with certain bands and musicians from his era. One band Shane had learned by name from their summers at the cottage—when they'd blast the surround sound so loud it carried all the way to the lake—was the Chainsmokers. As Shane looked around the room, one of the songs he knew by heart was playing: Roses.

Fuck. Literally everything was surrounded by this flower.

Poor Ilya.

Oh well, it was one of Shane's favorite songs and he knew all the beats. But he couldn't enjoy it because he couldn't find his fucking newly minted boyfriend. Just as the DJ booth seemed to give Shane a hand, a spotlight swept across a table in the corner of the club. There were those golden curls. In a black shirt that was nearly transparent, his pecs showing clearly through the fabric. A pair of white pants with flares at the bottom and white boots to match. He looked so fucking good Shane wanted to bite him.

Ilya didn't see him. His back was turned toward Shane, and from this angle, he wouldn't realize anyone was approaching..

Time to meet the Raiders at the table: Connors, Carmichael, Marleau, LaPointe, Hammersmith, and a rookie named Cox. He'd spotted a couple of the other Raiders across the room, but they hadn't noticed him yet.

Ten steps.

Deep in my bones, I can feel you
Take me back to a time only we knew
Hideaway

Five steps away.

Cliff spots Shane first. He heard Connors say, "Dude, where the fuck is this Jane chick?"

Ilya must have caught Cliff's expression because he turned to look directly at Shane. Ilya lit up. There's his North Star. He couldn't help but smile, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks as Ilya says, "I would like you to meet my Jane."

Say you'll never let me go.

Time to be fucking brave. Shane leaned in while the table was still gobsmacked by the revelation and kissed Ilya in front of his teammates in a crowded club filled with loud-mouth bitches who were definitely going to take to Reddit and Twitter after this—but without evidence, no one would believe them. Hockey's biggest rivals making out on the dance floor? Not happening.

But even if it did, fuck it. He missed being like this with his husband in every downtrodden city they'd visited while playing together in Ottawa. He couldn't wait to have that in the future too, but the Raiders were going to get the first taste of the First Husbands of Hockey (the words of People magazine when they named both Ilya and Shane the sexiest men alive in 2022).

The rookie fell out of his chair. LaPointe and Carmichael started chugging their fucking mixed drinks, which looked like vodka. Connors was the only one to speak, since Marly already had his moment with the big reveal at the house earlier on in the day.

"Shane Hollander, the Captain of the Montreal Metros," Connors said. "The hottest guy in the league. Is fucking Jane?"

"Watch your mouth, Connors," Ilya said.

"Dude, no. You don't understand. We have a whole fucking group chat about this."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Connors?" Ilya's voice was sharp.

Marleau cut in. "Oh, fuck no. Shut the fuck up, Con."

"Oh fuck," Connors said.

"Someone tell me what the fuck you all are talking about," Ilya demanded.

Connors looked between around the table. "The guys, well many guys..." He glanced at Shane. "There are guys from nearly every team. When a new Hollander ad comes out or a new picture, we all send it to the chat and sometimes we talk about how hot he is, or we post the picture and we just let the rest do what they want with it."

"Yes, yes, my boyfriend is hot. I know," Ilya said. "But what do you mean, whatever they want to?"

"I mean, you know."

Marleau shook his head. "Fucking Christ. Roz is going to go to jail tonight."

"I don't understand. Someone fucking spit it out," Ilya said.

Shane interrupted. "Baby, he means they jack off to my pictures."

Ilya looked at Shane with fury and then back to Connors.

"Who the fuck is in that group chat? Show me now," Ilya said.

"Dude, no. I can't do that," Connors said.

At this point, LaPointe and Carmichael had started to slowly make their exit and they probably would have gotten away with it given that Ilya was honed in on Connors, but LaPointe accidentally tipped his chair back and it made a noise. Shit luck, Shane thought.

"No, you two don't leave. And where the fuck is Hammersmith?" Ilya said.

Shane turned, searching for Hammersmith. He knew Brad had been sitting just to the right of Ilya when he'd leaned down to kiss him for shock value. Brad shouldn't be hard to spot—he was wearing that ugly yellow Raiders polo. And sure enough, there he was, talking to Kelley fucking Bronson. He hadn't expected it would be this easy to take care of that problem, but hey, great!

Ilya saw him and began rising from his seat. "Don't move. I'm getting Hammersmith back over here and getting to the fucking bottom of this."

Shane grabbed him. "No, it's okay, baby. He seems wrapped up in that girl. You can get your answers from the guys who are here, I'm sure. Isn't that right, Connors? You'll show me who is in this group chat, right?" Shane flashed his bambi eyes.

"What the fuck is that, Shane?" Ilya said. "Do you want me to kill these guys? I will murder them with a knife. You should know, I'm crazy. You don't show anyone else bottom eyes but me."

This fucking man. He couldn't help but roll his 'bottom' eyes. But within seconds, Connors was reaching for his boot where his phone was hidden. Ilya had explained that Connors kept his phone on him in the club because sometimes his fiancée would text about visiting, wanting to meet him in the private spaces in the back. The Raiders used this place often when they didn't want to be seen by the paparazzi. Lucky for Ilya and unlucky for Connors, he was the only person in the room exempt from the club's very strictly enforced cell phone policy—his fiancée was a partial owner of the place. Ilya had no clue who she was. Connors had been secretive about her for two years, a situation eerily similar to Ilya's 'Jane.' The guys theorized he'd met her in Vaudreuil-Dorion sometime in 2013 or 2014 while she was filming and Connors was visiting extended family, and they assumed she was an actress. But Connors was touchy about the subject, so there was to be no prying if it came up.

Looking down at the phone laid sitting face up on the table, Ilya growled as he began to read. The whole fucking group chat was open and the names were easy to see. These poor guys would have to face Ilya on the ice and, well, bless their hearts.

Shane laughed about the whole thing. He didn't care that over thirty men—thirty-six to be exact—had been in a group chat talking about using his thighs to crush their heads like watermelons.

But interestingly enough, there were some names in there he didn't expect, like Hayden fucking Pike—his alleged best friend. Maybe Ilya was right during some of those fights about Hayden having a crush on Shane the entire time. Others to note: Troy Barrett, who was currently in Toronto being a homophobic piece of shit with Dallas Kent. Another was Scott Hunter. Jesus, around this time he should be having problems with Kip and struggling with his own sexuality. Why would he subject himself to this?

"I think... I think we all thought that it's not gay because it's Hollander, man," Connors said. "You're fucking hot as fuck. We all know it."

"I swear to God, Connors. One more time. You get one more fucking time. And I'll fucking kill you," Ilya said.

"Sorry, man. I'm just saying, good for you. Dude, but like, how long has this been going on?" Connors asked.

"The boyfriend part is new, but since our rookie season," Shane said.

"Your rookie season?!" Connors said.

Shane was waiting for it. Come on, Ilya.

"No, this is not true! The summer before!" Ilya said.

There it was. Shane giggled.

"Yes, you're right. The summer before," Shane said.

Marleau leaned back. "Okay, okay, but what are you two going to do? The league isn't... you know. You never have to worry about us. We're all in that fucking group chat except Roz. That's because we thought you two legitimately hated each other. But if this gets out..."

Ilya dropped his head into Shane's arm. Shane, who was now sitting on Ilya's lap. He didn't even notice himself move from standing beside Ilya at the table to sitting. Old habits.

"We'll figure it out," Shane said. "I want to make sure Ilya has citizenship first, and that's taken care of. We'll have to talk through some things and work out the details, but... I think, and Ilya can correct me if I'm wrong, we just want to be with our friends and with each other. We can figure out the rest of the world when we have to. I was really just excited to meet you guys. I don't think Ilya would have let me out of the house if—"

"Yes, Hollander. Yes. I agree. I have to be able to go back to Russia for my passport and family, but we'll figure it out," Ilya said.

"Good. So can we go dance now?" Shane asked.

Ilya grinned like the Tasmanian Devil.

"Before dancing, is this going to be a problem for anyone? We still fuck up Montreal and hang out with my boyfriend? This is okay?" Ilya asked.

LaPointe spoke up. "Dude, us getting to hang out with Hollander? Yeah, fucking hell. We'll never say anything. Just invite us over for dinner sometime."

Carmichael grinned. "Oh hell yeah! Roz does fucking great team dinners. Can we do one the next time Hollander is in town?"

Shane always knew Ilya was an amazing captain. He'd seen it himself in Ottawa. But he was super glad to know that the Raiders got to see this side of Ilya too.

"Fine. But if I catch you looking at my boyfriend's ass one time, I will murder you with my very nice kitchen knives from Williams-Sonoma," Ilya said.

The threat shouldn't have been hot, but Shane wanted to moan just at that. Ilya shopped at fucking Williams-Sonoma. Future Ilya had been holding out on him; that detail alone was nearly worth the entire time-travel disaster. He needed to get Ilya on the dance floor. Now.

Shane pulled him onto the dance floor. There were plenty of eyes on them. Other Raiders who weren't part of the conversation at the table. Women in their beautiful dresses. But it didn't matter. It was almost like he was getting to explore the exhibitionism that Ilya had always teased him about. Having Ilya run his hands inside of his shirt and tweak his nipples while back to front, with Shane's ass in Ilya's crotch. Ilya kissed his neck and ear. Fuck. They weren't going to last long, or he was going to drop like a fucking fly in front of all of these people in this club and let Ilya throat fuck him.

Ilya slipped his right hand down the front of Shane's tight leather pants, fingers exploring eagerly. Shane's left arm reached back, fingers tangling in Ilya's hair, while his right hand traced along Ilya's muscular forearm, feeling every tendon and vein beneath the skin connected to the hand exploring his pubs. Ilya's free hand twisted Shane's nipple in a vice grip, drawing a gasp from his parted lips.

Yeah, it was time to go. He hated Irish goodbyes. But the Raiders got their show, and within twenty minutes of dancing, they were making their way to the front doors of the bar where the attendant called an Uber for them.

By the time the car arrived, Ilya had reached into the back of the tight pants to firmly grip his ass and reach further down to play with his hole. But to Ilya's surprise, there was a plug there. God, he felt drunk seeing Ilya's pupils turn pitch black after discovering the plug.

They'd always been hot for each other, insane with their love. But in that moment, it was like every chain had broken free and everything was going to be o-fucking-kay. He couldn't believe he'd missed out on this so many years ago. Loving his Ilya in the light, so much sooner. God, it was freeing. It felt reckless, but it felt right. No one in the world could touch them, and he was damn well going to make sure of that.

Right as they were about to get into the car, he heard a noise behind him: the club door opening. Kelley Bronson and Bradley Hammersmith walked hand-in-hand to a car of their own. Goodbye and fuck you, Kelley. Still, he made a mental note to ensure that the future Tanner Bronson had enough money to get himself through college.

Chapter End Notes

Shew! Holy chapter Batman!

Next up: Ilya's POV over the first five chapters + Christmas! Ilya will be addressing the expedited speed of everything in the next chapter. Will he care? Uhmmmm.

Chapter 6: December 23-25, 2016 - Boston.

Chapter Summary

Ilya's POV.

Chapter Notes

Just a couple of things to note here: in my version of events, the timeline differs slightly from canon.

I have Vegas, Mexico, New York City, and then Boston (“Tuna Melt”) all happening within the same year. I think this better establishes the trajectory I want to explore later in the fic, while also adding to the sheer intensity of Shane and Ilya getting together.

I am also a firm believer that, with the exception of the Metros (Hayden included) and Crowell, the true enemy throughout most of canon was never any one person. It was the societal expectations surrounding masculinity that made Shane build walls around himself and kept him from telling people sooner that he was in love. In reality, once the people closest to him found out, they were happy for him, regardless of the fact that the person he loved was Ilya.

Fear is a dangerous disease, and I want to show Shane continually learning to let go of it when it becomes irrational, allowing his happiness to take root and bloom.

We see exactly that happen in this chapter through two major characters: David and Yuna.

Shane fucking Hollander has lost his fucking marbles and swapped bodies with a fucking alien.

Is what Ilya would say if he wasn't having the best weeks of his life.

Looking back on all of the times that he had hurt Shane always caused him to grimace. In Vegas, he and Shane had made a deal. Whoever won MVP for the 2015-2016 season had to give the other a present. They both knew what said present was. It was just a question as to who was going to control the night. Ilya had thought long and hard about how the night was to go. He had been contemplating it for some time. He needed to break Shane's heart, truly. He needed to be let loose from this pain that was inevitable. He was unworthy of the feelings that his Papa had drilled into him as being unredeemable. He was a man. He was to marry a woman. He was to be a strong family man with the values of his father. He was—not allowed to feel what he felt for the most beautiful man in the world.

His only answer to this problem was to break Shane's heart. Bring him back to the Penthouse after winning and just be done with him. Don't even have sex. Just break it off and release him to the world where he could, too, be happy. He could go find a man or woman to bring him happiness. Someone who wouldn't have all this extra baggage of the Russian royalty. Someone who wasn't chronically depressed like his Mama. Someone who was a better fit than himself.

But when Shane entered the room, Ilya's brain went fuzzy. He saw the glistening skin of Shane's neck. His beautiful fucking freckles. His tight tuxedo pants. He was the perfect person. He personified everything his Mother had ever taught him about beauty.

His Mama was a fanatic of Greek mythology. One story that she had always told him the story of Adonis. It was a bit niche for his understanding as a child, but after she passed he would continue to read about the myths sometimes. Irina loved the tale of Adonis—the most beautiful mortal who ever lived, loved by two goddesses who couldn't bear to let him go. She would tell young Ilya that he himself was like Adonis, loved by two people in different ways: his Papa with his stern expectations and rigid rules, and his Mama with her soft hands and softer heart. Both pulling him in opposite directions, both claiming pieces of him.

But she always came back to Adonis's beauty. The kind of beauty that made goddesses fight over him. The kind of beauty that stopped time. "When you see true beauty, Ilyusha," she would say, stroking his hair, "you will know it. It will make your heart stop. It will make you believe in magic."

His Mama always told him how Aphrodite found the baby and took him to the underworld to be fostered by Persephone. She returned for him once he was grown and discovered him to be strikingly handsome. Persephone, however, also found Adonis exceedingly handsome and refused to give him up—she too had fallen in love with him. Zeus settled the dispute by decreeing that Adonis would spend one third of the year with Aphrodite, one third with Persephone, and one third with whomever he chose. Adonis chose Aphrodite, and they remained constantly together. Another version of the story is that both goddesses got to keep him for half the year each at the suggestion of the Muse Calliope. Thus Adonis's life was divided between Aphrodite and Persephone—one goddess who loved him beneath the earth, the other above it.

When Shane Hollander popped up in his life, Ilya could only imagine that this was the beauty his Mama had told him about. Shane was Adonis incarnate—the freckles scattered across his skin like stars, the way light caught in his dark shiny hair, the curve of his smile that could bring Ilya to his knees. This was the beauty that made goddesses wage war. This was the beauty that his Mama promised would make him believe in magic again.

And God help him, he did believe. Every time Shane looked at him, every time Shane touched him, Ilya understood why Aphrodite and Persephone had refused to let go. How could you release something so perfect back into the world? How could you not fight to keep him, even if it destroyed you?

That night in Vegas, Ilya was rough with him. He pulled Shane's hair. He left his fingerprints pressed into his hip bones. He slapped his ass, hoping his handprint would be permanently tattooed there. He had one of the best orgasms of his life buried tight against Shane's prostate. Then he was cruel.

Shane had begun asking about his summer plans. Had started questioning whether it was safe to go to Russia again, as if Ilya had a choice about going back. So Ilya kicked him out. Without any kisses, without any making out, and with the hope that Shane would never speak to him again—because Ilya felt he didn't deserve it. He would only hurt Shane in the long run. He needed to let him go.

He went home to Moscow like the good boy that he was. His father's health was declining by the day, and the old man's moods swung wildly—some days he seemed grateful, other days he was a fucking piece of shit who talked poorly of his Mama.

While in his home country, he trained with his old club coach. He was able to get in plenty of reps over the summer while nurses took care of his Papa. He tried to imagine reclaiming a life there in Russia after he retired. There were many things he loved about his home country—the natural beauty, the architecture. Maybe he'd find a nice woman and come back to raise a family. But the more time he spent around his father, the more he despised the idea of staying. The more he thought about fucking off to North America, changing his citizenship status, and those beautiful fucking freckles.

While in the clubs of Moscow, he tried to reclaim the life he'd had before Shane Hollander walked into it and ruined him for anyone else. But the life he'd left behind no longer fit. It felt like wearing a coat that had shrunk in the wash. Everything felt far too restricting. It felt painful to breathe.

Sasha tried first. In their past, they'd been reckless. They'd fucked in broom closets, in random club bathrooms, in sex dungeons, and in cars—only to be caught by Alexei at sixteen. Sasha always seemed to be around to get Ilya into a bit of trouble. He was like a forbidden fruit that was never meant for more than a good fuck. Sasha had run into Ilya at a club when Ilya was there with Sveta. When Ilya decided to go into the bathroom after a few drinks—needing a break from Sasha's incessant flirting—Sasha followed him there too. He tried to force Ilya down on his knees. Their dynamic was a bit different than Ilya and Shane's. Sasha was most often the top in their experiences, with a few exceptions, leaving Ilya to be submissive. And when Ilya pushed him off and said no, Sasha scoffed and ran out of the room, leaving Ilya dry heaving over a sink.

He tried a couple more times with women at different points over the remaining weeks of summer. The women were all beautiful. They were throwing themselves at him as he bounced to the EDM music and tried to take drugs that made him forget about Canada's prized possession. But his body never cooperated with what the rest of the world wanted. Something always made him feel sick. His head would pound at the idea of sex with someone else. Or ultimately he just couldn't get hard.

The worst was Svetlana.

They'd been fucking for years already. Surely, his body would cooperate with his mind and let him finally get laid by something other than his own hand. She knew his body better than anyone except Shane. She knew what he liked, how he liked it, exactly how to make him lose control.

One night, after too much vodka and too many questions he couldn't answer, she stripped for him. Slowly, teasingly, the way she knew drove him crazy. She stood in front of him completely naked in the dim light of his bedroom, her body perfect, and waited for him to react the way he always had.

Again, he couldn't get hard.

His body stayed stubbornly, humiliatingly soft. He stared at her and felt nothing but a hollow ache in his chest that had nothing to do with desire. Svetlana's face fell. Her confidence cracked. She looked down at herself and then back at him, and he watched the realization dawn that something fundamental had broken.

And then Ilya was crying.

Naked and sobbing on his bed while Svetlana climbed onto the mattress beside him, still bare herself, and pulled him into her arms. She held him while he shook apart, her hands gentle in his hair, her body warm against his. She didn't ask questions. She just held him and let him break.

But she didn't understand what she was comforting him about. She knew about "Jane"—Ilya's code name for the person who made him happy—but she didn't know Jane was Shane. She didn't know Ilya had destroyed it in Vegas. She didn't know Ilya was mourning something he'd killed with his own hands, his own fear, his own inability to be brave when it mattered.

The rest of the summer was mentally draining and even worse for him. His father was bad but Alexei was worse. His brother got arrested for cocaine possession in mid-August. Ilya had to bail him out, had to use the Rozanov name and their father's old connections to keep Alexei out of real trouble. The cops were lenient because Grigory used to be one of them, because the Rozanov name still carried weight in certain circles. But Ilya could see where this was going. Alexei was spiraling into something dark and chemical, and Ilya couldn't stop it. He could only watch and pay bail and make excuses and feel his family's slow collapse pressing down on his shoulders.

By September, Ilya was back in Boston. Training camp started, and he threw himself into hockey with a desperation that bordered on self-destruction. He skated harder than he ever had before. He hit harder, throwing his body around recklessly. He stayed late after practice, running drills until his legs shook and his lungs burned, until his coach finally ordered him off the ice out of fear that he would injure himself. His teammates looked at him like he had two heads because he wasn't partying anymore, wasn't staying out until three in the morning at clubs and bars. He drank in moderation now, nursing a single beer through an entire evening. He turned down every beautiful creature who approached him at clubs, every offer of a night that might have distracted him from his thoughts. He went home alone, night after night.

And he watched Montreal games.

Obsessively.

There were a few things he noticed immediately about Shane through the screen. First, that he was growing his hair out—it was so long and straight but with a slight curl to the jet black strands. It was so fucking hot. Second, his post-game interviews were a lot more interesting. He was winking at the camera. He was saying the things he used to tell Ilya behind closed doors about how shitty some teams were. Not because of their skills but because of their shitty fucking attitudes. For example, Montreal had two early games in October. One against Toronto, which included Troy Barrett and Dallas Kent. Then one against Ottawa, which included Nicholas Chouinard and Zane Boodram. The two post-game interviews were completely different. Shane talked a lot of shit about Dallas Kent and how he was attempting to over-compensate for his lack of skill, and how he hoped that Troy Barrett would get his head out of Dallas's ass before they were constantly coupled together in all of their activities. While talking after the Ottawa game, he spoke so highly of Boodram and his leadership. He talked about how Ottawa was rebuilding and how he couldn't wait to see his hometown team in a few years after they meshed a bit better and got more experience under their belt.

Shane was playing like a god. He was scoring more. He was playing more intelligently. He was zooming around people, but the changes he was making were slight. Sure, he still relied on his team to an extent. But he was making adjustments to turn a team sport into an individual sport. He was always fast. He was always smarter than anyone else on the ice. But it was like he was putting on a clinic in front of everyone. He also seemed a lot happier—smiling while playing and not being so rigid about everything he did. He'd just let loose.

Ilya could only attribute it to the fact that Shane had to find happiness off the ice in Ilya's absence. He had to have a partner now. Someone who fucked him right and on the regular. Someone he didn't need to hide. Someone who brought him breakfast in bed. Someone who kissed him goodnight. Someone who held his hand on the couch on off days and scratched his back. Someone who held him when he cried. Someone who went to family dinners with the famous Yuna Hollander. Someone he loved.

He was convinced that Shane had replaced him and his need for good sex with someone else, and to that, Ilya could break—but he would never let Shane see that. He would leave him alone and just be happy.

Unfortunately, Ilya couldn't help himself.

As soon as he saw the date on the calendar and automatically knew what the Montreal schedule would be like—Coach Thierault loved an optional skate before the mandatory morning skate on game days, loved getting his team prepared to beat Boston—Ilya felt that stupid, dangerous glimmer of hope kindle in his chest. It was pathetic. It was humiliating. But it was there anyway, burning like a match struck in the dark.

He texted Shane with the intent of making him forget this mystery man—or maybe woman, but he doubted it—who gave Shane this newfound strength and comfort.

And then he waited.

He stared at his phone like a pathetic teenager. He waited for nearly an hour with his heart beating in his throat. Shane finally texted: On my way.

At that moment, he threw his fist in the air and jumped from the couch. He had nearly thirty minutes to prepare. Oil his abs a bit. Put some lotion on his face and make sure everything was in place. Luckily, he'd spent plenty of time doing his research to make sure Shane saw how much he cared about this day.

Three days ago, when the plan first came to mind, he began digging. He read every interview, gooned over every advertisement, and devoured every piece of media he could find. He watched the ESPN cottage documentary three times. The first two times, he jacked off to Shane doing yoga. Shane's body was a work of art, and Ilya was desperate and lonely and pathetic enough to get himself off to a documentary on his big screen.

The third time, post-nut clarity kicked in, and Ilya noticed something he'd missed before.

During the kitchen tour portion of the documentary, Shane's fridge was stocked with Canada Dry ginger ale. Rows of it, like it was the only thing Shane drank.

It then became a mission.

Ilya went to Wegmans first. He walked up and down the soda aisle twice, scanning every shelf, every brand, every label. No Canada Dry ginger ale. He asked an employee, who checked the back. Nothing. He left empty-handed.

Whole Foods was next. Same result. Organic ginger ales, fancy imported ones, overpriced artisanal bullshit—but no Canada Dry.

Then Aldi. By then, he was spiraling. He walked into the soda aisle and wanted to punch a wall. Standing there among rows of off-brand sodas, he felt the weight of failure crushing him. If he couldn't find one stupid thing Shane liked, why did he deserve even the opportunity to be in Shane's presence?

A woman working there noticed him on the verge of tears. She approached carefully, like a vet trying to help an injured dog in the street—one that could definitely still bite off your hand. She asked if she could help, and Ilya could only hold out his phone with a photo of a Canada Dry can on it. She immediately brightened. "Oh!" She suggested he try the Walmart Supercenter in Lynn, Massachusetts. They had everything, she said. If anyone had it, they would.

Ilya drove to Lynn.

He found the Walmart and walked straight to the soda aisle. There it was. Rows of Canada Dry ginger ale.

Ilya bought four twenty-four packs along with all the ingredients for a tuna melt.

He brought everything home and stocked his fridge like he was preparing for Shane to move in. He arranged the cans carefully, making sure they were visible, making sure Shane would see them the moment he opened the fridge. He wanted to know what Shane loved so he could love it too. He wanted to be worthy of Shane's attention. He wanted to prove he could be the person Shane needed, that he could adapt to life just like anyone else.

Even if Shane had already found someone else. Even if this was pathetic and desperate and doomed. Even if Shane declined to come over—at least he'd have something to settle his stomach in the event of heartbreak.

And here's the thing. Ilya always knew that Shane Hollander was one of the most self-driven, plan-oriented, and successful human beings on Earth. He knew that.

But what he wasn't prepared for when Shane stepped through the front door of his home was how completely the 'shy-boy' aesthetic he'd had with Ilya had vanished. Shane was a monster in the best way possible. He was aggressive yet tender. He was submissive yet strong. He'd learned sex moves over the summer that Ilya sure as hell didn't teach him.

The thought of that. The thought of another man—which he deduced had to be a man, based on Shane's new blowjob trick—having his hands on Shane, or Shane learning from anyone but him, made him a little sick. So Ilya came to a realization: it was time to match freak for freak in an emotional way. Time to meet Shane in the middle. Ask him for a nap after an excellent blowjob and shower. Shane stays for said nap. Wake up a little early to start dinner, let Shane sleep a little longer, and even slip in the word "baby" for a reaction when he gets out of bed.

Then, to find out that Shane was learning Russian for him? Game over. He could potentially die happy knowing that at least someone did something for him out of love. He felt like he'd earned something. He'd earned this beautiful boy spending his limited free time and energy to learn something for him. It was so thoughtful, and no one had ever been thoughtful for him. It was almost like he was learning to breathe again. Shane Hollander was changing his world with big grand gestures, and it was breaking his mind. Thank God it wasn't breaking his dick, because Shane had ridden him and sucked him multiple times before he had to leave the next morning to be with his team.

What was the most confusing of all was when Shane had the upper hand, giving Ilya a deep and longing kiss at the door upon exiting and saying, "Mine." It was a mindfuck like no other. But he couldn't help but run back to the living room and throw himself on the couch and kick his feet into the air while on his back.

Seeing Shane on his couch with Svetlana was a dream come true. He had no clue what to think, truly. He'd been expecting to spend the holidays alone. Now, him and Shane were calling each other randomly and texting consistently. He could feel the beginnings of love. It was scary. He'd had such a good day introducing his Jane to the people who mattered most—including his team.

They'd come home from the club that Marly rented out, and fuck if it wasn't the best night of his life to just have the chance to show the world that his Jane. His Shane. His boyfriend—was the hottest person in the room and all his. It was fucking mind-numbing. The guys on his team that he cared about knew. They all fucking knew. They were actually really happy for him. And that fucking group chat concerning Shane—well, he'd get to the bottom of that later.

But after mind-blowing sex and three orgasms later—count it, eight for the entire day—Shane had told him that he did indeed intend to stay until the night of December 26th. And Ilya had stepped away to the bathroom under the guise of getting Shane a clean washcloth to wipe him down. But instead, had spent nearly two minutes crying because he hadn't spent any Christmas, orthodox or not, with anyone since his mother had passed. He didn't even know what to do with that information. He needed to make it the best fucking Christmas ever, though, so he wiped his tears and became a Hollander himself with plans for treats and cooking and oh, new traditions. Fuck. It was beginning to feel a little domestic, and while that was scary in his brain, his dick didn't seem to argue.

Now, with Shane asleep on his chest, his smile only faded when he got deep into thought about the past couple of years. His brain—that traitorous bastard—started to supply doubts he didn't want to entertain. What if this was too good to be true? What if he fucked it up somehow?

He thought about Shane's career, his own career, the scrutiny they'd both face. The league wasn't exactly progressive. But looking down at the slab of muscle that was naked and one thousand percent Shane Hollander, Ilya had to do mental gymnastics to keep himself from getting hard every five seconds.

Down boy. Down!

Shane shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent, and Ilya's heart clenched. This man had chosen him and that was enough to make the negative thoughts disappear for another time.

Ilya couldn't help but imagine the possibilities over the next few days. But he knew for certain that he had to step away at some point when Shane woke up—because his love language was gift giving. Giving orgasms. Giving money. Giving fans a reason to sit their asses in seats in Boston again. He was a giver. But Shane was never a taker. Except for the orgasms. He was good at taking those from Ilya. Tomorrow, though, he'd definitely need to sneak out and get Shane a gift. And since Marly was still in town and not leaving, his brute ass could come fucking help.

But for now, as day one of their Christmas adventure came to a close, Ilya had learned a few things. Shane Hollander was possessive and perhaps even in love with him. Shane Hollander was his boyfriend. And lastly, Shane Hollander cared enough to spend his holidays with him—and that was something he wasn't going to take for granted.

The buzzing started at 6:47 AM.

Ilya groaned, his face buried in Shane's hair. The phone on the nightstand vibrated once, twice, then stopped. He exhaled and tried to sink back into sleep, but thirty seconds later it started again. This time it didn't stop. It rang and rang, the screen lighting up the dim bedroom with each insistent buzz.

Shane was dead weight against him, snoring softly into the curve of Ilya's neck. His arm was slung across Ilya's chest, one leg hooked over Ilya's thigh. He didn't stir.

The phone stopped. Ilya closed his eyes.

It started again.

"Fuck," Ilya muttered. He shifted carefully, trying not to wake Shane, and reached across the bed. His fingers closed around the phone. The screen was bright enough to make him squint. Mom. Third call. It wasn't even seven in the morning.

"Shane," Ilya said quietly, shaking his shoulder. "Baby, your phone is ringing. You need to wake up."

Shane made a noise that was half-groan, half-whine. He burrowed deeper into Ilya's side. "Uhh, I don't want to. I'm so comfortable."

"Shane—"

"Just grab it for me," Shane mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Tell me who it is."

Ilya looked at the screen again. The call had gone to voicemail, but he knew it was going to ring again any second. "It's your mom."

Shane's entire body went rigid.

Then he sat up so fast Ilya nearly dropped the phone. "Fuck. Oh fuck." Shane's eyes were wide. "I didn't tell her I wasn't coming home. She's probably losing her mind."

Ilya handed him the phone. "Here."

Shane stared at it like it was a live grenade. "Okay. I can do this."

Ilya started to slide out of bed. "I'll just step into the bathroom—"

"No." Shane grabbed his wrist. His grip was tight, almost desperate. "I mean—please, can you stay and hold my hand? I know it sounds crazy, but I really may need the emotional support for this."

Ilya's chest tightened. He settled back against the headboard and laced his fingers through Shane's. "Of course, malysh."

"Thank you." Shane took a breath, then another. He put the phone on speaker and called her back.

It rang once.

"Shane, what the fuck?" Yuna's voice was sharp, clipped, and loud enough to make Ilya wince. "Where are you? You were supposed to be here last night. Actually, I know where the fuck you are, but you're going to have to tell me for me to actually believe it."

Shane's face went pale. "What are you talking about, Mom?"

"Shane." Yuna's tone shifted—still firm, but quieter. "I have kept my eyes on you and everyone affiliated with your career for years. So, again, I know where you are, but I need you to explain to me why you are there."

Shane swallowed hard. Ilya squeezed his hand. "Mom. I'm in Boston."

"Okay. Why are you in Boston?"

"Because I'm spending the holidays with someone, and I really didn't know how to tell you that I wouldn't be home for Christmas."

There was a pause. Ilya could hear the faint sound of movement on the other end—footsteps, maybe.

"Shane," Yuna said slowly. "I know you're in Boston. But you're going to have to explain to me whether this is a mental breakdown or if this is serious, because if it is, I'm going to need a minute to process."

Shane's jaw tightened. "Mom, just because I have a partner now doesn't mean you get to call it a mental breakdown."

"It has to be a mental breakdown when you're sucking face with your rival in the middle of the streets of Boston outside of some dingy club."

Shane's entire body went still. Ilya felt his own stomach drop.

"What?" Shane's voice was barely a whisper. "What are you talking about? Oh my god. Did someone get photos of us?"

"Yes, Shane, someone did." Yuna's voice was dry now, almost amused. "And guess what? People are saying that Rozanov must be into masculine-looking women with big butts now, because no one has caught onto the fact that it is you. Hell, I wouldn't even know it was you that Rozanov had his hands down their pants if I didn't see those exact pair of pants in the Balenciaga order we made two months ago."

Shane's face flushed red. He remembered that order—sitting at his kitchen table with his laptop open, his Mom on FaceTime, the two of them debating sunglasses and jackets. Yuna had been excited about the sunglasses collection. She'd even mentioned trying to get Shane a partnership because of his newfound obsession with the brand.

"Also," Yuna continued, "I know the back of my son's head even when you grow out your hair. So, tell me again. Do I need to prepare a mental institution, or do I need to prepare to have Ilya Rozanov in my home for future holidays?"

Shane's hands were shaking. "Fuck. Fuck. I can't believe this. Can anyone see my face? I wasn't ready for this yet, and Ilya could lose his job and citizenship. He could be sent back to Russia, Mom. We have to do something."

Yuna sighed. It was a long, measured sound. "Shane, I have already taken care of it, honey."

Shane blinked. "What?"

"I do have Google alerts on for Rozanov, because duh. You two are like yin and yang, and I have to keep up with him to make sure we aren't doing any brand deals that step on his territory. Never did I think I'd wake up to the two of you playing tonsil hockey instead of regular hockey."

Ilya couldn't help it. He laughed.

Shane whipped his head around and gave him a look that could melt steel.

"Oh my god," Yuna said. "Is he there? Can he hear me?"

Shane closed his eyes. "Yes, Mom."

"Hello, Ms. Hollander," Ilya said, trying to sound respectful and not like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Fuck, Shane, I don't want to make this kind of impression on any of your partners. Even if it is Rozanov." Yuna's voice softened, just slightly. "Fuck. I just want you to be safe, and here you have me on speakerphone sounding fucking crazy."

There was a muffled sound in the background, then a man's voice—David. "Well, to be fair, you have him on speakerphone too."

"Shut the fuck up, David," Yuna snapped.

Ilya grinned. "Hi, Mr. Hollander."

Shane dropped his face into his free hand. "Shut the fuck up, Ilya."

Ilya and David both laughed.

Shane lifted his head. "So, Mom, is my face in any of these pictures?"

"No," Yuna said firmly. "And if it were, I'd have come to Boston myself and killed you both."

"Oh. Okay. Good."

"Yes. And I used one of my shell LLCs this morning. In two hours, Shane. Two fucking hours. I purchased the photos under a fake name, had the photographer sell them to me, and got him to sign an NDA. So you're covered. The guy probably thinks I work in the Rozanov camp, but whatever. You're both protected."

Shane's mouth fell open. Ilya stared at the phone.

"Fuck," Shane said quietly. "I really didn't want you to find out this way."

"Shane, honey, we don't care that you're gay." Yuna's voice was gentle now, almost tender. "We don't even care that you're with Rozanov. Honestly, if you chose him and you're anything like me, then you have good taste in men. So there has to be something there that I'm not seeing."

She paused, and Shane could hear her take a breath.

"I'm used to getting notifications about his other sexcapades," Yuna continued. "So when I saw these photos this morning, I'll admit—I panicked. My first thought was that he was using you, or that this was some kind of publicity stunt gone wrong. But then I realized you wouldn't put yourself in that position unless he meant something to you. You wouldn't risk everything over a fling."

Ilya's chest tightened. His shoulders sagged. He was still holding Shane's hand, but suddenly it felt like he was the one who needed the support.

"Mom, stop," Shane said, but his voice was softer now.

"I ask again," Yuna said. "Is this serious?"

Shane looked at Ilya. His eyes were shining, wet with unshed tears.

"Yes," Shane said, his voice breaking. "Mom. Very serious. I think—fuck. I think—no. I know I love him."

Tears spilled down Ilya's cheeks before he could stop them.

Christmas Eve. December 24th. The day Shane Hollander told him—told his mother, told the world through a phone call—that he loved him. They were going to have to make this a special anniversary date.

"Okay," Yuna said. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Okay. Then I need to speak to him."

Shane shook his head. "Mom, you're not speaking to him."

"Shane, give Rozanov the phone."

Shane looked at Ilya, helpless. Ilya nodded. Shane handed him the phone.

"Hello, Ms. Hollander," Ilya said. His voice was rough.

"Hi, Rozanov."

"Ilya, please."

"Hi, Ilya." Yuna paused. "Can you, in the future and for all future holidays that you do not spend with your family, please make Shane inform me that he is—at the very least—not coming home? Or, at the very least, bring yourself home with him? Shit, we'd much rather you surprise us by coming than not have Shane at all."

Ilya's throat tightened. "Yes, Ms. Hollander. I can do that. We can come now if you want."

Shane started shaking his head frantically, reaching for the phone.

"No, no," Yuna said, and Ilya could hear the smile in her voice. "That's okay. I know my son, and I know he's probably shaking his head right now at the thought of that. You two should enjoy your holiday together and have some fun. But maybe this time don't get caught and have photos taken of the two of you grabbing ass. Okay?"

"Yes, Ms. Hollander. We can do that."

"Good. Now, the next time you play Ottawa, you and I are going to dinner. Shane is staying at home, and I'm not bringing David. And you better bring your A-game, because I'm going to find out just how serious this is."

Ilya grinned despite himself. "I look forward to it. I do love a challenge. Moms love me."

There was a beat of silence.

Maybe not the best thing to say right now.

"I'm sure they do," Yuna said, and there was something almost warm in her voice. "But here's the thing, Ilya. I've seen the headlines. I've seen the photos over the years. And I need you to understand that Shane isn't like that. In fact, I haven't met anyone he's dated since high school. So if you're in this, you're really in this. And if you hurt my son, I promise, Shane will be the least of your worries. Okay?"

Ilya swallowed. "I understand, ma'am. And I promise you—I will not hurt him."

"Good. Now go enjoy the holiday and make Shane make you some of his special hot chocolate. I'm going to miss it this year. Someone should enjoy it."

"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Hollander."

Shane took the phone back. "Yes. Thank you, Mom. We should go. I love you."

"I love you too, son. But from now on, don't hide this from me. Your father and I will always support you. Now go have fun and be back in time for New Year's. We'll open presents then. And send me photos!"

"Okay. Sounds good. Bye, Mom."

Shane ended the call and set the phone down on the nightstand. He stared at it for a long moment, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "I know that was a lot."

Ilya reached for him, cupping his face in both hands. "You love me?"

Shane's eyes met his. They were red-rimmed, wet, but steady. "You know I do. I hadn't said it yet, but you know that I do."

"I love you, too," Ilya whispered.

Shane's face crumpled. "I love you, Ilya."

"Fuck, Shane. I love you."

They collapsed into each other. Shane's arms wrapped around Ilya's neck, and Ilya pulled him close, so close he could feel Shane's heartbeat against his chest. They lay back against the pillows, tangled together, and Ilya buried his face in Shane's hair and cried.

Shane's hands were in his hair, carding through it gently. Ilya's tears soaked into Shane's shoulder. He couldn't stop shaking.

"I love you," Shane said again, his voice muffled against Ilya's neck. "I love you, so fucking much."

Ilya held him tighter. He thought about the day they met—the stupid fucking hockey player with beautiful freckles who told him he shouldn't smoke outside of a dumb fucking rink in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

And now this.

The day Shane Hollander told him he loved him.

This, god, this was going to cause his heart to erupt.

The Boyz

9:46 AM

Ilya
Alright boyzzz, I know, I know. You did not expect to hear from me becasue I am with my janeeeee but I need your help.

Marly
God damn it Roz what did you do?

Ilya
No no no. Nothing is wrong. I want to get my Janeeeeeeeee a nice present for Christmas but I have no clue what to get. Who is still in Boston and wants to take an hour to go shopping with me? I can't be gone from Jane for long but I do need help.

Con
Oh look at me my name is Ilya Rozanov

PointeR Sister
My ass is fat.

Carmy
My dick is huge

Con
My body is tea

Marly
My Jane is the hottest person on earth.

Ilya
All truthful things. Thank you for ego boost. Now we shop yes?

Ilya
Also my jane told me he loved me for the first time this morning and I want it to be a special holiday. 🎄❤️

Marly
Fuck yea dude!

Carmy
Holy fucking shit man! That's amazing!

Con
When will it be my fucking turn?

Marly
Con you're like engaged?

Con
but not to Jane!

Ilya
No and you never will be. So who can help?

Con
God if I could spill to the Hollander group chat, I would be a legend.

Con has been removed from the chat

Ilya
Anyone else have anything else to say? If you go shopping you can sit on the bench with me the first day back and eat gummy worms while laughing at others do cardio.

Marly
Me! Fuck Me! I'll go.

Carmy
fuck he beat me fuck.

PointeR Sister
Dude I couldn't even read the text fast enough to respond fuck you marly.

Marly
No fuck you dude. This is goign to be awesome.

10:31 AM

Ilya
Marly you are the winner of competition. Now. I need an excuse to sneak away for an hour. Marly can you call me in 45 minutes and say you need me to come pick you up for flat tire or something? Jane will definitely get suspicious if he knows I dont have an actual reason to leave. He is like weighted blanked that I don't want to move from under.

PointeR Sister
Man are you good, you can't even leave the house for an hour without him knowing?

Ilya
why would i? Being under Jane is exactly where I want to be.

PointeR Sister
You know what. I get that.

Marly added Con to the chat

Con
Fuck you roz! You know I wouldn't out you asshole.

Ilya
It's not about outing Con. It's about this Hollander group chat. But at least it'll make things interesting the rest of the season. I have a hitlist now.

Marly
Fuck man. You can't just go around killing people.

Ilya
watch me.

Marly
Dude. Whatever lol. I'll call you in 45 and then we meet at my house?

Ilya
Da!

Ilya
Thanks boyz and happy early christmas!

11:15 AM

Hammy
Guys ... What the fuck did I miss? I just woke up and there's a random girl in my kitchen making coffee.

Con
Get fucked Hammersmith!

PointeR Sister
Yeah get fucked!

Marly
Yeah! Get fuckithed !

An hour later, Ilya climbed into Marly's truck. Marly took one look at him and laughed.

"Jesus, Roz. You look like a mess."

"Shut up." Ilya buckled his seatbelt, already fidgeting with his phone. "I just—I want it to be good, you know? He told me he loves me. I need to get him something that shows him I feel the same way."

Marly pulled out of the driveway, grinning. "You're such a sap."

Ilya crossed his arms. "You are terrible friend."

"Best friend," Marly corrected. "And I'm helping you shop for your secret boyfriend on Christmas Eve, so yeah, I'd say I'm pretty great."

The mall was chaos—last-minute shoppers everywhere, holiday music blaring, the smell of cinnamon rolls. Ilya dragged Marly into a jewelry store, ignoring the raised eyebrows.

The woman behind the counter was patient as Ilya explained what he was looking for. A necklace. A pendant. Something small. She showed him a few options, but nothing felt right until she brought out a custom piece—it was a round circle that reminded him of a hockey puck, matte black, about the size of a dime.

"Can you engrave it?" Ilya asked.

"Of course. What would you like?"

Ilya hesitated. "On the front, number 24. On the back, number 81."

Marly grinned. "Dude. That's fucking adorable."

The woman smiled. "I can have it ready in twenty minutes."

While they waited, Marly dragged Ilya to one of those kiosks in the middle of the mall—the kind that sold personalized ornaments and tchotchkes. Ilya was still thinking about the necklace, about the way Shane's face would look when he opened it, when Marly stopped in front of a display.

"Dude. Look."

The display was full of pre-made designs—snowmen, reindeer, angels—but one caught Ilya's eye. Two snowmen standing close together, one with a carrot nose, the other with a carrot placed between its legs. It was ridiculous and exactly the kind of thing that would make Shane laugh.

He picked up the sample ornament, turning it over. There was a placard: Customize with names, dates, and messages.

"Can I help you?" A woman emerged from behind the kiosk counter.

"Yes," Ilya said. "This one. Can I customize it?"

"Absolutely! What are you thinking?"

Ilya glanced at Marly, who was grinning. "I want the names on the snowmen. One says 'Jane' and one says 'Ilya.' And at the bottom, 'Our First Christmas.'"

The vendor's expression warmed. "That's beautiful."

"It's for his partner," Marly announced, earning a look from Ilya.

"Well," the vendor said, unbothered, "this is going to be adorable. Let me get the order form."

She pulled out a tablet and started typing. "So we have Jane on the first snowman, Ilya on the second, and 'Our First Christmas' at the bottom. How do you want the text styled?"

Ilya leaned in, examining the font options. He chose something elegant but not too formal.

"How long will this take?" he asked.

"About forty-five minutes to an hour. We do the customization in-house."

Marly whistled low. "Cutting it close, Roz."

"We have time," Ilya said, though there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

The vendor handed him a receipt. Ilya paid—more than he expected, but he didn't care—and turned to Marly as they walked away.

"This is so fun," Marly said. "I can't believe you're doing this. You're like a lovesick teenager."

"Shut up," Ilya muttered, but he was smiling.

"No, seriously. 'Our First Christmas'? That's the most romantic shit I've ever heard. Hollander's gonna lose his mind."

"That's the idea," Ilya said.

Marly bumped his shoulder. "He's lucky, you know that?"

Ilya didn't answer, but his chest felt lighter. He checked his phone and texted Shane: Should be another hour and I'll be home, sweetheart.

Then he realized: if he was giving Shane an ornament, they needed a tree.

"Fuck," Ilya said.

Marly sighed. "Lowe's?"

"Da. Lowe's."

They picked up the necklace—wrapped in a white box with a silver ribbon—and then the ornament, and then drove to Lowe's. Ilya picked out the biggest, fullest pine tree he could find, along with three boxes of lights, a tree stand, and a bag of ornaments. Marly loaded everything into the bed of his truck, shaking his head.

When Ilya walked back through the garage door into the kitchen, Shane was on the couch and scrolling through his phone. He looked up immediately, eyebrows raised.

"Hey," he said slowly. "How's Marly?"

Ilya didn't answer. He was too busy grinning as he and Marly hauled the massive pine tree through the doorway and into the living room. Pine needles were scattering everywhere. The tree was huge—way too big for the space, honestly—but he didn't care. Marly had warned him it would make a mess, had even suggested they get a fake one, but Ilya had insisted on a real tree. Their first Christmas together deserved a real tree. Marly had just shrugged and gone along with it.

Shane sat up straighter. "What the hell is that?"

"Is tree!" Ilya announced, doing a dramatic ta-da gesture with both hands.

Marly snorted. "Yeah, Hollzy. It's a tree. You know, the thing people put up for Christmas?"

Shane's eyes narrowed. "Marly didn't have a flat tire, did he?"

"Nope," Marly said cheerfully, dropping his end of the tree. "But Roz needed an excuse to sneak out and surprise you, so I helped. You're welcome."

Shane looked at Ilya. Ilya grinned wider.

"This is going to make a mess," Shane said, but he was smiling now. "You didn't have to do this."

"I know. But I wanted to."

Marly made a gagging noise. "Jesus Christ, you two. I'm gonna go grab the lights before I puke."

He disappeared back out to the truck. Shane stood and walked over to Ilya, stopping just in front of him. He was barefoot, wearing sweatpants and one of Ilya's old Raiders hoodies. His hair was messy.

"You bought a tree," Shane said.

"Da. For us. Our first Christmas."

Shane reached up, cupped Ilya's face in both hands, and kissed him.

"I love you," Shane murmured against his mouth.

"I love you too," Ilya whispered back.

Marly returned with the lights, groaning loudly. "Oh my god, are you two making out? I was gone for thirty seconds."

Shane pulled back, laughing. Ilya flipped Marly off.

"Alright, alright," Marly said, setting the boxes down. "Tree's up. Lights are here. I'm out. You two have fun decorating and being disgusting."

"Thank you, Marly," Shane said.

Marly paused at the door, looking back at Ilya. His expression shifted—something genuine beneath the teasing. "I'm happy for you, Roz."

Ilya's throat tightened. "Thank you, Marly."

"Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas, assholes. And Hollander remember team dinner the next time you're in town."

And then he was gone.

They spent the rest of the afternoon decorating. It was a disaster at first—pine needles everywhere, lights tangled in knots, ornaments that didn't match—but Ilya kept striking his ta-da pose every time they finished a section, and Shane kept laughing at him.

By the time they were done, they were both sweaty and covered in sap. The tree stood crooked by the fireplace—the one Ilya never lit because he was terrified of burning the house down—but it was theirs. Messy and imperfect and theirs.

They collapsed onto the couch together, shoulders pressed close. Ilya tapped Shane's leg.

"Time for hot chocolate," he said.

Shane laughed. "I need Beluga vodka and marshmallows."

Ilya's head whipped around. "What?"

"Vodka. Marshmallows."

"You—" Ilya stared at him. "You eat marshmallows? You? Mr. Macrobiotic Diet?"

Shane grinned. "It's a holiday-specific tradition. And before you say anything, yes, I'll go to the gym with you tomorrow morning to sweat it out."

Ilya laughed, delighted. "Okay. Okay, yes. I have vodka. Obviously I have vodka. And marshmallows—I think I have some somewhere."

Shane got up to start making the hot chocolate. Ilya slipped out to the garage, grabbed the little white bag from the passenger seat of his Audi—carefully, like he was handling a bomb—and carried it back inside.

Shane was at the stove, stirring two mugs, the smell of chocolate and vodka filling the kitchen. Ilya set the bag on the counter and cleared his throat.

Shane turned. "What's this, baby?"

"It is one of your presents." Ilya's hands were shaking. "I wanted you to have it tonight."

Shane set down the spoon and walked over, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Baby, you didn't have to get me anything. The smile on your face is the only gift I need."

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya said, his voice cracking. "You can't say things like that to me."

"Yes, I can. And I will." Shane stepped closer. "I love you."

"I love you too." Ilya pushed the bag toward him. "Now open it. I'm dying, Shane. I need to see your face."

"Okay, okay!"

Shane pulled the small box out of the bag and carefully unwrapped it. When he lifted the lid, he went very still.

Inside was the ornament. Two snowmen. One with a carrot nose and a scarf that said Shane. The other with a carrot placed very deliberately between its legs and the name Ilya across its round body. At the bottom, in delicate script: Our First Christmas.

Shane stared at it. And then he started crying.

"Fuck you," he said, his voice thick. "This is adorable and my gift isn't going to match this."

"Oh no. No. We cannot be getting competitive with gift giving. We must leave that on the ice. We'll break both of our bank accounts."

Shane laughed through his tears. "Let's go hang it?"

"Da. I'd love that."

They walked to the tree together. Shane hooked the ornament onto one of the front branches, right at eye level where they'd see it every time they looked. Ilya stood beside him, watching the way the lights caught the lettering.

"Perfect," Shane whispered.

"Da," Ilya agreed.

They settled back onto the couch with their mugs, legs tangled together as they stared at the tree. The lights glowed softly in the dim room.

"I can't believe I hadn't told you before today," Ilya said quietly.

Shane shifted closer, resting his head on Ilya's shoulder. "I know, baby. But we have the rest of our lives now. Okay?"

"Okay." Ilya took a sip of his hot chocolate and groaned. "I still can't get over saying it though. And this hot chocolate is amazing."

Shane grinned. "Wait. We should send my mom a photo of the tree. And of us."

He got up, grabbing his phone from the coffee table. Ilya immediately stood beside the tree, striking his ta-da pose once again—arms spread wide, grin enormous. Shane laughed so hard he almost dropped his phone.

He took the photo. Then Ilya ran over, wrapping his arms around Shane from behind and turning him so they were both facing the camera. The tree glowed in the background. Shane was blushing, smiling so wide it hurt. Ilya pressed a kiss to his temple just as Shane snapped the selfie.

Yeah. Great first Christmas indeed.

On Christmas morning, Ilya woke before Shane again. He lay still for a moment, listening to Shane's steady breathing, then slowly extracted himself from Shane's arm draped possessively across his waist. He slipped out of bed under the pretense of needing the bathroom, but he knew he had a very limited window to execute his plan.

He moved through the bedroom without making a sound, then padded down the hallway to the garage where the necklace was hidden in his Audi. His heart hammered as his breathe was visible in the cold garage at 5:40 in the morning.

He hadn't given anyone but Nadia a Christmas gift since he was twelve years old. He'd never received one either. But today he didn't need one—in the span of two days, Shane had made him a boyfriend and told him he loved him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled like this. Maybe draft day, when all his hard work had finally paid off and he could celebrate. But these past two days felt like a different kind of victory entirely. It was the best gift ever.

He retrieved the bag from the car and had what he thought was a brilliant idea. First, though, he'd need to warm up the chain—it was freezing cold from spending the night in his unheated garage.

His plan was simple: slip back into bed, wait for Shane to settle into deep sleep again, then carefully fasten the necklace around Shane's neck without waking him. He'd stay close to Shane all day until he finally noticed the newest addition around his neck.

But when Ilya crept back into the bedroom, the bed was empty. Shane's voice drifted from the bathroom. He was on the phone talking to someone. "Please, it needs to be here today. I know I only placed the order yesterday morning."

Shane must have heard Ilya's footsteps because the toilet flushed abruptly, cutting off whatever he'd been about to say next.

Ilya quickly dove back under the covers and arranged himself casually. "Where did you go, lyubimyy?"

Shane emerged from the bathroom, trying for innocent. "I could ask you the same thing, sir."

"You better stop calling me sir or I'm going to have to tie you to this bed all day."

Shane laughed as he climbed back into bed. "So you want to tell me what's hidden under the comforter and why you look like you were outside in the cold when you said you were going to the bathroom?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes, sir. That's why I asked."

Ilya's resolve crumbled. "Fine. But if I give present now, you must let me cook breakfast in bed for you in a few hours."

Shane's face lit up like the tree downstairs. Before Ilya could even register his answer, Shane was on top of him, kissing him breathless and rolling his hips over his already growing erection. Shane's hands roamed over Ilya's cold skin, but Ilya realized too late that Shane was being a menace—using the distraction to feel around under the comforter for whatever Ilya was hiding.

Shane's fingers found the white box with its ribbon, and he pulled it out with a gasp. Ilya couldn't do anything but grin up at him.

"Open it, baby. Please?"

"Ilya, your present won't be here until later today. Can I wait to open this?"

"No. I must see now or I'm going to spoil the surprise myself. I'm horrible at this—I want to give you presents immediately. I'll need to work on that. But I'm so excited."

"Okay, baby." Shane's hands shook slightly as he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. When he saw the puck-shaped pendant nestled inside, he gasped. Then began crying silently.

"Ilya, it's fucking beautiful."

"Look at the back."

Shane turned it over and saw the engraved 81. His face scrunched. He fell forward, still straddling Ilya's hips, and buried his face in Ilya's neck.

"Fuck, Ilya, it's beautiful. My present sucks compared to this. Fuck—your number around my neck. I'm never taking this off. Put it on me right now."

Ilya laughed and found his own eyes burning with tears. He took the necklace from the box and reached up to fasten it. If he'd known a necklace would get this kind of reaction, he would have bought one months ago.

Shane grabbed a handful of Ilya's hair and kissed him hard enough to make Hugh Hefner jealous.

When they finally broke apart, Ilya whispered, "I love you, Shanya. I love you so much. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Ilya. I love you."

After sex in bed—Shane's new necklace tapping against Ilya's chin as he rode him—they collapsed into the sheets and dozed off for an hour. When they woke, they made love again on the couch, the Christmas tree lights casting a soft golden glow around them. Then in front of the bathroom mirror, Shane bent over the sink while Ilya fucked him slow and deep, both of them locked on their reflection. Later, Ilya sat Shane on his home office desk, rolled his chair right up between his legs, and ate him out until Shane was shaking and begging for more.

By the time they made it back to the couch to throw on Home Alone, they were both spent, wrapped in blankets and each other.

Ilya kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to shatter this perfect fantasy. He'd made Shane breakfast bellinis in bed that morning. Shane had somehow produced an entire roasted turkey for Christmas dinner—Ilya hadn't even known he could cook like that, hadn't realized when he'd had time to arrange delivery. Apparently it had arrived yesterday while he and Cliff were out getting the tree. Sneaky asshole.

But halfway through Home Alone, Ilya noticed Shane getting restless.

He kept glancing toward the window. Checking his phone. Ilya watched him for a few minutes, trying to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh.

"You okay?" Ilya asked, nudging him gently.

Shane's head snapped toward him, eyes going wide. "Yeah. I just—" He bit his lip. "Okay, don't be mad, but your gift is here."

"Here?" Ilya's frown deepened. "What do you mean, here?"

As if on cue, the sound of an engine revving echoed from outside. Then a knock at the door.

Shane stood quickly, pulling Ilya up with him. "Come on. Put your coat on."

"Shane, what—"

"Just trust me."

They pulled on their coats and Shane opened the door. An older man stood on the porch in a black pullover and jeans, holding a set of keys. He smiled warmly when he saw them.

"Mr. Hollander?"

"That's me," Shane said, stepping forward. "You must be Richard."

"Yes, sir. We finished the job, and I have to say, we're glad we could help you with this one. Your mother already signed the paperwork and had everything transferred over. We were cutting it close, but I think you'll be very pleased."

"Thank you so much, Richard. Seriously."

Richard handed Shane the keys. "My pleasure, sir. My family's waiting on me, and thanks to the bonus you provided, I'll be able to enjoy some extra time off. So thank you."

"You deserve it. Do you have a ride home?"

"Yes, sir. My associate's waiting outside."

"Great. Thank you again, Richard. Have a wonderful holiday."

"You too, sir."

Richard tipped his head and walked back down the driveway. Ilya stood frozen, staring at Shane, who held a set of keys with the Audi symbol gleaming in the porch light.

"Ready to see your present?" Shane asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Ilya's heart was pounding. He didn't say anything—just followed Shane down the driveway.

And there it was.

A 2016 Audi RS 7, beautiful and sexy. The paint was deep black, but when the streetlight caught it at the right angle, it shifted—gold like liquid metal. The car gleamed in the darkness, looking like something out of a dream.

Ilya stopped walking.

"Shane," he whispered. "What did you do?"

Shane turned to face him and held out the keys.

"I did some research," Shane said. "I wanted to find the perfect car for you. Not just something fast—even though I know you love speed—but something that would keep you safe."

Ilya just stared at the car, then at Shane, then back at the car.

"It's got the Quattro all-wheel-drive system," Shane continued. "So you're good in the snow. This should take care of you when you're driving in bad weather. And in case you ever wanted to drive up to see me and you run into an unexpected storm—Canadian winters can be tough. It's real spacious too, in case you wanted to drive around some of the guys or go riding around town with Svetlana."

Ilya's mind raced at the idea of driving several hours in this beautiful car to see his boyfriend, maybe even with his family. The endless possibilities of his new reality. He didn't need this car to do it, but he sure would feel sexy making that drive.

"And it has LED headlights—adaptive ones—so you can see better at night. And adaptive cruise control, which helps you drive safely if you're tired after a game. I know how exhausted you get sometimes, and I just—" Shane's voice cracked. "I get worried. You know? This is kinda new for us, but sometimes I see your car collection and I'm thinking I need to put you in bubble wrap before you get inside of anything. Like seriously, everything sits so low to the ground and looks like it's front-wheel drive. But I digress."

Ilya felt his eyes burning.

"Oh, and the paint job," Shane said, gesturing toward the car. "That's custom. My mom and I found a shop that could do it in time. Black that shifts to gold when the light hits it." He grinned. "Mom hated the idea of helping me find something Raiders-related. She even said I should secretly do red and blue for Montreal, but I don't like them that much."

Shane laughed and stepped closer just as Ilya's knees buckled.

He dropped to the ground, his hands covering his face, and he started crying. Shane was on his knees beside him immediately, arms wrapping around him, holding him tight.

"Ilya, baby, what—"

"I haven't gotten a gift since my Mama' died," Ilya choked out, his voice muffled against Shane's shoulder. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Shane's arms tightened around him, his voice thick. "Baby, I ask myself that every day. I'm sorry I'm being a lot, but I feel like I'm making up for lost time."

When Ilya finally pulled back, his eyes red, but he was smiling. "It's okay, Shanya. I feel like I am too. Okay, okay, enough tears. Can we go drive it?"

Shane laughed, wiping at his own eyes. "The title transfer isn't done yet, but yeah. We can take it around."

He stood, pulling Shane up with him, and practically ran to the car. He yanked open the driver's side door and slid into the seat, running his hand across the leather interior. Shane climbed into the passenger seat, grinning.

"Where do you want to go?"

Ilya started the engine. The sound was a low, powerful purr that vibrated through the entire car. He turned to Shane, his eyes bright with joy.

"Anywhere. As long as I'm with you."

They drove through the quiet Boston streets, the city lit up with Christmas lights, the car handling like a dream. Ilya kept glancing over at Shane, who was watching him with so much love it made his chest ache.

When they pulled into the private parking lot at TD Garden, Ilya put the car in park and turned to Shane.

"Get in the back."

Shane's eyebrows shot up. "Ilya—"

"Get. In. The. Back."

Shane laughed and climbed over the center console into the back seat. Ilya followed, and they spent the next thirty-five minutes testing the car's suspension.

Afterward, they sat tangled together in the back seat, breathless and grinning. Ilya rested his forehead against Shane's, his hand coming up to touch the necklace around Shane's neck.

"I'm going to marry you one day," Ilya said quietly.

Shane went still. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ilya's voice was steady, certain. "I've never felt this loved in my entire life."

Shane's eyes were wet again. "Fuck, Ilya."

"My mama would be so happy for me," Ilya whispered. "She would've loved you, like I love you."

Shane kissed him softly.

"I love you too," he said. "So much." He pulled back just enough to meet Ilya's eyes. "How about we go home, warm up some food, and you tell me all about her?"

"I would like that, lyubimyy."

In the back seat of the car, watching Shane and his perfect ass struggle to climb back up front, Ilya made a decision. He would never again let himself question whether he was worthy of Shane Hollander. He would never let his Adonis go as long as he lived. Through the hard times—and there would be plenty—he would never stop loving Shane Hollander. As long as Shane would have him, he'd do everything possible to put that smile on his freckled face.

Chapter 7: January 9, 2017 - Montreal.

Chapter Summary

Thank you all so much for your kind comments! They’ve truly gotten me through this hellacious week at work. I love reading your theories about where you think the story is going. Keep them coming! They feed me!

Just a reminder: from here on out, I’m going to try to update weekly, one chapter at a time. Some upcoming chapters may be a little shorter, but right now, I’m simply enjoying the therapeutic effects of writing for fun again.

Chirp at me in the comments ;)

As always, #FuckP*ke. I've been mad at him since I read the books and found him encouraging JJ to find Shane dates and I'mma' stay mad too!

Shane knew he'd fucked up. He'd read every piece of literature on astral projection, time travel, and whatever else might explain what was happening to him. By fast-tracking all the Ilya-centric things—all the things that made him happy—he must have triggered some kind of ripple effect.

Also, his fucking Excel sheet was now busted.

He didn't have coming out to his parents until June. He didn't have "I love you" day until July 15, 2017. And honestly, that one broke his heart. Knowing that the reality of all his and Ilya's hard work—years of dedication to each other—was being maneuvered around because of his own actions sent him into a full-blown panic attack in his own home. He tried to think about happy things. After all, he'd just returned from what could only be classified as the best Christmas he'd ever experienced with the love of his life. But even that couldn't stop the thoughts of other possibilities and consequences from flooding in.

What effects did his decisions have on Ilya being so happy in Boston now? How would he get Ilya to Ottawa to be part of their dream team, playing together? How would he get Troy and Ilya to be best friends again? Would Troy and Harris even get together? Would Wyatt retire in the goalie hall of fame? Would Luca get rookie of the year? More importantly, would Luca come out to them after getting caught making out with that country music star who also played in Teen Wolf after he won rookie of the year? There were so many variables and none of them were making him feel any better. He supposed he could go to Ottawa alone when his contract ran out in Montreal. But if Ilya decided to stay in Boston now because of the support system he had there, and Ilya knew that Shane would be happy for him, then why would he leave? Why would he make the first move to come to Canada? He didn't need to. Fuck. Yeah, a full-on panic attack was coming on now.

Normally, when he had panic attacks, he would go into the emotional state of his mother and start trying to resolve all of his problems. Now he immediately leaned on Ilya. They were calling. They were texting. They were boyfriends now and, fuck, they loved each other. There was still the lingering thought of Russia and the league in the back of everyone's mind, but no one was addressing it yet because of the pure joy expanding from the turn of events. It was dark and looming in the background, but the sun was shining right now. So, let's all move ahead and keep trucking, he thought.

He could look at his spreadsheet later and make sure the next set of events went off without a hitch. He had to deal with Ilya meeting Rose, and there was the All Stars game. He could prepare for that, and then he'd have to preemptively prepare to fly out of Montreal for Ilya's father's funeral. There was no way in hell he would let him go through that alone. Hell, maybe even Yuna Hollander would finesse her way into the deck of cards.

But now, sitting in his parents' home on New Year's because they'd skipped the trip to Calgary to visit his dad's family (he had a sneaking suspicion they wanted to know everything about the one and only Ilya Rozanov and decided the new turn of events required an immediate family gathering without the insanity of extended family), he was able to tell them just about everything. He told them about their so-called casualness all the way up to November. Truthfully, they'd never been casual—just scared. They were both scared shitless, and he'd admitted as much to his parents during the initial dinner interrogation.

He never expected that at this stage, his parents would be so eager to have Ilya around. In fact, his mom was mad that Ilya wasn't making the commute from Boston to Ottawa to join them—until Shane explained that Ilya had a game the next day whereas Shane didn't. She snarled something about making sure Ilya had dinner with her the next time he was in Ottawa playing.

His dad, had Shane not known better, was the biggest gossip of them all. He started off with tough questions like, "Didn't you look for any other men closer to home, like in Montreal?" But it ended with, "Actually, I can see why you two like each other. It's the closest thing to being in a relationship with hockey." His dad kept nudging him throughout the evening about calling Ilya via FaceTime so they could meet face to face. Turns out David Hollander was actually a huge Rozanov fan. His father explained that Rozanov reminded him of himself in college. They played the same way. According to his mother, in more than one way. He didn’t want to look too deeply into that. Ilya’s play style was much different than how Shane played and a lot less aggressive, but at one point David even said, "I want to tell him he had a good game last night against Los Angeles! Come on Shane, call him."

Shane had chuckled and smiled as hard as he could at that dinner. But honestly, he just wanted his Ilya. They'd never made a huge deal over New Year's in the past, but Shane found himself wanting to make a big deal of every holiday now. And tonight, Ilya would be inside some club at New Year's with Marly and Connors somewhere in Boston. They'd discussed it beforehand, and Shane had firmly said that if one pair of lips got remotely close to Ilya's, he would find whoever the fuck it was and rip their lips off along with Ilya's so they never had this problem again.

It was 11:56 PM EST and Shane knew he would end the night watching the ball drop in Manhattan from his television at his parents' house. His mom would kiss him on the cheek to be funny and his dad would hug him. This is what they always did.

What he didn't expect at 11:57 was a FaceTime request from Ilya that made his heart drop to his ass. And notably, Ilya was already drunk when he answered.

"There's the most beautiful man to walk the earth. God, you're so fucking pretty."

Shane couldn't help but blush as his parents, who were split on the couch, joined him in the frame.

"Oh, it's all of the Hollanders! Blyat! The genes are good in Ottawa, yes? Ms. Hollander, you're so pretty. And Mr. Hollander, you're not looking bad yourself."

Ilya threw a wink at the camera and Shane was instantly uncomfortable. For some reason he didn't mind the mom joke, but the dad joke did something to him. Jealousy over his father? Well, that was new.

"Ilya, stop hitting on my parents. I thought you were supposed to be in the club with Marly and Connors!"

"Shanya. I was there. I danced. I had good time. Now, I'm outside waiting on car because I wanted to kiss you through the phone for New Years."

Shane's mom automatically cooed and Shane stood up from the couch, walking away to the dining room. Right then, he heard someone from the TV say, "Happy New Year!" and through the FaceTime call with Ilya he could see fireworks going off above his head.

"Happy New Year, Shanya. I love you. I can't wait to see you soon."

Ilya kissed the screen.

"Happy New Year, Ilya. I love you so much."

Shane kissed the screen.

"Will you call me when you're home? I want to make sure you made it okay."

"Of course, baby. I'll talk to you soon. Now, go kiss your mom and dad for me."

"Ilya, I swear to god, if you don't stop hitting on my parents."

"What?! I am lucky. They're both hot and I'll get to look at you like that in 25 years. So, yes, I am lucky."

Shane rolled his eyes and hung up the phone. Yeah, this timeline was rocking so far.

Shane remembered January 9th.

The other one, rather. The memory burned into his brain like a brand he couldn't scrub away no matter how hard he tried. In that other life, January 9th had been the night everything crystallized for Shane—the night he understood with brutal clarity that wanting Ilya Rozanov was going to destroy him.

He'd been in a club with Rose and Miles after a bad game against Boston. Montreal had lost, both he and Ilya playing like shit. Rose had wanted to go dancing anyway, and Shane had obliged because that's what he did—he played the part of boyfriend to Rose Landry.

The club was loud. Too fucking loud. He noticed immediately that Rose had champagne glasses poured at their table. She looked beautiful in a tiny silver dress, her eyes bright even through the sea of people between him and the VIP section where they'd sat before dancing. The club was sensory overload, but he was trying to bear it for Rose. He wanted to prove to everyone he could be the right kind of boyfriend. He was strong, he was hot (according to others), and he was a good guy. He didn't fuck around like everyone else, so if his girlfriend wanted to go dancing and have a good time with him while she was in town for filming, then so be it.

Once he got some liquid courage in him, Rose started making moves. Running her hands under his white t-shirt, feeling his abs. She'd done the same thing earlier that month, trying to get him into bed. She was a fiend behind closed doors, and it just wasn't doing it for him. He knew what she wanted tonight, but he didn't know if he could give it. When he glanced up from her needy eyes, though, he saw his world collapsing.

Ilya Rozanov with a fucking woman. He didn't know how to feel. Angry? Sad? Disappointed? Whatever it was, Ilya was putting on a show. And despite not being the one in Ilya's arms being kissed and sucked on, he was getting a bit of a chub from watching. Rose noticed too, feeling around until Shane made an abrupt excuse to leave for the bathroom. He made his way directly to Ilya without even realizing it. But he had fucking tears in his eyes like some coward. He needed to leave, and he did—straight from the bathroom to the side exit where he called an Uber home and texted Rose an apology for his abrupt absence.

He shouldn't have been mad. He'd caused the problem by leaving Ilya high and dry in Boston. It made him sad to think about how he could have avoided so much pain if Tuna Melt day had gone the way Ilya wanted it to in the original timeline.

Instead, he'd gone home and cried into his pillows—cried so hard he thought he might throw up, cried with the lights off and the door locked and his phone face-down on the nightstand because he couldn't bear to look at it. The memory of it still made his chest ache.

But now, sitting in the Montreal locker room on January 9th, 2017, he was determined that this night would be different.

Around him, the rest of the Metros were in various stages of getting ready—some already in full gear, some still pulling on their pads, others standing around talking shit about the Raiders.

Shane couldn't be bothered with any of it. He was more excited for this game than he had been in a long time. He remembered his first game against Boston post-cottage. He remembered what it was like to be thrown around on the boards and to throw around his boyfriend on the boards for the first time. The tension had been electric between them. More so during those first few games than any other. And tonight, Montreal was going to get a fucking show.

For anyone to think that Shane actually threw a game for Ilya, they could all fucking die in a ditch. He would never let his boyfriend—his husband, his soulmate—win a game. It was like sacrilegious.

Speaking of the devil, Ilya was indeed taking his time to text Shane back from the locker room across the way.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Shane pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Da I will meet Rose Landry. No I will not be mean because yes you are gay and no she cannot compete with Russian Hockey God. I will be there but I have to get ready to look nice for my boyfriend first. Good luck tonight Captain. I love you.

Shane's face told the whole story. He couldn't stop the smile that spread across his lips, couldn't stop the warmth that flooded his chest. God, he was so gone for this man.

And that was where he had fucked up.

"Hollander!"

Shane looked up. JJ was grinning at him from across the room, still shirtless and not in his gear despite only having three minutes left to get ready before they took the ice for warm-ups.

"Are you texting your girl?" JJ wiggled his eyebrows.

JJ should know better, and honestly Shane really would just have to have a conversation with JJ and it would stop. JJ was kind and sweet and he really knew what it was like to be a POC in the league. He wouldn't dare bug Shane about things that bothered him. But in this moment, Shane wanted to die because the whole locker room went from buzzing to quiet because they were all just a bunch of nosey bitches and truly worse than the WAGs in every aspect.

"What?" Shane questioned.

"Rose Landry," JJ said. "Come on, man. I saw you leave the restaurant with her last month and you've been fucking glued to your phone for the weeks after. We all know something is going on."

"Nothing is going on," Shane said evenly. "We're just friends, JJ."

Hayden's voice cut across the room from his stall. "Friends, okay. Dude, you're texting each other every five minutes. It's fucking adorable." He paused, his tone shifting. "Maybe channel some of that anger into fucking up Rozanov tonight."

From across the room, Mitty stood up with Gilbert Comeau. "Dude, if I get the chance I'm going to break his fucking face in tonight. Fuck that guy. Fucking Russian slob."

Shane's head snapped up. "Speak of him poorly one more time. I fucking dare you."

The room was now definitely looking at him like he'd grown two heads.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Hayden said. "You're protecting Rozanov now? Your fucking rival?"

"God damn it," Shane said, his voice tight. "All of you are fucking stupid. Rozanov is the only person that can keep up with me in this league. If he's out due to an injury then I might as well go to a fucking Swiss league to have some real competition."

"What the fuck, Shane?" Hayden stared at him.

"I'm just saying that if any of you hurt him and it's not within the scope of the game—if it's some sort of malicious frolic on your part—I will have you benched for the rest of the season. And when reporters ask, I'll tell them exactly how this fucking premeditated threat against Rozanov was discussed long before we even hit the ice. See how that fucks with your careers."

Hayden's expression darkened. "You take up for Rozanov now? What are you, like one of his puck bunnies?"

The whole room lit up with laughter.

Shane's jaw clenched. "No. But I do expect my team to play like we have some sense. We are better than cheap shots and hurting others."

Comeau leaned against his stall, smirking. "So fucking Rozanov is a stupid Russian piece of shit and he's probably wondering which pussy he's going to grab after the game instead of thinking about paying attention to the ice."

Mitty nodded. "Yeah, man, I have to admit he's got game. The guy pulls a different bitch in every fucking city."

That set Shane insane. Because it was true. Ilya had been with a different woman in every fucking city. Which was unfortunate—not for him but for all of those women. He mourned their loss. There was never going to be a situation that the Rozanov-signal ever went up again and to that, he internally cheered. But here in this moment, looking at the public perspective shared by his teammates—no, it would not stand.

"Everyone on the fucking ice, now," Shane said, his voice cold and flat. "I will not tell you again. Get out there and play Metros hockey. Do you fucking hear me?"

The room hushed until JJ pounded his stick handle to the ground and said, "Let's go!"

One by one, the team filed out of the locker room. Shane stayed where he was for a moment, his heart pounding, his hands shaking. Hayden was one of the last to leave. He paused in the doorway, looking back at Shane.

"You're acting weird man," he said quietly. "I don't like it."

Then he was gone.

Shane stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty locker room. His best friend had just looked at him like he didn't recognize him. Like Shane was a stranger. And maybe he was.

Maybe the Shane that Hayden knew was gone. Maybe that Shane had died the day he fell down those subway stairs and woke up with ten years of memories in his head.

Maybe this Shane—the one who loved Ilya Rozanov and admitted it to himself much sooner—was someone Hayden would never understand.

Shane took a deep breath, grabbed his helmet, and headed for the ice.

They moved around each other like sharks circling for blood. Every time their eyes met across the rink, Shane felt it. He wanted to skate over and touch Ilya. Just once. Just to feel the electricity crackling between them—the current that seemed to power the whole damn grid of Montreal. But he couldn't be nice to Ilya on the ice. Not yet. Dropping the mask this soon would be devastating to the future of their relationship. The league and the public couldn't know. Not until he finished his Crowell file. He was still waiting for a chain of events to unfold late in 2017. Once that was done and he had a safety net, maybe then he could come out to the world on easier terms. But the first step was establishing a strong foundation with Ilya and, well, they hadn't even been to the cottage yet!

He played harder than he'd played all season. He was everywhere. He scored in the first period with his backhand. The crowd erupted. Across the ice, Ilya's eyes found his, and Ilya had the fucking nerve to laugh. At some point, Ilya skated by the Metros bench with Marly and said, "Marly, did you see Hollander's weak backhand?" They both laughed, and the Metros near Shane wanted to start a fight about it, but Shane could do nothing but laugh.

Ilya answered in the second. When Shane skated past him on the next shift, he muttered, "Show-off."

Ilya grinned. "Don't be jealous of sexy man scoring goals, Hollander. I'll make sure to blow you a kiss after the next one."

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Shane said, but he didn't put any heat behind it.

JJ scored in the third off an assist that was beautifully orchestrated by Shane himself. He considered it some of his best work. It was like threading a needle while playing in traffic at the same time. But it worked, and JJ was able to execute. Ilya tied it up five minutes later. 2-2.

Then, with three minutes left, Shane took the game winner from one side of the ice to the other. It felt like he was back in Ottawa. His husband in his peripheral vision. His friends surrounding him in the flash of white below him. The arena watching him with the same thought in mind. He scored. 3-2, Metros.

The press conference room was packed. Shane sat at the table with the Metros logo behind him, still in most of his gear and filled with adrenaline. It seemed that as soon as his ass hit the chair, the reporters started firing questions.

"Shane, you and Rozanov were tied up against the boards at least four times tonight. Can you talk about that physicality?"

Shane kept his expression stale, but he couldn't help thinking about how physical he was going to be with his boyfriend-husband later that night. "Rozanov's a strong player. We both play hard. That's how we've always been."

"But the intensity between you two specifically," another reporter jumped in. "The cameras caught you going at it in the second period. It looked like an Olympic-level battle out there."

Shane's chest warmed.

"We're both competitive and I only expect the both of us to get better from here on out," Shane said. "We are both desperate for a win whenever we meet eachother on the ice. When you've got two players at the top of their game going head-to-head, that's what it looks like."

"Top of their game," the first reporter repeated, scribbling notes. "You and Rozanov are both having career years. Do you see him as your biggest competition for the Cup?"

Shane smiled slightly. "I see him as the second-best player in the league, just behind me, of course. But don't tell him I said that. He'll get all pissy, and I can't have him busting into my locker room acting all," he put on his best Ilya impression, "'Oh no, Hollander, you know you're second best. I'm beautiful, sexy Russian who went first in the draft,' blah blah blah." Shane was having too much fun while the reporters stared with eyes that looked ready to pop out of their heads. "Oh! No, he'll be like, 'Oh Hollander, you cannot be the best unless you buy me more marshmallows after using mine for hot chocolate.'" Shane laughed, but he didn't realize his slip until the room erupted with questions.

One reporter asked, "Shane, are you saying you and Rozanov are friends outside of the league?" Stupid question.

The next: "Why would he want you to buy him marshmallows?" Equally stupid question.

Lastly: "Would you ever want to play beside Rozanov instead of against him?" Now that he could answer.

"I would love to play side by side with Rozanov one day. Maybe even on the same line, but he'd have to learn to play wing while I center him. I don't think we'd both look good in Metro red and blue, and I'm not made for black and yellow." Shane winked at the reporter, Natalie, he thought her name was.

That was enough fun for the night. It reminded him of his playful interviews during his second season in Ottawa. The first season had been too uptight. He'd still felt like he had something to prove. The second season, after winning their first cup together, he felt unstoppable and just learned to have fun on the ice with his husband.

When he returned to the locker room, it was loud, but most of the Metros were gone. Luckily, none of them had watched the interview. He didn't need that attention tonight. He just wanted everything to go as smoothly as he'd envisioned. In his other timeline, this night had been the one that led him to conquer his own internal struggles of loving Ilya. This time around, it was going to be the night his support system met Ilya's—and he was so excited to make this happen now instead of days before their wedding.

After his shower, he returned to the locker room with a towel around his waist. Hayden was leaning against Shane's stall.

"You want to go out tonight with the team?" Hayden asked.

Shane grabbed his bag and started pulling out his clothes—jeans, a dark gray henley. "No thanks, Hayd. I'm going out with Rose tonight."

JJ appeared from around the corner, grinning. "Oh shit, Hollander, are you actually banging her? When you get married I better get credit for introducing you."

"No, JJ," Shane said, pulling on his jeans. "We're just friends. I've already told you this. We're going out with her friend while she's in town."

"Why not let us come with you, man?" Hayden said.

"Yeah," JJ added. "I want to meet famous Hollywood friends."

He pulled his henley over his head. "No, guys, it's not like that. We just want a night to ourselves. Sorry."

Hayden stared at him for a long moment as Shane dropped his towel and pulled on his underwear and jeans. "Whatever, man."

Shane grabbed his jacket and his bag. He could feel Hayden's eyes on him as he headed for the door, but he didn't look back.

The Lincoln town car was waiting outside the arena, idling by the curb. Shane pulled open the door and slid into the back seat, and immediately Rose threw her arms around him.

"Shane!" she said, squeezing him tight. "You played so well! Oh, and this is Miles, my best friend."

Shane looked up to see a guy sitting next to Rose. Mid-twenties, Black, bald but beautiful with flawless skin Shane could definitely appreciate. He was wearing a white button-down, and his arms were practically rippling out of his shirt. The guy was cut like an hourglass, or more accurately, like an upside-down triangle from the waist up. Shane could definitely appreciate a man who looked like that. Miles was grinning at Shane like they were old friends.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Shane," Miles said, reaching across Rose to shake Shane's hand.

Miles held Shane's hand a little too long, his eyes doing a slow sweep up and down Shane's body.

"It is nice to meet you, Miles," Shane said, trying not to laugh at the obvious once-over.

Rose pulled back from his space, still close after the hug. "So," she said, glancing between them. "I told Miles that we were going out tonight but I didn't tell him anything else. Because that's essentially all that I know. Are we meeting people there?"

She gave him sneaky eyes. She knew damn well they were going to meet half of the Boston team at Ciel. But he did appreciate that she wasn't willing to spill his secret.

"Yeah," Shane said. "So my boyfriend's going to be there, and he's really excited to meet you. Of course, we can't be all over each other since we aren't out to the public yet, but we just went to this club in Boston a few weeks ago—one of those invite-only places where they don't allow cell phones inside. We got to do quite a bit in front of people, and it was so much fun. I wish tonight could be like that, but I'm not sure how long we're actually going to stay."

"Oh, have plans after?" Rose asked, her smile widening.

"You could say that," Shane said.

Miles sat up straighter. "Excuse me, did you just say boyfriend?"

"Yeah," Shane said.

"You—you hot stick of meat, with an ass that could move mountains—have a boyfriend?" Miles demanded.

Shane laughed. "Yeah, man."

"Rose, why did you invite me if I'm just going to be watching hot hockey men?" Miles said. "I'm not trying to be a cuck."

"Please," Rose said. "Maybe you'll find someone at the club too. I haven't even met the boyfriend yet. Maybe he'll have friends."

"Oh, he'll have friends," Shane said. "But I'm not sure which of you they'll be after."

The town car pulled away from the curb, heading toward downtown Montreal. Shane leaned back in his seat, his heart pounding. In a little less than an hour, he'd be at Ciel with Rose and Miles. Ilya would be there. The Raiders. They'd all be together, and it would be fine.

Ciel was packed.

Rose walked up to the bouncer at the VIP entrance and waved a black credit card in his face. The bouncer glanced at her, then at the card, and immediately stepped aside.

"Right this way, Ms. Landry," he said, gesturing toward stairs that led up to a balcony overlooking the dance floor.

"Thank you, darling," Rose said, flashing him a smile.

They followed the bouncer upstairs into the VIP section, which was somehow even more packed than the main floor. He led them to a huge booth in the corner, right at the edge of the balcony, with a perfect view of the entire club. It offered the privacy he'd hoped for, along with a bit of relief from the thumping bass.

"This is perfect," Rose said, sliding into the booth. "Thank you so much."

The bouncer nodded and disappeared. Miles slid in next to Rose, and Shane took the seat on her other side, his back to the wall so he could scan the whole room.

"Okay," Miles said, leaning forward. "Can we talk about how hot that bouncer was? Because damn."

"Right?" Rose said. "Did you see his arms?"

"I'm going back down there after we get drinks," Miles said. "I'm getting his number. I don't care if I have to beg."

Shane pulled out his phone, only half-listening. He opened his messages and typed quickly.

Shane
We're in VIP. Corner booth on the left side of the balcony. You'll see us.

Lily
on my way
marly is being slow

Shane
Take your time. We're not going anywhere.

He set his phone on the table and looked around. The club was beautiful in a chaotic, overwhelming kind of way. The lights strobed in time with the music, casting everything in shades of blue and purple and gold. The dance floor was a mass of moving bodies, and the VIP section was full of people who looked like they belonged in magazines—their polished looks definitely bought and paid for by whatever money got them into this part of the room..

Shane felt out of place in his simple jeans and henley, but he didn’t want to dig into the designer clothes he’d been buying over the past few weeks. One thing he’d learned about himself recently: it was okay not to be frugal all the time. It felt good to treat himself in ways that made him feel confident. Sexy, even. Today, though, he wished he’d packed something in his gym bag that didn’t scream Target—everyone here looked so polished. Rose had insisted he looked great, of course, and reminded him that Ilya wouldn’t care what he was wearing since he wouldn’t be wearing it for long once he got home.

This would be fine. Just a few Raiders. Rose and Miles. Shane and Ilya. Everyone together, having a good time. Even if someone snapped a photo, it'd be easy enough to explain away—friends hanging out after a game.

It was a good plan.

And then, five minutes later, Shane looked up and saw faces he hadn't anticipated.

Hayden and JJ.

Shane tried to duck down in his seat where they couldn’t see him. No such luck.

“Oh shit,” Miles said, following Shane’s gaze. “Are those your teammates?”

“Yeah,” Shane said faintly.

“And I’m assuming you weren’t expecting them to be here?”

“Nope.”

JJ spotted him first. His face lit up, and he started weaving through the crowd, Hayden right behind him.

"Capitaine!" JJ shouted over the music. "We didn't know you'd be here! I mean, we knew you were coming out, but didn't know you'd be here!"

"Lucky for us," Hayden added, his gaze shifting to Rose. "We get to meet the gorgeous girlfriend."

Rose's arm was still draped around Shane's shoulders from when she'd leaned in to say something a few minutes ago. Shane had been so focused on watching for Ilya that he hadn't even noticed. But now, with Hayden staring directly at them, it looked like they were together.

Shane's chest tightened. His heart kicked into overdrive. He could feel the panic crawling through his veins.

No, he thought desperately. No, no, no.

Rose must have felt him tense up, because she immediately tightened her arm around him, pulling him closer. "Hey," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the noise in the room. "It's okay. Just breathe."

But it wasn't okay. Because Hayden was still staring at them, JJ was grinning like he'd just won the Stanley Cup, and Shane really couldn't breathe. The room was closing in around him.

"Why don't you guys sit down?" Rose said, her voice friendly. She gestured to the booth. "There's plenty of room."

"Don't mind if we do," JJ said, sliding in next to Miles. "I'm JJ, by the way. Huge fan. I've seen all your X-Squad movies like five times each."

"Oh my god," Miles said. "Finally, someone with taste."

Hayden sat down on the outside of the booth, effectively trapping Shane between him and Rose. Shane's panic ratcheted up another notch. He was boxed in. He couldn't—

"So," Hayden said, turning to face Shane. He had a beer in his hand—he must have grabbed it on the way over. "How long has this been going on?"

He gestured between Shane and Rose.

"We're just friends," Rose said immediately.

"Right," Hayden said, skeptical. "Friends."

"We are," Rose insisted. "Shane and I met last month, and we hit it off. That's it."

"You hit it off," Hayden repeated. He took a sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving Shane's face. "So you're not dating."

"No," Rose said.

"But you're here together," Hayden said. "At a club. On a Friday night. After Shane blew off his teammates to be with you."

"Hayden," Shane said quietly. "Drop it."

"I'm just asking questions," Hayden said. "I mean, you've been spending a lot of time texting her. It's not crazy to think—"

"We're friends," Shane said. His voice was tight. Strained. "That's all. Can you please just drop it?"

Hayden stared before turning his head back to the dance floor. Then he shrugged and took another sip of his beer. "Whatever you say, Cap."

But he could tell Hayden didn't believe him.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He could feel Rose’s hand on his back.

Nothing was working, and he really couldn’t pinpoint what had triggered this spiral. He’d felt so confident earlier. Hell, he’d even dropped some hints about his “friendship” with Ilya to the media after the game. But as he sat there lost in thought, he glanced up and saw the brightest light in the room making its way across the dancefloor.

Ilya, who met Shane’s eyes through the strobes. In that moment, Shane felt small—but only because the smile on Ilya’s face that came with recognition dropped into a deep frown and an even more frantic push through the crowd standing in his way to get to the VIP section.

While frowning, Shane couldn’t help but think about how hot his silly boyfriend-husband was. The golden retriever wore the same ugly Versace shirt from the first timeline—like a broken record, that thing had stayed in their marital closet for years. Shane wanted to frame it, but Ilya hated it and the memories that came with it. It was definitely vintage, probably from the ’90s, covered in a garish gold-and-black pattern that should have looked ridiculous but somehow looked perfect on him.

Behind Ilya were three of the Raiders: Connors, Carmichael, and Marleau. But as they approached, Ilya fell back a bit. Shane could only assume it was out of fear of finally seeing the unexpected Metros at the table. Marly was in front, and he reached the booth first, leaning across the table to shake Shane’s hand.

“Hollander,” Marly said, grinning. “Hell of a game tonight, man. That assist was fucking sick.”

“Thanks,” Shane managed.

Connors and Carmichael echoed the sentiment, both congratulating Shane on the win. They were so friendly, and Shane was grateful that Ilya had them in his life in this timeline. In a way, they both had them all in their lives. They’d been incredibly supportive over the past two weeks and had even asked for Shane’s phone number to wish him a happy new year, but Ilya refused. Stupidly, he’d said, No, my boyfriend is off limits. You will not be texting him. Buncha homedemolishers. Shane had wanted to correct him—say homewreckers—but it was too cute to interrupt.

But upon approach, Ilya didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his eyes locked on Rose’s arm around Shane’s shoulders, his jaw tight.

Shane could see the jealousy running through him like water in a river. It painted every inch of Ilya’s face, accompanied by something worse: hurt.

No, Shane thought desperately. No, Ilya, it’s not what it looks like. I swear, it’s not—

”What the fuck is this, Shane?” Hayden said.

Shane’s head snapped around. Hayden was staring at the Raiders like they were actually infectious with the bubonic plague.

"You're friends with the Raiders now?" Hayden demanded. "What the fuck?"

"Come on, man," Marly said easily. "We're not that bad. Hollzy's real cool."

"Hollzy," Hayden repeated. He laughed, but it wasn't a friendly sound. "What the fuck kind of nickname is that?"

"It's a good nickname," Marly said, his smile fading. "Better than Pike, anyway."

"Fuck you," Hayden said.

"Hayden," Shane said sharply. "Stop."

But Hayden wasn't listening. He turned his glare on Ilya now. "And what the fuck are you doing here, Rozanov?"

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He looked at Hayden with the same smirk Shane had seen countless times when the two were in the same room. It wasn’t quite distaste—more like annoyance. In their other timeline, Ilya had made plenty of comments about wishing he and Hayden could be friends. They were both men who loved Shane fearlessly, just in different ways. Ilya often joked that he believed Hayden had a massive, secret, bisexual crush on Shane. He even theorized that Hayden and Jackie wanted Shane to be part of their family in more than one way. That theory was dispelled after Ilya got to know Jackie, but Hayden never came around—despite all four of his children calling Ilya “Uncle Ilya.” It was sad to think about now, given everything Ilya had gone through just to keep their secret and make Shane happy. Ilya did want a friend. He did want Hayden to be that friend. But Hayden couldn’t get over the fact that Ilya used to be a party boy with women hanging off his arm. Everyone knew this. But Ilya didn’t let his past define his future, and he’d been nothing but loyal to their relationship for so long. Hayden truly needed to grow up.

"Pike," Ilya said, his voice smooth as butter. "Can you please let me sit beside Hollander? And maybe I'll consider you the third-best Metro behind Shane and JJ, who both scored sexy goals tonight."

The booth went silent. Except for Rose. She chuckled, already finding Ilya to be the comedic relief amongst the tension.

Hayden's face flushed red. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Ilya said. "Move."

"I'm not moving," Hayden said. "And you can fuck off, Rozanov. Go find some whore to dance with and take home. I'm sure there are plenty of them here."

Shane's vision tunneled.

The word whore bounced around in his head like a pinball, over and over, transporting him back to those early years when everyone who didn’t really know Ilya called him things they had no right to say.

Ilya had explained it to Shane so many times—more times than he could count. Back then, a body was just a body. He’d wanted pleasure, wanted to feel how a woman moved against him, how they were warm in more ways than one. For Ilya, it was transactional. His body had needs, especially on nights when he had nowhere else to channel his darker thoughts. Thoughts that only grew louder after he lost his usual escapes—a quick lay, a cigarette. That line of thinking always led Shane to Ilya’s accident the year they were outed and, well, came out. Officially. It had been beautiful but still terrifying to realize how close he’d come to losing Ilya to his own mind.

He couldn't breathe.

His chest was tight. His hands were shaking. The room was spinning, and the music was too fucking loud, and he couldn’t—

”Shane.”

Ilya’s voice cut through the panic. Shane looked up and met his eyes, and all roads always led back here, didn’t they? To Ilya, the only person who could pull him back from the edge.

"Let me out of the booth, Hayd," Shane said.

"No," Hayden said. "Fuck that, man. Why do you want to hang out with these guys? Especially fucking Rozanov? Your girlfriend is right here."

"Rose is not my girlfriend," Shane said, his voice louder now. "Fuck you. We're just friends, and I was here to enjoy time with them until you crashed my one night out. And that would have been fine! But you don't know how to fucking act."

Hayden stared at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Shane didn't answer. He just reached out, extending his hand toward Ilya.

Ilya took it immediately.

The entire booth went silent. Everyone was staring at them now—Rose, Miles, JJ, Hayden, the Raiders.

He didn't care. He crawled over Hayden's lap, still holding Ilya's hand, his movements making him look like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time given the little amount of space between Hayden's knees and the table. Hayden tried to grab his arm, tried to pull him back, but Shane shook him off.

"Shane—" Hayden started.

"Let go of me," Shane said.

And then he was standing, and Ilya was right there in front of him, one hand warm and solid in Shane's. The other connected to the thumb tracing the freckles scattered across his cheeks.

"What do you need?" Ilya whispered, leaning in close so only Shane could hear.

"Air," Shane said. His voice was shaking. "I need air."

"Okay," Ilya said. "Come on."

He turned and started walking toward the fire exit, pulling Shane along behind him. Shane followed, his hand gripping Ilya's so tightly it probably hurt, but he couldn't let go.

Behind them, he heard Hayden's voice. "What the fuck?"

And then Marly's. "Man, let it go. Everyone just wants to have a good time."

And then Rose's. "No fuck that. Dude, you need to get the fuck out of here. You're being rude as fuck."

But Shane didn't look back. He just followed Ilya through the crowd, past the staring faces and the flashing lights, toward the fire exit and the promise of fresh air and space and Ilya.

Once the cold air filled his nostrils after rushing out the fire escape, his senses started returning. But something was missing. Ilya's hand. Where the hell...

Shane spun around to find Ilya wedging a leftover brick against the door to keep it from locking behind them. The landing was probably used by smokers who worked in the club. As soon as he secured the door, Ilya turned to Shane, glanced around to confirm they were alone, and rushed to hug him.

"Are you okay, Shanya?"

"Yeah, baby. I'm okay." He took a breath. "Sorry I almost had a panic attack in there."

It didn't make sense. Sure, he had his panic attacks, but he hadn't felt one building like the one in the club since he was outed in the other life. Truthfully, it had to be a combination of things. He'd wanted the night to go well so badly. He wanted it to go well and at the same time, he wanted to stay closeted just a little longer. He wanted Ilya to be comfortable with his girl-best-friend, Rose. He wanted a good night with Ilya that ended with his jaw and throat sore.

At the same time, he wanted the chance to talk to Hayden and Jackie together in a few months and tell them he was gay, just like he did in the first timeline. Let them know so they could meet his boyfriend and support them.

Well, for Jackie to support them at least. And for Hayden to nag JJ about setting him up on dates that were never going to happen all while disrespecting his relationship with Ilya because for some reason—Hayden hated Ilya. Unjustifiably so.

It was all running together again and all of his careful planning was bleeding together. He sure as hell didn't want to come out to Hayden tonight, but there might be an issue with the fact that Shane had just walked off from the group, hand-in-hand with Ilya, which in turn set off a different perception.

He just wanted tonight to go well and everyone who mattered to him being in the same room should have been a thrill. Instead, he was outside crying like a little bitch baby. Outside this stupid fucking club. This club and his tears—he swore he'd never come back to this shithole after tonight.

Ilya followed with: "No sorries. Is okay. You're okay. We are okay. I did not kill Pike for being dick. I did not rip arm off Rose Landry. You are fine, I am... okay."

Shane couldn't help but laugh at the gentle green giant living in Ilya's heart.

"No, I am sorry. I just really wanted tonight to be perfect and then they showed up out of nowhere."

"Shane, I already said it is okay. As long as I am with you, I am okay. But I do not know if Pike is going to survive the fist of my Raiders if he keeps acting this way."

"I love you, Ilya. Thank you for coming here tonight. I know we could just be home with the two of us, but it really does mean a lot to me for you to meet Rose. Hopefully when we go back inside, I can actually introduce you."

"I'd like that, Shanya. Let's take a few minutes out here and breathe, then go back in." Ilya didn't wait for an answer. He pushed Shane against the brick wall behind him, teasing Shane's bottom lip between his teeth. They stayed like that for about a minute before the smokers' door burst open and an older lady—definitely one of the bartenders—barged out to light a cigarette. Shane and Ilya jumped apart. But Shane's finger was still hooked in Ilya's shirt, caught in the top button that landed right at the vertical line of Ilya's nipples. With the sudden jerk away from each other, Shane may have accidentally popped the button clean off.

"Oh come on, Shane, this is one of my favorites!" Ilya said, his voice turning almost childish.

"Don't worry, I'll call Donatella myself and get you a new one."

"Psshhh, please. You don't even know Donatella. And if you did, I'm begging you—never tell her about this shirt. I got it from a place called Santee Alley with Sveta a few years ago."

"Wait, this isn't real Versace?"

Ilya laughed. "No, Shanya. I bought this from some creepy old man out of the back of his van."

"Shut the fuck up." Shane was almost ready to faint right there and kick his soon-to-be husband's ass. Past Ilya had spun some bullshit story about how this particular shirt was bought straight off the runway over twenty years ago, then handed down to him in a club in Belgium. Then the story shifted to Monaco. Then London. To now discover that this dumbass shirt—a reminder of the night everything changed—was actually purchased on some random street corner on the south side of LA made him want to scream-laugh.

"Yes, yes, your boyfriend is not only a whore, but a cheap whore."

"No, you're not a whore anymore, Ilya Rozanov. You're mine."

"Yes, this too. Your new friend too, apparently. The whole internet is talking about your horrible impersonation of the Ilya Rozanov."

"Oh God, I was hoping you wouldn't see that until tomorrow when you had to leave. At least I'd have some peace away from your teasing."

"Ah, no, no. Now I must make sure our home is filled with marshmallows or you think I complain." It was so cute that Ilya picked up on all the little details and remembered the funny stuff so he could bring it up later. But wait a damn minute—did he just say—

"Our?"

"Yes, I think so, yes. What is mine is yours. I own house in Boston, it is yours too. You own many houses in all of Canada. I get sex condo, at least."

"Wow. Our homes. Multiple. Like we're joint landlords or homeowners, together." It was a silly thought, but he remembered signing the deed to their newest home in Ottawa after getting married—and well, the signing of the deed with Hollander-Rozanov as his last name had led to a full eight hours of fucking with no bed even built in the home yet. They'd both complained of back pain and blamed each other for at least two days afterward.

"Oh my boring Shanya. Being Mr. Landlord turns you on. I must buy a new house now. You must come over and help me inspect pipes."

"Shut up, you big dummy. Oh, and I sold the condo. I didn't feel the need to have it anymore considering I could just have you in my home."

"Wait, I'm going to your actual apartment tonight? The real place?"

"Yes, Ilya. I only take my non-serious boyfriends to the sex condo. I must keep them separate from the rest."

Ilya instantly pouted and went still. "What other boyfriends, Shanya? I told you I want—"

Seeing the hurt flash across his face, Shane shut him up real quick. "I'm kidding, baby. I promise, no other boyfriends. That was a bad joke. I'm sorry."

"Is okay. Just make it up to me later." Ilya winked. "Let's go see if your rose killed Hayden with her thorns yet."

Ugh, back to the reality of what tonight was supposed to be.

Upon entering the VIP area and stepping back into the club, Shane made eye contact with Rose, who was smiling at them from across the room. The Raiders were scattered throughout the space—Marly grinding on the engaged Connors (odd, but okay), Carmichael talking to some girl by the bar, and Miles at the other end chatting with a tall, slender gentleman. JJ, however, was still in the booth keeping Rose company.

As they approached, Ilya stood a step ahead, almost instinctively positioning himself between Shane and wherever Hayden might emerge with his venom. But before either of them could process the moment, JJ interrupted their thoughts.

"Capitaine, I'm so sorry," JJ said, his voice apologetic. "I didn't know that was going to happen like that when Hayden asked me to come with him here tonight."

Shane stood by the end of the table where Rose and JJ sat, "No, it's okay. And what do you mean, when Hayden asked you to come here tonight?"

JJ seemed uncomfortably. "Oh, well." He said it shyly, like he was embarrassed to admit it. "Hayden said that he looked at Rose's instagram and saw her post a photo outside of the building and we were just down the street with the rest of the team. So, he grabbed me and we came this way."

"He intentionally came here? To what? To ruin my night?"

"I'm not sure, Capitaine. I don't think he's okay. He's been going through it, you know, since..." JJ trailed off.

"Since what, JJ?" Shane demanded. "Because whatever it is, he shouldn't be acting like a complete fucking dick."

JJ winced. "Oh—I thought he had told you. I'm sorry, I shouldn't say."

"JJ, fucking tell me." Shane leaned forward. "Whatever is happening with my best friend, I should know. I deserve to know, in fact, since he caused such a fucking mess tonight. Where is he anyway?"

"Uhm, he left. Well. Actually, Miles threw him out." JJ's face was filled with a smile and his eyebrows indicated that he seemed impressed. "I didn't know someone who looked like that could be so... wow. It was kinda hot."

Shane would later find out from Rose that Miles had stood up from the table and, quote, "read Hayden for filth," end quote. Something about how he was pretty and that was the extent of his use to the world—because on the ice he's slow, and he's also slow in real life since he obviously wasn't reading the room correctly. After all, he'd just blown up everyone's spot and acted like a complete dick. Miles then grabbed him by the arm, to which Hayden jerked away. Carmichael stepped in and told Hayden he needed to leave. Hayden protested, but according to Rose, he looked like he was about to cry. He turned to JJ and asked him to come on. But JJ said he wanted to make sure Shane was good first, and then he'd head back to the other bar they were at before. Hayden scoffed and said he was going home.

Also, did JJ just call Miles hot?

Shane shook his head, refocusing. "JJ, what is happening with Hayden?"

"Dude, I shouldn't tell you. He should. There has to be some reason he didn't."

"No, man, fucking tell me now or I'm going to go beat it out of him."

JJ exhaled hard. "Fuck. Okay. Man, Jackie left him back in August and he's just kinda been alone. They split the kids on days when he's in town. And she's pregnant again but she must have got pregnant before the split because she's nearly seven months along and Hayden is building a crib in his house expecting her to come back. But I really think she's done this time."

Shane looked at Ilya, who was still standing slightly in front of him. Ilya looked at Shane with a slight frown.

"You didn't know?" Ilya asked quietly.

"No. I had no clue." Shane turned back to JJ. "JJ, what happened with him and Jackie?"

"Man, I don't know all the details. But I do know that they had a couples counseling session he missed in August while he was hanging out with you. He came home and found that Jackie had left the house. He didn't tell me all of the details but I do know, after I spoke to her separately, that it wasn't cheating on the road or anything... She just said his heart wasn't at home anymore and wouldn't tell me anymore."

"In August?!" Shane's voice rose. "He was with me after New York and my fall but..."

Ilya cut Shane off. "What fall? Shanya. What happened?"

"Fuck. Oh God. Why can't one thing go as planned?"

Rose stepped in from where she was still sitting at the table listening to everything that was unfolding. "Why don't you two sit down and we just talk?"

"Yes, I agree, Shanya. You need to sit down," Ilya said firmly.

JJ tilted his head. "Shanya. What does that mean?"

Shane felt the world colliding around him again. JJ wasn't great as a friend the first time around. He had spent so much time distancing from Shane because he said he was upset that Shane didn't tell him about Ilya in the first place but had confided in Hayden instead. Hayden knew the secret for years whereas JJ found out with the rest of the world.

"It's just a nickname," Shane said carefully.

JJ's expression shifted, something curious lighting in his eyes. "Nickname, eh?"

Shane expected JJ to be spewing venom like Hayden but no. He was smiling from ear to ear.

Shane took a breath. "Yeah, well, anyway. Yeah, Ilya—I mean Rozanov—this past summer. I went to New York for a Rolex ad. I was supposed to be there for three days for just like a shoot in a couple of different places. On the last day, I was going down the subway station and, well, I fell on the steps. I slammed my head into the handrail. I had a bruised jaw and the doctors thought I had a broken jaw bone. I had to have surgery on a couple of my teeth. Then when I landed my head bounced off the floor. I was concussed and in the hospital for like two days."

"Shane, what the fuck?" Ilya's voice was sharp with alarm.

"Yeah, man, what the fuck?" JJ echoed. "I never heard anything about this."

"I know, I know. I just..." Shane trailed off, then forced himself to continue. "Mom, Hayden, and I hid it from like the media. Well, Mom mostly. We didn’t want it to affect my eligibility to play in the early games of the season. But Hayden stayed with me in the hospital and like the three weeks before I went to the cottage. We all stayed at my parents' house after the hospital. He drove me up to Ottawa and just stayed... I didn't think..."

Shane really thought about it. And for fuck's sake, he missed it. He missed a fucking huge canon event. The first time around, Hayden didn't stay at his parents' house. In New York, Shane had told Hayden to go home to Jackie and the kids after his mom got to the hospital. That's what happened. Then Hayden had cried and told him all about Jackie wanting a divorce and that they had agreed to counseling. She was tired of raising three kids with a fourth on the way, alone. She told him he was stuck so far up Shane's ass in his free time that she needed more of him. Jackie told Shane all of this herself later down the road. She was happy for Ilya being around because that meant she got her husband back. As if Hayden was ever a stand-in, pffft. 

Shane told him in the hospital that Jackie loved him and that he needed to go home and make it right. Spend the rest of the summer making it up to her and showing her what a good father and husband he was. And truthfully, Hayden was a catch! He was an amazing father and loved his kids. He loved Jackie endlessly and always came home with flowers after the New York incident. But this time, Shane's own panic over traveling through time had kept him from even asking about Jackie. She must have left Hayden while he was either still in New York or staying in his parents' guest room.

"I didn't think he was having problems..." Shane said quietly.

"Yeah man. They haven't lived together for months. She is staying with her parents and he's just home alone," JJ said.

"Fuck."

Ilya's hand found Shane's thigh under the table. "Lyubimyy, that is not your fault. You couldn't have known."

"I know, I know... but I could have been there for him."

Rose leaned forward. "No, Shane, unless someone asks for help you can't help them. You didn't even know this was going on."

"Yeah, I guess."

JJ nodded. "He'll be okay, Capitaine. Just check on him sometime. He'll understand. I don't know if he'll be okay with this but I think he'll be happy for you."

Shane frowned. "This? What do you mean?"

"You and Rozanov, man. Like wow. I was trying to figure out why you were always so shy about talking about women but you know I get it."

Shane's stomach churned. "Wait, no. No. We're not. We're just friends."

Shane felt Ilya's hand pull away from his thigh. He wasn't even aware that it was there until he felt the chill that was left behind with the heat.

"Dude. Okay. I mean you don't have to lie to me. I'm not going to tell anyone," JJ said gently.

Shane looked at Ilya, who looked like he might tear up.

"Ehm, I'm going to go get more drinks, do you all want..." Ilya started to stand.

Shane cut him off and grabbed Ilya's forearm. "Okay. No. I. Okay. Ilya?"

Shane looked at Ilya and put a smile on his face to which Ilya knew there was a question in the stare that made their eyes meet. Ilya nodded and got comfortable again.

Shane took a breath. "Yes. Well. Okay, I want to say, if this ever gets out, I will know that it wasn't the Raiders because they know how dangerous this is. They know the implications behind Ilya's immigration status and so... please."

"Of course!" JJ said immediately.

"Yeah, Shane, I'd never tell anyone," Rose added.

Shane squeezed Ilya's hand under the table after traveling from his forearm. "Okay, uhm, Rose, JJ, I'd like to introduce you to my boyfriend, who I love very very much and who I would protect with my own life, Ilya Rozanov."

Shane turned to Ilya and a small tear escaped Ilya's eye. Who said crying in the club couldn't be hot?

"Merde! Yes! Good on you, Capitaine!" JJ reached across the table and high-fived Shane, who was reluctant to even raise his hand. Ilya snickered.

"I knew it! I spent so long going through the roster online after I stayed at your house that night!" Rose said triumphantly.

Ilya's head whipped toward her. "She stayed at your house?!"

Rose winced. "Oop."

Shane sighed. "Yes, Ilya. The night you saw all of those photos online of us after the bar. She came over, we had wine, and we stayed up the night talking about boys and got to know each other. Then it was like so late into the night, she stayed in the guest bedroom."

"So you lied? Lying liar," Ilya said.

"No, baby, nothing happened. I told you. We are and will forever be just friends. I only want you in my bedroom, ever."

Rose laughed. "Well, I tried. But he shut me down before we even left the restaurant that night."

JJ's eyes widened. "Wait, he told you that night that he was gay?"

"Yep! He told me as soon as I was trying to make moves that he was seeing someone and that he had been fawning over him since he was 17 years old. How they met and how good the sex was. Honestly, until I met Shane, I had given up on romanticism. Every guy I met just wanted to fuck me. But hearing about Shane and, well, Ilya, I just set my standards higher. I decided that there was no reason to settle anymore. I wanted exactly what Shane described to me. All of the love and butterflies. Shane talked for a fucking hour about how every time he looked into Ilya's eyes or his 'guy's' eyes, he felt butterflies. It was refreshing."

Ilya in that moment pulled Shane closer by grabbing his thigh and pulling them to nearly being inseparable at the hip even though there was a mountain of space around the large booth that was open. Ilya looked at Shane in his eyes and sure enough there were the butterflies.

"Wow, Capitaine," JJ said softly.

Shane hesitated. "Wait, JJ, you're not mad?"

"About what?"

"I don't know? All of it?"

JJ shook his head. "Why would I be mad? You're happy. I'm happy. You're my friend, why would I care who you were fucking—I mean—who you are dating?"

"I don't know. I just didn't think you'd just accept it."

"Man, I'm offended. And besides, how do you know you're not alone in that locker room with similar secrets?"

Rose gasped and giggled at the same time. Ilya had spit his drink back into his cup, the little of it that was left.

Shane leaned in. "Wait, JJ, you mean?"

"Well, if we're having a secret pact here. Yes. I am bisexual. Are you?"

"No. I'm 'super' gay as Ilya would say."

Ilya blinked. "I've never said that, but now I will!"

Fuck, Shane, come on, stop messing up the timelines and bringing stuff from your past life over into this one until these people make the remarks or say these things. He blinked quickly and shook his head without concern about the ammo he had just given Ilya.

"Well, I'm bisexual and I'm assuming given the information that I've read about Rozanov, then I'm assuming he is as well," JJ said.

Shane felt Ilya tighten up just a tad beside him.

"Yes. I am bisexual. And please, stop bringing up my past. I've heard enough of it the past few weeks as Shane and I have made things more official and I really hate the things that I did. If I could go back in time and change from sleeping with anyone from the time that I met him, I fucking would. It fucking sucks," Ilya said firmly.

Wow. Shane had not anticipated Ilya being this direct and courageous to speak his feelings so early on. Telling JJ to respect that boundary early on was astonishing really. In the other timeline, Ilya would take it on the chin because he knew his past sucked but now it seemed that Ilya was going to chop off any idea of that from impacting their relationship early on. It made Shane smile a bit.

"Of course. I'm sorry, man. Also, I don't want to start on the wrong foot so I'm sorry to have offended. Here, I have an idea," JJ said.

JJ held his arm across the table reaching for Ilya. Hand open and bright in the lights of the club. Ilya took it.

"Hi, I'm Jean-Jacques Boiziau. But you can call me JJ. Shane's friend."

"Hi, I'm Ilya Rozanov. You can call me Ilya. Shane's boyfriend."

Everyone at the table seemed to be smiling now but Shane couldn't help himself.

"JJ, when did you know? Or like, I don't know. I had no clue!"

"Eh, I had a boyfriend in Quebec City during the one year that I did college."

Shane knew that JJ did one year in college while waiting for the opportunity to be drafted. But he didn't know much else about that time. Just that he was a great defensive player and Montreal did a great job at bringing him into the team. JJ continued.

"But I think he wasn't really ready to settle down for the next steps in life. We were both young. We had a great time for a year. When I was drafted and he told me he couldn't be a secret, I understood. We're still friends and still fuck sometimes but it's been since the summer when I go home for a bit that we see each other. But I heard last month he has a boyfriend now though so I'm happy for him and I'm still in the streets looking to meet my person."

"Wow. Wow, JJ. Well, I'm sorry, I don't mean to react this way but I'm glad to not be alone."

"Of course, Capitaine! If we ever hung out outside of shit like this and without Hayden, I'd tell you more."

"Well, we can definitely make that happen."

Ilya, who seemed to feel like Rose was out of the conversation, turned to her. "So, Ms. Landry. Have any secrets that you want to tell us? We all laid it out and you're just the lock and key."

Rose smiled. "Well..."

And that conversation continued for nearly an hour where Rose said she was essentially gender fluid and had attraction to all genders of people but didn't know for certain because she had never experimented with women so she couldn't definitely call herself bisexual or a lesbian. The table was so lively and everyone just fit. It was a rare feeling for Shane to see his people, minus Hayden, all in one spot and getting along. It was quite beautiful really. They talked about everything from the time Ilya and Shane met. Occasionally, one of the Raiders would come over and try to get them to come dance but nothing worked because they were all just giggly and smiling without even ordering additional rounds of drinks on the table.

But at one point, Miles came over and looked JJ up and down then turned to Rose to ask her to dance with him because the guy who he had been talking to at the bar had to go home to his wife. To which Miles dramatically rolled his eyes. JJ immediately chimed in, almost too quickly, and said, "I don't have a wife. Or girlfriend." Miles laughed and looked at Rose to say, "Are you coming?" Rose and JJ rose from the table and looked at Shane and Ilya to ask if they were coming.

Shane turned to Ilya and they both laughed. He glanced at Rose. "Maybe next time. We're heading home—it's been a long night."

Rose pulled them both into a hug and kissed each of them on the cheek. JJ shook Ilya's hand one more time. "Real pleasure meeting you, man."

They all promised to make plans for the next time they were in the same place before heading out. Maybe next time would be pure fun, without the drama from earlier in the night.

When they were finally outside in the cold and away from the thumping bass, Ilya checked in with Shane, but they decided to stop giving a fuck that night and got an Uber together back to Shane's apartment. Ilya did call him out for not mentioning New York and the fall while still standing in the parking lot, but they agreed to talk about it at home—the night had started off so bad and ended so fucking good, and he didn't want to ruin it with talk of something that really didn't matter. Truthfully, he needed a plan to talk about New York without bringing up how he'd woken up.

In the back of the car, Shane had a smile across his face, but he knew in the back of his mind he had to do something. He had to fix something.

He had to talk to Jackie Pike.

Chapter 8: February 19, 2017 - Tampa, Florida.

Chapter Notes

Yes, I know. I lied. I spent all day working on this instead of doing my actual job. Next update, WILL be next weekend. It's going to be a sad one.

Also, fun fact: two days ago, I saw Calum Potter—who plays Hayden on the show—in Times Square as I was leaving work, and can I just say... HOT?!

I didn’t speak to him. I let him live his life. I couldn’t exactly walk up and say, “Hey! I’m writing a fanfic about how much I hate your character, but you, sir, are fantastic.”

Anyway.

Get loved, Rozanov!

Tampa is my favorite scene in both the books and the show, so I couldn’t give it anything less than plenty of love and drama. I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter End Notes

Title of next chapter: March 18, 2017 - Moscow.

Chapter 9: March 18, 2017 - Moscow.

Chapter Notes

I'm early...again!

Thank you all so fucking much for the love you’ve shown this story and all the hard work I’ve poured into it! I’ve truly enjoyed writing it, and it has become my healthy little escape from work. You all are amazing.

There’s quite a bit of tension in this chapter, and I wanted to clearly show how Ilya’s past continues to affect his present. Also, please keep in mind that Svetlana will never be the villain in my stories. She is an angel on earth to my Ilya—but even angels do some fucked-up things.

This version of Svetlana is protective of Ilya and completely comfortable within the friendship tripod we see here. She’s just a girl trying to figure out whether Shane Hollander is truly serious about her best friend, and she struggles with it because she’s never had to navigate anything like this before.

Sasha, on the other hand, is just a horny little shit. And he may actually love Ilya. We'll explore that later.

And when we get to Irina, break out the tissues. I cried so hard while writing that scene because I imagined having this exact kind of conversation with the grandmother who raised me in real life.

I hope you love the chapter, and please come chirp at me in the comments!

Shane's POV

Their time at the villa was wonderful. They spent hours lounging in a cabana, lazily fucking in the daylight where no one could see them. No one could hear them. They swam in the ocean. They lost themselves in each other's thoughts and minds for hours at a time. David was right—the place was stocked with so much food that Ilya was constantly snacking and trying to force junk food onto Shane. Sometimes, Shane even indulged in the sweetest of sweets.

On their last day, Ilya laid in the hammock. When Shane joined him to curl up for their last hours of relaxation before returning to the normal world, Ilya cried. He cried into Shane's hair, and Shane couldn't do anything but hold him. Over the past few days since they'd arrived, an odd number had called Ilya's phone multiple times. He automatically assumed it was Alexei. Because, as Shane knew, it was getting to the point of that time. In less than a month, Grigory would be dead and Ilya would be flying back to Moscow to face his family for one last time.

When Shane finally asked, after Ilya's breath had evened out, Ilya said that he thought Shane was an angel sent by his Mama. Someone to save him from being alone for the rest of his life.

Well, that made Shane cry for hours on the plane ride home.

As the week approached, Shane knew he needed a reason to take medical leave from the Metros. So he devised a plan that only required speaking to Jennifer, the kind woman in Human Resources at Metro headquarters. If history repeated itself, Wednesday would bring Grigory's death. The funeral would follow on Saturday. Ilya would call Friday, Saturday, and Monday. Then Ilya would fly back to Boston on Tuesday.

Shane planned to tell Jennifer he needed Thursday and Saturday's game off for wisdom teeth removal. With oral surgery, they'd give him space to recover. Besides, no one was going to check his mouth to verify his story. He'd go, get it done, and return Tuesday. Simple. Maybe he could even schedule the actual surgery over the summer while he was on break—that way he'd keep his medical records clean and wouldn't technically be lying to the team.

He knew he'd need to tell his parents about what he was doing, and they'd be onboard with it. Besides, they loved Ilya. It was insane how quickly their brief time together in Florida had turned into his parents essentially adopting a second son, but that's exactly what happened. His mom was already trying to add Ilya to the family group chat, but Shane had insisted on waiting—at least a couple more months. He didn't want to scare Ilya off. But then he thought about it again and realized he probably should have said yes. If all the obsessive loving he'd given Ilya over the past four months didn't scare him off, what would?

Now, it's Wednesday and Shane quickly realizes something is off. He and Ilya have a routine now. A text in the morning. A phone call right before practice. A text after practice or before prepping for the next game. Then another phone call at night. It's eerily similar to the other timeline—the one where Ilya officially became his boyfriend after the cottage and stayed that way all the way until they were married and living together.

Today, though, Ilya missed their text following practice. The check-in that should've happened right before Ilya got ready for his flight to Nashville. Shane knows he shouldn't panic. He knows what's happening. But the panic sets in anyway. He's prepared for this—he already has his time off approved by HR. Coach Theirault may have lost his fucking mind over the phone, but Shane doesn't give a fuck. He's carried this team, worked his ass off for a franchise that doesn't appreciate him anyway.

He sent off a couple of texts to Ilya but none of them were being delivered. He called Ilya and didn't even get his snarky voicemail—just an automated message saying his call couldn't be completed at this time. Well, this was different from last time. At least then, Ilya had texted and called once he made it to Russia. Sure, it took a few days, but Shane could at least confirm that Ilya was alive.

He had hoped Ilya would tell him immediately that he needed him in this timeline. Tell him that he needed his boyfriend there to support him. The plan, in Shane's mind, was to fly to Boston, help Ilya pack, and stay at his place. Cook him a week's worth of meals to come home to, along with a clean house and a nice bouquet of flowers on the table. But now that Ilya wasn't answering or allowing contact in any capacity, it raised the question: had all of this work been for nothing? He'd spent so much time making sure Ilya was comfortable with him, building trust so Ilya could lean on him in a time of need—so why wouldn't he at least say what was going on? A simple text would have been enough: "I need you" or "My father died. I have to go to Russia."

What if this wasn't about Grigory's death? What if something else was going on? He immediately texted Cliff and Svetlana. Both had supplied their numbers to him over Twitter after Ilya refused to give them his number out of spite. Again, Ilya was a selfish man who assumed any of the Raiders—or even Svetlana—could pry Ilya from his heart. It had been cute for a moment, but now Shane wished he had every Raider's telephone number, because no one was answering him and he had no clue what the fuck was happening.

iPhones didn't have the capabilities they would in 2026. He didn't have Ilya's location. He was running out of options.

It took nearly six hours to hear back from Cliff, who was indeed landing in Nashville with the rest of the team. He told Shane that Roz had left immediately after morning skate, heading straight to the airport with Svetlana. She'd had a car waiting outside for him when practice ended. Cliff didn't know much else, but Roz had seemed pretty upset and said it was a family emergency.

Okay, that seemed on par for the course. Shane didn't love that Svetlana was the driving force behind this escape to Moscow, but at least Ilya was alive and safe. Another two, three hours passed, and then Svetlana finally texted him back.

Svetlana: We are at VKO. He can talk to you when he is ready. I do not have the patience to be a messenger. He has been horrible this whole flight, including the layover in Istanbul. The only thing I will say is don't waste your time texting him. You're blocked. He is being a stupid fuckhead. He will talk when he is ready. I'll take care of him.

Here's the thing: he could dignify that with a response. He had thoroughly enjoyed meeting Svetlana in this timeline. She was pleasant during the ten minutes they hung out on Ilya's couch. But he also remembered the old Svetlana from the original timeline. She had been equally pleasant. Very much like the Ilya of younger days though. She'd admitted to Rose that she loved her, but then would fly around Europe sleeping with women and men across many different borders. Even when she visited him and Ilya in Ottawa, she would spend copious amounts of time praising Shane for locking down the playboy that was Ilya Rozanov and thanking him for loving Ilya as much as she did. Shane always wanted to respond that he loved him more than Svetlana ever could, but he held his tongue. It was all fine and dandy—Svetlana would be a permanent fixture in Ilya's life, and that was fine.

But what was never fine was how Svetlana called Ilya boring with a negative connotation during that time. She had once brought out a baggie of cocaine in their home and insisted Ilya do some before they went to Monk's, of all places.

It was the one fight Shane had ever seen Ilya and Svetlana get into. Ilya had opened his mouth before Shane ever could. He told her to never bring that shit back into his home again and promptly told her to leave their house. Shane really didn't want to be the wedge in that relationship, but Ilya respected Shane too much in their marriage to subject him to anything that would make him nervous in his own home. Plus, as Ilya had explained that same night, Svetlana normally wouldn't be that bold. He believed that she was taking Sasha's death a lot harder than Ilya ever did. Svetlana came over the next morning and apologized. Ilya explained to her, again, that he was a different person. He didn't need drugs or sex or any of the old stuff because he'd found an upper better than anything else in the world. Shane.

Now, looking at the text again, he had to assess some things. First, why was he blocked? Why did Ilya feel the fucking need to block him? Second, while he was happy to hear Svetlana call Ilya a "fuckhead," there was still a tinge of anger going in her direction—why the fuck wouldn't she act as the messenger? He would have happily done it for her. If Rose were in dire need of help and Shane was able to help Svetlana get information, then he would have done so in a heartbeat. He doesn't like being left in the dark, and he's sure Svetlana wouldn't have loved it if the roles were switched.

Anyway, time to bite the bullet and come up with a new plan now. He was either going to Boston to camp out at Ilya's house until he returned—extending his leave if necessary—or, since Ilya had blocked him, he was heading to Moscow. But he wasn't sure he could pull that off alone. He needed someone equally as crazy as himself, someone more than willing to take on the world for Ilya Rozanov. Luckily, he knew just the right person—or people.

Two days later, he found himself in a cemetery, having heard from no one but Cliff during the past few days. Ilya still hadn't responded to any of his messages, despite Shane checking his phone obsessively every few minutes. Shane still hadn't responded to Svetlana either, unsure of what to say or how to explain the situation that was rapidly spiraling beyond his control. And his plan—well, it made him seem like a insane person because it hadn't occurred to him how ridiculous it would sound when he actually said it out loud: Yuna Hollander and Shane Hollander flying to Moscow with hats and scarves covering their faces to avoid the press. The whole thing sounded absurd, like something out of a bad movie. But here they were, standing among the weathered headstones and bare trees.

David decided he'd stay in Ottawa in case someone came snooping around about Shane's absences from two games. Hockey media was relentless—anything could happen—so he wanted to keep an eye on the property and make sure no one tried to break in. Meanwhile, Yuna had been incredibly resourceful, as always. She'd found the obituary, translated it from Cyrillic, and even tracked down the time and date of the public viewing.

So that morning, they rented a car, dressed in black, and decided together that they would not approach the Rozanov family. Only watch from afar and pay their respects to the deadbeat bastard that was Grigory Rozanov, hoping that hell wasn't too hot for him. It wasn't a horrible plan. There was no need to discuss with Ilya why he was blocked—that could be handled later—but right now Shane just wanted Ilya to feel the love from 200 feet away rather than 200,000 miles away.

When they stepped out of the car, they decided they would not leave the vicinity of it. Both of them wore sunglasses and dark-brimmed hats, Yuna even in a veil. She held Shane's arm while they leaned against the hood and watched the procession from afar. When he finally saw Ilya, who had not seen him, from a distance he felt like he could breathe again. He knew for certain that he was alive, and that put his heart at ease. He looked beautiful. Wearing all black from head to toe. But he looked so sad and tired. 

When the rain started to fall, Yuna went inside the car to grab an umbrella and came out so Shane could hold it over them both. The procession continued under a tarp, and he wished nothing more than to run over and grab Ilya to give him a hug and tell him it was going to be okay because with every drop of rain, Ilya looked even more sad.

It was all quiet, and Yuna was sniffling. Shane wasn't sure if it was due to the emotion or the cold weather, but all of it was interrupted by the crunching of gravel from behind him and a thick accent saying,

"You're just as stupid as him."

Yuna turned around and said "excuse me" very quickly. Shane knew that voice.

Svetlana, wearing all black herself and holding an umbrella, turned and looked at Shane quickly. "What are you doing here? You're wanting to get yourself and him killed?"

"He doesn't even know I'm here," Shane said. "And he won't unless you tell him. I just needed to lay eyes on him. It wasn't like your text message was very helpful in easing my mind."

Svetlana scoffed. "My text message was a courtesy. If all of Ilya's fuck buddies had to Russia we wouldn't have a hotel left in all of Moscow."

"Be careful how you talk about my son," Yuna said.

"Your son is insane," Svetlana shot back. "He should not be here. He's going to get Ilyusha fucking killed. If not by the police, then by his brother. If you two are caught then he'll never be able to come back if I even get him out of the country fast enough."

"I wasn't talking about Shane," Yuna said.

Svetlana blinked. "What?"

"I said, I wasn't talking about Shane. I was talking about Ilya." Yuna's voice was firm. "And I understand emotions are running high but respect the fact that Ilya needs all of us and even if we can't speak to him on this trip or he can't even know that we are here. At least know that we are close. Because that's what family does. They show up when you need them."

"Oh family!" Svetlana's voice filled with sarcasm. "I didn't know you were family now. When did he give you a ring? It is nice? Let me see."

"Svetlana, please." Shane whispered under the umbrella. "Know that I'm not going to do anything to hurt him. I'm just here in case he needs me. In case he needs an emergency escape. Like we both have said to you, he doesn't know we are here. I'd like to keep it that way if we can. He and I can talk when he's back in the states. I'm here for him. Not you. Not that piece of shit that they are laying to the ground. Not that piece of shit that is standing beside of him and probably asking for money as we speak. But for him."

Svetlana studied him. "So, you knew about Grigory and Alexei. How horrible they are?"

"Yeah, fucking pieces of shit," Shane said.

"He told you?"

"He didn't need to. I can understand Russian and he's had several phone calls with Alexei since we've been together."

"Mmm. Fuck. This sucks." Svetlana sighed heavily. "Fine. Okay. But do not get fucking caught talking to anyone. Do not go near any one under that tarp. Swear to me Hollander."

"I swear. I'm not going to do anything that hurts him. I just want to be here to support him if he needs me."

"Well, he fucking needs you but he can't do that here. Part of the reason he blocked you."

Shane's jaw clinched at the thought of her knowing why he was blocked. "I'm not playing these games. You can either tell me why he blocked me or don't. But don't bring it up unless you intend on telling me."

"Whatever. I have no clue what's going on that fucking thick skull of his. He wanted to protect you from all of this and he blocked you as soon as he got into the car after practice. He said you couldn't see him like this. Instead he spends hours yelling at me and I don't fucking want that. He needs fucking therapy for his anger issues. When he has bad days like these he is just fucking horrible. He shuts everyone out. I can only assume he was trying to stop you from seeing that part of him."

"Oh, Ilya," Yuna whispered.

"Why would he feel comfortable giving that side of himself to you and not to me then?" Shane asked.

"Because I do not matter like you do. Fucking Hollander. You men and your thick fucking skull. Ilya feels like he needs to be perfect with you or you will not love him."

"That's not true."

"True or not. It is how he feels."

Shane's voice cracked just a little bit. "Then I need to do a better job because he needs to be able to let me in from every angle. He is always talking about how he is hard to fucking love but it's the easiest thing I've ever done in my life. Getting on a plane for twelve hours was so easy. What would not have been easy is playing hockey right now knowing that he's going through this alone. Knowing that he only has you and he's over here ripping you apart with his hurt and anger and in reality I'm the one fucking begging for him to just give me some of that energy. Let me take the pain away from him. Let me hold him while he punches. Let me keep him safe when he needs it. Because that's what he does for me."

Svetlana stared at him. "Fuck. I hate that I actually like you."

"Well, I don't. I actually really like you. I get that we both want what's best for him but please understand that I am not going anywhere. And next time can you at least give me a couple of updates instead of saying I'm not giving to be the messenger. I mean if we were in the same position, I would have done it for you. I promise. I just needed to see him breathing since I got nothing from him."

"Fine." Svetlana waved a hand between Yuna and Shane. "You have to understand that we are not used to this—we are used to fighting for what we want alone. It has always been the three of us against the world."

"Three?" Shane asked.

"Yes, me, Ilyusha, and Sasha."

"Ah, where is Sasha's annoying ass anyway?"

Svetlana pointed toward the trees. "He's over by the treeline—smoking a cigarette. Wait, You know Sasha?"

Again, add that to the list of slips for Shane Hollander in this timeline. "I don't know him. But Ilya definitely brought him up once. During you know."

"Ah, so he tells you of all of his sex tales."

"Not many to tell anymore. And unfortunately he didn't have to tell me for most. I would just read about them online."

Svetlana giggled. "Well, Ilyusha has a heart of steel until you penetrate it and once you do he bleeds onto you for life. Don't take that for granted."

"I would never."

Svetlana looked at Shane for a contemplating moment. "I need to go be back with him and Sasha. Sasha will burn down the forest if it wasn't raining with that cigarette. But before I go." She pulled out her cell phone and Shane's dinged. "You should go there and visit. One day after you're all married and have kids or whatever the fuck you two plan on doing, at least you can say you met her."

Shane looked down at his phone. "What is this?"

"An address."

"To where?"

"Hollander just go there. Just go. I need to go back over before someone realizes I’m not with everyone else. Goodbye. Nice to meet you Mama Hollander."

"Likewise," Yuna said.

Svetlana walked away and through the grass to the tarp where they were now lowering the body into the ground. After about thirty seconds, Yuna started.

"Well she was a delight."

"Yeah, she's a bitch," Shane said.

"Shane Hollander!"

"What? She is. But she has Ilya's best interests at heart and wants to protect him. I get it. We'll be better friends down the road, I'm sure."

"Mmm, and who is Sasha?"

Shane groaned heavily. "I'll tell you. But you can't call me crazy, because right now I want to run over and punch him just as much as I want to pull Ilya into a hug."

"Okay."

"He's Ilya's first. His best friend from here that isn't Svetlana. But he doesn't respect me or our relationship and will continue to try to sleep with Ilya every chance he gets. I'm sure he's already tried this week."

"Well fuck."

"Yeah, fuck is right."

"I mean, no, I think you could get away with going over and punching him. The rain would be loud enough to cover the muffles and he looks much tinier than you anyway."

Shane snickered. "Thanks Mom. But no reason to make things worse."

"And what did she send you?"

Shane looked down at his phone. "An address."

"An address to what?"

"I think... I think it's to Ilya's mom's plot. Doesn't seem too far from here, want to go after we see him get back into the car?"

"I would love to honey. I think that would be lovely. We should pay our respects to her while we are here."

Shane hadn't told his mom any of the specifics of Irena's passing. But the name was going to be a staple in the Hollander household. This time he'd already gotten all the documentation ready for the foundation, and he'd be ready to take care of it in the fall—but he had to speak to Ilya about it first.

Yuna did know, though, that Ilya would be alone and without parents after Grigory passed. She'd made quite a fuss over this at dinner last night, saying she wanted to make sure Ilya was loved in ways he hadn't been since his mother's passing. Seeing his mother so happy about it, Shane felt certain it shouldn't be a big deal if they both went to say hi to Irina, right?

Ilya's POV

As soon as he got the phone call from Alexei after practice, he knew what it would be. His reaction, though—he couldn't predict that.

He walked through the locker room with heavy feet after hearing the slur that Alexei was calling him, crying about their Papa's death. He tried to act normal, par for the course. He tried, but it felt like he was trudging through mud.

When he stepped into the hallway, Marly was in his face, yelling and asking if he was okay. Then he stumbled into the parking lot to find Svetlana behind the wheel of his Audi—the one Shane bought him for Christmas. She told him the bags were already packed in the backseat. He'd learn later that her father had called her almost immediately after hearing from Polina, the asshole who was Grigory's new wife. She'd bled Grigory—and by extension, Ilya—for every dime she could get, and then suddenly announced on the eve of Grigory's death that her mother in St. Petersburg was dying too, so she wouldn't even be able to attend her own husband's funeral. Mr. Vetrova had told Svetlana, and Svetlana had called Polina a cunt. Ilya agreed.

But as soon as he got into the car, his heart felt heavy. He wondered if this was what it was like for people having a heart attack. Could they even breathe? Could they ask for help? Or were they just in a tranced state until it was far too late? Sveta had woken him up from the trance in the parking lot by screaming and telling him that he should call Jane. But that was where the true fun began.

In what felt like an eternity but was really thirty seconds or less, Ilya picked up his phone and blocked Shane's contact. He knew his mind was playing tricks on him, but he couldn't stop it. He couldn't let Shane see or hear him like this.

In this moment, he understood he was going to become his father—assuming all the responsibilities his father had always intended him to inherit. He would have to go back to Russia. He would have to take care of his stepmother if she ever came back. He would have to keep Alexei out of trouble every time he got arrested for doing drugs. He would have to hold Nadia because her father would be absent from her life. He would have to manage the estate. He didn't know if he could stay in the MLH. He'd probably have to join the KHL or fucking become a cop.

He would have to... let Shane go. Over the past four months, Shane had shown him he would do anything for Ilya. For the first time in his life, he had someone who chose him first, and he would have to let him go...

He knew Shane would be hurt. He knew Shane would cry. But Shane would be okay. He was the hottest person on the planet and he had an amazing, beautiful personality. Maybe he'd marry an equally rich man without all these daddy issues? Maybe his parents would be proud to go to brunch with Shane's in-laws. Oh! Maybe it would be some Hollywood popstar or A-list celebrity that Rose would introduce him to. Maybe it would be someone he wouldn't have to hide because they didn't have a Russian passport? Maybe they'd find that sweet spot between Shane's balls and his beautiful fucking hole where Ilya was learning to leave hickeys. The bruising would let them press their thumb into the skin while they pounded into him deep, that perfect mix of pain and pleasure. But maybe, just maybe, Shane would smile again one day.

Ilya, on the other hand, knew he would never smile again. The sunshine that allowed his petals to bloom would be gone, and he would be in the cold heart of Russia, living like a shell of a human being while assuming the family responsibilities just like his father had taught him. He should have known that living the dream as a MHL superstar was fickle. The world would only allow someone like him so much.

When they pulled into the long-term parking, he looked back at the Audi that Shane had bought him only a few months ago and began to tear up at the thought of never seeing it again. Maybe he'd send Sveta back to sell it and then sell his home. She could handle his affairs. He couldn't bother to expend the energy.

As he walked through the airport, his body grew heavier with each step. Sveta kept trying to say something to him, but he couldn't make out her words, so he just nodded. His beautiful friend was doing so much for him, yet he couldn't begin to comprehend what was happening. Every step through the terminal pulled him deeper into a dark abyss, carrying him miles away from Shane, his body moving as though filled with lead. When he finally collapsed into his seat on the flight to Istanbul, he leaned against the window and let himself doze off, the adrenaline finally crashing.

The dream was so nice. He would wake up smiling in this unknown bed. But he felt safe. He knew Shane had to be near because his body was instinctively telling him that wherever he was, Shane wasn't too far away. He rolled over in the sheets and felt the bed was still warm, and he smiled. He smelled breakfast and wondered what Shane could be cooking. It almost smelled sweet. Staying in just his plaid boxers, he wandered downstairs. He knew where he was now—this was Shane's cottage. It was so beautiful with its high ceilings and cedar walls.

When he reached the kitchen, he heard laughter from outside. There was Shane, bent over, playing with the most beautiful angel of a human being. A little boy with pitch-black hair that was a little wavy. What was most noticeable were those beautiful fucking freckles plastered across the little boy's face, who was wearing an ugly centaurs t-shirt. Ilya felt the heat of a smile start glimmering across his face when the little boy came from around Shane's leg to scream "Papa!" while staring right at Ilya through the sliding glass door.

But none of this was shocking, because this was a dream—metaphorically and literally. He would want nothing more than to spend his older days with a little baby calling him Papa and then calling Shane his or her daddy.

When Shane turned around, he looked so good. A bit older, but he was so beautiful. He and the little boy screaming Papa were blinding him with their freckles. When Ilya stepped outside, he noticed he wasn't alone. To his right on the patio table sat David, Yuna, and his mother, Irina, drinking coffee and laughing while talking about the little boy, who they were calling Silas. And what a beautiful name it was. There was an empty seat at the table, and Ilya turned to look at Shane, who picked up Silas and was blowing bubbles with him. He instinctively sat down at the table wearing only his plaid boxers. David and Yuna smiled at him big, and Irina looked at him in the eyes and said, "Time to go home, Ilyusha."

He woke up to Svetlana shaking him. She had woken him to say that they were 30 minutes out from Moscow. He didn't even remember waking up, getting off a flight in Istanbul and changing for the layover. But here they were.

"You must wake up Ilyusha. Sasha is meeting us at the airport."

Ilya blinked awake, disoriented. "Sasha? Why?"

"I figured you could use some familiar company and he was worried," Svetlana said, settling back into her seat.

"Sveta, I don't want to fucking see him."

Svetlana sighed. "Ilya, he only cares about you and he was worried so we're going to spend some time with you over the week."

"The fuck he is.”

"What is wrong with you? He is your friend, Ilya."

Ilya's voice went cold. "Svetlana, he only wants to fuck me or feed me drugs so he can fuck me longer. This is no longer who I am."

"What do you mean?" Svetlana asked.

"I am a boyfriend now," Ilya said.

"Boyfriend, yeah, okay, as you blocked your Jane as soon as you got into my car yesterday."

"Shut the fuck up Sveta you have no clue what you're talking about." Ilya turned away from her.

"I literally saw you block him. I know exactly what I'm talking about," Svetlana shot back.

Ilya sat back in his chair and rested his head because yes he had blocked Shane but he now realized through the fog of his shock that he was, too, allowed to follow his dreams and well... he just visualized his dream when he closed his eyes with his beautiful Shanya. And as soon as he wrapped his father's affairs, he would do everything that he could to get back to him.

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts. "Well, hello, Ilyusha."

Ilya opened his eyes. "Sasha."

Svetlana groaned from beside him.

Sasha looked between them, confused. "I thought you told him that I was coming."

"I did. On the plane," Svetlana said flatly.

"Okay then why does he look pissed to see me?" Sasha asked.

Ilya's voice rose. "I am standing right here. I can hear you."

"Okay then why are you being pissy?"

"Because I just want to take care of business and go home," Ilya said, stepping back.

Sasha moved into his space again. "Well I wanted to make sure you were okay and I flew all the way from Paris to be with you."

"Because you always have another reason for wanting to meet. Is never simple with you."

Sasha had always been a bit of an enigma in their youth. Showing up whenever convenient for a quick fuck. Or whenever he needed a nice line. Or whenever he needed tickets to an exclusive club because he and Sveta wanted to come inside and they didn't know anyone. But Sasha knew everyone but always came at a cost.

Sasha's smiled. "Fuck you."

"No fuck you," Ilya said.

"I mean if it is what you want. I won't complain."

Now, it was Ilya who groaned.

Svetlana cut in, exasperated. "Sasha stop. You said you would behave."

"I am behaving. He just makes it so easy for me. I mean he usually is so easy for both of us really," Sasha said with a shrug.

Ilya's voice rose. "Can you fucking stop, my father just died."

This time Svetlana and Sasha both laughed.

Sasha grinned. "As if you ever gave a fuck about that shit stain."

Svetlana nodded. "Yeah I mean I get being upset but he was a horrible human being and we would always joke about killing him off ourselves."

Ilya laughed a little because he knew they were right.

"Can we please go get a car? I want to go to bed," Ilya said, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

Sasha's eyes lit up. "Oh we'll take you to bed alright."

Svetlana sighed heavily. "Sasha stop."

When they finally got to Ilya's apartment downtown they all set down their bags and Ilya immediately made his way for the kitchen cupboard to find the vodka he had stowed away there from the previous summer.

Svetlana watched him from the doorway. "Starting early?"

"Mmmm, I need to calm my nerves," Ilya said, pulling down the bottle.

Sasha leaned against the counter. "Nerves about what? The piece of shit is dead."

Ilya poured himself a glass. "Yes but I have to handle taking care of Polina making sure the house is paid up on the mortgage, talking to Alexei about Papa's things, and make sure Nadia is taken care of."

Svetlana crossed her arms. "You really didn't listen to me at all on the flight."

"What do you mean?" Ilya looked up at her.

"I read your emails to you. Your papa's lawyer emailed. The house was now in Polina's name along with whatever money he had left. Alexei was left with the heirlooms. You were left with a safety deposit box. That's all there is. Alexei can fuck off and sell the shit that your Papa left and pay for whatever he needs. It's done already," Svetlana explained.

"What?" Ilya set down his glass.

He picked up his phone and checked his email. Sure enough, someone named Michali Samoylov had sent him a full breakdown of his father's assets, including one transaction to an I. Rozanov. There was also a security box listed under the names I. Rozanova and G. Rozanov. Well, that's something.

Svetlana gestured at his phone. "See. You don't have to do anything but show up for the reading of the will. The funeral. And wash your hands."

Ilya rubbed his face. "Yeah, yeah, I need sleep. I'm going to bed."

Sasha pushed off the counter. "We'll join you soon."

Ilya's head snapped up. "The hell you will."

"What is wrong with you?" Sasha asked, stepping closer.

Ilya stepped back. "There is a couch and a guest bedroom down the hall. You won't be staying in my bed."

"What the fuck?" Sasha's voice rose.

Svetlana tried to smooth things over. "Ilyusha, we don't have to do anything. It'll just be like old times."

"Old times?" Ilya laughed bitterly.

"Sveta, you know I cannot do this to Jane."

Sasha's eyes narrowed. "Who is Jane?"

Svetlana rolled her eyes. "Ilya's boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? What the fuck?!" Sasha looked genuinely shocked.

"Sveta!"

Svetlana threw up her hands. "What? It doesn't matter. You blocked him? It can't mean that much now."

He really didn't understand where Sveta's attitude was coming from all of a sudden. She'd seemed so happy for him and Shane before this trip. She was even texting Shane on the side about random shit—both of them bugging Ilya about dumb fucking stuff. So why was she acting like this now? He got that he'd blocked Shane, but that shouldn't result in her being a fucking asshole and implying that he and Shane weren't together anymore. Maybe being 'home' really did bring out the worst in all three of them.

"Shut the fuck up both of you," Ilya said, his voice dangerous.

Sasha moved closing the distance between them.

"You mean to tell me. That someone locked you down?" Sasha asked, his hand crawling up Ilya's bicep.

Ilya jerked away. "Yes. Now leave me alone."

Ilya smacked away his hand.

Sasha reached for him again. "Well he doesn't have to know. One last time with old friends."

Ilya turned red with anger.

"Sasha, fucking stop! I appreciate you both being here for me, but please—just stop. I'm happy now. I want to be happy, and I blocked him because... fuck. I can't let him see me like this. You know he'd pry, Sveta. He'd come running the second he heard. He loves me too much for his own good. At least this way, he doesn't know where I am. He thinks I just disappeared. I'm hours and oceans away. I can focus on this and actually get through it. He's probably worried, yeah—but I'll apologize. I'll spend the rest of his life making it up to him if I have to. I just need to survive the next few days," Ilya said, his voice breaking slightly.

Svetlana opened her mouth. "About that..."

But Sasha talked over her. "Fuck that. It doesn't fucking matter if you're dating. You can never be monogamous. You're too much of a slut for that. You know this. We know this. Quit playing hard to get."

Sasha moved his hand to Ilya's chest now. Ilya growled and grabbed Sasha by the throat to push him against the refrigerator.

"What the fuck did you just say about me?"

Sasha choked out, grinning even as his face reddened, "I said harder, daddy."

Svetlana rushed forward. "Ilya stop!"

Ilya's grip tightened. "Sasha I swear to god. I asked you to stop so many times. Fucking respect that I don't want to just fuck my life away."

Sasha's eyes looked like they were about to pop out like a squeeze toy but he was smiling with a red face and a grip that was surely going to leave a bruise.

Svetlana's voice cut through the tension. "Ilya, Shane knows where you are!"

Ilya let his grip go and Sasha gasped for air.

Sasha slid down to the floor, coughing. "Pussy."

Ilya turned to Svetlana. "What did you just say?"

"He texted me like 3 times asking if you were okay and where you were. So, I told him when we landed here. He hasn't responded but I told him. He knows."

"Why would you do that?" Ilya asked, his voice rising.

Svetlana threw up her hands defensively. "I didn't know you didn't want him to know! And you weren't exactly talking to me on the flight! He wouldn't come here. He knows better. He's a smart boy. He knows the risks."

"Fuck. Fuck! I'm going to bed. Don't bother me."

Sasha looked up from the floor, still catching his breath. "So his name is Shane? Who is this mysterious Shane? He must have a magic dic—"

Ilya's voice was ice. "Say one more word and I'll break every rib with the heel of my foot. Try me Sasha. You do not speak on him."

Ilya went to his bedroom and locked the door. Downstairs, he could hear the two people who should be his best friends bickering. He wanted to trust them, to love them, but this whole idea of monogamy—of being with just one person—was new territory. Not just for him, but for all of them. They'd always been a trio. Mean to each other, sure, but there for each other when it mattered. Bringing someone new into that dynamic was either going to make everything implode or be the best thing that ever happened to them. Ilya had a sneaking suspicion it would be the former.

He loved them both so much, but there was never going to be a world where they could keep their hands off him. And that wasn't him being cocky—it was just true. It was what their whole relationship hinged on. Sex. The feeling of bodies fitting together in the most reliable of ways.

But it was so different with Shane. It wasn't a want with Shane. It was a need. A love language on a whole other spectrum of intimacy. Ilya knew that at some point Svetlana would be happy for him—at least, he thought so. She'd just need to see how much Shane actually cared, that he wasn't going to be another notch on Ilya's belt. Then she could see the love Shane gave him and accept that for what it is. But she was also protective and wouldn't want to leave Ilya with just any stranger.

Sasha, on the other hand, would be predatory. If he were in the same room with Shane, Ilya knew that within minutes, Sasha would end up with a black eye—either from Shane for flirting with Ilya, or from Ilya for trying to flirt with Shane. Sasha was a minx who didn't know when to stop until he got what he wanted. Which was always the same thing: fucked out of his mind until his hole was loose and his body was numb.

The next item on the agenda was the reading of the will. He hadn't seen Sasha since waking up from his nap yesterday. Svetlana had explained that he was going to hang out with some friends. Sveta seemed to have calmed down and hadn't brought up Shane again. It was all so stupid that he even had to worry about this bullshit when he also had to deal with his shit family.

The day of the reading, Alexei looked at him like he was something scraped off the bottom of a shoe – something disgusting and unwanted that had been tracked in from the street. His older brother's eyes were cold, filled with barely concealed contempt and resentment that had been simmering for years. He made several pointed comments about how he knew that security deposit box had something valuable in it, something worth real money. Their father was a piece of shit for even giving it to him, considering he was already rich, already had everything he could possibly want. Alexei's voice dripped with bitterness as he went on and on, his face reddening with each accusation. Why should he get anything more? What had he done to deserve their father's favor?

It was intriguing that Grigory had left the key to Ilya along with its contents. So immediately after the reading, he caught a taxi to the bank where the box was kept. When he finally opened it with the teller's assistance, he found something that made his jaw drop and tears well up in his eyes.

Inside the security deposit box was a smaller box filled with photos of Ilya, Alexei, and their mother. Since his mother's passing, he'd only received one thing to remember her by: his gold crucifix necklace. He wore it every day and never took it off. But lying in this box was a duplicate necklace just like his own. Attached to it was a note in his mother's handwriting. It said, "дом там, где ты" (home is wherever you are). Further down the paper were instructions for him. Илюша, мой малыш. Пожалуйста, отдай это своему малышу, чтобы у него был кусочек их Бабули с ними, когда меня не станет. ("Ilyusha, my baby boy. Please give this to your baby so they can have a piece of their Babulya with them for when I am gone.")

Not only did this make Ilya break down right there in the bank, but it confirmed a few things for him that he'd been trying desperately to deny. His mother had been planning her death for some time—weeks, maybe even months. She'd been methodical about it, organized, making sure all her affairs were in order before she took that final step. Sure, the suicide itself was tough to process, an unbearable weight that pressed down on his chest and made it hard to breathe. But it almost hurt more knowing it was premeditated, that she'd been walking around with this plan locked inside her mind while he sat across from her at dinner, oblivious. To know that his mother needed help—real, professional help—and he couldn't provide it at such a young age, that he'd somehow missed all the signs, broke his heart even more. The guilt suffocated him. He needed to talk to her, to see her, to understand why she felt this was her only option.

First, though, he would need to pull himself together, get dressed in something appropriately somber, and bury his father in this miserable shit weather that seemed determined to make an already unbearable day even worse.

After lowering Grigory into the ground, Ilya got into a car with Sasha and Sveta and drove straight back to his apartment. When he pulled up, he told them to get out. He wanted to visit his mother's grave and talk to her before he left. He had already decided to change his flight from Tuesday morning to Monday morning. He needed to go home. Not to Boston. To Shane. He needed to apologize immediately and be held—if Shane would even hold him now.

When he pulled up to the graveyard, he passed a black SUV leaving near his mother's plot. Normally, he wouldn't think twice about it, but every time he visited—during the summer and in the off-times during the season—no one ever came up this way. This graveyard was filled with the forgotten, mostly. His mother wasn't buried with the Rozanovs. Grigory wouldn't dare allow that. Instead, she rested in a random public graveyard where those without family estates were left to rot. He decided not to dwell on it and simply appreciate the fact that someone else was here to see their loved ones, too.

When he finally got out of the car, he walked through the muddy grass straight to her tombstone. Within seconds, it was like he was blacking out again. He dropped to his knees and started crying. There was so much weight on his heart, and his mother and Shane were the only two people who'd ever been able to lift it away and ease the pain.

He felt the wetness of the grass and dirt seeping through his pants. As he dropped to all fours, the flowers he'd purchased on the ride over fell from his grip and landed beside her grave. He was sobbing in full heaves now, but he needed to talk to her. Even though she was reduced to a marble headstone, he felt like she was listening—like he was a kid again, sitting on the couch while she ran her hands through his curls and rubbed his back so he could breathe.

"Mama," he choked out. "Why? Why did you have to do it? Why did you have to leave me?"

He waited, his chest heaving. The rain drizzled softly around him.

"I mean, I know why." His voice cracked. "You were so sad. I get it. I know."

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing mud across his cheek.

"I forgive you too."

A sob tore through him. He pressed his palm flat against the cold marble, as if he could feel her warmth through it.

"Mama'... I think—I think I won't be able to come back again." His throat closed. "I think this will be my last time."

The tears came harder now, snot running from his nose.

"I just wanted to come by and tell you some things. I know that wherever I am, you're with me, but sometimes I feel like you hear me better when I'm here."

He paused, tilting his head as if listening.

"So I want to thank you and give you news."

His hand moved to the necklace at his throat—her necklace. "Thank you for my beautiful present. Your grandchild will love it. I promise. It's beautiful and it looks just like yours. Exactly like it." His voice softened. "I still wear yours every day. I kiss it goodnight as if I'm kissing you goodnight."

He smiled through his tears, imagining her being happy to hear that he still had her necklace after all of this time.

"I don't know how long it will be before I have children, but I know I want a family." He took a shaky breath. "And I think you'd be very happy to know that I met someone."

He laughed and covered his face with both hands.

"Yes, Mama'. Don't laugh at me." He peeked through his fingers at the headstone. "Your little Ilyusha is blushing."

He dropped his hands and widened his smile.

"Because every time—every time I think of him, my world is perfect. He is my soulmate, Mama. He is everything to me."

He took a long deep breath and fixed his face to be serious with his Mama' again.

"And when I leave here, I'll go home and apologize to him immediately. I did a really mean thing, but I know I'll get him back or I'll die trying."

He waited, as if she'd scolded him for being dramatic.

"Hey! At least if he dumps me, you won't have to worry about missing me because I'll die without him."

He winced, hearing her imagined response in his head.

"Yes, yes, I know. Horrible joke. Fuck!" He wiped his eyes again. "I miss you so much and I wish I could introduce you to him. I wish I could show you how beautiful my life is with him."

His voice picked up with excitement despite his tears.

"We just had our first Western Christmas together and he bought me a car, Mama'! It's so cool. The paint changes color and it's so fast."

He paused, then rolled his eyes affectionately.

"But he doesn't like when I drive fast. He's really protective and doesn't want me to get hurt." Another pause. "Ugh, he's so boring."

He laughed at himself, shaking his head.

"Yes, I said boring. But it's in a good way." His voice went soft. "To me, it means that he's reliable. He's not like Papa or Alexei. He is safe. He is my rock."

He tilted his head, listening to the silence again.

"Oh, shut up." He grinned through his tears. "I'm not a hopeless romantic. I'm just happy. He makes me smile bigger than I ever have before."

He nodded, as if she'd said something in agreement.

"Yes! I know I should marry him. This is why I'm telling you I can't come back here. Some asshole named Putin is creating fucked up laws, and I'd get arrested if he knew I was in love with a man."

He continued. "Plus, I could never bring Shane back here. He's too pretty for jail."

He smiled at the thought of her asking about Shane.

"Oh yes, Mama, his name is Shane Hollander. He lives in Canada. We play hockey against each other." He traced the edge of her headstone with his finger. "I've told you about him before, but I never told you I was in love with him. We're boyfriends now."

He waited, imagining her giddy reaction.

"What's he like?" He repeated the question as if she'd asked it. "Oh! He's the best my favorite human besides you. He has these beautiful fucking freckles. Somehow he looks like the most beautiful night sky and the sunrise all at the same time."

His voice went dreamy.

"He makes me feel warm and just being near him makes me so calm. He's so confident too. Sometimes he gets into his own little noggin'. But I pull him out of that and remind him he's the sexiest, smartest, and most beautiful fucking man in the world."

He paused, then laughed nervously.

"What do you mean? We've only been dating four months! I can't put a ring on his finger yet."

Another pause. He looked away, embarrassed.

"Yes, I know I already bought the ring but it can sit in the desk until he is ready! That would really freak him out. He'd freak out and leave me!"

He sighed, hearing her gentle tone nudging him in his mind.

"Okay, yes, I know. I know how the saying goes—'when you know, you know.'" He ran his hand through his wet hair. "But Mama', this man used to run away from my hotel rooms at the first chance he got. Now I'm actually having sleepovers and calling him and texting him. Telling him I love him. We take it one step at a time. I'm grateful for what I can get

He smiled.

"You're just impatient and want grandkids." He nodded. "I'm sure his parents would probably agree with you, though. They're amazing too. They've really been so kind to me."

He touched the necklace again.

"And I even told them I want to marry him too, just last month. But I didn't mean immediately. I want him to enjoy a normal relationship with me and not rush through it. I want to give him a beautiful ring and big proposal. I even want to do an engagement party and a big wedding. I want to give him the world."

"But—yes, always a but—the hockey world isn't accepting. And hockey means everything to him."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I don't know if he'd choose me over hockey, Mama. But I think that with time, I can convince him that I'm worth more than the game."

He waited, then shook his head at her defense.

"No, Mama', he's not a bad person for liking hockey as much as me. He works hard at it and it's his career, just like it's mine. I know he loves me and that's enough."

"The past few months have been so good for us, and oh, he even took me on a private trip to a beach house in Florida that they call a villa. We were so lazy and had so much fun. I felt him letting go and loving me the entire time. I never wanted him to go back to Canada. I would stay in bright and sunny Florida if it meant I got a chance to just enjoy how pretty his freckles get in the sun. I'd turn into a shriveled orange and deal with the heat all year around just to be with him. Hell, I'd do that anywhere. If it were with him, I'd move to Antarctica."

He laughed then nodded at her unspoken question.

"Oh, yes, I've already thought about it. I'll need to move to Canada. I've already decided. I just don't know how yet. I'd love to be close to him, Yuna, and David."

His voice grew thick, and he found it hard to swallow.

"One day. One day it will all happen. And I'll still kiss your necklace goodnight. I'll still talk to you when I look at the night sky. I'll tell my kids all about you. I'll tell Shane all about our adventures from when I was a kid. I promise."

He pressed his forehead against the cold marble.

"I will never forget you, Mama'. I will never let it happen. You will always be a part of me."

The rain was starting to pick back up now. It had been a drizzle at first when he dropped to his knees, but now it was a steady pour. He pulled back, wiping his face one last time.

"Okay, Mama'. I need to go before I get pneumonia." His voice broke. "I wish we had more time. I wish more than anything you could have met my Shane."

About that time, Ilya heard a twig break behind him. Initially, he thought it was a branch falling from the tree beside her grave, but then he heard a voice.

"Hi, Irina."

Ilya went still. Every muscle in his body locked, his breath trapped somewhere between his lungs and his throat. That voice—he would know it anywhere, could pick it out in a stadium of thousands. It couldn't be.

He didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he turned around and Shane wasn't there, if this was just his grief playing tricks on him, he would check himself into a facility immediately.

"Mama'," Ilya whispered. "Don't do this. Don't play tricks on my mind. Don't." His chin trembled, his face crumbling. "I will never forgive you."

Then the rain stopped.

Not completely—he could still hear it falling around him—but directly above him, the cold drops ceased. Ilya looked up slowly and saw a huge black umbrella being held over his head, shielding him from the downpour.

His heart stopped beating, he could feel the pain in his chest as if he had been shot.

A body knelt beside him, close enough that their knees touched. He really thought he was going crazy because there was no way—

"It's nice to meet you, Irina," the voice said gently. "I'm Shane Hollander. I know we spoke earlier, but I thought it would be rude to introduce myself as your son's boyfriend without him here."

There was a pause, and Ilya could hear the smile in Shane's voice.

"But uhm, hi. I'm Ilya's boyfriend."

Ilya turned his head slowly to the left, terrified that if he moved too fast, the vision would disappear.

But Shane was there.

Shane was there.

Kneeling beside him in the mud, rain-soaked and beautiful, holding an umbrella over both of them. His freckles stood out against his pale skin, his eyes soft and full of so much love that Ilya felt like Irina herself had sent him the best present in the world.

Behind Shane, parked a few feet away, Ilya could see the black sedan—the same one he'd passed on his way into the cemetery. Through the windshield, Yuna Hollander sat watching them smiling and waving at him.

"Shanya..." Ilya's voice was barely a whisper.

Shane's expression softened even more. "Yes, baby?"

Ilya screamed unintelligibly and lunged at Shane from his knees. The umbrella went flying, tumbling across the wet grass as Ilya crashed into Shane's chest. Shane let out a surprised "woah" followed by breathless laughter as they both went down, rolling in the mud.

Ilya was sobbing—crying harder than the rain falling around him. Out of joy. Out of pain. Out of relief so overwhelming he thought he might drown in it. Every emotion he'd ever felt wrapped into one impossible moment.

He didn't care who saw. He didn't care about the laws or the danger or anything except that Shane was here, physically in his arms, and here in front of both of his mothers.

"My Shanya," Ilya choked out between sobs. "It is really you?"

Shane cupped his face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears. "Yes, baby. It is really me."

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, his hands gripping Shane's jacket. "What are you doing here? We could get into so much trouble!"

"I told you. You're never going to be alone again. I wasn't going to stop from getting to you no matter where you were."

"When did you get here?"

"Well, I've been standing next to the tree while you were talking to your mother." He paused. "But I got to Russia yesterday."

"You what?!" Ilya's eyes went wide.

"Yeah, I mean, Mom and I had a nice dinner. Then we came to the funeral. We watched from our car." Shane's smile grew. "Then I ran into Svetlana and she gave me this address so I wanted to meet my future mother-in-law before I went back home."

Ilya shook his head. "That's not what I was asking but good one, Hollander." He searched Shane's face. "I was asking how long have you been standing next to the tree? What did you hear? You were standing there the whole time?"

"Well, yeah. I didn't want to interrupt."

"You even heard the part about...?"

Shane's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Yes, I even heard the part about the ring."

"You will ignore this," Ilya said quickly, his face flushing. "It is a violation of confidentiality between mothers and sons."

Shane laughed—his warm laugh that Ilya loved so much. "Of course I will. Forgotten and ignored already."

Ilya's expression shifted, vulnerability flooding into his eyes. "Shane, I'm sorry. I just—I couldn't—"

"Hey." Shane reached over and cupped Ilya's face gently, his thumb brushing away the rain and tears. "I forgive you already. But we'll talk about it when we get home—just you and me, okay? We'll talk about all of it."

Ilya's skipped with his breath, relief washing over him like the rain around them. He nodded, pressing his forehead against Shane's.

"Okay," Ilya whispered. "Okay."

Shane was smiling so wide, dirt smeared across his cheek, rain dripping from his hair. He looked like he'd crawled through hell to get here.

Shane glanced back at the grave, then at Ilya. "Now, can we talk to your mother a bit before it gets too cold?"

Ilya nodded, his throat too tight to speak. "Yes, yes, this is good idea."

They both sat up and got back to their knees. Shane reached over and grabbed the umbrella from where it had fallen, shaking off the water before holding it over them again. The rain drummed against the fabric, creating a small shelter just for the two of them.

Ilya took a breath and turned back to his mother's headstone. "Mama', you're in for a special treat." He paused for a moment and gathered himself. "You remember the very hot boyfriend I was telling you about? Well, he's here!"

Shane was smiling ear to ear. He leaned over and pressed a muddy kiss to Ilya's cheek, making Ilya laugh through his tears.

For the next fifteen minutes, they talked to Irina together. Shane told her about meeting Ilya, about falling in love with him, about how Ilya made him laugh and feel safe. Ilya added details—their first real conversation in Regina, the tuna melt, Christmas morning with the necklace. They told her about hockey and bragged on each other, marking the first time either had admitted in the other's presence that the other was better at the sport.

They left out the rated-R stuff, because even Irina couldn't take that. Some things were left behind closed doors.

When they were done, the rain had slowed to a gentle mist. Shane squeezed Ilya's hand, and they both took a breath.

"Goodbye, Irina," Shane whispered. "I promise I'll always take care of him. I'll always love him. He'll always be safe with me." His voice broke. "Thank you for trusting me with him. Thank you for giving me the most perfect, most lovable person in the world. I don't know how I could live without him, and without you, I wouldn't have him. So thank you."

Ilya's face crumpled. Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks as he looked at his mother's name carved into the marble.

"Goodbye, Mama'." His voice broke. "I hope to visit again in the future but for now this is goodbye. I love you so much." He pressed his hand to the stone one last time. "Watch over us, okay?"

Shane stood first, his knees protesting after kneeling in the cold mud for so long. He held out his hand to Ilya.

"Come on, baby," Shane said softly. "Let's get you warm."

Yuna must have seen them approaching the car because she immediately opened the door. Ilya expected her to run to Shane, who was staying drier under the umbrella than him. But she didn't. She ran straight to Ilya, wrapping him in a hug so tight his back popped from the pressure. It was a release he hadn't known he needed—in more ways than one. He felt a mother's love holding him steady on what should have been one of his darkest days, transforming it into something lighter because of the beautiful Hollander family.

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" Yuna asked, pulling back just enough to look at his face. Her eyes were teary.

"Yes, I'm okay," Ilya said, "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, it's what we do," Yuna said firmly, squeezing his shoulders. "We're family now, Ilya."

Ilya was crying again. God, how could this family be so perfect and polar opposite of his own? He hugged her back, unable to find the words.

"Now," Yuna said, stepping back and brushing mud from her own jacket with a smile, "I bought trash bags at our hotel because we couldn't find ponchos, but they work well for the three of us because we all have rentals here and I'm sure we don't want to pay hundreds of dollars to get these cars cleaned, right?"

Ilya looked at Shane and his black button-down was muddy. He had fingerprints of mud across his face from Ilya's hands. Then he looked down at himself and the black he was wearing before was now an ugly brown. He couldn't help but laugh until he saw that Yuna, who had hugged him so tightly, was sporting the same color now. But she was laughing, too, and not mad.

"I'm sorry for getting you dirty," Ilya said, guilt etched into his face.

"Oh hush," Yuna said. "I raised Shane who refused to come inside from playing in the mud every time it rained. This just brings back good memories. I have a garbage bag for myself. Now, here—take a couple of these and put them over your car seat."

Ilya laughed really hard at the thought of baby Shane playing in the mud. "So, you were a dirty kid?"

Shane grinned, shaking his head. "I was not. I just liked playing in the mud. It was like sensory therapy to have it in my hands like play-doh."

Of course, Shane had a logical explanation for playing in the mud. Just be a kid, you boring beautiful Canadian dream boat.

"Exactly," Yuna said, her eyes twinkling with the memory. "And then we discovered play-doh and my water bill thanked me for it. I no longer needed to wash every outfit as soon as you came in the back door."

Ilya could do nothing but smile. The normalcy of this moment was exactly what he needed.

"So, what's the plan now?" Ilya asked.

Yuna glanced between Shane and Ilya. "Well, you and Shane can't be seen together. I wanted to jump out of my skin a few times back there. But I couldn't interrupt you boys." She paused. "I think Shane and I should go back to the hotel and get ready for our flight tomorrow."

"Unless you need us longer," Shane offered, stepping closer to Ilya but maintaining a careful distance.

"No, no," Ilya said, shaking his head. "I think... I think I'll go home too. I don't need to be here anymore. Everything with the lawyers is settled. I don't need to be here. Sasha and Sveta are at my apartment—they can stay there, and I can just go home."

Shane's jawline was tight and his shoulders tensed up. "Sasha and Svetlana are staying with you?"

Ilya chuckled at the face Shane was making, stricken with jealousy. "Yes, they have a separate bedroom, Shanya. I have my own. They were only here for the funeral. But I think I'll leave the key to Sveta and let her give it to Alexei. Like I said, I need to go home."

"Okay, but you'll go back to Boston?" Shane added. "I can—"

"No, Shanya," Ilya said, stepping forward and meeting Shane's eyes directly. "I'm coming home. To you. I am on leave until Thursday and you have a game that day. I can leave Thursday morning and make the afternoon skate. If that's okay with you."

Shane's face transformed. "That's perfectly fine with me."

When Ilya got back to his apartment, he was gleaming with joy for the first time in a long time while in Russia. Of course he'd been happy when his Mama was still around, but today marked a turning point—his boyfriend had flown across the world to show him, yet again, how loved he was.

All thoughts of giving up his life back in America, of abandoning his love for Shane, of returning to Russia to take over the life his father had paved for him—all of it was gone now. He only felt joy.

Opening the front door of this dark-ass apartment one last time, he saw Sasha shirtless on the couch, smoking a blunt, and Svetlana in the kitchen wearing nothing but a long shirt and panties. It didn't faze him. On his way here, he'd decided he was changing his flight to leave tomorrow—just like Shane. But instead of flying back to Boston, he was going to Ottawa.

He didn't know how Shane had pulled it off, but Shane was a mastermind. Somehow he'd slipped away from his team, found the location of the funeral, and avoided getting caught. He'd even gotten the location of Ilya's mother's grave from Svetlana, who seemed overzealous now as she approached him.

"Why you covered in mud?" Svetlana asked.

"Is long story," Ilya said, brushing dried earth from his sleeve. "Ground at Mama's grave was muddy."

Svetlana started to respond, then stopped. "You have nice visit with your Mama?"

"Yes, I did," Ilya said. "Will you go put on clothes?"

"Oh, Ilyusha, come on," Svetlana protested. "I'm comfortable."

Ilya's sighed. "Sveta, we talk about this. I don't want give Shane reason not to like you, and Shane, like me, is very jealous person. He knows we fucked. He wouldn't like knowing you in front of me in just panties. Please. Go put on sweatpants. I have some in top drawer of dresser."

"Fine," Svetlana conceded. "But that means Sasha has to get dressed too."

From the couch, Sasha laughed. "Like fuck I do. I don't know this boy who's on the other side of the world. I don't owe him fucking shit. I was hoping Ilya would see me shirtless, share this blunt with me, and then suck my dick. Or let me suck his. I'm not picky."

Svetlana rolled her eyes. "Oh, here we go."

Ilya turned to face Sasha directly. "Sasha. You have one more warning. One more. If you don't respect what I ask of you, then you can leave and stay with whoever gave you that cheap weed. Because I'm with someone, and I love you both very much, but I will not tolerate you talking shit about him. So you have one more chance before I grab you and throw you out of this apartment."

Sasha's smirk didn't change at all. "Eh, fuck off. You won't do shit."

"Yes, I will," Ilya said. "Don't fucking try me."

He walked over to Sasha and plucked the blunt from between his fingers, extinguishing it on the coffee table beside the couch. When he looked down at Sasha, his expression was cold.

"Sasha, just go put a shirt on," Svetlana said.

"Ah, you're on his side?" Sasha challenged, sitting up. "You're becoming prude too?"

"Yes," Svetlana said. "I respect his Shane. Unfortunately, I think we have lost Alexander."

Sasha's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, full name! You must be serious."

"Yes, Sasha. I don't think we should mess with his Shane."

"And why is that?" Sasha asked.

"Because judging by the size of his biceps and his lack of care for his own life, I think Shane is scarier than Ilyusha, yes?"

"He definitely is," Ilya confirmed.

Sasha leaned back, studying Ilya. "Who is this person anyway?"

Svetlana crossed her arms. "Maybe one day you meet him if you know how to act."

"Well, I guess I better be on my best behavior," Sasha said sarcastically. "And what you mean he's scary?"

"Shane may or may not be in Moscow and attend the funeral," Svetlana said.

Sasha's eyes went wide. "WHAT? He's here?! And how do you know?"

"I ran into him in the parking lot of the cemetery," Svetlana explained.

"That's who you were talking to?" Sasha leaned forward. "It was raining too hard for me to tell if he was hot or not."

"He is," Ilya said simply.

Sasha grinned, the energy of a predator ready to pounce. "Why don't you have him come over and introduce us, Ilya? You scared that we take him from you?"

"No. Not at all," Ilya said with certainty. "You wouldn't have a chance in the world."

"Sadly, is true," Svetlana agreed with a bit of affection in her voice.

Sasha stood and moved to the chair beside the couch where his shirt hung on the back. He pulled it on, then headed toward the door.

"Where you going?" Ilya asked.

"I'm going to go get fucked," Sasha said. "I can't find good dick here, so why should I keep trying? I see you all tomorrow."

"Actually, I'm leaving at 6:00 AM," Ilya said. "I'm getting a flight back."

Sasha stopped. "What the fuck? Where you going? You leaving us?"

"Yes. I'm going home," Ilya responded.

Svetlana's head snapped up from where she'd been heading toward the bedroom. "You're going to Boston? Why you don't tell me?"

"I'm not going to Boston. I'm going home."

"Boston?" Svetlana asked, confused.

"To Shane. He leaves tomorrow too," Ilya said.

Svetlana walked away without another word, heading into Ilya's bedroom to get sweatpants. Sasha left shortly after, both departing in silence. This was the only bad thing about this entire day. He had buried his dreadful father, introduced Shane to his Mama', and decided it was time to leave all of this behind. But he really wished he could take parts of it with him though—Svetlana, and even Sasha included. He hoped for nothing more than his friends being able to give their blessing, to be happy for him.

He couldn't tell whether they just wanted him to be miserable with them, whether their friendship was only ever based on sex, or if this was all new to them and they didn't understand what it was like to be loved outside of their unfortunate dynamic. Sure, Ilya and Sasha didn't speak often, but he still cared about him because of all their shared history. Not the sex. Never the sex. But the hours and minutes spent together surviving this cold-ass world and finding joy in the worst ways. He hoped it would translate in the light too, and one day, he hoped he could enjoy his time basking in the light with them. But right now they both seemed upset, like they felt left behind.

He couldn't think about their reactions right now and get dragged back into the darkness with them because he was living off the light that Shane had given him only an hour ago. He opened his phone, unblocked Shane, and immediately started packing. Tomorrow he would be in Ottawa.

Chapter End Notes

Just an FYI, if you think they should be speaking Russian to each other. Imagine it. I can’t trust any translator anymore. LMAO. I did a bit in here for Irina’s note from the safety deposit box but I can’t be certain it’s correct.

Next Chapter: April 7, 2017 - Montreal.

Time for the last regular season game between the Raiders and Metros!

Chapter 10: April 19, 2017 - Montreal.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is a little shorter, but we’re laying the groundwork for some big details that will carry through the end of this story and throughout Shane’s whole life.

Fair warning: medical inaccuracies ahead! Shane! Coma! Alert, alert, alert! But don’t worry, Shane is awake by the end of the chapter, so there won’t be a long, angsty wait. I’m not a doctor. I just know someone who had WPW, and I shamelessly used it as a plot device. (That someone was my grandfather.)

I hope you enjoy the chapter, and please keep leaving your lovely comments. They make me want to keep writing, and you guys have shown me so much fucking love this past week. Thank you again!

Shane's POV

The world was so funny sometimes.

Shane hadn't heard from Ilya after leaving the cemetery where Irina was laid to rest. He didn't expect to hear from him either—when Ilya got back into his rental car, he seemed so much lighter. His face had a smile on it. He was laughing with Yuna. He was disgusting and covered in mud, but Shane laughed as Ilya and Yuna tried to use garbage bags from the convenience store in their hotel to cover Ilya's driver seat. It made Shane happy and relieved to feel like Ilya would be okay.

When he got on the plane with his mother the next morning in Moscow, he didn't expect to feel a sense of dread because his heart was starting to feel moored like it did when they were married. Just tethered together, going off as one beating drum. Coach Wiebe used to get so mad at them when they would take off together (he was never seriously mad—he loved them equally, and Wiebe had taken Shane in like no other coach had, appreciating his level of expertise while also valuing the input of those around him). One time they had taken off for the sole purpose of Anya "acting weird" and needing a trip to the vet. Everyone assumed they were skipping practice to indulge their already vivid sex life and needed a mental health day with each other. The truth was that Anya had gotten into the cat food Shane had laid on the back patio to take care of this cute little stray living somewhere near their house in the woods with her kittens. Shane, of course, didn't tell Ilya he was purchasing cat food and laying it out in a bowl on the patio, but Ilya didn't really pay attention to said patio unless Shane was doing yoga on it in his three-inch inseam shorts.

Anya, on the other hand, ate a whole bowl, straying from the diet her very strict Papa had her on, and got a tummy ache. It was gas. A $589 visit to the vet for gas.

Anyway, when Shane got on the plane he started feeling miserable again because the lack of Rozanov-proximity. But realizing that he should not be irrational, he took a deep breath and settled into his seat for the long flight.

Upon landing in Istanbul and walking into the terminal to wait for his 2-hour layover, he found the brightest shining gold curls escaping from a toque in the waiting area. The person wearing them had headphones on and was snoring for all the world to hear. Shane couldn't help but laugh—for some reason, the universe just wouldn't let him be sad in this timeline, and he wouldn't dare complain about it now.

Ilya had taken a 6:58 AM flight while Shane and Yuna had taken a 9:10 AM one. They had the same layover, but Ilya's was two hours longer. He'd explained that he didn't really care—he needed to leave, and Shane didn't ask for an explanation there in the airport. He would later. For now, he just wanted to enjoy having Ilya in front of him. Shane had asked, "What are you doing here?" Ilya turned to him and Yuna, who were hovering above him, and said, "I thought you said I could come home."

Well, that was the beginning of a beautiful two days they'd have together in Ottawa before Shane had to go back to Montreal on Monday evening for practice Tuesday morning. Ilya would have to return to his team Thursday morning—so a full four days of domestic bliss, one of them spent traveling. Once they arrived at the airport in Ottawa though, people apparently clocked who they were, and well, pictures were beginning to surface of Shane, Ilya, and Yuna moving expeditiously through the airport to the pickup area where David was waiting. When Shane saw the pictures, he didn't freak out or even have the slightest bit of anxiety. One of them was of Ilya's backside, so uhm, well, he couldn't help but stare at the width of Ilya's muscles stretching out the t-shirt he was wearing for the flight. Saving that to the spank bank for later.

The gossip columns on page five were talking about how Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were seen together at the airport. There were a lot of questions surrounding why Ilya was in Canada. Ilya cleared it all up by putting out a statement that after losing his father, he was spending time with his good friend Shane Hollander. Given the context of his father's death, most people weren't assholes on the internet. Some people were still harping on the stupid-ass rivalry that the media had been pushing since they were seventeen. Unfortunately, while talking to his mother and Ilya about the statement Ilya was issuing for his reason to be in Canada, Shane totally forgot about his wisdom tooth lie to the team—which Thierault and the rest of the Metros did not forget.

On Tuesday afternoon, Shane left Ilya at his apartment. The moment he walked into the locker room, he was hit with a wall of hostile stares that left him confused. It wasn't until JJ walked in about five minutes later and sat down beside him that Shane understood the tension saturating the room. JJ leaned in and whispered:

"Have you checked the team chat?"

"No, why?"

"Don't."

"What do you mean, don't?"

Shane opened his gym bag and saw 102 notifications from the group chat alone. All since Sunday night. He'd had his phone on do not disturb while helping Ilya deal with the fallout of being seen together—which they'd both agreed was a success, a chance to show people they didn't actually hate each other despite whatever narrative the MHL was pushing.

It all felt too familiar. In this life and the other. Opening a group chat to see the people he'd considered brothers and friends talking absolute shit about him and the people he loved. There were so many remarks about his sexuality, jokes about his race, comments about whether Rozanov had hooked up with Yuna Hollander and whether David Hollander was a cuck. That Ilya was going to be step-daddy. Everyone had an opinion about things they knew nothing about. Even Hayden, who Shane thought was just angry and would eventually come around, had made a stupid fucking joke about Ilya's father's death. Something along the lines of it being a shame the whole Rozanov family lineage was being wiped out because the guy was insufferable on the ice.

Shane knew Ilya could be an asshole to these people. He knew some of the things Ilya did were unjustified. But Ilya had a heart and soul of pure gold. If he was picking on you, it meant one of two things: either he fucking hated your guts or he actually really, really liked you. There was no middle ground with Ilya's care for another person. So seeing these people—now strangers in his eyes—talk so poorly about the love of his life and say things about Shane as if he wasn't even in the chat was disgusting. They were bold to assume Shane would continue to be the perfect little hockey boy his parents raised him to be. If they thought that, they'd all lost their minds.

Unfortunately for Patrick Drapeau, he was the first person to have his phone out and be snickering at it after Shane read the thread of bullshit in the group chat. Honestly, Patrick could have been laughing at something on Twitter or a text from his wife—who had cheated on him five times already and gotten drunk just a few months ago at a bar with the whole team (minus Shane) to tell them all that Pat was horrible in bed and she never finished, so she found other ways to get off.

Shane lunged across the room and grabbed Patrick by the jersey. The fabric ripped. He hoisted Patrick's 295-pound ass off the ground and hurled him into the lockers.

"What's so fucking funny?"

"Dude, what the fuck?" Drapeau said.

"Oh, now you have something to say to my face?"

"What the fuck are you on about, Hollander?"

Shane looked around the room.

"So you all thought I just wouldn't respond to your text messages? All those things you said about me like I wasn't even there? You don't have the balls to say it to my face."

Everyone stared. Sweet Shane Hollander—only intense during his captain speeches and that one time someone brought up Ilya in the locker room—was finally acting out.

"Well maybe if you got your fucking face out of Rozanov's ball sack, you'd have time to respond to the team, clear everything up, and tell us what the fuck is going on," Hayden spoke up from the corner of the room, his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

Shane turned on his heels to face Hayden directly now.

"And you. I expected better from you. I hang out with your children—or at least I used to before Jackie left your pathetic ass and you started acting like the rest of these idiots." Shane's voice dripped with venom as he took a step closer to Hayden.

Hayden's face went blank, the color draining from his cheeks.

"Oh, that's right. I know all about your wife leaving you and taking the kids. Maybe you should have gone to that couple's therapy session instead. What is it you said—you couldn't get your face out from under my ball sack?"

JJ interrupted, moving between them with his hands raised. "Capitaine. Now is not the time. Do not say something you will regret. Please, mon ami."

"No, J. Fuck these guys. They don't deserve shit from me." Shane shook his head, his fists balled at his sides.

"We deserve a fucking explanation," Hayden said, his voice rising as he pushed past JJ. "Why are you all buddy-buddy with your rival? Why's he running to you after his dad died? What the hell is going on between you two?"

"No the fuck you don't. You don't deserve shit. This is a job. We are not friends. We are co-workers. I think it would be important for you to remember that from now on." Shane's eyes swept across the room, making eye contact with each player. "Because one leak—just one leak of this group chat—and I'd have all your asses back in the farm league. You think you're above the law? Workplace harassment policies? Discriminatory practices?"

Shane turned and looked around the room.

"Some of you rookies just got here. As quick as you got here, you could be sent back to bum-fuck-nowhere to be treated like the shit under my shoe."

"You think coach and the commissioner would let you do that?" Hayden said.

Shane turned back to Hayden, a dark smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I think it's time for you all to remember who the fuck I am."

Shane looked at the entire room again.

"I have brought home two championships with this team. Two. Yes, you all did some of the work, but let's be real here—without me there would be 181 fewer pucks in the back of the net those two seasons. That's not ego talking, that's just facts. I'm the only one to have beaten Gretzky's record. I'm, in fact, the only one who's even come close in the last two decades. I work my ass off every single game to make you all shine in your place of work. So you can all have jobs and support your sad excuses for lives. And excuse the fuck out of me for being angry when the people I spend more than eighty percent of my year with—the people I've bled for, the people I've sacrificed for—want to talk shit about me and the people that I love right in front of my face and expect that I won't say a fucking word in return. Like I'm just supposed to stand here and take it with a smile."

Shane's chest was heaving now, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The locker door slammed open with a bang that echoed off the concrete walls.

"Hollander, my office now," Coach Theirault said, his face was red, a vein pulsing at his temple.

Shane walked away from Hayden without swinging, though every muscle in his body screamed at him to do otherwise.

When he sat down across from Coach Theirault, he expected to be chewed out—but he didn't expect the coach to be so bold.

"Hollander, I don't know what fucking freak show you and Rozanov are running, but keep that shit behind closed doors. I don't need it bleeding into my locker room."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Hollander. I don't know what the fuck is going on, and I don't know if your mom is putting you up to some PR stunt to help Rozanov with his reputation, but it stops now."

"Coach, respectfully, what in the fuck are you talking about?"

In his past life, Shane had been terrified of what Theirault could do to him. The man was an authority figure with real power over where Shane worked, and hockey was a dream in both realities. But over the years, Shane had learned that dreams were attainable without letting homophobic, xenophobic, racist assholes push you around.

He remembered—and cherished—the look on Robert Theirault's face when the Metros played the Centaurs for the first time after he left for Ottawa. The Husbands of Hockey were all anyone was talking about in the MHL world, and for once it wasn't just about how many pucks either of them were scoring. It was about how the two of them had turned around a team Ilya was already rebuilding, crushing every top competitor that stood in their way. Montreal had suffered a spectacular fall from grace once Shane was gone.

After the game, Shane slid to a stop right in front of the Metro bench and locked eyes with Theirault. The coach yelled through the plexiglass, What do you want, you fucking fag?

Before Shane could respond, Ilya slid to a stop right beside him. Shane could only laugh. Ilya wrapped his arm around the small of his husband's back, and they skated away together.

Theirault was fired the next week after young fans sitting behind the bench recorded his homophobic remarks. That line became the topic of conversation all over social media until the MHL was forced to take action.

Now, sitting in this office, Shane realized what limited power his coach actually had over him. The groundwork for multiple lawsuits had already been laid—all while remaining respectful. He wouldn't have to take anyone's shit anymore. The days of biting his tongue and swallowing his pride were over.

"I said, I don't know what kind of gay shit you and Rozanov are cooking up but leave it off my ice. I don't need these guys thinking that you are going to be a problem by checking them out in the shower or lockerroom."

"Sir, I've never said I was gay."

"No, but you and Rozanov sure are acting like some sort of fucking lovers. He ran to your side from fucking Russia after his father croaked and then I walk into the locker room and you look like you're so close to Pike that you'll fucking make out with him any second. Then you go and lie to the human resource department and tell them that you're having surgery for your wisdom teeth just so you can coddle Rozanov the moment he gets off a plane. You and your mother both. I saw all the pictures."

"So, I'm not allowed to care about my friends now? Do you go and have these types of conversations with every single person who has a friend on another team?"

"Hollander it isn't about being friends. It's about all of your fucking lies and stunts. It's about you making this team look like a fucking circus."

"Sir."

"You're benched for the next five games. And I'm taking away your C and giving it to Pike."

That felt like a slap across the face. His captaincy. The one thing he'd worked his entire career for. "What the fuck? Sir!"

"You heard me, Hollander. Fucking be grateful I don't trade you to some shit place like Ottawa."

Now, wait a minute.

Shane felt something snap inside him. The fear, the anxiety, the constant need to prove himself—it all evaporated in an instant. "Fucking do it. This team is nothing without me. You'd regret it so quick. Send me to Ottawa. You think I'm not worth more than a couple of early round picks they've got next year?" Please, send me to Ottawa?

Little does anyone in the hockey community know that next year's draft would bring Luca Haas—a player Shane and Ilya both believed would be the next Hollander and Rozanov, if Luca could just get out of his head and grow some confidence. He was beginning to explore a new sense of confidence at the end of the 2025-2026 season after coming out to the team, but he was still hesitant with his stick handling.

"Hollander, go home. You'll be back on the ice next Thursday. Be here for practice before we head to Texas."

Shane stood up slowly. He wasn't going to give Theirault the satisfaction of seeing him rush out of here with his tail between his legs. "Yes, Bobby. See you in a fucking week and a half."

"What did you just fucking call me?"

Shane paused at the door and turned back with a smile. "See ya, Bob."

He could hear Theirault sputtering behind him as he walked out, but Shane didn't look back. He went straight home and curled up next to Ilya on the couch. Ilya was justifiably pissed. When Yuna found out two days later—after Ilya had already flown back to Boston—she practically had to be restrained from driving to Theirault's house and taking a swing at him herself.

The Metros had won this round. But the real war was just around the bend.

On April 19th, Montreal and Boston were set to drop the puck that evening. In this timeline, Yuna and David sat in the audience, ready to cheer on both of their boys. Over the past four games, Theirault had moved Shane down to the third line, but with Boston coming up and Pike as the new Captain, Shane was back on the first line that morning when Pike sent out the game plan. Shane figured it was something about Theirault's ego—he didn't want to get his ass handed to him by the Raiders on national television.

In his past, this was the night Ilya had explained he was going to break it off with Shane. The night everything was going to end until Cliff Marleau put an end to his season with a broken collarbone and concussion. That landed Ilya at the hospital and at Shane's bedside for approximately four minutes before a nurse rushed in. They were always so pressed for time because someone was always invading their privacy. At least then Ilya left with an invite to the cottage.

Tonight though, Shane planned to stay far away from Marleau on the ice and go home to his boyfriend, who had texted an hour ago that he loved him and couldn't wait to give him a big kiss after the game. It was set to be a good night!

On their third face-off of the night, Ilya looked up at Shane and winked. The devil worked hard but Shane worked harder. He retorted by blowing a kiss to Ilya before taking off with the puck and heading toward Hammersmith, who was protecting the net.

Shane had done a very good job of avoiding Cliff all night. The fucking teddy bear personified. He was just trying to say hi to his favorite Canadian but Shane was not going to jinx it. He could say hi to Cliff after the game, and Cliff looked genuinely hurt when Shane skated away just before the first period without a response. He'd get a hug after the game.

But now, in this moment, Cliff was barreling toward him. Shane thought that if he hadn't turned back to showboat—flashing that cocky smile at Ilya after winning the face-off—if he'd just kept his focus on the play, he could have avoided getting his ass taken out.

This time, Shane saw Cliff coming. He slowed down just enough, and Cliff barreled right past him, straight into the boards. Shane skated by smoothly, but as he passed, he turned to look back—just in time to see the little girls in the front row scared shitless, jumping back as two hundred pounds of hockey player crashed toward the glass..

When turned back around and the last thing he remembered seeing was Metro blue.

Ah, fuck. Not again.

Ilya's POV

Ilya watched as Shane's hockey IQ kicked in—it was sexy, really. The way Shane dragged his skate ever so slightly, just enough to let Cliff barrel past him harmlessly. And then Pike, coming in fast, unable to slow down in time. It all happened so fast.

Honestly, if Ilya didn't know that Pike and Shane were going through a rough patch in their friendship, he would've automatically assumed this was just a freak accident. Hayden was clearly going after Cliff to protect Shane and push the play forward in a game that was tied 2-2. But Ilya had never seen teammates collide like this. Sure, in junior leagues, kids were idiots who couldn't control their skates well enough to avoid each other—but that was back when he was ten years old. Now, standing on ice meant for professionals at the top of the sport, he'd never witnessed anything like it.

He watched as Hayden's shoulder barreled into the left side of Shane's body, right into his chest. The chest guard should have protected him, but the speed at which Hayden was moving caused a crack—plastic, Ilya prayed it was plastic—that rippled across the arena. Shane went sideways through the air, and his head bounced off the ice. Not once but twice.

Ilya stared at Shane's lifeless and unmoving body. Behind him, Marly screamed, "Pike, you motherfucker!" The sound of Metros and Raiders tussling erupted, but Ilya couldn't breathe. His whole body felt like it was going into shock.

A referee grabbed his shoulder. "Go back to your bench, Rozanov."

The words snapped him awake. Ilya dove to the ice, covering Shane's body with his own.

"Shanya, please. Shane, please!" His voice cracked. "Don't do this to me. Don't fucking leave me."

He looked around wildly. "Fuck—someone help him! Get help over here!"

Ilya ran his finger just below Shane's nose. He knew better than to take the helmet off—concussion protocol. Shane was breathing, but he wasn't responsive.

The referee moved closer. "Rozanov, you need to stand up and let the medics do their job."

Ilya looked up as the medics approached. His face was wet. He was crying and hadn't even known it. A young woman in a blue uniform knelt beside him—clearly a paramedic.

"Mr. Rozanov, please step back," she said firmly. "We need to get him to a hospital immediately."

"No, please." Ilya's voice broke. "Let me be with him. Please, he'll be so scared."

The paramedic looked him in the eyes. "Mr. Rozanov, I need to check if his pupils are reactive. It's going to determine how fast I'm about to drive this fucking ambulance. So please step back." She gestured to Shane's head. "Just stand right here and block the view of the fans. Please."

That, Ilya could do. He could take orders. Make himself useful. When he stood, he felt another hand on his shoulder and realized his teammates—Carmichael, Hammersmith, Connors, and a bloodied Marly—had been behind him the whole time. They'd formed a circle around Shane, shielding him from view.

Connors spoke. "We got you, brother."

Ilya turned, took a breath, then skated to Shane's head and blocked the crowd's view from that angle.

He knew once they got Shane on a stretcher, he couldn't go with him. It would expose them both. Everything would be over. There was no way he could get back on the ice and play the rest of this game, but his team was looking at him like what are you still doing here?

As Shane was being wheeled off, a familiar voice called out from the rink-side exit. "Ilya, come on!"

Yuna. Beside her stood Coach LeClaire, pointing to the exit.

"What do you mean?" Ilya called back. "We have to finish playing."

"Oh, for the love of God," Yuna screamed.

Coach LeClaire stepped forward. "Rozanov, you're in no condition to play. Go. Be with your friend. We can finish this without you. We'll be right behind ya."

Ilya was stunned. He turned to his teammates, who all nodded in agreement. That was all the confirmation he needed.. He tore off his skates, handed them to his coach, and ran through the exit in his game socks. Shane was already in the back of the ambulance, pulling away from the curb by the time he and Yuna reached the end of the tunnel.

A black Jeep screeched up, David Hollander behind the wheel. Yuna and Ilya rushed in, and David peeled out like Lightning McQueen.

"Did you get the bags?" Yuna asked from the front seat.

"Yes. They're beside Ilya."

Ilya looked down. His gym bag and Shane's sat at his feet.

"Sorry, Ilya," David said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "I had to rush in and grab your bag from the locker room. I hope nothing got shaken up in there. I was going so fast."

"Is okay," Ilya said quietly. "Thank you for grabbing it."

Yuna turned in her seat. "Ilya, I'm going to say this once. I know you're scared of being outed with Shane right now, and I know you're terrified about what's happening with him. I feel the same way." She took a breath. "But when I walk into this hospital, I can't be a manager—I have to be Mom first. So you'll need to handle any statements or press on your own for right now. My advice? Say nothing. Keep playing the 'Shane is my best friend who helped me through my father's death' card, if you're even asked. Let's just get through these next few days. Okay?"

"Yes, I understand, Ms. Hollander."

"Now, Ilya." Her voice softened. "You're my son too. I'll be right there with you through everything that's about to come. Don't forget that. We just need to focus on Shane first. Then we deal with the vultures, okay? And don't ever call me Ms. Hollander again."

"Sorry, Yuna."

When they got to the hospital, Shane had already been taken back to the trauma center. The wait felt like the longest of his life—47 minutes and 13 seconds before the doctors came out to tell them what was going on. Yuna and Ilya were losing their minds while David sat between them, rubbing small circles on their backs.

A tiny woman—smaller than Yuna—explained that Shane had been intubated in the ambulance on the way over because he'd stopped breathing. Upon arrival, the doctors did a full trauma evaluation: bloodwork, a neurological assessment, a CT scan of his cervical spine. She continued, saying there was bleeding on the brain from the impact on the ice, but they shouldn't worry—they were classifying it as a small acute subdural hematoma with cerebral contusions. The doctors had already placed Shane in a medically induced coma to monitor any continued bleeding with an intracranial pressure monitor. While in the coma, Shane would be in the neuro and trauma ICU.

Ilya felt like he was living in the twilight zone. None of this made sense. He caught only a few words from the tiny doctor that he understood: "stopped breathing" and "coma."

The doctor, who introduced herself as Dr. Castillo, walked Yuna and Ilya through everything Shane was hooked up to. Ilya couldn't do anything but stare at how flushed Shane looked. He looked like he was in so much pain with that huge tube shoved down his throat. Ilya didn't speak until he heard a strange noise from what he thought was the heart monitor.

"What is that noise?"

Dr. Castillo stepped over and said she'd noticed it earlier during Shane's initial evaluation, too. She suspected she knew the reason, but wanted someone from cardiology to take a look. When Ilya finally worked up the nerve to ask how long Shane would be like this, Dr. Castillo said she and the neurologist believed he could stay in the coma for at least two days. Ilya felt like he was going to die right there in the ICU room.

He sank into the chair beside Shane's bed and could only pray to his Mama while clutching his necklace tightly.

"Shanya, please come back to me." He whispered into the palm of Shane's right hand.

The first night at the hospital, Ilya never left Shane's side. When he finally ducked into the bathroom attached to Shane's ICU room, he sat down on the toilet to rest his legs and pee. He'd barely been sitting for ten seconds when he heard beeping from the other room. He shot up and yanked his boxers into place, but his sweat pants were still around his ankles. He stumbled to the bathroom door, and as soon as he flung it open, he found two nurses staring at him wide-eyed while they checked on Shane. Apparently, they were alerted to the beeping, as well. Dr. Castillo rushed in a moment later. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Rozanov, why don't you pull up your pants?"

Ultimately, Shane was fine. During her hourly checks, the neurologist remained positive and affirming, saying Shane's brain activity looked promising. Ilya knew what a concussion entailed—he'd had his brain rattled around a few times given the occupation—but this looked worse than anything he'd ever dealt with.

The morning after, Yuna and David came back. They'd apparently slept in the parking lot while Ilya tried to sleep for a few minutes in the hard chair beside Shane's bed. Yuna came in to find Ilya with his head laid flat on Shane's hand, bent over the bed. She insisted that he leave and get some sleep, but every time the words "Ilya" and "leave" came up, Shane's heart monitor did that weird thing again. Fuck, he couldn't move. Didn't want to, either. It was like Shane was really listening.

Later in the day, the door swung open and Coach LeClaire walked in with Marly trailing behind him, sporting a massive black eye. Ilya assumed it was from fighting Pike. David stood from his chair and moved to the door, exchanging quiet words with Coach before stepping aside to let him through. Ilya remained motionless, his hand intertwined with Shane's. They'd been like that all day. Truthfully, Ilya was afraid to let go—because what if Shane thought he'd given up? And if Shane thought that, he might give up too. The thought alone terrified him. He needed Shane just as badly as Shane needed him.

Coach's eyes swept over the scene—Ilya's protective posture, the way he gripped Shane's hand like a lifeline—and he smiled. He pulled up one of the extra chairs and sat down heavily.

"Rozanov, you take as much time as you need, okay?"

Ilya was exhausted, but he shook his head, his thumb brushing across Shane's knuckles. "Coach, I can meet you in Michigan in two days. Just let him wake up first. Please?"

"No, Rozanov." Coach leaned forward. "I had my suspicions, you know? But ultimately, it didn't matter to me. I saw all the bullshit out there in the news and I definitely got a heated call from Coach Theirault about the two of you a few weeks ago—he had some choice words—but just know, we have your back, okay? You take as much time as you need. If Carly was like this, I'd be a fucking mess."

Ilya definitely knew what was being implied between the lines. So did David and Yuna, who had settled into seats on Shane's other side. They were both smiling at him.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Boy! I thought I raised you better over these past seven years than to lie to me. I know you were a mess outside of the rink, but I didn't think you'd lie to me." His voice softened. "I told you, it's okay. I'm not going to tell anyone, alright? I only came here because this big lump"—he jerked his thumb toward Marly, who was leaning against the doorframe—"wouldn't leave me alone until I let him out of the hotel. And I wanted to make sure you were okay too." He paused. "So please, take the time you need. I don't need you coming back in two days and being a fucking wreck all the way through playoffs. You got three weeks until they begin. We can manage without you until then if you need it, okay?"

Ilya could fucking break down and cry right then and there. Fucking Coach LeClaire, who had kept him at arm's length for years, was now comparing him and Shane to himself and Carly, his wife. His heart sang. He wiped the tear from his eye.

"Thank you, Coach."

"Of course, kid." Coach settled back in his chair. "You know, you remind me of my eldest, and he looks up to you a lot. So maybe one day you pay me back by taking him out for the day. But no strip clubs—actually, nowhere that sells beer except a chain restaurant."

"Raffy? I'd love to, Coach. He's a good kid from what I remember."

"That's the one. He's watched you grow up while he was growing up himself. He just turned eighteen last month and starts at UMass this summer."

"Wow. Smart kid. He hasn't been around the rink in a few years though."

Coach's face was somber. "No, he hasn't. He's been dealing with some stuff alone and avoiding me. He came out to me last summer as gay and, well, I had to take a big look inside and make sure I was making myself a safe space for not only my own kids but you all as well." He met Ilya's eyes. "I'm sorry you ever had to feel like you had to hide this from me."

"No, Coach. Is okay." Ilya squeezed Shane's hand tighter. "Shane and I—well, it's new but not. It's a long story. But we can't really be out until I have my passport taken care of. In the U.S., it takes so many years. Even with the best lawyers and the help from the league."

Coach LeClaire looked at him and pondered for a moment. "You could go to a Canadian team."

Both Yuna and Marly choked at the same time. Ilya stared at Coach, wondering if the man had lost his mind. Maybe he'd had too many drinks last night and decided not to sleep at all before coming to the hospital. Coach's forehead wrinkled as he turned to look at Yuna.

"What? I'm being serious. Canada's immigration laws are much easier, right? We had Malkov move to Edmonton a few years ago and married his wife from Quebec City. He had citizenship in just a year or a little after." He gestured emphatically. "And what? You mean to tell me you're going to stay in Boston after what I saw on the ice last night? You love this man. You don't need to be further away from him than necessary." He held up a hand before anyone could interrupt. "Now, I'm not saying you should go to Montreal. It would definitely be worse there than other places, but I could help by making a few calls when your contract's up next year. Boston would sure as hell miss you. But you're family to us. I wouldn't keep you here if you need to be elsewhere. We care about our players and their happiness. I'd say Hollander could come to us instead, but I think Mrs. Hollander here has him locked down in Montreal until 2020. That would be a hell of a long time to be apart. I sure as hell couldn't do it."

Ilya's mouth opened and nothing came out. His mind raced, trying to process what his Coach was offering. "Coach, I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything." Coach stood and placed a hand on Ilya's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Stay here. Take care of Hollander and we'll talk about it when you're back with us on the ice. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Coach straightened and turned toward the door, motioning to Marly. "Now, I'm going to get the new and temporary captain back to the hotel and then on a flight. Will you be okay here with the Hollanders?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Marly pushed off from the doorframe and walked over, his good eye crinkling. "Give Hollzy our best when he wakes up, okay, Roz?"

"Thank you, Marly."

Ilya rose from his chair, careful not to let go of Shane's hand, and pulled Coach into a one-armed hug. Then he embraced Marly, clapping him on the back. When he finally sat back down, he let out a long, shuddering sigh. It was like the universe was giving him a fucking golden brick road to be with Shane in the future. A safe and very beautiful golden future. Now, Shane just needed to wake up so they could talk about it.

"Wow. I can't believe he said all of that."

Yuna leaned back in her chair, "Wow, indeed."

That evening, Shane was taken from the ICU for further testing by the neurologist and cardiologist. Around 8:00 PM, they both returned with some med students to give their reports. David and Yuna immediately indicated that Ilya was fine to hear everything, but the doctors turned to Ilya first for consent.

Ilya blinked, confused. "Why are you asking me?"

Dr. Castillo glanced down at her tablet. "You're listed as Mr. Hollander's primary point of contact for medical decisions."

Yuna's mouth fell open. David looked between Ilya and the doctors, clearly stunned.

"I—what?" Ilya's heart hammered in his chest. "Since when?"

"According to our records, the change was made approximately four months ago."

Fucking Shane. Even unconscious, he was finding ways to make Ilya's chest tight and his eyes water.

"Of course he did," Ilya muttered, running a hand over his face. He looked at David and Yuna. "I had no idea. I swear."

"We believe you," Yuna said softly, though she looked as shocked as Ilya felt.

Ilya took a breath and nodded at the doctors. "They can hear everything. Please."

Ilya's mind was already racing ahead. He'd have to call Boston when this was over—make sure his own paperwork was updated to reflect the same. The Hollanders were the only family he had now, and if something ever happened to him, they deserved to know.

Dr. Castillo started by explaining they'd take Shane off the medically-induced coma drugs in a little less than twenty-four hours. After that, they could remove the tube—he'd breathe on his own, eventually wake up, and be able to speak. The neuro went second and told the three of them that Shane should be fine neurologically. He'd need some time off and regular check-ups—a subdural hematoma was no joke—but right now there was no reason to worry. The bleeding on his brain had stopped completely, and now the brain just needed to heal. Shane would be disoriented for a few weeks, but mentally he should be fine to make his own decisions once he'd had some time to recover.

Then the cardiologist stepped forward. "Mr. Rozanov, we did an echocardiogram on your husband—"

"He's my boyfriend," Ilya interrupted. "We haven't gotten to husband yet. I have a ring, but..." He trailed off.

Yuna's head snapped up. "You have a ring?"

"Yes, but I'm holding onto it for a while," Ilya said quietly. "I don't want to do it yet."

David raised a hand. "Okay everyone, let's listen to what the nice doctor has to say."

The cardiologist nodded and continued. "As I was saying, we did an echocardiogram because we noticed some irregular activity. I'd like to do more testing when he wakes up, but based on what I have and what Dr. Castillo told me, we think he may have what's referred to as Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome."

Ilya's stomach twisted at the words, especially since they circled around his favorite thing about Shane—his beautiful fucking heart. "That sounds serious."

"It can be if not properly treated," the cardiologist said. "The heart itself is healthy—there's no damage to the heart muscle. It's more of an electrical issue. Everyone's heart has a normal electrical pathway that tells it when to beat. I believe Shane was born with an extra pathway, which is basically an electrical shortcut. Most of the time, it causes no problem at all, but sometimes it can shortcut and let the heart suddenly beat extremely fast. If he's extremely stressed or overworked, his body can go into shock and his heart would beat out of control. If he's prone to panic attacks or high levels of anxiety, I'd almost bet this is what causes some of the episodes that were a part of his medical file."

Yuna leaned forward. "He's constantly stressed, and he used to have such strong attacks as a kid."

"Yes, I've seen them too," Ilya said. "One time he was afraid someone would see me coming into his old condo, and he had to sit down on the stairs to catch his breath. That was the first time. He's had a couple after that."

Yuna's eyebrows shot up. "Condo?"

"He doesn't have them anymore," Ilya said. "He sold them."

Yuna exchanged a look with David, but the cardiologist continued before anyone could ask questions.

"The reason we take it seriously is that in rare cases when overworked, the wrong rhythm can become dangerous. It can cause fainting, or in the worst case, cardiac arrest. I think he's perfectly fine. Judging by the way his heart rate only spikes when he's away from you—" the cardiologist glanced at Ilya, "—tells me he's a bit stressed and can potentially hear us through the medication that he's currently under. His heart is reacting to the information his brain is providing. But that's only an assumption. It's hard to say while he's still induced."

Even unconscious, Shane was reaching for him.

"Will he need treatment?" Ilya asked. "Medication? Surgery?"

"That would be the next steps. It's very treatable. Once Shane is stable enough from the head injury, we can do a pretty non-invasive procedure where we go into the heart through a blood vessel, locate the extra pathway, and destroy a tiny piece of tissue so the abnormal signal can't travel through anymore. It's nothing like open-heart surgery. Right now, he rests, and in three to four weeks you bring him back and we do the procedure in-house. He'll be out the same day or next morning."

Ilya nodded slowly. "Okay."

Yuna exhaled. "Yeah, that sounds pretty calm and easy."

"Yes, it does," Ilya said. "Is there anything else?"

"No. Not at this time. Let him get plenty of rest and we'll check back in tomorrow."

"Thank you so much," Ilya said.

The doctors filed out, leaving the three of them alone in the quiet room for about ten-minutes. Yuna pulled out her phone to google Wolff syndrome or whatever the fuck it was called.

Then, David spoke up to break the silence, "I guess you didn't lie to us in Florida."

"I'm sorry?"

"You have a ring?"

Ilya's face flushed red. He looked down at his hands. "Yes, but I'm not ready to give it to him yet. I want him to be safe and ready. I love him so much, but I don't want to rush him."

David laughed, "I can't wait to see the smile it puts on his face," he said, gesturing toward Shane.

The next day, the doctors came in around 5:00 PM to remove Shane's breathing tube. Ilya had to leave the room because he couldn't bear to see Shane like this—hurting and vulnerable—without feeling like a madman, ready to punch the nurses who were making Shane cough. When they finished, Dr. Castillo explained that her shift would end in a few hours, but they should monitor anything abnormal and report it to the nurses immediately. They were transferred to a room on the neurology floor, and it was much more spacious than the cramped ICU bay they'd been in before. It even came with a cot that would let Ilya sleep beside Shane and continue holding his hand through the night.

Shane still hadn't woken up by the end of visiting hours. David and Yuna said they'd take the night shift tonight, but tomorrow they were switching off—no exceptions. The nurses were kind enough to let one person stay with Shane each night as long as they stayed out of the way during hourly checks. Ilya wouldn't argue with that. When Shane woke up, he'd finally be able to go somewhere and wash the sweat off from the game, actually rest. But until then, he wasn't leaving his guard post. Luckily for him, his soon-to-be in-laws brought him pajamas, a change of clothes for tomorrow, and baby wipes to clean himself off in Shane's new fancy bathroom.

At midnight, Ilya lay beside Shane on his own cot and just watched him breathe. The steady rise and fall of Shane's chest was hypnotic. He counted Shane's freckles one by one from three feet away to pass the time, tracing imaginary constellations across the bridge of his nose and over his cheekbones.

Then at 12:21 AM, as he reached number 32 on his fourth round of counting, Ilya noticed something different. Shane's eyelashes flickered—just the tiniest movement. Ilya sat up slowly, afraid that any sudden movement might scare Shane back to sleep.

Then he saw the most beautiful sight in the world: those chocolate brown eyes he'd been desperately waiting to see finally staring back at him. Ilya's chin immediately scrunched up and his bottom lip quivered as relief crashed through him like a wave.

"Are you awake, my beautiful warrior?"

Shane finally responded in a raspy voice. "Beautiful warrior?"

Ilya let the floodgates open now and leaned in against Shane's chest from the bedside. "Fuck, Shanya. You scared me so much."

"Ilyusha Hollander-Rozanov, please stop crying, baby. My head hurts, and seeing you cry makes my heart hurt."

Ilya looked up into those ooey-gooey, beautiful chocolate-brown eyes that were slowly fluttering closed from exhaustion, and he smiled.

Ilyusha Hollander-Rozanov. What a beautiful name that is.

Chapter End Notes

The next chapter is called “April 23, 2017: Montreal.”

We’re starting in Ilya’s POV, and we’ll finally get our first Metro visitor. Maybe even a second? We have a lot of explaining to do before Ilya returns to the Raiders and sees Scott Hunter in the second round!

Chapter 11: April 23, 2017 - Montreal.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is entirely from Ilya’s POV, so if it feels a little discombobulated, don’t worry. That’s intentional! We get glimpses of protective Ilya, sad Ilya, and Ilya feeling deeply undeserving of love. His thoughts and emotions bounce around like a pinball, and I wanted to explore some of the messy, unclear inner workings of his mind while he's exhausted from all of the events over the past few days.

But don’t be too mad at me! I had to let Ilya hurt a little to reach the next step in my master plan. I also wanted to show you some Pike and offer a glimpse into what his life has looked like over the past eight months. Thus, we finally get some answers!

Never fear: we’ll be right back to our regularly scheduled BAMF Shane Hollander making damn sure Ilya gets loved in the next chapter!

TW: Mentions of thoughts of suicide. No actual acts occurred.

When Shane woke up, it was only four minutes before he passed the fuck back out. But those four minutes—they were some of the best minutes of Ilya's life.

Shane was alive. Shane was awake. Shane was smiling. And he was calling him Ilyusha Hollander-Rozanov. Ilya felt his entire body respond to it. He had to adjust his pants when he finally laid back down on the cot because the dream of being with Shane Hollander for the rest of his life, of having that name be real someday, excited him to no end.

It took him back to that dream he'd had on the flight to Russia. The only thing missing from that dream, the only thing that would make it truly perfect, was his Mama being there to see it. But she was there, in her own way. She'd left him an orthodox cross necklace from the safety deposit box to match the one he wore every day. No matter where his love ended up, she would be able to enjoy it.

The last three days had been terrifying. There had been hours when Ilya was absolutely certain he'd never see that smile again, never have his dreams come true. But Shane had persisted through everything. Over the past four months, Shane had been making every dream come true for him, even when Ilya pushed back and forced him away. The man had flown to fucking Russia for him. He was clearly a psychopath, but he was Ilya's psychopath.

And during those four minutes of consciousness, Shane had rambled about things that didn't quite make sense—something about his fancy cottage, going on dates, getting married in the backyard with a honeymoon in Greece. It was nice knowing that Shane had been in the same headspace as him when it came to the future. He didn't know how he felt about a backyard wedding, but if it was what Shane wanted, then...

That night, he was able to sleep on the cot beside Shane's bed after sending a text to Yuna about Shane waking up temporarily and alerting the nurses to the same. He wasn't woken up until Yuna and David snuck in around 8:00 AM at the start of visiting hours.

Yuna laughed at the sight of a sleeping Shane who had, at some point, reached his weak little right hand all the way over to Ilya's cot to intertwine their fingers again. Shane was sound asleep right now. Yuna whispered to Ilya as he opened his eyes:

"Don't move, I want to get a picture."

Ilya smiled and looked over at Shane, who was so peaceful. All of his monitors looked like they were working right. He was safe. For the first time in days, Ilya finally felt rested and like he could breathe. Yuna walked over after taking a few shots and showed him.

He could only smile harder because finally someone else was seeing a glimpse of the joy that Shane Hollander brought to his life. If anyone saw how he looked in this photo, no one would ever doubt how in love he was. If he could only show this photo to Svetlana and Sasha. They'd get it. Maybe even Alexei would understand. But all of those roads were closed to him now. He just wanted to make sure Shane survived this hospital stay and got back to being annoyingly boring before he returned to the Raiders. Coach LeClaire had given him plenty of time to make sure Shane was okay, and he planned on using every minute. His beautiful boy with his big, full heart needed to be protected.

Shane woke up twice that day. The second time was more lucid—that's when the lengthy conversations had to happen. But the first time was around noon, and immediately, the pain medication turned Shane into a loopy, loose-lipped cutie. Yuna and David had just left for lunch, which left Ilya alone with a very unfiltered Shane.

"Ilyaaaaaaa," Shane called out.

Ilya's eyes opened. He turned his head from his seat beside Shane's bed. "Yes, sweetheart. I am here."

"You're so handsome," Shane said, his words slurring slightly.

Ilya smiled. "Thank you, sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Shane said. "Concussion and broken collarbone. I know. Marly didn't mean it."

Ilya sat up slightly. "Shane, you don't have a broken collarbone. You have a concussion, yes, but you have lots of bruising on your chest from Pike."

Shane's face scrunched up. "Oh no. That sounds bad. Am I okay?"

"Yes. Yes. You are okay," Ilya said, moving closer to the bed. "You needed a tube and it scared me, but you are okay. Yes?"

"Yes. I'm okay. I feel okay," Shane said. He paused, then added, "I'm glad it wasn't Marly this time. I like that guy."

Ilya laughed. "Shane, what are you talking about? Are you dreaming of Marly? Should I be worried that Shane Hollander is going to leave me for Clifford, the big red dumbass in Boston?"

Shane laughed really hard at that until he winced at the pain in his chest.

"No, I would never leave you," Shane said. "No matter what world or timeline we're in, I will always find you. I would love you even if you were poor. Even if you never came to North America. Even if you were bad at hockey."

Ilya's stomach filled with butterflies. "Now, that's a lie. I don't believe that last one."

"No, it's true," Shane insisted, reaching his hand out toward Ilya. "I would always find you and those beautiful curls, and I wouldn't stop looking until I found them, Ilya."

"Shane," Ilya said softly, taking his hand.

"That's my nameeeee," Shane sang, his eyes half-closed. "I love it when you moan it too."

"Shane! You can't say things like that—we're in the hospital."

"Oh please," Shane screeched. "As if you wouldn't take me into that bathroom over there and fuck me if you knew it wouldn’t hurt me."

"Oh my god, Shane!" Ilya said as he glanced toward the door to make sure no one was listening.

"What?" Shane grinned. "You know it's true."

Ilya shook his head. "Whatever. Yes. You know me, and I can't resist you."

"Mhmm," Shane hummed, his eyes narrowing playfully. "If you can’t resist me, then why haven't you kissed me since I woke up? I haven't had my prince charming wake me from my slumber yet."

"Oh, prince charming, eh?"

"No, wait," Shane said. "I'll act like I'm asleep and you kiss me and wake me up."

Shane closed his eyes and started snoring dramatically, his whole body going slack against the pillows.

Ilya couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, I'm coming for you, princess."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, quick kiss to Shane's lips.

Shane's eyes flew open immediately. "What kind of shit kiss was that, Rozanov?"

"Oh, you're greedy now?" Ilya asked, pulling back slightly. "Shane Hollander is greedy?"

"I'll give you one more shot, Rozanov," Shane said, "or you may have to worry about Cliff becoming my big red dog. He would probably look good in a collar."

"You little brat," Ilya seethed, but he was already leaning down again.

This time, he kissed Shane deeply, his hand coming up to cup Shane's jaw carefully, mindful of the injuries. Shane's fingers tangled in Ilya's hair, pulling him closer, and for a moment there was nothing but the soft sound of their lips swapping spit and the steady beep of the heart monitor.

The moment shattered when a nurse walked in and shrieked at the sight of them. Ilya pulled back immediately, but Shane was obviously not done—he reached up for more, only to grimace from the pain in his chest. After the nurse finished her check-ups and Shane stammered through multiple apologies for the awkward situation she'd walked in on, he fell back asleep.

Around 4:00 PM, Shane finally woke up the second time with Ilya, David, and Yuna all in the room. His first question was immediate.

"What year is it?"

Yuna looked at him with concern. "Shane, honey, you should be answering that for us."

"I'm not playing, Mom." Shane's voice was strained and a lot less playful than it was around lunch time. "What year is it? Where is Ilya?"

Shane hadn't turned to his right yet to see Ilya was no less than two feet away, leaning forward in his chair with both hands gripping the bed rail.

"I'm here, my love," Ilya said softly.

Shane's head turned sharply toward the voice. "Ilya, what year is it?"

"2017, Shane." Ilya's brow furrowed. "What is wrong?"

"Oh thank god." Shane exhaled, his entire body sagging back into the pillows.

"Shane, are you okay?" Yuna asked, already half-standing. "Do I need to get the nurse?"

"No. No." Shane shook his head, then winced at the movement. "I just wanted to make sure I didn't... I don't know. Lose my memory?"

"Oh, Shane." Yuna's sighed. "No. It's a bad head trauma, but the doctors think you're going to be okay."

"That's all?" Shane looked between them. "That's all that's wrong with me?"

Yuna hesitated. "Well..."

She spent the next several minutes explaining that he shouldn't be concerned, but he had a cardiologist on his case now as well because he had something referred to as WPW. She explained that the doctors wanted him to come back in a few weeks after he healed so that it could be repaired. Ilya held his hand throughout the whole explanation, his thumb tracing circles over Shane's knuckles. Shane asked questions—a ton of questions that Yuna was definitely not prepared to answer. She said she would defer to the cardiologist. Ilya wanted to hold Shane and explain to him that it was all going to be alright, but Shane, predictably and ultimately, was only worried about one thing.

"Will I be able to play hockey again?"

Ilya's hand went still. "Are you fucking serious?"

"What?"

"Sorry, Yuna and David, for cursing." Ilya didn't look at them. His eyes were locked on Shane. "But are you serious?"

"What?" Shane's confusion was genuine. "What did I do?"

"Shane, you almost died." Ilya's voice cracked. "You were like a dead person on the ice. I—and then you ask is will you play hockey again?"

"It's important, Ilya. It's my job. It's our job!"

"I know, Shane. But there are other jobs!" Ilya's grip tightened on Shane's hand. "You are the best at your job, yes? But even the best know when to stop and take care of themselves. I watched you almost die and you're worried about running back to Montreal?"

"No, Ilya. It's not like that." Shane's voice softened. "I just... I have so many plans. And I want to... I don't know. Keep playing with you. Against you. Whatever. Listen, I'm sorry. I know this must have been hard."

"No, you don't!" Ilya's eyes were glassy now. "It's been hard on all of us. It's been... Shane, I was so afraid you'd never wake up again after what I saw on the ice. I just. Fuck. I would have given it all up and almost did out there."

Shane's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Ilya knew he had stuck his foot in his mouth because Shane definitely didn't have knowledge of what the media was saying. Ilya had opened his Twitter a few times over the past few days to doom scroll out of boredom, and sure enough there was video of Ilya flopping to his knees like a whale out of water to cradle Shane's head and acting like a maniac in front of thousands before his Raiders surrounded them in a circle on the ice.

Ilya stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm sorry. I need to step outside. I've been in this room too long."

"Ilya, no—wait." Shane reached for him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No, Shane, is fine." Ilya's voice was breaking. He needed to get out of this room before he did something that he regretted like yelling at his boyfriend. "I just need a moment."

Yuna looked between them. "Honey, do you want to go alone, or do you need some company? There may be some reporters out there, and I don't want you going alone."

"Yes, I will be fine," Ilya said, already moving toward the door.

David stood. "Too bad. I'm going with you."

Ilya turned back looking at David's face. "Mr.—David, you do not have to."

"Please. I'm going." David moved to Ilya's side and swung an arm over his shoulder. "Let's go get some air."

They left together, the door closing behind them. In the sudden silence, Shane's voice cracked with confusion.

"Mom, what's going on?"

David and Ilya found an exit near the visitor parking lot marked "Fire Escape." The door slipped between a pair of oak trees beside the hospital wall, propped open by a rock that lay suspiciously beside the doorway. Ilya suspected this was a regular smoking spot for one of the nurses.

Ilya's voice came out in somewhat of a yell. "God, I know he loves hockey, but fuck, David, he almost fucking died."

"I know, son. I know." David's hand settled on Ilya's shoulder.

"He's so stubborn." Ilya's hands clenched. "I lose English words and want to punch a wall. I can protect him from everything but himself, and even then he makes it hard."

David was quiet for a moment. "Shane has always been like this, Ilya. He—well, let me just say some things and let you process. Then you tell me how you feel. Is that okay?"

"What do you mean?" Ilya turned to face him.

"I think there are some things about Shane that you need to understand. Maybe it's too new in your relationship for you to see them yet." David leaned against the brick wall. "I could give you a crash course in Hollander. I've been a student for thirty-two years now. I think I know a thing or two."

Ilya nodded slowly, but hesitation flickered across his face. What could David possibly tell him that he didn't already know and love about Shane? Respectfully, he knew Shane's father would have insight—but there were still many things that David could never know, things that were reserved only for Ilya. The parts of Shane that belonged to him alone.

"Okay," Ilya said quietly, bracing himself for whatever came next.

"First, take this." David reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a single cigarette. "I think you need it more than me."

"I keep it for emergencies," David added.

Ilya stared at it. "You smoke?"

David pulled a lighter from the back pocket of his jeans. "Nope." He popped the P with emphasis.

"Then why you have?"

"Now, I just told you. I don't smoke." David's face was nearly emotionless. "Are you going to believe that I have not smoked for thirty years and that I only not smoke when there is something catastrophic happening in our family and even then I have to run to the woods and away from Yuna to not smoke?"

Ilya smiled slightly, "You know my second language is English, yes?"

"Oh sorry, I meant to say Yuna doesn't know I smoke anymore." David grinned. "I only smoke when I feel like I can't do anything to help Yuna or Shane. Or when they're in one of their complex moods. Or there was that one time on fucking Christmas in 2002. Fuck, that was bad." He paused. "But no, I definitely do not smoke."

"Thank you for sharing," Ilya said dryly, "but I was going to say that my third language is sarcasm. I understood you the first time, and I won't tell." Then Ilya winked.

David's grin widened. "See, I knew there was a reason to like you, Ilya."

They both laughed as Ilya lit the cigarette and blew a large cloud out into the parking lot.

David leaned back against the brick wall. "So. When Shane was three, we started noticing he was different—he wasn't developing like other kids, and he was non-verbal."

"What does that mean?"

"He wouldn't speak at all. He was behind in social and emotional cues for his age, but academically? He tested off the charts. It was wild. He'd sit with me solving these intricate puzzles—Mona Lisa, stuff like that—until he started hockey at six. That's when I lost my puzzle buddy."

David's face turned wistful. Ilya liked puzzles though—maybe he could become the new puzzle buddy with David when he moved to Canada, he thought.

"But Shane was diagnosed early on, around the same time he started hockey, with autism, dysgraphia, and unspecified anxiety disorder." David's voice was starting to give out. Remembering all the testing Shane had gone through must have been brutal. "What that means is his brain just works differently. There's nothing wrong with him. But during that round of testing, he was labeled twice exceptional."

"What does twice exceptional mean?"

"Exactly what you'd think. He's extremely smart and really struggles in social situations. His speech issues got better around the time we had the neuropsychological evaluation done, but he's had it rough. Him and his mother both. They struggle with people. They come off cold. They want to control every aspect of every day for everyone around them, including themselves. When Shane started hockey, we were really excited to see him interact with people and make friends. But when we showed up to practice one day, we found all the kids—even some of his coaches—acting like rangers in his platoon. He was like a damn drill sergeant."

Ilya had a good laugh at that, imagining a baby Hollander ordering people around, cute freckles and all. "That sounds about right."

"Yep." David smiled. "And I got to watch Yuna's walls come down early in our relationship. She let me in and became this fun, loving person with me. It took time, but it was worth every second. I never thought I'd see that happen for Shane because we didn't even know he was trying to date. He kept that part of his life so private, so locked away from us. But then seeing you two together—" David's voice faltered. He wiped away a tear and sniffled. "It reminds me so much of me and Yuna when we first started dating. The way he looks at you, the way he laughs around you—Shane is a different person with you. That's all I've ever wanted to see as a father. I want him happy, truly happy, not just going through the motions. Getting to know you in such a short time, I feel like I don't just have one son anymore. I have two. Just like Yuna said in the car the other day, you're our son too. You're family now. Anyone who can give Shane the kind of love and happiness you have, who can break through those barriers he's built up over the years, deserves a medal in my book."

Well, Ilya didn't think he was going to cry anymore at this wretched hospital. But here the fuck he was, crying in front of David Hollander.

"Come here, son."

David pulled him into a big hug and Ilya leaned into his shoulder, the cigarette in his left hand leaking smoke that curled upward into the sky.

David whispered into his ear, "Just be patient with him, okay? He hasn't been this happy in his entire life. They'll always frustrate you, but they also love the hardest."

"Okay. I promise," Ilya said, choking back more tears. "But I might need a few more not smoke breaks with in the future."

"Anytime."

Ilya pulled back slightly. "So what happened on Christmas in 2002?"

David laughed, his eyes a little wet. "I think that's a story for when we've got beer."

"How about vodka?"

"Even better."

Ilya turned to blow another plume of smoke into the parking lot and heard what might have been the most annoying sound he'd ever heard in his life.

"Mr. Hollander?"

Ilya turned around. There stood Hayden Pike holding what looked to be half of the set of twins Shane had told him about—a beautiful little girl with red hair set in pigtails.

"Hayden?" David said, surprised.

"Uhm, hi."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Ilya demanded.

The little girl piped up immediately. "Swear jar!"

"Hush, Ruby," Hayden said.

David stepped forward. "Hayden, I don't think this is the best time."

"What do you mean? Is Shane okay?" Hayden's face went pale. "Tell me I didn't—"

"Why do you care?" Ilya cut in. "It's been three days and none of the Metros have reached out. Nobody's cared. So why do you care?"

"We went to Nashville right after the game against Boston," Hayden said defensively. "What are you doing here, Rozanov? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"Do not speak to me this way, Pike." Ilya's voice was low and dangerous. "If you weren't holding your child, I would have already punched you for hurting Shane this badly."

"Fuck you, Rozanov!" Hayden turned to David. "David, please, just tell me how he is."

"No, do not demand anything from him," Ilya snapped. "You have no right to speak to him."

"Ilya, son, it's quite alright." David held up a hand. "Let's all take it easy. There's a kid here, for God's sake."

"I'm sorry, David. And I'm sorry, little Pike." Ilya apologized immediately. He never wanted to scare the little girl.

Just then, a young woman appeared—about five foot six, carrying an identical-looking child in her arms and a small boy with red hair holding her hand.

"Hayden, what's going on?" the woman asked.

"Nothing, Jackie. I just saw Mr. Hollander and this guy."

"This guy." Ilya's could chew through the brick wall holding up the hospital now. The audacity of this motherfucker. "I have a fucking name."

David interrupted. "Hayden, this may not be the best time, bud. Shane just woke up today and he's not feeling one hundred percent. I don't know if he can handle everyone right now."

Hayden looked back at his family, and Ilya found himself extremely confused. The last he'd heard about Pike was from JJ at the bar several months ago, then from Shane over the phone in the nights that followed—JJ had said Jackie left Hayden. But here she was, standing beside him with their children.

Ilya knew from his conversations with Shane that Shane was in denial about Hayden Pike actually being in love with him. The man had left his struggling, pregnant wife—who'd already given him three kids—to go gallivanting off with Shane and take care of him for three weeks. Ilya had decided not to point out to Shane how romantic the New York trip sounded, based on Shane's own description. Maybe that was jealousy talking, but now, looking at the only man he'd ever felt slightly threatened by for Shane's attention, there was also a feeling of sadness.

Looking into Hayden's piercing green eyes—the same eyes that belonged to the three children caught in the middle of this standoff between himself and Pike—Ilya saw tears. Some deep part of him felt that pain for Hayden, because if this were another world where Hayden Pike of all people tried to keep him from seeing Shane, that motherfucker would be torn limb from limb. So his mind struck a compromise, which resulted in a bad idea.

"David," Ilya said carefully with a long sigh. "What if you and Yuna go get dinner and take a break. I'll take Pike, and Pike alone, to see Shane. I don't think he'd be able to handle the kids right now. But know that he misses them. He's always talking about the three of them."

Jackie's smiled. "That's sweet. Hayden, you should go see him. The kids and I can wait in the cafeteria, and if Shane changes his mind then we'll already be here. We can also visit him another time."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Hayden said.

Walking into the hospital elevator with David and Hayden was a choice Ilya probably shouldn't have made. The moment the doors closed, he remembered that one of these men might suspect Ilya loved Shane as more than a friend, while the other knew it for certain. As far as they knew, no one outside their circle had ever confirmed it to anyone else—David and Yuna, Rose, Svetlana, Sasha (unfortunately), and JJ (who was visiting tomorrow after respectfully asking when would work for Shane, rather than just showing up like a bat out of hell with demands).

"Rozanov, I don't know what you're doing here or why Shane's suddenly your new best friend, but whatever it is, you need to fucking stop," Hayden said. "I won't have him ruined because you want to change up your image all of a sudden."

"Oh, Pike, if you only fucking knew," Ilya said.

"What? You spent years fucking your way around the world and your dick finally fell off? Now you want to take from Shane and ruin his career and his life because you can't crawl under some woman anymore? Is it convenient for you now because you have no one else? Since your father died? You just take, take, take from everyone, and now what? You expect Shane to hand it all over? He's the only one who doesn't see through your bullshit."

And with that, the cards had been laid on the table. Ilya could not punch Pike. He wouldn't. Not unless Pike moved first. But everything Pike said cut straight to his biggest fears. Everyone seeing him mooch off Shane because he had no one else. Everyone seeing him be a taker—draining love and health from others because he was just like his father and brother. Everything he touched turned to darkness. Because that was what Ilya Rozanov was to the public eye.

It was true. He had a woman in every city they played in and some even in the Boston suburbs. And don't get him started on the New York City Metro area. Three teams in one hub meant exactly eight women in Manhattan alone. There were also two men—one who only gave him blowjobs in Boston and the other a silver fox who lived in LA that he met up with once a year. He was good at two things: sex and hockey. Sue him. Each and every one of those people cried a river of tears when he messaged them the weekend after Shane first visited his home in November. They mourned the loss of good dick. Well, almost all of them. Silver fox daddy seemed happy for him and invited him over for a threesome if he and his "lover" were ever in town together. As fun as that sounded, there was no way Shane or Ilya would ever share. The man had literally pulled a mind-fuck as he walked out the door of Ilya's home before joining the team that next November morning with the single word of "mine," and Ilya couldn't have been giddier.

David cut through the tension with his own voice. "Pike." His tone was deeper than Ilya had ever heard before—oh, Pike, that's serious.

"If you know what's good for you and ever want to speak to Shane again, you'll shut your fucking mouth," David said. "You don't know what you're talking about. Ilya could have you thrown out of this place if he wanted to."

"Ilya?" Pike definitely pronounced his name wrong, but he decided to let it go. Pike turned to David. "Mr. Hollander, you can't tell me you're okay with this?"

"I'm more than okay with it. Ilya is Shane's medical proxy and emergency contact, so with just a few words, either of us can be thrown out. I'm grateful that Ilya was here and let us listen in on what was going on. Maybe try getting to know the guy before running your fucking mouth."

And damn, that felt good. Having someone protect him who wasn't Shane. Almost fatherly, which made Ilya realize that David had been more of a father to him in the past hour than Grigory had been in twenty-five years.

"He's Shane's what?!"

David and Ilya approached the room while Hayden stayed in the neurology bay waiting area. As soon as Ilya walked back into the room and could see Shane, the world felt right again. It took him a moment to realize it, but the past few days had taken such a toll on his mental and physical health that simply seeing Shane—worried, sitting up in bed, holding Yuna's hand—triggered a flood of relief and endorphins.

"Ilya. I am so sorry."

"For what, sweetheart?"

Ilya had forgotten why he went outside in the first place after Shane's absurd question concerning hockey.

"Mom showed me. She showed me the video."

Ilya winced. Ouch, thanks Yuna. He hadn't watched it all the way through yet. He was quite embarrassed by his own actions on the ice—not because of what the world would see and his care for Shane, but because he'd almost prevented medical staff from doing their job out of his own fear.

"No, Shane, is okay," Ilya said. "We're okay. You're okay. That's all that matters."

"Ilya, we should talk about it. And we should talk together about what we want to say to people. Maybe what we want to say online."

"Sweetheart, I understand you're worried people will talk about what I did and how I reacted," Ilya said carefully. "But I'd really just like us to say nothing at all—unless I'm telling the world that I love Shane Hollander and that he's mine. No one deserves an explanation, and social media is supposed to be ours, right? We're supposed to share the pieces of our lives that we choose. It's our choice, yes? Unless you tell me I can shout from the mountaintops that I'm in love with Shane Hollander, then I don't really want to post."

Shane smiled at him. But Yuna, the manager she was, turned to them both.

"We can't just let people speculate, boys," she said. "We can't let them guess. They're going to figure this out."

"You heard him, Mom," Shane said. "Until we are ready to tell the world."

"Shane."

David stepped in. "Yuna, I think we should leave the boys to talk and to get some food for everyone. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I guess." Yuna sighed. "Just please think about this some more. Both of you?"

"Yes, we will," Ilya said.

Once the doors shut with Yuna and David leaving, Shane turned to Ilya.

"Ilya, I'm so sorry for worrying you so much."

"No more sorries."

"And I'm sorry I made it seem like I was worried about hockey. It's just... I can't imagine a life without being on the ice with you. Not yet, anyway. I just—I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm choosing hockey over myself or over you. I wouldn't do that."

"I know, Shane," Ilya said quietly. "I just needed to step away from this room for a minute. I've been here for days, and I was so scared of losing you I couldn't think straight. I needed some air, that's all. I'm glad your dad came with me."

Ilya leaned down and kissed him—just a peck.

"Cigarettes, really?"

Ilya rolled his eyes and flopped into the chair beside the bed like a sulking teenager.

"It was just one!"

"Where did you even get it? I hid all your packs when I was in Boston last time."

"First, you know I can just go to the store and get more, yes? Second, is that why there were five packs of Marlboros in your healthy Cheerios box?"

"I never thought you'd find them."

"I wouldn't have if I hadn't run out of Lucky Charms, Froot Loops, AND Frosted Flakes."

Shane laughed.

"Your dad and I had a good talk until we were interrupted by Pike."

"Shit, Hayden? He's here?"

"Yes. He is in the waiting room. He brought kids and wife. I told him that only he could see you after I asked you if it was okay. But that was before David cussed him out in elevator, so I'm not feeling so charitable now."

"Wait, what? Jackie is here? The kids are here? Dad cursed him out in the elevator?"

"Yes to all of the above."

"Fuck. Oh fuck. I wasn't prepared for this."

“I can tell him to go away. It would bring me much joy.”

“No, fuck. No. But will you stay here while I talk to him? I don’t think I should be around the kids right now. I might scare them, looking like this.”

“You could never scare anyone, Shanya—you’re too pretty. But of course I’ll stay. And if he starts running his mouth, he leaves. Is simple. I’ll explain it to him in the waiting room.”

"No. Bring him in here, and I'll tell him the rules myself. There are some things I need to make crystal clear, and he's definitely not going to listen to you. But if he thinks a concussion and heart defect are going to stop me from breaking his fucking nose, he's dead wrong."

Ilya stared at Shane with his forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline.

"What?"

"I can't wait until I can fuck you again. You drive me absolutely insane. Especially when you're this bossy and protective. Fuck. I need a minute before I go get this idiot."

"Oh, shut up, Rozanov. Put some ice down your pants and get it together."

Ilya returned to the room ahead of Hayden, settling into the chair beside Shane's bed. He'd gone to the waiting room to fetch him, but not before Shane had laid out the rules for this conversation—as if Ilya himself needed to follow them too. It was wild how quickly Shane had shifted from being visibly unsettled by the idea of his ex-best-friend waiting in the lobby (the one who obviously wanted to be his lover) to becoming this composed, emotionally intelligent man who wanted to make sure the conversation stayed productive while also making clear exactly where Hayden now stood in his life.

Again, a tinge of jealousy flickered in Ilya's chest like a notification pestering him on his lock screen. Hayden had spent countless nights in the same room as Shane on road trips, and they'd been best friends for years before last summer when Hayden fell off the deep end. Ilya could appreciate Hayden's role in Shane's life—if only the guy didn't have an ulterior motive that Shane refused to see. If there was one person in the world who could give Shane more attention, maybe even more love than him, it would be this motherfucker right here. And the guy didn't even look bad. He was pretty—just not handsome the way Ilya would classify it. And his dick obviously worked, given what the poor woman in the cafeteria had endured delivering four children.

Hayden walked in and stopped at the foot of the bed.

"Shane, buddy, I'm so sorry."

"Sit," Shane said.

"Come on, man. Do we really have to talk while he's here?"

"Hayden." Shane's voice started to rise. "You sit and follow my rules for this conversation, or we don't have it. I'll have Ilya throw you out so fast your head will spin."

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"Are you going to sit, or are you going to leave?"

Hayden sat down reluctantly on the other side of the bed, taking the seat Yuna had left warm—as far from Ilya as the room allowed.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Shane said. “First, you don’t disrespect Ilya during this conversation, or we’re done. Second, you answer my questions first. Only after that can you ask your own. Third, if you ever speak to me the way you have been in the locker room, you can forget it. You’ll never hear from me again. I want to be clear—I want to repair this with you. But I need to understand why you acted the way you did, because I genuinely don’t get what changed.”

Hayden scoffed and looked directly at Ilya before his eyes snapped back to Shane.

“Fuck. You’re together, aren’t you?”

"Yes," Shane said without hesitation. "We fucking are. I love him and he loves me. But like I said—no questions until you answer mine."

Ilya preened at that. He loved how Shane described their love, because that's exactly what it was. Pure fucking love without doubt.

"Fuck," Hayden said, exhaling. "It took me this long to figure it out. Not until David... Fuck! This is a mind fuck. Okay. Fine. Go ahead. Ask."

"What happened with Jackie?"

"Dude, that's none of your—"

"Yes, it is." Shane didn't raise his voice any higher than it already was. "Before you argue, yes it is. We've been friends for years and you love that woman. Then I hear you're separated, and Ilya tells me she's here with you. What the fuck is going on?"

Hayden went quiet for a beat, like he was deciding whether to pull the pin on a grenade. Then the yelling match began. "Fine! She left me. She left me because of you, Hollander. You happy? You like that answer?"

"Why me? I didn't—"

"Because you were there. Every fucking day, you were there. When I came into this league, everyone said I was a bust. The media tore me apart. Our teammates barely looked at me during that first year. But you? You stayed after practice to work on my footwork. You texted me drills to try at home. You sat with me in the film room going over plays until I actually understood what the hell I was supposed to be doing out there.

You walked around with my kids like they were your own, asking about school projects for Arthur and remembering the twins schedules. You brought me those weird quinoa bowls and salads—fucking bird food that somehow tasted better than anything I'd ever made myself. When Jackie and I were fighting, when things got bad at home, you were the one who asked if I was okay. Not just once. Every single time you could tell something was off without me telling you.

You became my friend when nobody else would. When I was at rock bottom and everyone had written me off, you stayed. You stayed late to make sure I was okay when the guys were riding me hard about my performance, giving me shit about everything. You didn't have to do that. You could've gone home to your own life, but you stayed.

You helped me become a better person and a better hockey player. You made me see things differently—made me realize I could be more than what everyone expected, more than I thought I could be. You made me want to be better. Not just on the ice, but as a father. As a husband. And that's the fucked up part, Shane. Because the better I got, the more I wanted to be that person for you. Not for Jackie. For you."

Ilya could relate to that. He really could. He understood exactly where Pike was coming from. Shane had a knack for pushing his particular brand of self-improvement onto anyone who would listen—and he'd made Ilya better in every possible way. Just by being in proximity to Shane Hollander, you were cleansed. That's genuinely how it felt.

Hayden wasn't finished.

"When we were in New York, I finally felt like I could give something back to you. Like I could return even a fraction of what you'd given me. And when you finally leaned on me—man. I felt like maybe I was getting somewhere. I thought maybe, just maybe, you loved me the way I loved you."

"No," Shane said quietly. "We couldn't be that. I'm sorry, but I wouldn't have wanted it—and I need to make that clear. It wasn't just because of Jackie. My heart was already somewhere else." He paused. "I'm sorry you felt that way."

And to that, Ilya's brain cheered. Why be jealous of Hayden Pike when the most beautiful man in the world said—and I quote—"my heart was already somewhere else," meaning right in the palm of Ilya's hand, where he would keep it safe forever?

Hayden's face scrunched, and Ilya definitely heard a sniffle from the man whose head was hunched forward, staring at his own lap. When he finally looked up, it was obvious that Pike was crying.

"Yeah, me fucking too." His voice broke like glass. "I blew up my entire marriage because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Hayden, I'm sorry that happened," Shane said. "But I never asked you to do that. I never did anything that should have made you think it was the right choice."

"Dude, I stayed at your parents' house for three weeks in August and made sure you were taken care of. I tucked you into bed nearly every night. I slept on the floor beside your bed so I'd know if you stopped breathing—with the bruising on your face and that concussion. What about any of that made you think I wasn't interested?"

Ilya filed that away for later. Because—what the hell? He had never tucked Shane in for a bedtime story. And just like that, the jealousy flooded back. Fuck, this conversation was already a whirlwind and his brain couldn't keep up. If he hadn't promised Shane he'd keep his mouth shut and not antagonize Pike, he might actually feel better about this. But right now, all he felt was furious that he hadn't been the one taking care of Shane when he was hurt. He wanted to be the first call from now on.

"You want to know why I fell?" Shane asked—not where Ilya expected this conversation to go after Pike laid out his evidence. "Why I fell down the stairs in New York?"

Both Ilya and Hayden turned to look at him. But Shane's eyes were locked on Ilya.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you're hearing this for the first time from me. But I need to tell him."

"It's okay, Shanya," Ilya said in a reassuring tone while reaching out to pat Shane's hand. "Whatever it is. You can say it."

Shane turned back to Hayden and gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "It's embarrassing, actually. I was having a panic attack over Ilya. Really fucking stupid. We'd just left the MHL awards a few weeks before, and he hadn't texted or called me at all. We didn't leave things in a good spot—he just left me in the dust. Then I saw something on the street that reminded me of him and all those girls I used to see him with online." He paused. "I blacked out mid-panic attack and missed a step going down into the subway. That's how I fell."

Well. Wasn't that a fucking punch to the ribs. Seriously, he'd rather have Ryan Price run him over at full throttle than hear that.

All roads led back to Ilya's stupid fucking decisions and his cowardice when it came to his feelings for Shane. He didn't know exactly what triggered it, but knowing that Shane had felt even an ounce of that kind of pain because of Ilya's dick and his fear and his inability to get out of his own head—that was enough to make him feel like he might be sick.

Shane looked back at him.

"I'm sorry, Ilyusha. I should have told you before Hayden got here, but it didn't seem relevant anymore, and I knew it wouldn't help." He paused. "I'm sorry."

Ilya opened his mouth to respond, but Pike cut him off.

"So what?" Hayden said. "He gets to go out and fuck a bunch of women, and then you just take him in like a stray dog?"

"Hayden, I told you—you don't get to disrespect him."

"No, Shane." Ilya barely recognized his own voice, because the truth was he understood exactly how Hayden felt. "I know what Hayden is saying, and I get it. I don't deserve you."

"Don't do that right now." Shane's eyes were firm and blaring a hole into Ilya's face. "I told you—whatever gets said in here isn't a reflection of our relationship. We talked about how this was going to be hard. I love you. You love me. You are mine. Don't forget it."

Ilya's head swam.

"Shane." Hayden's voice was still so fucking high-pitched, tears streamed down his face. "I've had sex with one person my entire life. I was ready to leave that person for you. And she knew it. She fucking knew it, and she still chose to be your friend and act like she cared about you—because she saw the way I looked at you. We talked about it constantly. The what-ifs. What if I asked you for a three-way? What if we became a throuple? What if we opened the relationship and kept it just sex? But I knew none of it would work because I care about you more than that. More than he ever will."

"Pike—" Ilya started.

"Hayden." Shane's raised his voice and cut through the tension with his tone. "One more warning. We can have this conversation like adults. But you will not speak about my relationship or what you think you know about it."

Hayden exhaled hard. "Fine. Fucking fine. I'll just bring this to my therapist."

Shane's head lifted off the pillow as he reached up to touch it. His face tightened with pain. "You're seeing a therapist?"

"Yes, dude, fuck." Hayden looked at him like the answer was obvious. "I was on suicide watch for like—weeks. How did you not know that?"

Ilya looked at Shane, who had gone very still, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

"When?" Shane asked.

"After the club. January. I saw you there with Rose, and then I watched you walk away holding his hand. Then the Raiders and Rose was calling me a piece of shit. And then there's JJ's boyfriend, who he thinks I don't know about, but I definitely caught them on FaceTime in Nashville having phone sex. And do you know how long it's been since my wife touched me? Over a year, Shane. It had to have been when we conceived Amber. That was the last time."

"Hayden, I am so sorry." Shane's voice was softer now. "You could have reached out to me. You were being such a dick—I didn't really want to hear from you. But if you had told me you needed me like this, I would have been there. I would have tried. I was so close to reaching out myself, but I kept remembering how you looked at me after I got up from that table and went for Ilya. I thought you were disgusted by me."

"Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," Hayden said bitterly. "And no—Shane, fuck. I was jealous. I couldn't stand seeing anyone near you. I know you always went out and hooked up with Lily or whoever, but seeing it happen right in front of me was different. Rose constantly texting you, then just showing up randomly after filming, and then at the club—watching you with Rozanov really fucked me up."

Shane and Ilya looked at each other. Ilya could tell from Shane's expression that it mirrored his own. He could almost imagine what it must have felt like to be in Hayden's shoes during those months—to want Shane so badly and watch him up close, moving toward someone else. It almost made him feel bad for Hayden. Almost. Until he remembered the wife and four children downstairs.

"What about your wife?" Ilya said carefully. "What happens now? She's not here with you?"

Hayden nearly came out of his chair. "Don't you fucking dare ask about my wife, you asshole. You're a monster. And I know he's going to see it one day."

"Hayden, what the fuck?" Shane said. "What has he ever done to you?"

Hayden settled back into the chair at Shane's concern.

"I've read the posts," he said. "I kept up with him. At first it was just—living vicariously through a playboy's lifestyle. But then I got to watch him have it all. His cake and eat it too." He looked between them. "If your faces are telling me anything right now, he was Boston Lily, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," Shane said. "He was."

"Yeah. Fucking thought so. I'm so fucking stupid." Hayden shook his head. "He's had you all this time. Meanwhile, I had one person—one singular person—who was willing to let me explore, and I couldn't go through with it. Couldn't do that to her. My therapist says this whole situation is making me hate myself. That I shouldn't be around you anymore. That being around you makes me a worse husband and father."

"Then why did you come?"

Hayden was quiet for a moment.

"Because of Jackie," he finally said. "Jackie came back to me right as Amber was about to be born, and we worked out an agreement for the kids. We'd cohabitate. Stay married on paper. If anything changed, we'd figure it out when the time came. The separation was destroying the kids—Arthur especially. He had no idea how to process Mom and Dad living apart, and her parents talked shit about me every chance they got."

He rubbed the back of his neck and ran the same hand through his hair before he continued. "After she came back, I promised I'd go to therapy and sleep in the spare room—which is basically the basement at this point, given how many kids we have. Therapy has helped. I go to my individual sessions, and Jackie and I do couples sessions once a week. We're not together, but we're trying to figure out if we can be. It's not looking great though. My therapist says I'm in the eye of the storm, and what happens next depends on how I move." He paused. "But Jackie is—she's so fucking understanding. She encouraged me to come here. Which is honestly insane to me. When she saw you go down during the game, she said I needed to at least make sure you were okay. She didn't even care to check on me, and I was the one who hit you. I've watched the replay so many times. Tried to figure out if I could have stopped it, but man—there was no fucking way. Neither of us saw each other coming. So. I'm sorry."

"I appreciate that," Shane said. "And for the record—I never blamed you for this."

Hayden seemed to take the only bit of good news he'd gotten since the conversation started like a kiss on the cheek—his face broke into a small smile and his tone finally shifted. "Thanks. That's actually going to mean something in my next session. Jackie will be relieved, too."

"I wanted to reach out to her," Shane said. "I tried, when I heard you two were separated. But she had blocked me."

"What? No she didn't."

"She definitely did. I tried multiple times."

" Shane—no. She changed her number because I lost my mind after New York and wouldn't stop calling after she left. I completely fell apart."

"Hayden, again—I'm sorry, but none of this is my fault."

"I'm not saying it is." His voice climbed in pitch. "I'm saying I should have told you how I felt. Then maybe I could have saved you from the career suicide you're about to commit."

"Okay." Shane's voice dropped to a dangerously dark tone. Ilya looked over because he knew when his boyfriend was about to implode. He'd only heard this tone once before—when Ilya had explained everything Sasha and Sveta had done in Russia before Shane arrived. It was scary hearing that same sound even when he'd never been on the receiving end of what came after. "That's enough. I appreciate you coming, but it's time to go. I'm not going to sit here and let Ilya absorb your attacks. And frankly, I'm pretty sure I would've punched you at least four times by now if I wasn't in his hospital bed."

Hayden stood. "Yeah. I should go. I don't think I should be here either." He glanced between Ilya and Shane—one final look. "I'll find out about whatever this is when the rest of the world does."

And that woke something up in Ilya. He'd been watching this one-sided love confession tennis match volley back and forth long enough.

"Pike." Ilya's voice carried the same darkness as Shane's. He could reach that same threatening tone with just one word when protecting what mattered to him. "If you tell anyone about this before Shane's ready, I'll fucking end you. Watch your mouth."

"You don't know me," Hayden said. "I wouldn't do that to Shane. I know I've been a piece of shit lately, but I still care about him. I wouldn't hurt him—and by extension, I wouldn't hurt you like that."

"I don't give a fuck if you hurt me," Ilya said. "I only care if you hurt him. Do what you want to me."

"Fuck you." Hayden's voice climbed back to that whiny-ass pitch. "Playing noble is an ugly look on you. Fall on someone else's sword. I'm not saying a word to anyone except my therapist and Jackie. That's it."

Hayden stood and moved toward the door, tears streaming down his face. He stopped with his hand on the frame and turned back.

"Arthur misses you, man. I'll have Jackie text you from her new number." He hesitated for just ever so briefly after a quick thought. "I'd really appreciate it if you could hang out with him sometime. His whole vocabulary right now is 'Dada,' 'Mom,' 'Meanie,' and 'Uncle Shane.' So. If you could."

Shane said nothing. To Ilya, his face looked almost cemented—stoic was the word for it. He gave a single, quiet nod.

Hayden walked out. The door closed behind him.

Ilya didn't love the note Hayden had chosen to end on. It felt slightly dirty—dangling a child Shane genuinely adored in front of him like a tether. Ilya knew how much Shane cared about that little boy. He'd brought him up more than once in their conversations. But in this moment, it felt less like a genuine request and more like manipulation. A way to keep Hayden lodged somewhere in the back of Shane's mind whether he wanted him there or not.

He didn't even have time to reach for Shane before his body made the decision for him. That nauseating guilt—newly discovered and specifically built upon the knowledge that Shane had been hurt in New York because of him—came surging back the moment the door clicked shut, and he made it to the bathroom just in time, retching as Shane called out from the bed behind him.

God.

He was starting to hate himself. If this was how Shane's best friend (ex-best friend?) (one-sided lover?) reacted to learning about their relationship, how was the world going to react? Ilya had broad shoulders. He could take it. But how was he supposed to shield Shane from all of that?

Chapter End Notes

The next chapter is called “May 26, 2017 - Boston.”

Also, did anyone catch that Hayden was feeling a little like canon Ilya during the Rose era, except Hayden dialed the crazy up to 1,000? At least Ilya and Shane had sex before Ilya started throwing shit through walls in Boston and stubbing his toe in the locker room. Here, Hayden is just having a full-blown mental breakdown and fantasizing about a life that was never meant for him.

We’re not done with Hayden yet. We’ll come back to him and his friendship with Shane, but that will happen in later chapters.

As always, chirp at me in the comments section! I’ve loved reading all of your support for my fic, and I’m working so hard on it, so I’m incredibly glad it has made you all smile.

Thank you as well to everyone who has shared this fic on social media. I really, really appreciate you spreading my love for my badass motherfucking Shane Hollander and his baby. I promise I’m going back to healing Ilya in the next chapter. Shane just has to get out of the hospital first.

Chapter 12: May 26, 2017 - Boston

Chapter Notes

It’s a shorter chapter, but I couldn’t leave sad Ilya hanging all week! I think this might be one of my favorite chapters so far, and I hope you enjoy it.

We get Shane’s POV on some painful memories, but for the rest of the chapter, we get “Get fucking loved, Rozanov” Shane.

TW: Discussion of drug and alcohol use, overdose, and psychiatric hospitalization.

The past week had been such a blessing. He could kiss fucking Coach LeClaire right in the fucking mouth. Getting home and spending time with Ilya had been everything he'd wanted. They hadn't had this much time together since their little All-Stars escape courtesy of his parents.

Unfortunately, because of Hayden Pike and the concussion that was still aching, he couldn't get Ilya close enough for his liking. They'd had a lot of conversations about when he would go back to Boston. He had a lot of fucking work to put in (but not too much—Scott still needed to kiss Kip on the ice).

But there was the constant concern on Ilya's face over the past few days. The kind of concern that he'd only seen a few times in their long relationship, more so in the other timeline.

Once during their initial Boxing Day fight.

Once during their FaceTime call after the flight to Tampa almost crashed.

Then one other time in the short two months between their engagement and the day they were outed.

The last instance was the worst because it came out of nowhere. At least for Shane. He knew Ilya had been sad, and they'd had multiple conversations about how to get to a place where they were both happy. They were engaged, for god's sake. But Ilya's mind still played tricks on him. When Ilya explained that he'd been seeing a therapist, it put a lot of things into perspective. Ilya's depression—and later diagnosed bipolar disorder—made him his own worst enemy. And when he said there was very little time between the engagement and the outing, he meant slightly under two months. But one evening, Shane received a call from his mother informing him that Ilya had in fact been taken to the hospital by Wyatt Hayes after going missing for a total of nine hours on a random Tuesday in March.

Ilya had seemed fine over FaceTime the night before. He'd even laughed at the movie they watched together over the call—Luca, a Pixar favorite in the Hollander-Rozanov household. Of course, Ilya had actually gone to see it with Luca Haas in the theater, then found a way to download it using some sketchy website that neither of them should have open on their iPads.

The phone call the next evening from Yuna left Shane numb. Ilya had essentially overdosed on weed gummies and downed an entire bottle of vodka before 3:00 PM—hallucinating on his back porch, sobbing when Wyatt Hayes found him. Wyatt rushed him to the hospital, and the hospital called Yuna, his emergency contact at the time. Lucky for Ilya, Wyatt kept the whole thing quiet and away from the team. But the hospital took it seriously, and so did Ilya. Before Shane could even get there on his short flight from Cleveland—after telling Thierault he had a family emergency—Ilya had already confessed to a social worker that he felt numb and sometimes thought about hurting himself. Shane knew this. Galina knew this. Ilya was actively getting help, but the hospital remained concerned. He agreed to admit himself voluntarily, though the social worker warned that the hospital could place him on an involuntary hold if he tried to leave.

And for the whole three days, Shane migrated from his parents' home to the parking lot of the hospital to the hospital cafeteria—because what else could he do? He didn't know the whole story yet, and fucking Hayes didn't even know he existed in this context with Ilya so he couldn't ask him for information. He would know in about a month when they were outed by Brad, but not right now. During the late nights in his own car, he could just think about how Ilya may have really tried to self-harm because he was tired of being Shane's dirty little secret. After the near-plane crash in February, Ilya promised him that he would never self-harm because he wanted to be there for Shane and to live life with him. To be out and public and not scared of the world. Together. But what if Ilya was just saying that to placate him? What if he wasn't really speaking his mind? What if he couldn’t wait until the summer to come out and get married? They agreed that was enough time, right? 

On the morning of the release, Shane was just about to open his car door when he spotted a familiar face. Troy Barrett? Wearing sunglasses and a hoodie, walking with Wyatt. It should have been nice to see Ilya's team supporting him, even if not all of them knew what was going on. Hell, Shane didn't even know what had triggered Ilya to do something like this. But seeing Hayes and Barrett nearly stopped him from going in—until he remembered that his fiancé was also a public-facing friend of the Irina Foundation. He could definitely go see his friend who was in the hospital with two other acquaintances who happened to be on Ilya's team.

He walked in and the two other men were already at the front counter asking for Ilya's room number. A nurse approached him from the right of the front desk and said, "Mr. Hollander, you're back! He's already asking for you." Then Troy and Wyatt turned around and Shane heard Wyatt's voice, "Lisa?" Oh great, Wyatt knew the nurse.

The nurse turned out to be Wyatt's wife. Lisa was incredibly helpful and even encouraged Shane to go see his fiancé. But Shane, predictably and out of fear, stayed behind and let Ilya's teammates see him first. Like a coward, he went back to the car and hid. About thirty minutes later, he watched the Centaurs leave and snuck back inside to find Ilya in tears.

As soon as their eyes met, Ilya cracked. He would later explain that he and Galina had come up with a plan: as soon as he felt dark thoughts creeping in, he would call her or get help from someone in the medical profession. Ilya also explained that Shane wasn't part of that plan because Ilya was too afraid of being a burden. Too afraid of losing Shane because of his own mind. He didn't want to show himself as anything but strong for his fiancé. Especially now that they were getting married, because Ilya had explained that he was going to make vows to protect Shane for the rest of his life. How could he do that while fighting his own demons?

Well, Shane made it clear from then on that his definition of marriage was—and should be—different than Ilya's.

Looking at Ilya's face over this past week, Shane was reminded of how Ilya looked when he was hurt and scared—how he seemed to need Shane more than anyone or anything else in the world.

Shane sat up, mindful of the bruising still healing on his chest, but grimaced anyway. Ilya was at his side immediately.

"Shanya, you really shouldn't move that fast. You're going to hurt your head."

Shane cupped Ilya's chin in his hand. "Baby, you look like you're afraid to touch me. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"No. Nothing is wrong. Nothing. I'm just trying to not—" Ilya paused. "What is the word? Be on top of?"

"Smother?"

"Yes. Smother."

"No," Shane said, Ilya. "I need you to smother me. I don't want to be one of those old couples who just sits in the same room and doesn't talk to each other. You've been in that recliner all day and you've barely said a word. Something is wrong, and you've been off since the conversation with Hayden."

"I would barely call that a conversation," Ilya muttered. "More like an admission."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he admitted his love for you, and I had to sit there and listen to it without punching him in the mouth."

"Is that why you're upset?"

"I'm not upset."

Shane raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not, Shane."

"Okay." Shane declared. "Here is what I know, and you can correct me if I'm wrong. My boyfriend wouldn't lie to me—that's one. Two, my boyfriend loves me enough to tell me when he's hurting and wouldn't hide it from me. Three, my boyfriend, Ilya Rozanov, loves me just as much as I love him. Not more. Not less." He paused. "So I'll ask one more time. What is wrong?"

Ilya let out a long sigh. His eyes had dropped to Shane's chest, and after a moment, he reached up and took hold of the puck pendant Shane had worn since Christmas morning—turning it from 24 to 81 and back again.

Shane smiled, just slightly.

"I never thought I could have this with you," Ilya said quietly. "I'm so afraid."

"Of what, baby?"

"Of losing it."

"You couldn't."

"Oh, but I could, Shane." Ilya looked up. "You haven't seen the worst of me yet."

"I don't think it would matter."

"I think it should."

Shane looked into Ilya's big blue eyes. "What brought this on? Was it what Hayden said?"

"Maybe. A little." Ilya set the necklace down against Shane's chest. "He makes a fair point. I was not good to you. I should have stopped sleeping around after I had you the first time. I knew no one else could compare. So why did I keep trying?"

"Ilya, what you did back then doesn't matter. We were both scared. I wasn't a saint either."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm not so innocent either."

"What do you mean, Shane." And here came the jolly green giant that Shane knew so well. "Someone else had you?"

"I mean—yeah." Shane looked directly into the ocean. "I've been with another man before."

"Who, Shane." The jealousy was instantly written in the wrinkles of Ilya's face. "Why have you never told me this?"

"It isn't relevant, Ilya. It was one time. I told you I tried to get over you after Vegas."

"It doesn't matter if it's relevant! I want to know everything about you."

Shane looked at him. "You know why that sounds unfair, right? Given the number of times I've had to read five-star reviews about you from what felt like a hundred people on Reddit."

The fight went out of Ilya's face. He looked down at the couch cushions in shame. "Oh." A pause. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to read that, Shane. I really am."

"Baby, I know. We weren't anything during that time. I know that."

"No, Shane." Ilya shook his head. "We were. We were everything to me. I was just—fucking stupid. I guess I was trying to get over you too."

"It's okay. Look at where we are now."

"I know." Ilya paused to scratch his nose. "Will you still tell me about the other guy?"

"Ilya."

"Please. Just—tell me it wasn't Pike."

"No," Shane huffed. "It was not Hayden."

"Was it another player?"

"No."

"Okay." Ilya nodded once, appeased by the no, if not fully satisfied. "Then who?"

Shane exhaled. "I went to Mexico the week after Vegas, with Hayden and JJ. I met someone at the club and went back to his hotel. That's it."

Ilya stared at him. "You, Shane Hollander, did a random hotel hookup?"

"Yes, Ilya. I know. It's out of character. I get it."

And then Shane went quiet and began shifting the way he was sitting so he could cuddle the pillow since he couldn't cuddle the man across from him mid-interrogation.

Ilya noticed immediately. "Shane. What is wrong? Did he hurt you?"

"No. He didn't hurt me. It wasn't bad."

"Then what? Who was he?"

"I don't know who he was. He gave me his number, but I blocked it almost immediately after leaving the hotel room the next morning."

"You stayed the night?"

"Yes. Don't get weird about it. His name was Jeff. I will never see that man again. I don't even know where he was from."

Ilya seemed to settle back into the couch and absorbed all of the information and decided to let it go. For now.

"Okay," Ilya said finally. "As long as he didn't hurt you."

Shane leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to Ilya's lips. "Now will you tell me what's actually wrong with you?"

"Yes. But can I make you tea first—"

"No." Shane said immediatly. "No tea. You’re not avoiding this. Tell me."

Ilya scoffed. "Fine." He looked up at the ceiling to seemingly put the tears nearly leaking out of his eyes. "I saw how Pike reacted to the news of us, and then my mind—my mind told me I was not good enough. To be your boyfriend. To have you."

"Did I ever make you feel that way?"

"No. Never." Ilya shook his head in the negative. "It was just—I watched him react that way, and he is your friend, if I use that word loosely. And then I imagined the rest of the world reacting the same way. When they find out about us. It scares me."

"Oh, baby. Their opinions don't matter to me."

"I'm not scared of what they'll say." Ilya said. "I'm afraid they will hurt you. That because I love you—" He stopped. "Someone will hurt you."

"Hurt my feelings, or hurt me physically?"

"Both."

"Oh, Ilya."

Ilya moved beside Shane on the couch who was sitting straight up now with a pillow in his lap. He then leaned into Shane's shoulder and let the tears drop quietly. "I'm sorry, Shane."

"Don't apologize." Shane reached up and ran his hand slowly through Ilya's hair. "Don't you dare apologize for that."

They sat like that for a moment.

"Is that the only reason you've been distant?" Shane asked. "You've barely come to my side of the bed since we got home from the hospital."

"No," Ilya admitted. "There are a few other things."

"Do you want to tell me?"

"A few. Not all. Talking about some of this makes me tired."

"That's okay," Shane said. "Tell me what you can."

Ilya straightened slightly. "I think Pike is using his son. I think what he said about Arthur when he was leaving—I think he said it to keep you close to him. To keep himself relevant so he can continue to—" He paused. "I don't know. Try to take you."

Shane gave him a look. "Pursue me? Like he's courting me?"

"You know what I mean, Shane."

"I do," Shane said. "And I think you're probably right." He let out a breath and began to get teary eyed himself. "I do miss Arthur. But I can't be around Hayden. Not right now. Unless it's required for work, I shouldn't speak to him at all. And given the concussion and the surgery coming up, I'll be out for the rest of the season on reserve anyway. I'm not the captain anymore." He said it without any sadness in his voice. "So I'll just sit until the fall. Which means all summer away from him and the team." He looked at Ilya. "And more time with you."

Ilya's face changed. "I hope so. I can't wait to just—be somewhere with you. For more than a few days. If you'll let me."

"Of course I will." Shane's eyes shined. "We'll go swimming, lay out by the lake, have cookouts, make campfires, hike, hang out with my parents. Oh—maybe I'll get us a jet ski."

Ilya sat up and looked at him directly. "Where would we do all of this?"

"The cottage," Shane said, like it was obvious. "What do you mean, where?"

There was a long period of silence before Ilya could gulp and ask his next question.

"You'll take me to your cottage?"

And that's when it hit Shane.

"Holy shit."

"What?"

"I never invited you." He was genuinely shocked. "Ilya. Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

"No, Shane, it's okay—I know you like your alone time—"

"Stop talking." Shane took his face in both hands. "Ilya. Baby. Will you please come to my cottage this summer?" He paused. "No—let me rephrase. Will you please come to our cottage this summer? Don't go to Russia. Come spend the entire summer with me. We will have so much fun. We'll even get to celebrate your birthday together."

Ilya reached up to wipe away a tear. "Really?"

"Really. Mom is already practicing how to make an ice cream cake."

Ilya's face turned into a big smile. "What?! How did you know I like ice cream cake?"

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it again when he realized he had no defensible answer. The familiar low-grade panic of possessing future knowledge without a cover story really was starting to become a problem. He forced what he hoped looked like an innocent look onto his face.

Ilya's eyes narrowed for exactly one second. "Marly told you, didn't he."

Shane smiled wide and said nothing.

"Shane."

"Maybe you'll never know."

Ilya exhaled slowly and then laughed. "Yes," he said. "Yes. I'll come to your—I mean, our—cottage."

On May 25, the second round of playoffs was underway, and Yuna noticed something that held true in both timelines: Ilya had bruised ribs. He was playing at a solid sixty percent against Scott Hunter and the Admirals. The Raiders lost that night after five hard-fought games, but Scott was on a warpath and, honestly, Shane might be the only person in the world who knew why.

Just a few days ago, Shane was cleared to have his phone back and start working out again—though he had to keep it light.

A few days after Ilya left to rejoin the Raiders, Shane was cleared for the cardiac ablation he'd spent weeks researching after release from the initial visit. The moment the procedure ended, Ilya was on FaceTime with Yuna, and the two of them spent days harassing Shane relentlessly.

The day after the ablation, he received two bouquets at his house. One from Ilya: lilies. Then a second bouquet of yellow roses from "The Raiders" to Jane. When Ilya FaceTimed Shane that evening, the phone was stolen almost immediately by Marleau, Connors, Carmichael, LaPointe, and Hammersmith. Each of them passed it around while Ilya acted like a child in the background. The "Raiders" wanted to see how he was doing and whether he liked his Raider yellow roses. Shane blushed, feeling giddy because these guys cared about him just as much as they did Ilya. One of them even called him a WAG at some point, something he used to hate the idea of, but now... he didn't even care.

He had successfully avoided working out to his own dismay and followed all the rules that both the neurology and cardiac departments had laid out for him. He only had one goal to achieve before the end of the month.

Get to Boston for when the bus driving Ilya and the rest of the raiders got back from New York City.

Marly had been the most helpful best friend, arranging the visit for Ilya. He was understandably disappointed that they weren't moving on to the next round for the Stanley Cup, but he'd still been kind enough to remember to text Shane the details of the family reunion the Raiders held every year after their playoff run ended. This year it was being held at LeClaire's house—the coach had invited all the players to attend and bring their families. Ilya had mentioned it about a week ago but hadn't extended the invite himself, which was predictable given that he was still the captain of a team in a predominantly heteronormative professional league. Still, nearly every single Raider knew about their relationship courtesy of the night at Rose's back in December. Shane could only imagine that Ilya was just so used to not having any support, anyone to lean on, or anyone to celebrate with. That was going to change.

Despite Yuna and even David begging to come to Boston with him—both for different reasons—Shane rolled his eyes and got on the plane alone. Yuna wanted to make sure Shane's brain didn't melt out of his ears, and David just wanted to hang out with Ilya.

He showed up at the address Marleau had texted him. In that same message, he'd been warned about a woman named Carly—LeClaire's wife. Apparently Carly was the supreme head WAG, even though the coach wasn't technically a player, and she'd put the fear of God into the other wives and girlfriends who'd be arriving to meet their partners. She'd also made it clear she was going to make sure Shane felt comfortable while he waited for the team to show up. More importantly, the WAGs weren't going to breathe a word about anything they saw between Ilya and Shane—not that they were under any legal obligation to keep quiet, and no NDAs existed. But as Marly had explained, the Raiders were family, and a secret spilled against one member was a harm to all. Boy, did Shane wish Montreal had that level of trust internally.

Ilya had texted him exactly once since the loss last night:

Lily: I hope you're still proud of me. I love you.

Shane: I'm always proud of you, baby. Get some rest and come home to me. I'll see you soon.

Ilya hadn't responded, and that was okay, because it would only be a matter of minutes before they were reunited.

Shane walked up the steps of the beautiful home and knocked on the door. He definitely couldn't have imagined being this fucking brave for Ilya in his other life or timeline. Before, he would've rather jumped off a cliff than do this in front of all the Boston Raiders. It was scary, that was for sure. But if they were outed, Shane had six different backup plans ready to go—and only three of them involved an emergency wedding in Vegas. So in hindsight, he was prepared for whatever came his way. Besides, after December of this year, he was planning on having a conversation with Ilya about coming out together anyway. He'd just been waiting for the right set of events to occur so he'd have all the evidence he needed to protect them both.

When the door opened, a woman greeted him with a thick Boston accent. She was definitely shorter than his mother, but around the same age.

"Shane!"

"Hello! Are you Carly?"

"I sure am! Come on in, the rest of us are in the living room."

"Thank you. Where should I take off my shoes?"

"Oh, honey, you don't have to do that. Just don't put 'em up on the furniture. Since the kids were born I told my husband he needed to pay for a weekly cleaner anyway. I'm too old for this shit."

Shane laughed. When he turned the corner, he found a crowd of women and, surprisingly, one familiar-looking man. After a flurry of quick introductions, the women descended on him with offers of food, a place to sit, and then one of them dared to ask, "So, how long have you and our Rozy been together?"

So they do know.

"Jasmine! We said we weren't gonna ask till he brought it up!" Carly scolded.

"I'm sorry! I wanna know! Everyone does! Plus it was Alex who said she wanted to ask him for his number to add him to the group chat!"

"I was gonna ask later!" Alex protested. "Not the second he walked into the room, Jas!"

Shane started laughing. It reminded him so much of the family of men he'd played with in the other timeline. It made him miss his Centaurs.

"It's quite alright," he said. "I'd love to answer all your questions and join the chat. But can we talk about it after Ilya gets here?"

"Ilya?" Jasmine repeated. "You call him Ilya?"

"Yeah. It's his name?"

"I don't think I even knew his first name for like the first two years after LaPointe and I got married," Alex said.

"Well, today isn't about us!" Carly cut in. "We're here to welcome our new guests. Now, the boys will be here any minute, and Connors already knows Evan's here, but Roz doesn't know about Shane, so we're putting in maximum effort for the surprise."

The women gathered around, and one of them called out, "They're two miles away! I just got a call! Everyone to your positions!" Shane had no idea where to go. Some women grabbed their handmade signs and rushed outside to the driveway. Others poured beer into red Solo cups to welcome the guys home. Not knowing what to do sent Shane's mind racing. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around.

There stood a man with brown, shaggy hair and dark eyes. He held out his hand to shake Shane's.

"Hi, I'm Evan. Evan Peters. Connor's fiancé."

"Whoa, Connor's fiancé? Wait, like, Ilya's linemate Connors?"

"Yeah, one and the same." Evan laughed.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to be startled, but whoa. I would not have ever guessed."

"Well, we're pretty good at hiding it. We see each other maybe twice a year, have been since 2014. But I love him. He loves me. It's love. What can ya do?"

"I know the feeling, man. Wow. I'm glad Ilya and I aren't alone in this." Shane stuck out his hand. "Oh my god, I'm Shane. Shane Hollander."

"Trust me, I know who you are. You're the talk of the town."

"What do you mean? You follow hockey?" Shane paused. "Wait, that's a stupid question. You'd have to, with Connors."

"Actually, no, I don't. I hate watching him get hit and hurt, so after two games I refused to watch again. But I did hear you came to our club a few months back."

"Oh yeah! Wow, you own Rose's with him?"

"That's the one."

"It's a beautiful bar. And I really appreciate the privacy, man. Thank you for creating something like that."

"No problem. I actually bought it and built it out so I'd have a place to go with him when I’m in town, him and the rest of my Hollywood friends."

"Wow. Just, wow. Sorry, I'm still in a bit of shock. Good shock, though."

"Dude, me too. I've been waiting a while to meet you."

"Why's that?"

"Well, you're kind of the reason I'm here. When you and Rozanov came out to the team, Bryan told me, and it felt like it opened a door for us to do the same. I thought to myself, I want to grind on my fiancé in the middle of my own club without worrying about it being plastered all over the internet the next morning. I want to kiss him in public. I want to be around him more when he's not working. So Bryan introduced me to Carly, and that was it. This whole group has known for about four months, and no one's said a word."

"Wow. Yeah, I had no idea, and Ilya tells me everything."

"Well, all the girls know. The team doesn't technically know yet, that's happening today. So you're actually a step ahead of me."

Shane smiled, and then Carly's voice cut through the room.

"Evan, you're with us! Shane, stand by the front door and look through the side window. Don't come out till you see your man get off the bus. And don't be shy when y'all see 'em, we hired security and closed the gates, so there ain't a camera for miles. Ain't that right, girls?"

The women echoed back some form of hell yeah.

"Oh, and Shane, we made you a sign. Didn't know if you'd think to make one yourself, but now you know, so remember: the day before arrival is arts-and-crafts night for those of us who don't travel with the team."

Shane looked down at the bright yellow neon sign, black letters spelling out WELCOME HOME CAPTAIN. He felt tears prickling at his eyes when Carly looked up after he'd finished reading and patted him on the cheek.

"We're happy to have you, kid. Now wait here. Evan, with me."

"Okay, yes ma'am."

Shane watched the bus pull up and felt jittery, his hands sweating as the guys stepped off one at a time and reunited with their loved ones. Ilya, of course, was dead last. Shane could only smile through the window as his boyfriend yelled at the rest of the crew, "Party time now, yes?!" Everyone hooted and hollered, until Shane stepped out onto the porch.

Ilya didn't notice him at first. Shane stood at the top of the steps, sign held against his chest, eyes aimed down at the driveway. It felt like everyone was watching him, glancing between him and Ilya, waiting for his boyfriend to catch on. But Ilya was too busy chugging a beer from a red Solo cup to notice how quiet everyone had gone.

It was Evan who finally broke the silence. "Are ya gonna say something, or leave us all in suspense?"

Ilya turned his head toward the voice. "Is that Quicksilver? Holding Connors?"

"Rozanov," Shane called out.

Ilya turned toward the more familiar voice and dropped his cup on the ground.

"You weren't going to have a party without me, were you?" Shane said.

"My Shanya?!"

Ilya's knees gave out. He fell hard to the concrete and his hands covered his face. A sound escaped him that most of the Raiders had never heard before. His shoulders shook as tears ran through his fingers.

Marly was immediately at his side.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Ilya looked up again, and Shane was already darting toward him, sign forgotten at his side. Marly was helping Ilya to his feet when Shane crashed into him.

"Shane, am I dreaming? Is this real? Pinch me."

"I'm here, baby. I'm here."

"No, this can't be. You're in Ottawa with your parents. I need to go back on the bus and wake up. Hold on." Ilya started to pull away, turning back toward the bus.

Shane pulled him back. "Come here, you idiot, and kiss me."

"Can I? Kiss you? There's many people."

"Ilya. Shut up and kiss me."

He didn't need to be told twice, and the crowd went wild with oohs and ahhs. It wasn't until Cliff clapped Shane on the shoulder that he realized the kiss had drifted a bit more R-rated than PG-13. Ilya pulled back.

"This is a hell of a dream."

"Oh, shut up, Rozanov. Let's go hang out with your team."

"Okay." Ilya was smiling ear to ear as he bent down to pick up his bags. Then he straightened, brow furrowing. "Wait, that doesn't explain why one of the X-Men is here."

The dinner that followed was fantastic. Shane got to meet all the couples and played a few rounds of beer pong, though he stuck to ginger ale himself, still under strict orders not to drink after the trauma to his body last month. So Ilya had to drink all of his sunken cups, which made for a very handsy, very tipsy Raiders captain by the end of the night.

At one point, Ilya started harassing Evan with questions about Hugh Jackman. Shane found this odd, not just because Ilya seemed a little too drunk, but because it made him wonder if Ilya had daddy issues in more ways than one. Why would Evan know Hugh Jackman, anyway?

When it was all said and done, Coach LeClaire and Carly walked them out to wait for their Uber. They thanked Shane for coming and told him he was welcome back anytime he was in town this summer, or whenever the Metros were playing. It would be their secret. Shane couldn't help feeling a little envious of how easy this group made it all look—and more than a little hurt when he thought about his other timeline. He and Ilya could have had this the entire time if only Shane had been brave enough to go after what he wanted. After a firm handshake from Coach LeClaire and a hug from Carly, their Uber pulled up.

Immediately, Ilya was on him, trying to suck his soul out through his throat. The Uber driver didn't seem to mind, a young guy, chuckling at the two of them. Then Ilya went still.

"Shane, I didn't know you brought your vibrator?"

"What?"

"Your pants are vibrating. I didn't think you'd want me to use that until we got home, but if the driver doesn't mind—"

"Oh, shut up. That's my phone." Shane fished it out of his pocket and immediately went on high alert. "It's Farah."

"Who is Farah? Your girlfriend?"

"Ilya, shut up. It's my agent. She wouldn't call this late if it wasn't important." Shane pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello? Farah?"

He listened for a moment.

"Okay. Just tell me."

Farah's voice was extremely loud through the speaker, and Shane went completely still. His eyes widened. One hand rose slowly to cover his mouth.

"They did what?!"

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter: June 6th, 2017 - New York City

Who did what?!

Oh, and I have a big crush on Evan Peters. He is something in the queer spectrum in my mind. LMAO. This won’t be utilized further down the line. I just want Connor’s living my dream 😂

Chirp at me in the comments! Thank you all for being a bright light throughout my week!

Chapter 13: June 6, 2017 - New York City

Chapter Notes

It's a long one! Get your popcorn and don't share with Shane Hollander!

Let’s all just pretend I got the timeline right and that the playoffs are held in the number-one seed’s home city. I know, I know: New York would definitely not be hosting Game 7 (or whatever we’re calling it), but this is my fantasy! Let me live!

Also, welcome back to the screen to some of our favorites to hate/love!

By the time the Uber pulled up to Ilya's driveway, Shane had gone completely nonverbal, staring at some middle distance beyond the windshield while Farah's voice kept crackling through the phone. Ilya had to take over, easing the phone from Shane's fingers and pressing it to his own ear.

"Hello, this is Ilya. Shane is—he is here, but he needs a moment. Yes. Yes, I understand. He will call you back very soon, I promise you this." He didn't know Farah. Had never spoken to her in his life, had no idea what she looked like or how long she'd worked for Shane. She had no idea who he was, either—just some man answering her client's phone in the middle of a crisis. But Ilya kept his voice calm, asking the right questions, making sure whatever this was got taken seriously, until Farah seemed satisfied enough to let him go.

Chad, their Uber driver, chose that exact moment to break the tension with a joke.

"I was hoping for a show through the rearview mirror," he said, grinning as he shifted into park, "but hey, if you two ever need a third, let me know. You boys are hot."

Shane snapped back into his body so fast it was almost violent. "Fuck off, Chad."

He was out the door before Ilya could even respond, already storming up the front walk. Ilya lingered half a second longer, leaning toward the front seat.

"Sorry. He's going through something right now. We'll tip you—five stars. Promise."

Chad just laughed and waved him off, and Ilya climbed out as the car pulled away.

He found Shane at the front door, fumbling with the keypad, jabbing at the numbers wrong twice in a row because his hands wouldn't cooperate—too much fury and panic running through him at once. Ilya came up behind him and settled both hands on his hips, turning him around and pressing him back against the door in one smooth motion. Then he kissed him until Shane's mouth was slick with spit and the tightness in his shoulders finally started to give.

"You will tell me now," Ilya said, "what is going on."

"I need to get in your car and drive to Montreal."

"No. No, you will not." Ilya's grip on him didn't loosen. "You will tell me what is going on, and we will handle this together. Okay?"

"Ilya, I'll explain on the road. Please."

"Shane. No." His voice cracked just slightly on the word. "I just got you here. We just had an amazing day. You will tell me what's going on right now, and we will talk about how we want to handle it. Together. Just like you promised me."

Shane's face scrunched. He looked down at the phone still clutched in his right hand, felt it buzz again against his palm, and Ilya reached down and pulled it away before he could even react.

"No distractions," Ilya said. "Tell me what is going on. You're scaring me."

"It's—it's Montreal. There are leaked emails."

"About what?"

"About me."

"Okay. This, I can figure out." Ilya's voice gentled. "But what do they say?"

Shane exhaled shakily. "Give me my phone. I'll just show you."

"Okay."

He handed it back, and Shane's thumb moved automatically to the mail app. He pulled up the message and turned the screen around, pressing the phone back into Ilya's hand.

Ilya looked down and began to read.

To: Kyle Hughes khughes@montrealmetros.ca

CC: George Molson gmolson@montrealmetros.ca; James Gorton jgorton@montrealmetros.ca; Jay Sedgwick jsedgwick@montrealmetros.ca; Darryl White dwhite@montrealmetros.ca; Fran Margaret Bélanger fbelanger@montrealmetros.ca; Carrie Machabée cmachabee@montrealmetros.ca; Pat Brisson pbrisson@caa-sports.com; Michael Brisson mbrisson@montrealmetros.ca; Vin Lecavalier vlecavalier@montrealmetros.ca

Attached: Hollander_Medical_Summary.pdf

Kyle,

I reviewed Hollander's medical report. The doctors cleared him on the cardiac issue, but I'm not convinced. Heart conditions don't disappear just because we addressed one symptom. Add the concussion history to the mix, and we're staring at a liability we can't ignore.

We're out of playoff contention, so I'm already focused on next season. I don't want Hollander on this roster when training camp opens in September. The obstacle is his no-trade clause. Getting him to waive it means we need to tread carefully.

I need your take on how we approach him about a trade. Do we wait until the off-season? Should we contact his agent now and start floating the idea? The longer we sit on this, the harder it becomes. We need him moved before next year.

Look, I know what Hollander brings on the ice. That's never been in question. But he comes with baggage now: some medical, some other issues I'm not putting in writing. You know exactly what I mean.

Let's quietly reach out to a few clubs. Put Ottawa at the top of the list. See if anyone's willing to absorb his contract and everything attached to it. Maybe Detroit. They're always hunting for veterans. Arizona has cap space. Cleveland might even bite if we retain salary. But none of this works unless Hollander agrees to waive his NTC, and we need a strategy to make that happen.

Let's meet this week and map out our approach.

Theirualt

"Shane I don't understand. They're talking about trading you?"

"Yes, but that's not the problem, Ilya! Look!"

"What?"

"They shared my medical documents with the fucking press. Theriault showed the whole world I have a heart condition. Even if I wanted to leave, if I wanted to go to another team, they wouldn't take me. I'm a fucking risk for everyone. I'm fucked."

"Shane, no. Stop. You are fine. You're cleared for exercise again. You will play hockey again."

"Ilya, come on. Be real. He exposed me by being a dumbass and 'accidentally' including a reporter on the email. Just look. He emailed two people with the same last name. Brisson."

"Someone will want you, Shane. This will not matter. Please, calm down."

"Fuck! I know he did it on purpose. I know he fucking did. I should just go kill him. I should go there and punch him until he can't breathe. He's wanted me gone for months. He's a homophobic, racist piece of shit, and he doesn't deserve anything but my fists in his face."

"Stop talking like that. This is not my boyfriend speaking. My Shane would never say such things. He solves the problem. He doesn't make more of it. You're starting to scare me, Shane."

Shane had to take a breath and remember that Ilya was right. His newfound confidence had taught him he wasn't unstoppable, but he was stronger—strong enough that he didn't need to be scary, didn't need to fight his way out of every bad situation. He needed to make sure he didn't lose himself in the memories bleeding over from the other timeline, all that accumulated pain now finding a physical outlet in Theriault's so-called "mistake." Even though Shane knew it likely hadn't been an accident, he also knew that wouldn't matter—that was already how the media would play it, because the articles were already being written. Farah had said on the phone that Pat Brisson himself had reached out for comment, and she'd had no idea what the man was even talking about.

When Shane finally turned and looked Ilya full in the face, he remembered that his second chance had never been about hockey. It was about the beautiful love of his life standing right in front of him, looking at him now like he was a stranger. Ilya was hurting—maybe even a little afraid of the veins bulging in Shane's forearms, at his temple.

Ilya didn't fully understand, because he didn't have all the context. He knew Montreal was bad, but he didn't know the events fromt he past timeline. And Ilya was probably right—someone would still want him. Shane prayed it would be someone closer to Ilya, or, like the leaked email suggested, Ottawa. But even that felt uncertain; Coach Wiebe wouldn't be in Ottawa until after the summer, and he'd have no pull yet. His fate was simply in the hands of fate. He could try to waive his no-trade clause. He could stay in Montreal. But he'd already made that mistake once, and in this timeline, Montreal was even more of a mess than before.

Ilya was right. They could figure it out later. Let others do the work. Maybe he'd call his mom, let her know what was happening, and then get back to the thing he was actually good at: loving Ilya Rozanov.

"I'm sorry," Shane said. "I'm so sorry. You're right. That's not who I am."

Ilya approached him slowly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I might need you to lie on top of me or shove me in a dark room when the panic attack hits, but yeah. I'm okay."

Ilya raised a hand to Shane's neck, and Shane leaned into it.

"Shane. Your pulse. It's slowing down."

"Yeah, of course, silly. You calm me down. It's your superpower. This isn't news." Shane let out a small chuckle.

"No, Shane. I mean—I know when you're having a panic attack because I can feel your pulse through your whole body. In your arms. Your neck. Your stomach. I see it in your eyes. Right now... it's not there."

Shane actually thought about it. His body had been complying this whole time, ever since the anger in the car, ever since he'd gone nonverbal for those long minutes. Ilya always pulled him out of those dark spaces—the ones where it felt like he could only breathe if Ilya was touching him. But now, right now, his heart really was slowing. His chest didn't feel like it was working overtime anymore. His head hurt a little, but whose wouldn't? He hadn't even had water all day. Just ginger ale and burgers at dinner with the Raiders.

"You killed the wolf," Ilya said.

"What?"

"Your heart. It's so strong, it killed the wolf. Your heart problem—it's gone. You can control your panic attacks now."

"I don't know about all that. But I do feel better. Still a little anxious. Could use something to drink, though."

"Yes, yes. We'll get you something inside. Let's go."

Ilya turned and opened the door. They stepped in together, toed off their shoes, and started toward the living room—until Shane walked straight into the back of him.

"Ow. Why'd you stop? What—"

Ilya shoved him against the wall, one arm braced flat across his chest.

"There is someone else here."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Shh." Ilya's eyes cut toward the living room, and Shane followed his gaze. "I did not leave these lights on. That blanket was not there before."

"Do you think it's someone from your team? The press?" Shane whispered.

"I do not know." Ilya pointed at the closet door by the shoe rack. "Open that slowly. Get my stick."

Shane did, trying his best to be quiet about it, but of course there was a bag of pucks sitting right at the base of the sticks, and the resulting clatter was more than enough to startle whoever was in the kitchen. A loud noise. Then a voice.

"Ilyusha? Is that you?"

"Sveta?"

Svetlana rounded the corner, predictably wearing a Boston Raiders Rozanov jersey—because of course she was. What did she think, that the first time hadn't gotten the message across? Shane did not share. And after everything he'd heard about how she'd acted in Russia—Jesus fucking Christ, could this night possibly get any worse?

Ilya glanced at Shane. "I swear, I did not know."

"I know, Ilya. I know. This could not happen at a worse fucking time. Let's just go talk to her, and then you and I are having a real conversation about changing that door code, like I told you to back in December."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Come on."

They walked toward the kitchen, Shane leading the way, and there stood Svetlana in the jersey and a short plaid skirt, heels, hair pulled back. But the worse surprise came a second later, when he rounded the corner fully and found his archnemesis standing there too. Sasha, in a button-down shirt and jeans so tight they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Shane didn't even know how a person managed to pour themselves into something like that.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Tonight? Tonight is when this had to happen?"

Ilya dipped his head, staring at the floor, then reached for Shane, who was radiating heat from every inch of his body. Judging by the flush he could feel crawling up his own neck, it was probably matching the color climbing Shane's vision.

"Shanya. I did not know."

"What, you two going through a marital spat?" Sasha asked, smirking.

"Sasha," Ilya warned, "I would be very careful with your next words."

"I'm sorry, Ilyusha," Svetlana said. "We didn't know if you'd be alone after losing last night, and we just wanted to celebrate you. That's all. We didn't know Shane would be here."

"You could have texted me and asked," Shane said. "Funny enough, I haven't heard from you since I left Moscow. Wonder why that is?"

Svetlana's face fell, her attention dropping to whatever she'd been cooking, now simmering on the counter.

"And you—" Shane pointed at Sasha. "We haven't met, but one comment. One about wanting to fuck my husband, and I will make you wish you were back in Russia getting beaten by your father."

"Shane. Fuck. That's enough," Ilya said sharply.

"What the fuck did that little bitch just say to me?" Sasha snapped, switching into Russian.

"I said I'll beat your ass, because I'm in the mood to beat someone's," Shane fired back, also in Russian, without missing a beat.

"Enough!" Ilya barked. "Shane, go upstairs and call your parents. I will be up in a moment."

Shane started up the stairs toward the bedroom.

"Handle them, Ilyusha," he said, pausing on the steps. "They can stay if they want, but I'm not going to be more stressed out than I already am. I need rest, and I need to get to Montreal tomorrow."

He turned once more and looked back at Ilya from ten feet away only after opening the bedroom door. "I love you. Thank you for everything."

"I love you too."

The moment Shane shut the bedroom door behind him, the yelling downstairs ticked up—all of it in Russian now. He decided to listen anyway.

"What the fuck are you two doing here?" Ilya demanded. "You haven't spoken to me in months, and then you just show up in my home? Shane was right—I definitely need to change my door code."

"I just thought you shouldn't be alone tonight," Svetlana said. "I was with you the last time you lost before the finals, and you were a wreck. I was in New York, watched the game at a bar with Sasha." She glanced over at him. "Well—I watched the game while he sucked some guy off in the bathroom for forty-five minutes."

"Some guy and his wife, mind you," Sasha said. "I am an equal-opportunity pleaser."

"So what, you thought you'd show up dressed like this?" Ilya gestured at Svetlana's skirt, then at Sasha's shirt, barely hanging on. "All of this would be normal, if not for our last conversation—where no one respected our boundaries. And clearly that's still true, if you thought you could spring this on me and expect me to just drop my pants for you."

"It's not like that, Ilya," Svetlana said. "We just wanted to make sure you were okay. That's all. We didn't want to disrespect your relationship."

"Speak for yourself," Sasha said. "I'm currently trying to make the Canadian angry enough to fuck me into next week."

"I've told you before, Sasha—do not speak of Shane. You don't know him, and I will punch you."

"Fine, fine. Maybe this is good, though, yes? Maybe we get to know him, and he can set me up with one of his single hockey friends who'd like a good fuck."

"God, is that all that's ever on your mind?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"Children." Svetlana snapped. "What is going on? Shane seemed really upset. I could tell and I've only met him twice."

"Upset is what we're calling it?" Sasha said. "What did you do, Ilya? Cheat on him?"

"Sasha!" Svetlana screamed. "Enough, you fucking idiot! I actually care about my friendship with Ilya. Could you please, for five minutes, stop thinking with your dick? What's going on, Ilya?"

"I won't tell Shane's business, but it's bad right now, and if the two of you being here is stressing him out, then you need to leave. I love you both. But I cannot have you working against my relationship, against my need to be there for him when he needs me. We already have a hard enough time being apart. I can't have you making this worse. We were about to start a beautiful summer together, and then all this shit happened, so I'm begging you—if you love me, be kind to him."

Shane pulled his ear away from the door, letting the last of it fade. Faint memories of Sasha and Svetlana surfaced from the other timeline. Svetlana had always been kind to Shane by the time they'd met there, but by then she'd already lost whatever war she'd been fighting for Ilya. There had been nothing left for her to do to separate them, even if she'd wanted to. 

Sasha, on the other hand, he'd only met once in that life—at his own funeral, one that Ilya and Svetlana had paid for. A sad, sparse arrangement. Only twelve people had shown up: exes, coworkers from the modeling agency where he'd worked. But from everything Ilya had told him, Sasha had always seemed a brokenhearted man who thought he could push Ilya back into his arms if he just pushed hard enough in the other direction.

God, this couldn't have been a worse night for them to just pop up. He needed to get to Montreal. He needed to make a statement. And now the only two people from Ilya's life before Shane were sitting downstairs, probably hating him. He didn't want that. He didn't want Ilya to lose them. Ilya had the Raiders, sure, but there was still something about carrying a piece of home with you—something Ilya had never really had, outside of Svetlana, in either timeline.

Maybe he could fix that. He turned the thought over, checking himself as he did—and noticed his heart rate still wasn't spiking, even though the low ache of panic still sat in his gut over the email about to hit every news outlet by morning. There was nothing he could do to stop that. Ilya was right. There was nothing either of them could do about this email now that the cat was out of the bag. All he could do was pray someone would still take a chance on him, heart risk and all. So instead of spiraling further, instead of trying to control a narrative that was already writing itself, he decided to get to know Ilya's friends instead—and try, very hard, not to kill either of them in the process.

Shane sat down on the bed for a few minutes and then he heard thumping—Ilya's feet on the stairs, moving toward the bedroom. The door opened and Ilya dropped slowly to his knees in front of him.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" Ilya asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Did you call Yuna?"

"No. I don't think I'm going to."

"What do you mean?"

Shane took a breath. "I mean that I can't stop this from happening. I just have to deal with it. Whoever I trade to is going to know about it regardless. I think I was just the most mad that I didn't get to tell the team where I wanted to go instead of Theriault doing it. And yeah, I do think it was intentional, but either way, I can't control that."

Ilya's hand found Shane's knee. "Baby, are you sure? You do not want to talk to Yuna? It may make you feel better."

"No, I think it'll make me feel worse. She'll want me to come home, and I've already decided I'm going to stay here for a few days."

"You are sure? We can leave in the morning."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay then. I'm going to kick them out so we can have the evening to ourselves."

Ilya started to move from the bed. Shane grabbed his wrist and studdered.

"No. I—I kind of want to fix things with them."

Ilya's eyes widened. "What? No, Shane. You owe nothing to them. We have talked about this."

"Do you care about them? Yes or no?"

"Shane—"

"Yes or no, Ilya."

Ilya's jaw looked like it could cut through glass with how tight he was clinching it. "Shane, you know how I feel. I do love them, but they were not good to me before."

"People make mistakes, Ilya. And Moscow was a hard time for everyone. They were protective and yes, inappropriate, but like I said—people make mistakes. Outside of the Raiders, and my family of course, they're the only ones you have from home. You may not see it now, but I feel like you will wish you had some connection with Russia in the future."

Ilya stared at him for a long moment, then pulled Shane into a tight embrace, murmuring against his hair, "Thank you. I love you."

"If they make you uncomfortable one time while we are together, they are gone," Ilya reiterated, pulling back just enough to look Shane in the eye. "And don't try to hide it from me. I know you, Shane Hollander. I will know."

Shane laughed. "Okay. I understand. I'll let you make that call. But be easy on Sasha. I know he's going to be hard to crack, but I think I can do it."

"Fine. But don't take his shit."

"Oh, trust me. I won't. I have a lot of pent-up anger from Montreal and Hayden that I haven't worked out yet.” He paused briefly to consider. “Maybe I should go to therapy."

Ilya turned his head to the side and leaned down to look at Shane. "Mmmm, maybe we both should?"

Shane's brain lit up at the thought. This was a perfect opportunity—if he could get Ilya into therapy earlier in this timeline, it would change everything. Galina would love to have him sooner than she had last time. He was sure of it.

"Would you? With me?"

"I would do anything with you."

"No, like—not just with me. But like, we go and find someone who speaks Russian and could maybe do online sessions?"

Ilya turned again and stared at the wall. "I would consider it. But maybe we don't have such a heavy conversation tonight after everything, yes?"

"Yeah, I agree." Shane squeezed his hand. "I love you, Ilya Rozanov."

"I love you too, Shane Hollander." Ilya's then looked at Shane in the eyes. "But if you refer to me as your husband one more time before actually marrying me, then we are going to have problems."

"When did I do that?"

"When you were yelling at Sasha earlier. Was hot."

Shane's heart was definitely beating faster now. "Oh my God. I didn't even realize."

"I do not actually care." Ilya's face was full of joy and a bit of blush. He turned his head down to look at the floor. "I want to be your husband. If you want to be my husband. I think that would be cool or whatever."

There was something almost shy in the way he said it, and Shane felt his whole body feel like it was levitating.

"Hey. Look at me. I would love to be your husband. Actually, no—I can't wait to be your husband because it is going to happen." Shane grinned. "But what happened to no heavy conversations tonight?"

"This is not a heavy conversation for me," Ilya said simply. "Loving you is one of the easiest things I've ever done in my life, and you have made it that way."

"God, you're so smooth and sexy. I fucking can't take it."

Shane pushed Ilya onto the bed and straddled him, leaning down to kiss him deeply. Ilya fell into it, his hands finding Shane's waist. Shane reached down to feel Ilya hardening through his jeans.

After a few moments lost in each other, Shane had to put pause to the production or no one was doing anything productive tonight. "Down, tiger. We have guests," Shane said, pulling back with a smirk.

Shane climbed off him, and Ilya groaned.

"You're fucking joking? They would love to hear our noises and be jealous of the moans you make."

"Well, too bad. They don't deserve them yet." Shane stood and straightened the Raiders hoodie he'd stolen from Ilya's closet. "Now go cool down in the bathroom and brush your teeth. You taste like cheap beer from the party."

"Meanie," Ilya pouted, but he was already moving toward the bathroom.

"I'm going to go meet your friends again. Now go."

Ilya stomped off the rest of the way toward the en suite, and Shane took a moment to make sure he wasn't indecent from the make out session. The hoodie was almost two sizes too big for him. He knew that Ilya liked his hoodies oversized, but paired with these short shorts he'd packed for sleeping, Shane felt a bit sexy. What was wrong with showing off the merchandise to those who couldn't touch? I mean, you can't compete where you can't compare, right? He smoothed down his hair, checked his reflection in the mirror, and opened the bedroom door.

Shane stepped into the kitchen quietly, immediately catching the tail end of a conversation drifting from the living room. The open floor plan—separated by one wall with two side entrances—made it impossible not to hear Sasha and Svetlana's voices carrying through.

"I can't believe you brought me here for this shit," Sasha was saying. "He doesn't even want us here."

"I didn't know Shane would be here," Svetlana replied. "And it shouldn't be a problem that he is. The man was nice both times he met me. I was not so nice in Russia. You, on the other hand, need to get over the fact that you lost your favorite dick and move on. There are other men in the world."

"It's not even that," Sasha said, and Shane could hear the frustration in his voice. "I want to know why it wasn't me. Like, he never wanted to try with me. I was never more than a good lay to him. I'm annoyed that this random person just decided to take away what was mine. Dick and heart."

Svetlana came across harsh. "Honey, I'm going to say this one more time. You never had a chance once he met Shane. He's been obsessed with him for years. I remember when they first started talking and Ilya couldn't even fuck me without checking his phone."

"At least he was still fucking you," Sasha shot back.

Shane shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but they made it so easy. Besides, technically this was his home now—his and Ilya's, even if they hadn't co-signed any deeds yet. And hearing this confirmed his theory about Sasha. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the hurt—it all came together. It didn’t make anything any better but it did give Shane a talking point, a way to break through that hard shell that he thought Sasha had.

He decided to make a move by opening Ilya's liquor cabinet. He pulled out three glasses, pouring generous measures before heading into the living room.

When he turned the corner, he saw that they were still dressed inappropriately. Svetlana's panties were definitely showing beneath her skirt, which had ridden dangerously high. Shane made a mental note—maybe he'd buy a skirt sometime, let Ilya fuck him until it was nearly torn from his body. Sasha, meanwhile, had somehow lost all the buttons on his shirt since earlier, leaving it completely open.

Both of them stopped talking the moment they saw him. Their eyes went straight to his legs, visible in the short shorts, and Shane watched their pupils dilate. He set two glasses on the table in front of them both while they gawked at what he was wearing.

"While I have your attention," Shane said, glancing between them, "a peace offering."

He settled into the recliner beside the couch.

"Thank you," Svetlana said, reaching for her glass.

Sasha eyed him suspiciously. "This isn't poisoned, is it?"

"No. I wouldn't poison you. Chill out." Shane set the third glass on the table. "That one's for Ilya when he gets out of the bathroom."

"Then why aren't you drinking any?" Sasha asked.

"I can't. I had a procedure on my heart a few weeks ago. I can't drink or do any strenuous activity for a few more weeks. Plus, I don't drink that much anyway."

Svetlana's eyebrows shot up. "You had a procedure on your heart?"

"Yeah, well, it's not a secret anymore." Shane sighed. "It'll be all over the hockey headlines in the morning."

"What do you mean?"

"That's why I was upset earlier. I got a call from my agent. My coach sent out an email with my medical records and cc'd the wrong person. He included a random reporter who was already calling her for comment."

"Fuck. That's bad. Is Montreal trying to fuck you over? If you ever wanted to leave there, every team would be scared to take you on without knowing what's really going on."

"I know. That's why I was a bitch earlier. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I get it. Fuck, I'm sorry. You're okay now?"

Sasha let out a harsh laugh. "What the fuck, Sveta? You're besties now?"

Shane couldn't help but laugh and Sasha snapped his head over furiously with a 'what' question in his face. "Oh, sorry, nothing. I'm just surprised you were quiet enough for Svetlana and me to have such a small conversation."

Svetlana choked on her drink, coughing.

"I know you don't like me, Sasha. I heard some of what you were saying from the kitchen. I get it. I know what it's like to love Ilya. I don't know how you'd get over that because I couldn't imagine losing him. I can't imagine how it would hurt." 

He paused, looking directly at Sasha. "But I have to ask you—please—to stop pining over him and find someone else. Because I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to marry him one day, and whether you approve or not, he's going to be mine for life. Maybe even after that. But I would really like for you to approve. I don't want him to lose you two when you're the only memories of Russia that he seems to be fond of."

Svetlana's smiled. There was the woman Shane recognized from the other timeline. For the first time, she looked truly happy to hear someone say they loved Ilya.

Sasha interrupted the heartfelt moment. "What, you take me for some lovesick fool? Here to only get back my man?"

"I mean, you kind of sounded like it from where I was standing in the kitchen."

"Please." Sasha clicked his tongue. "Ilya was never mine. And unfortunately for you, when he gets bored and tosses you to the side, you'll have to join the fan club of hundreds of us who faced the same conclusion. Ilya cannot be tied down."

Shane let that roll off him. He knew Sasha was coming from a place of hurt.

"I don't know," Shane said. "I was planning on tying him up later tonight, but then you all showed up when we walked in the door."

Sasha stood abruptly. "I don't have to take this shit. I'm going for a smoke. Sveta, you coming?"

"No," Svetlana said. "I think I want to stay here. I'm okay right now. Thank you."

"Suit yourself."

Sasha headed for the patio, and Shane watched through the window as he lit a cigarette.

Svetlana turned to Shane. "I'm sorry about him. He really doesn't do well with emotional conversations, and he really doesn't do well with the idea of not getting what he wants."

"And what is it that he wants?" Shane asked.

Svetlana replied but with a bit of confusion in her tone. "I think... he wanted to be miserable in this world where the three of us just found each other at the end of it. To know that we always had each other and we didn't need anyone else. It never occurred to any of us that we would be able to find what you and Ilyusha have. Or at least one of us would. I don't know. It's hard to explain."

"No, I think I get it," Shane said. "He thinks I'm going to intrude on something that was never meant for me, and it impacts his life because it's a big change that could take Ilya away from him?"

"That's pretty good. Yeah."

Shane nodded and stared at Sasha through the big windows. "I don't want to take Ilya away from anyone. I want him to be supported as much as possible. It just can't be what it was." He turned back to her. "I trust that Ilya can set his own boundaries, but for me, hard drugs and sex are no longer on the table. He's worked too hard to ruin his life with one bad drug test over a good night out. I don't even think he wants to do that anymore. I believe part of him was doing it to numb himself. And as for the sex—there's no more lusting over him and trying to intrude on our relationship in that way. No more kissing. No more fucking. No more attempts to get him into bed. It's either learn to be his friend or don't."

Svetlana looked down at herself, suddenly aware that she was sitting cross-legged on the couch with her panties fully visible and her skirt riding up. She flushed.

"Oh god, and then I show up here wearing this. You must think I'm—"

"Yeah," Shane said gently.

"Oh no. That's—okay. This is going to take some adjusting to. But I get it. No, I definitely understand."

Svetlana stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "How about I get changed and we can eat some of the dinner I was cooking earlier?"

"That sounds good. And thank you for understanding. I know we have a long way to go and you probably don't trust me yet, but if you're willing to put in the work, then I am too."

Svetlana smiled but there was a tiny hint of warmth in it now. "Shane Hollander. If I can stare at those legs of yours while having dinner, I'll do whatever you want."

"Svetlana..."

"I'm joking. I'm just glad Ilya is happy."

"Thank you." Shane stood. "I'm going to go outside and try to talk to him one more time."

Svetlana walked over and pulled Shane into a hug. He was hesitant at first, but then he allowed himself to lean into it, burying his face in her curls. It was surprisingly comforting.

That's when Ilya turned the corner.

He looked adorable in the long Christmas pajamas Shane's parents had sent after he came out to them over the phone. They'd insisted on sending them since neither of them had been there for actual Christmas Day. The pajamas had little loons on them, and Ilya kept calling them "Canadian ducks." It was really cute.

"What the fuck is happening?" Ilya asked.

Svetlana turned around, completely unbothered. "Calm down, Romeo. I'm going to go get changed. Shane poured you a glass. After I change, we'll have dinner."

"Okay, where is Sasha?" Ilya asked.

"Outside smoking. I'm going to go talk to him," Shane said.

"Okay, I'll come too."

"No, I think I should talk to him alone."

Ilya hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, but do not punch him. He needs his nose for work."

Shane smiled. "I'll try not to."

When Shane stepped out onto the patio, Sasha turned and exhaled plume of smoke directly into his face.

"You know that's assault in America, right?" Shane said, waving it away.

Sasha tipped the cigarette toward him. "You westerners and your fucking bullshit laws. Get some thick skin."

"Whatever, dude." Shane crossed his arms. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" Sasha sounded offended. "Do I look like a wounded animal to you?"

"A bit, yeah."

"You're bold, I'll give you that. Shane Hollander."

"And you're annoying, Sasha whatever-the-fuck your last name is."

Sasha let out a short laugh, and Shane filed that away for later. Sasha, the coach's son—raised in locker rooms and around hockey players his whole life. His love language must be the same as Ilya's: chirping. Insults tossed around like affection. He could work with that.

"Sokolov," Sasha said, dragging on the cigarette again. "My full name is Aleksandr Sokolov. As you Americans say."

"That's way cooler than Sasha. Also, fuck you I'm Canadian."

"Same thing." He looked Shane over. "And what kind of name is Shane Hollander? Hollander is white, yes? But you are—" he gestured with the cigarette, "—Japanese?"

"That's not exactly hard to figure out with a quick Wikipedia search."

"Oh, please." Sasha stiffened up. "As if I would resort to the internet to learn who you are."

Shane leaned against the banister on the porch. "So if I grabbed your phone right now, it wouldn't be full of open tabs for Russian stallion fucks twinks and Shane Hollander?"

Sasha inhaled at the exact wrong moment and erupted into a coughing fit.

One point for Shane.

"What the fuck?" Sasha wheezed. "Did you already go through my phone?"

They were both laughing then, and it happened naturally enough that neither seemed to notice right away.

"Look, dude. I don't know you. But that man in there—" he nodded toward the golden hair sticking up in multiple different directions and visible through the kitchen window, "—I love him. I love him so much I'd give up the rest of the world for him. I'd do anything he asked of me, and I'll keep doing it for the rest of my life." He took a moment to swallow. "I don't need your approval. But I'd really like it. You obviously care about him, and I'm sorry he left the way he did. I am. But he chose me. It's the end of the road. You can get off the bus, or you can keep riding—but this time, you enjoy it as his friend. Someone he might actually need down the line."

Shane took a small step closer.

"Plus, you stay on the bus, you get me as a bonus. And I've been told I'm not a terrible friend to have around."

Sasha blew a raspberry.

"I don't need another friend," he said. "I definitely don't need you."

He turned away and let his gaze drift to the window, where Ilya and Svetlana were visible inside, laughing about something at the kitchen island. Something in Sasha's body softened.

"I have everything that I need," Sasha said. "Or at least I thought I did." He took a slow drag. "Losing Ilya sucked. When he moved here, he just—cut me off. Completely. Blocked me on everything. Svetlana would text sometimes but Ilya just... disappeared. I think he thought I was crazy. It took him a long time to talk to me again." He exhaled upward. "Maybe I was. A little crazy. But I still deserved an explanation."

"Maybe that's something you could ask him about?"

"I think I got my explanation tonight, actually. You two haven't even been all over each other and it already—" he stopped. "Fuck. This sucks. I used to lie awake imagining some world where he looked as comfortable next to me as he does next to you." He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it under his shoe. "Seeing it in person really fucking blows."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Sasha yelled. "You're right. You won. I can't imagine he'd want me around much longer anyway. I should just pack my bag and take the next train back to New York. Stay at Sveta's apartment. Plenty of men who want to fuck me and have me do blow off their dicks."

"I don't think that's true," Shane said. "I think losing you would hurt him. Either of you. That's why I'm out here in the cold trying this hard." He gestured toward the window with his hand. "I'm never going to be a part of what you three had. But I'd genuinely love for you two to be part of what we have."

Sasha's eyes dropped to Shane's shorts—or rather what the shorts barely contained.

"So you'd be willing to let me see what's under those slutty shorts?"

Shane's entire body betrayed him for exactly one second. The word slutty in that particular accent triggered something Pavlovian that he refused to acknowledge out loud. He recovered quickly though.

"No, you cannot see what's under my slutty shorts," Shane said, "and you can never again see what's under Ilya's very—" he paused, choosing his words, "—family-oriented pajamas, either."

They both laughed. Another point for Shane.

Sasha crossed his arms. "So what is it you actually want from me, Hollander? To act like I didn't love him? To just stop wanting him?" He shook his head. "That doesn't stop because you came out here and talked at me."

"Okay, real question," Shane said. "When was the last time you two even had sex?"

"July eleventh, 2014." Not even a skip of breath. "He had just come back from America to visit his father. I rented a hotel and—well, if you want the details, I can provide them, but I suspect you don't."

Shane stared at him. "That was oddly specific. And you said it extremely fast."

"Sorry, I just—"

"Oh, now you're saying sorry?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"All I'm saying," Shane pressed on, "is that it's been nearly three years. Ilya and I have been—" he searched for the right phrasing, "—orbiting each other since 2009, and I only just got my head out of my ass a few months ago. It's new for us too. But he's happy. And he had plenty of chances to choose you. He didn't." Shane softened just a bit but he had to get a point across. "Don't you want someone who's actually there for you? Not just when it's convenient for him?"

"You talk about your own boyfriend like this?"

"No—the two situations aren't comparable. He shows up for me. One phone call and he's on the next flight to wherever I am." Shane stopped and bit his lip, weighing whether to say what came next. He did anyway. "When I was in the hospital in a coma, my mom said he didn't leave my side for days. Held my hand. Helped the nurses wash my body. I had to beg him to go back to work."

"You were in a coma?"

"Yeah. It was bad for just a few days. Ilya thought—" Shane exhaled. "He thought I wasn't going to wake up."

"Shit." Sasha uncrossed his arms. "How long ago?"

"Last month."

"Last month?!" Sasha's went up several octaves. "And you're here? In Boston? Dealing with this bullshit?"

"I was cleared to fly. Had the heart procedure three weeks ago and I'm all good."

"Why the fuck would you risk it?" Sasha looked horrified. "Stay in a bed. Have someone beautiful wait on you. You have the money for a beautiful nurse. Fuck." He shook his head. "You're just as insane as he is."

"I'm definitely crazier," Shane admitted. "But—same reason as you, honestly. I didn't want him to be alone today. I came for him and his team and I just—" he shrugged,"—seeing him smile is enough to make me do just about anything."

Sasha stared at him for a moment and Shane could swear he saw a tear forming in the corner of Sasha's eye.

"Fuck."

"What?"

"If it weren't for your slutty Walmart shorts and the rest of your horrible outfits, I might actually like you."

Shane pointed at him immediately. "Says the man wearing Gucci from 2015."

Sasha glanced down, then back up. "You know Gucci?"

"I know a bit. I'm more comfortable with Balenciaga, Saint Laurent, Prada, Chanel, Dior. Gucci's kind of lost the plot, honestly."

Sasha's jaw was definitely on the floor now. It reminded Shane of Rose—the same delighted bewilderment she'd worn when she first discovered how thoroughly he'd educated himself on the fashion houses that kept sending him contracts for summer shoots.

"What in the actual fuck," Sasha said.

"What?"

"Who are you? You have this body like a—like a god. And then you have this heart that is just like fucking gold. And you speak designer?" He dropped his hands. "What the fuck."

Oh now, Sasha was handing out compliments now, and that meant the wall had finally started to come down. Time to go for it.

"I'm gay," Shane said. "A hockey player. And a model."

"Oh, I'm very familiar with your modeling." Sasha's smiled. "Seems like a criminal waste to put that body next to a watch and a can of soda."

"I mean, I have some things lined up this summer with Balenciaga, and my mom is trying to arrange a meeting with Donatella to get Ilya into some—" Shane paused for effect, "—very specific underwear. For which I will require at least five business days alone with him after the campaign drops."

"Amen, sister."

Sister! The plan is working.

"You know," Shane said, "if you ever wanted to cut back on the cocaine and stop relying on other men to bankroll you while they control your life, maybe I could help connect you with some real modeling work. There's even a chance you could come to the Balenciaga shoot this summer. I could introduce you to the right people." He let the pause do its work. "You'd just have to fill out a friendship application first, but I must warn you—I'm selective."

"Other men?!"

Shane felt he had taken a misstep.

"You think I let other men fund my lifestyle?"

Shane opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to fix the damage—Sasha laughed.

"I also depend on strong women who love my dick just the same."

Shane exhaled slowly.

"Yeah, yeah, okay." He rubbed his arms. "I'm getting cold. I'm going inside to warm up with food and maybe some sweat pants."

"You don't want help warming up those legs before you go in?" Sasha raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure Ilyusha would love to watch that."

"Sasha."

"Fine! Fine. I'll try, okay? I'll try." He actually looked a bit embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Mom. Bad habit. Don't expect me to change overnight. But I'll try to see you and Ilya for what you are, and maybe—maybe—we can be friends."

"I would like that." Shane turned toward the door. "Okay. I'm going in."

"Wait."

He stopped.

"Do you have your phone on you?"

Shane pulled it out of the front pocket of Ilya's hoodie.

"Unlock it."

"Okay—"

Sasha plucked it from his hand, thumbs moving over the screen before pressing it back into his palm.

"What did you just do?"

"I filled out the application."

Shane scrunched his forehead together. "What application?"

"God." Sasha tilted his face toward the sky. "Maybe you really are dense. The friendship application. The one you mentioned sixty seconds ago. I put my number in, Shane. Christ."

"Oh!" Shane looked down at the new contact. "Oh. Well—thanks!"

"Don't be weird about it."

"You like me."

"Fuck off."

Shane was smiling wide and when he glanced up through the glass, both Ilya and Svetlana were visible at the kitchen window, watching them with concern on their faces. It had probably been close to twenty minutes out here and voices were definitely fluctuating with tones.

He turned back to Sasha with one last quest.

"Want to be a strong applicant? There's one more thing you have to do tonight."

Sasha looked down and his shoulder dropped. "Shane, I will not suck your dick. No matter how much I'd like to. I enjoy having this face and Ilya looks a little worried from where I'm standing."

"Do you ever think before something comes out of your mouth?"

"Occasionally." Sasha claimed. "Usually the shock value works in my favor. But you're—" he squinted, "—some kind of demon. My tricks do not work on you. They either bounce off or make you mad, and I can't explain why I care whether I make you mad. This is new for me."

"Yeah." Shane said. "I think you're a bit of a softie and the sex stuff is your armor."

"Whatever." Sasha exclaimed. "What do you want me to do?"

"You really want to fuck with Ilya and Svetlana?"

Sasha's eye brows went to his hairline. "I like where this is going."

"Give me a hug before I go back inside."

"Ew."

Shane cocked his head to one side and waited.

Sasha looked at him. Shane continued to wait.

"You really weren't loved enough as a child, were you?" Shane said.

Sasha's laughed and stated, "If you only knew." He took a breath and opened his arms. "Okay. Come here, then."

Shane wrapped both arms around Sasha's back and pulled him in. After a stiff moment, Sasha's chin dropped onto Shane's shoulder.

"I'm really going to try," Sasha murmured. "I promise. Thank you."

Shane was still formulating a response when the sound of shattering glass from inside the house cut through the quiet.

They both pulled back at the same moment.

Through the window: Ilya's vodka glass lay in pieces across the kitchen floor, Ilya himself already moving toward the patio door, and Svetlana frozen in place at the kitchen island with her eyes at maximum diameter, one hand still slightly extended from wherever she'd been gesturing when the glass left Ilya's grip.

"I think that may have worked a little too well," Shane said.

The patio door jerked open.

"What the fuck is going on out here?" Ilya demanded.

"We're just getting to know each other." Sasha threw his arms up in the air like he was being held at gunpoint. "Calm down, balls for brains."

"Sasha, I will bury you in this backyard."

"Good talk, Sasha." Shane was already stepping past Ilya through the door. "Let's go have dinner."

"I'll be in in a minute," Sasha called after them.

Shane moved through the kitchen past the wreckage of the glass, catching Svetlana's eye on his way by and giving her a wink. She made a noise and pressed her lips together.

"Ilya, baby—" Shane kept walking, "—you dropped something. You should clean that up before someone cuts themselves. I'm going to get some sweats, I'll be right back, and we can eat."

Shane risked a glance back before rounding the corner. Ilya was pacing to the closet to grab the broom and dustpan, but he looked so disheveled. The poor man had already been through so much alcohol at LeClair's, and to only be teased like this now made Shane feel a little bad. Not enough to change anything about his plans for later, though. Sasha and Svetlana or not—Ilya was going to be screaming his name before they fell asleep.

He slipped into the bedroom and eased the door shut behind him.

From the kitchen, he only heard one last remark and it was from Svetlana.

"Fuck. He's good."

The rest of the night went as Shane had hoped. Svetlana wrapped up dinner for everyone, though Shane and Ilya could barely eat—they'd stuffed themselves at LeClaire's. It was late. Sasha finally buttoned up his shirt but kept the gaudy Gucci logo visible to everyone in the room. Shane couldn't help but feel a bit of warmth from an evening that had started so negatively. He'd been certain the whole night would be ruined by Sasha and Svetlana's presence. Or ruined more than it already was. But with Ilya beside him, and that slight glimmer of jealousy still alive and well in Ilya's grip, some positives had come out of the night after all.

Sasha and Svetlana told stories of Ilya on the ice as a kid. Sasha only launched into inappropriate stories about Ilya's sex life twice—he had fully expected five. Shane only had to slap the wooden dining room table once! Ilya got to tell stories about his mother reprimanding the three of them when they'd sneak in late as kids just before her passing. They talked about their favorite foods from home, which Shane took mental notes of. They talked until nearly 3:00 AM, when everyone was starting to yawn and Sasha offered the group cocaine. Shane legitimately looked at him, and all he had to do was give the look—the drug disappeared before Ilya or Svetlana even got to respond.

Overall, it was a nice night that ended with the discussion of summer plans. Ilya gleamed with excitement telling his childhood friends how he'd be going to the cottage this summer and spending it relaxing in the arms of his boyfriend. But Shane, the planner that he is, had one more idea he wanted to run by Ilya before falling asleep—though not until after they had raunchy, jealous sex courtesy of Shane's earlier stunt.

"How do you feel about going to watch the finals if they're in New York?"

This is how Ilya and Shane found themselves on June 6, 2017 with a bag of popcorn, which Shane protested as "absolutely not eating that shit" because it was a sensory nightmare and he didn't carry floss with him today. He gratefully traded it off to Ilya as he carried two bottles of water down the stairs of MSG, heading to their overpriced seats for what Shane knew would be a shutout by the Admirals.

They only ended up on the jumbotron twice. The first time, the commentators were talking about the stars in the room. Ilya gave Shane a theatrical elbow to the arm and pointed at the screen while chewing popcorn with his mouth open. Shane only rolled his eyes while Ilya waved like a child at the camera.

The second time came during the intermission between the first and second period, when they ended up on the 'kiss cam.' To Ilya's delight, he decided he was going to get a rise out of the fans. Shane was sure plenty of people were wondering why Shane Hollander, dressed in a blue hoodie, and Ilya Rozanov in his black and gold were there together watching the game, sitting side by side. But they'd done so well not to fuck this up so far. It was clear to the public eye, at least to the ones who believed them, that they were actual friends who just wanted to attend the game together. Shane had told Ilya they were going to show their faces at the pinnacle of the hockey world while the two teams battled it out for the cup they both desperately wished they could secure this year and it would only help their intended storyline.

He'd even convinced Ilya to buy a Scott Hunter jersey! In exchange, he'd promised Ilya the best blowjob of his life. It was a hard deal to strike because Ilya was convinced he'd seen all of Shane's tricks. Little did he know Shane had been practicing holding his breath with a dildo, training to take Ilya's cock deeper. He planned to have Ilya coming down his throat as deep as possible later in the evening and Ilya only needed minor convincing that he was going to have his world rocked later. 

Though, when the kiss cam landed on them, Shane immediately looked at Ilya with panic in his eyes. Ilya smiled, and Shane immediately groaned and ducked his head into the hood of his hoodie. Ilya really should be a movie star or on Broadway. The way he played the straight man kissing his new bestie through his hoodie was Oscar-worthy. It still didn't stop the women behind them in Jalo jerseys from asking if they wanted to kiss him instead. To which Ilya responded, "I'm sorry, ladies. I am no longer a single man. My Jane will kill me. That's why I'm here with my good friend Shane Hollander. I need to stay out of trouble." Shane only gave them side-eye, twice, he swears. 

During the final period, Hunter and the Admirals were up 4-0 against Los Angeles. Shane figured it was a good time for him and Ilya to shed their hoodies and reveal their red, white, and blue Admiral jerseys. It wasn't like Scott would notice anyway. He was playing like an animal, and if Shane was being honest, it was hot to watch. But he could never tell Ilya that. The old man having even a hint of attraction to Shane would drive Ilya insane. 

The crowd around them let out a collective yelp when they pulled off their hoodies in unison, but Shane ignored it. Instead, he scanned the room for the curly-haired short king wearing all denim, a full-on Canadian tuxedo. Then, on Shane's turn to look across the ice before sitting down, he spotted said king: Kip stood with an older man and his friend Elena, who Shane had met several times in the other timeline.

When the game ended and the Admirals won their cup, the crowd rose in applause. Well, almost all of them. Rozanov stayed seated until he was kicked in the shin by his loving boyfriend.

"Okay, we watched, we supported the retirement community," Ilya muttered, leaning close enough that Shane could hear over the crowd. "Can we go now? I'm ready for my end of the deal."

The look on his face, devious, went straight to Shane's dick. But he had to steady himself, because what was about to happen on that ice would change lives. It would crack open a door that countless people would eventually walk through. This was one of the most important moments in any timeline, and when he'd built the initial spreadsheet, he'd made himself a promise: no matter where he ended up, he would be here in person to witness it.

"Rozanov, chill out," Shane said. "We watch the awards, then we leave."

Ilya dropped back into his seat with a huff that belonged to a thirteen-year-old.

Down on the ice, Hunter had started moving. He was circling the rink, hunting for someone specific. He came down their side first, gliding close to the boards, and his eyes caught Shane's and Ilya's in the front row. Something flickered across his face, a look of disbelief, before he skated on, still searching. When he finally drew up in front of the section where Kip sat, he slowed. Shane watched him take stock, head tipping up and then down, as he assessed whether he was about to do something he could never take back.

Then Scott Hunter turned to face the crowd and waved Kip down to the ice.

Shane felt his eyes start to water up.

Ilya's shoulder shifted against his. "Shane." Ilya said into his ear. "What is wrong?"

Ilya's arm started to move toward his back and Shane cut him a sideways look. Not here. Ilya caught it, arm falling back to his own vicinity.

"Nothing," Shane managed. "Nothing at all. I'm just happy for Hunter."

"Jesus Christ." Ilya said with annoyance. "I am also happy the man did not become fossil with the rest of the dinosaurs before getting his Cup. But I am not crying, Shane."

"Shut up," Shane said. "Just look."

Kip had made it down to the ice. Hunter took him by the hand and guided him over the boards, and the two of them stood together at center ice. They stood together inside an arena packed with hockey fanatics from all over the world. They exchanged a handful of words no one else would ever hear, and then…

They kissed.

The roar that went up was enormous. Shane felt it in his spine.

He glanced sideways. Ilya's eyes were bright and glassy now too, fixed on the ice in awe as Hunter pulled his future husband into his embrace.

Shane nudged him once with his shoulder and leaned in close.

"Shanya." Ilya's was cutting out. "We should go. We should go before I..." He stopped. Swallowed. "I cannot hold back anymore."

"Okay," Shane said. "Okay. Let's go."

They filed up the stairs and out of Madison Square Garden onto 34th Street, where Penn Station's crowds were already spilling onto the sidewalk and every screen on the building's face was cycling between the same two images: the Admirals hoisting the Cup, and the New York star kissing his boyfriend in front of the world.

Ilya was already moving south, speed-walking with his shoulders pushed forward.

Shane fell into step beside him and said nothing for a full block, then two, then fifteen. He couldn't tell if he had made a mistake, dragging Ilya here to witness the exact thing they couldn't have, or if Ilya was just generally overwhelmed. What he did know was that the hotel was almost certainly not in this direction.

By the final block, the neighborhood began to shift. Rainbow flags materialized in bar windows and above doorways, strung in lights along a couple of the storefronts. The foot traffic had thickened with a different kind of crowd filling the sidewalk outside a place with a small patio and a wall of screens inside where people were shouting at the Cup highlights.

Ilya stopped at a crosswalk. The light went red.

Shane looked around. The faces nearby were distracted, paying attention to their own conversations and their own nights. He reached out and caught Ilya's arm just above the elbow.

"Ilya. What is going on?"

Ilya turned, and Shane saw how broken he looked: his face was wet. Not the same from the inside the arena. His eyes were a bit bloodshot and his nose was running. 

"Oh, baby." Shane's chest compressed. "Hey. Hey." He steered them left off eighth avenue, down 18th where the foot traffic thinned out to almost nothing. He checked behind them once, then stopped, and brought his hand up to Ilya's face. "Are you okay?"

"No." Ilya was trying to speak through sobs. "No, I am not okay."

"Tell me. Can you tell me?"

"It should be us." Ilya's whispered. "It should be us out there, Shanya. We should not have to hide. We should not have to stand in the crowd and act like strangers, like we are something to be ashamed of."

"I know," Shane said. "I know."

"Ilya." Shane stepped closer. "I know."

He pulled him in, both arms around his back, and Ilya dropped his forehead to Shane's shoulder and breathed there for a moment.

Against Shane's collar, muffled: "Why were you not surprised? You were already crying before he even—" Ilya pulled back slightly. "Did you know? Did you know Hunter was gay?"

"No," Shane said. The lie came out smooth but tasted really bad. "No, I didn't. I think I was just shocked. Same as you."

"Da. I can't believe it."

It was quiet for a moment. Down at the corner, two men came out of a bar shoulder to shoulder, one of them laughing at something, the other holding the door open and then catching up to take his hand.

Ilya watched and they both felt each other sigh into the other's arms.

"I want to be them," he said. "I want to hold your hand and not think about it. I want to tell people you are mine, not my best friend. Mine. The love of my life."

"I know," Shane said again.

Ilya made a frustrated sound and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I am sorry for this. I know it is stupid. It is different for us than for Hunter. We are two players. He just found a nice Jewish boy from the crowd and he kissed him and the whole world cheered." He exhaled. "We cannot just do that."

Shane held a small laugh back, because yes, Kip was definitely a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn. But looking at Ilya's face, the exhaustion behind it, the way hope and grief were all so clear, he let it go.

He thought about what Hunter and Kip's kiss had meant in the other timeline: a door swinging open, proof of what was attainable, the moment that let Ilya start to believe a future was possible for them too. Here, in this timeline, they'd already chosen each other. The door was open. But standing on the other side of it in secret, knowing what you had and still having to fold it away every time you stepped outside, was fucking rough.

Hunter would take a couple of swings from the Commissioner and the conservative media. Shane knew that better than anyone. But he wasn't kissing a man who moved league revenue figures by himself. He was kissing someone he loved, someone who had no idea his face was about to be on every sports channel in America.

Shane made his decision.

Fuck the MHL. Let them bark. The bite of Shane Hollander was going to be a great deal louder than anything coming for them. He hadn't come back for any other reason than this man standing in front of him on a dark side street in Chelsea, crying because he wanted to hold his hand.

"Hey." Shane looked at Ilya in the face. "What if tonight, just tonight, we go to a bar together. Have a couple drinks. Maybe dance a little. We don't have to go anywhere around here. But let's just be us. Let's be two people who love each other and have a good time and not think about anything else."

"Shane. If even one person who watches hockey sees us, they will know who we are. They will have phones."

"Fuck it," Shane said. "I don't care."

"I care." Ilya's protest came out with frustration. "I know you are trying to make this better. But Shane, I don't have my citizenship yet. If the wrong thing happens, if this goes badly, they send me back to Russia." His head dropped again. "And I lose you. I cannot lose you."

And Ilya was right. He definitely didn’t want to rush into a wedding or claim citizenship in one country only to move to another in the middle of the process. There was no good way around this right now until they made a plan for the future and Shane fully intended to schedule that conversation with Ilya while they were at the cottage and enjoying themselves. They could talk about Shane’s future in light of recent events and now that he knew he was definitely looking to trade away from Montreal. They could talk about Ilya’s free agency in just one more season. But they did need a plan in place before they acted too reckless. Then a thought came to mind, he just hoped that old hole in the wall was still there. 

"What if I know a place? Somewhere safe. Where we can have a couple of beers and actually be together and then go back to the hotel and..." he paused, "I make good on what I promised you."

Ilya's smiled and cocked his left eyebrow. "What place does Shane Hollander know in New York City that I do not?"

"Do you trust me or not, Rozanov?"

Ilya looked at him. "Of course," he said. "With my life."

"Then come on."

After another short walk to the infamous Christopher Street, Shane found the cross street of Washington and knew he was close.

"Where are you taking me?" Ilya fell into step beside him. "You are going to murder me?"

"Oh, shut up. There's a bar down here."

Shane noticed several black SUVs idling in and out of the area but paid no attention to who was climbing in or out as they approached from half a block away. Within seconds, the two of them were standing in front of the Kingfisher, just across the street from the Christopher Street Pier, which was lit up and buzzing with people going in and out.

Ilya tilted his chin toward the entrance. "I've never been here. This is a gay bar?"

"Uh, yeah."

"And why do you know about it, Shane?"

"I did some reading on New York nightlife. Don't get your jockstrap in a wad."

Ilya's smile widened. "Oh, that's a good idea. I've never fucked you in a jock before."

"Ilya, shut up and come get drinks with me. Please."

"Yes, sir."

When they pushed through the door, Shane didn't know what to expect. He certainly didn't expect this. The bar went silent the moment the door swung shut behind them. There stood Hunter, Vaughan, Jalo, Andersson, Bennett, Brisebois, Wagner, Farmer, Prentice, and Huff—every single one of them frozen mid-shot, eyes fixed on the entrance in complete disbelief. The silence held until Scott Hunter rose from a corner booth where he'd been sitting with Elena, Kyle, and Kip.

"Rook, come join us." Hunter's voice carried across the room. "Bring Rozanov if you must, but the second he calls me old, I'm punching him in the mouth."

Ilya laughed and cut his eyes sideways at Shane. "Did you know they were going to be here?"

"Honestly, no. I didn't think they'd celebrate here.” And that was true. Shane never heard where Hunter went after the 2017 win. He was too busy calming his nerves after Ilya called and said, “I’m coming to the cottage” before abruptly hanging up and texting him ‘sorry’ four short minutes later explaining that he now had to find new swimwear. 

Shane nudged Ilya’s shoulder, “But I feel a lot more comfortable. What do you think?"

Ilya looked around the room and then back at Shane. "I think I want to see if Hunter will punch me in the mouth in front of his pretty boyfriend."

"If you call him pretty one more time," Shane said with a bit of fire in his voice, "Hunter won't be the only one punching you in the mouth, sweetheart."

The rest of the Admirals went back to their shots. Shane and Ilya crossed to the booth.

"Hollander." Hunter rested his forearms on the table. "I didn't know you two were actually friends. And you're repping the best player in the league right now. I never thought I'd see the day Ilya Rozanov was wearing a Scott Hunter jersey."

"Don't worry, Hunter." Ilya dropped into a seat. "Next year, when I'm winning the Cup, I'll send you a signed one. Not some cheap knockoff from the gift shop."

Shane and Hunter said it at the same time: "You wish, asshole."

Everyone laughed. Kip leaned across the table as the music died down between songs.

"Since Scott's going to be rude and not introduce us—I'm Kip." He reached across to shake Shane's hand, then Ilya's. "These are my friends Elena and Kyle."

"Nice to meet you all," Shane said. "Why don't I go grab everyone something to drink? Ilya, pull up a chair for me while I'm gone?"

"I'll come with you, Rook." Hunter was already on his feet. "Another round for everyone?"

Ilya pushed up. "No, I'll go help Shane."

"It's fine." Shane put a hand briefly on his chest. "Pull up the chair. Get to know everyone. I'll be right back."

"Okay, if you insist." Ilya sat back down. "But I'm going to hit on Hunter's boyfriend while you're gone."

Shane and Hunter, again, in perfect unison: "The hell you will."

Shane's eyes went wide. He moved quickly toward the bar and Hunter followed in fast pace, both of them leaving Ilya and Kip already laughing at the table behind them.

Shane settled against the bar rail and could feel Hunter boring a hole through the side of his head without even looking.

"Rook."

"Yes, Scott?"

"Rook."

Shane angled toward him. Hunter looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"What, Scott?"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You haven't actually said anything yet."

"Rook."

"I haven't been a rookie in years, so yes, you're wrong about that."

"Hollander. You know damn well what I'm talking about."

Shane exhaled. Better now than years from now.

"What—the fact that I'm in love with Ilya Rozanov and he's in love with me? Is that what you're wrong about?"

Hunter choked and reached for the beer the bartender had just set down at their end of the bar. "What the fuck? I have so many questions. What? When?"

"Can we not do this tonight?" Shane stopped him abruptly. "Not before I get out what I want to say. Please?” 

Scott nodded.

“What I will say—or what I want to say—is thank you. Thank you for showing us it's possible to be fucking happy regardless of our careers. You and Kip look really happy. That's all I want for Ilya and me. You’ve changed so many lives tonight and I can’t tell you how much it means to us, personally, so thank you."

Hunter set his beer down. "Thank you for saying that." He was quiet for a moment. "I still can't believe I did it. I might regret it in the morning when I see the headlines."

"No, you won't. You love that man. You should be fucking proud. You changed the hockey world. I'd argue that kiss was bigger than winning the Cup."

Hunter looked back at Kip over his shoulder and then tipped his head up at the ceiling, blinking. "Dude. Thank you. Fuck. I can't believe this is real."

Shane gripped his shoulder. "Believe it. You fucking deserve it."

Hunter snatched a cocktail napkin from the bar and pressed it under his eyes. "And Rozanov? He's good to you?"

"Yeah. He's perfect. He's everything I've ever wanted. He really is my soulmate—I've never been happier, and I can't wait to spend this summer with him."

"Damn." Hunter shook his head. "I can't believe I'm living in a world where Ilya Rozanov is tied down, Shane Hollander was the one to do it, and we're all gay."

Shane smiled. "Ilya's bisexual, for the record."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Better not tell Elena though. She'll try to steal him."

"She couldn't if she tried."

Hunter laughed. "So what—you're coming out too?"

"No. It's different for us. Two active players, you know? We didn't even expect to run into you here tonight, honestly. We just wanted to go somewhere away from hockey and somehow ended up in a gay bar full of hockey players. Just our luck."

"Dude. Look around."

Shane did. Vaughny—who Shane had quietly nursed a crush on during his sophomore season—was getting worked on by some guy who looked like he lived inside of an Equinox. Carter wasn't exactly discouraging it, either. Matti Jalo, runner-up to Shane on the People magazine sexiest MHL player list two years running, had wedged himself between Ilya and Elena at the booth, tipping his shoulder into Elena's while he and Ilya traded something that was making them both crack up. Wagner had disappeared in the direction of the single-stall bathroom with another man leading the way. Kyle had moved from the booth to behind the bar itself, dragging a finger in slow circles across Bennett's palm while the two of them talked, faces close. The rest of the Admirals were being loud and obnoxious on the patio off the side of the building, surrounded by a crowd of smokers. The Admirals were significantly more queer-friendly than Shane had remembered.

"You don't have to hide here," Hunter said. "We all have a pact—whatever happens in this bar, it stays in this bar. The guys found out about me a few weeks ago and came to meet Kip. I guess this is me saying, be yourself tonight."

"Yeah." Shane let out a breath. "Okay."

Hunter leaned over to give Kyle his card for this round of beers. There was a short lull in conversation.

"Hey." Hunter turned back to his beer. "I've been meaning to text you for a few weeks now, but the playoffs kept getting in the way. How are you holding up after Theriault's fuckup?"

"Dude."

"I know, I know. I just wanted to see where your head was at."

"I didn't take you for an inside trader, Hunter."

"Fuck off, you know that's not what I'm asking."

"I know." Shane tapped the bar with his index finger. "I haven't decided yet. I know where I want to go. I'm still working out the details with my agent and hoping to have something finalized this month. Theriault's bullshit has everyone second-guessing my worth."

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I'd say come to New York, but every team here is at cap. I'd already been looking at a trade myself if the guys had taken the gay thing badly—I needed to stay in the area for Kip."

"Same problem in Boston. I'd love to play with Ilya, but he eats their cap whole, even if I took less money and waived my NTC."

"So what are you actually thinking? Theriault's going to walk even after this commissioner investigation, you know that. You have to get out of there."

"Oh, I know. Nothing's coming of it. And I also know that I need to leave them behind." Shane paused. "I'm hoping I get to go home."

"What do you mean, home?"

"Home. Ottawa. My parents are there. And it still puts me within reach of Ilya six to eight times a year. We always have the summer."

"Ottawa?!"

"Shh." Shane cut his eyes sideways. "Ilya doesn't know yet. I want to see what my agent can do first. But please—don't say anything."

"Rook. I think you know me better than that. I'm not going to say shit."

"Thanks, Hunter."

Hunter's paused and smile directly at Shane before patting him on the arm. "Before we take these drinks back—I just want to say something now.” Shane looked from where he was staring at Ilya and looked directly at Scott. “I'm proud of you, too. You've made an incredible career for yourself. And looking at you tonight, you seem lighter than I've ever seen you. I'm guessing that has something to do with Rozanov. But I'm happy for you, man."

Shane pressed the back of his wrist to the corner of his eye and reached for a napkin off the bar.

Hunter lifted two of the beers. "Let's go hang out with our boyfriends."

"Yeah."

They made their way back to the booth, six beers between them. Matti claimed Kyle's without looking up, since Kyle was still behind the bar. Ilya turned his head at their return and tipped back in his seat.

"Took you two long enough. I was about to join Matti and Elena for a game of Twister back at her apartment."

"Fuck you. Shut up, Rozanov."

Shane pressed the cold base of his beer bottle firmly against Ilya's chest. Matti and Elena both looked at Shane like there may be an actual fight break out. Ilya held back a grin, well aware he was playing a stupid game—performing single straight man for a room full of people while sitting next to his rival on the ice and the only man he'd ever actually loved off it.

Shane dropped into the seat beside him and held his gaze.

"Do you trust me?"

Ilya smirked. "I told you yes earlier, Hollander. You brought me to fun bar with fun people. Yes, I trust."

"No, Ilya." Shane nearly whispered. "Look at me. Do you trust me?"

The mask evaporated. Ilya's eyes immediately darted across Shane's face, checking to see if he'd really upset him, if something bad had happened, or if he was just... okay.

"Yes," he said, quieter. "With my life."

"Then come here."

Shane leaned in and captured Ilya's mouth with his own. His hand came up to cup the back of Ilya's neck, fingers threading into his hair as he tilted Ilya's head exactly where he wanted it. Shane's tongue swept past Ilya's lips, tasting the beer he had just opened. Ilya made a sound low in his throat and Shane swallowed it. His other hand gripped Ilya's thigh under the table and Shane felt Ilya's dick growing on his upper thigh under his jeans.

When they finally separated, Shane sat back looking equal parts embarrassed and triumphant. Ilya opened his mouth and nothing coherent came out. Hunter's face had gone a shade of red. Matti Jalo, bless his heart, appeared to be confused and trying to figure out whether he'd had too much to drink or if this was actually happening. Elena fanned herself with her cocktail napkin.

Kip pointed at Scott. "You owe me fifty dollars, Scotty."

"You bet on this? On us?" Ilya asked.

"Hell yes I did. I've known for months. There's a video of you two at a pool in Florida during All-Stars, and if you catch it at just the right second, you can see Shane staring directly at your ass while you walk across the pool deck with someone—I'm pretty sure it was Shane's mom based on the article—and it is not subtle."

"Damn." Hunter was already going for his wallet.

Ilya looked at Shane. "You are okay? No panic?"

"When I'm with you," Shane said, "I don't need to panic."

"Fuck." Ilya dropped his head into Shane's chest. "I hate when you say shit like that. Our hotel is too far away."

Shane could only laugh.

The hour that followed was easy in a way neither of them had been able to afford in this timeline outside of the private walls of exclusive clubs and behind closed doors with family and friends—Shane's shoulder against Ilya's, the two of them talking openly with Hunter and Kip about how they'd gotten here, Ilya taking every available opportunity to chirp Hunter.

After an hour, Ilya got an Uber sorted for their car back up in Midtown, and that's where the real fun began. By morning they were so wrecked they pushed their flight back a day and extended their stay. Shane had fleeting thoughts about walking around the city, seeing something, doing something that wasn't horizontal—but Ilya had a different agenda entirely, which turned out to involve the penthouse overlooking Times Square and the Empire State Building.

But the best part of the next day, the part Shane kept turning over in his mind on the rescheduled flight home, was the look on Ilya's face when Shane agreed to run down to the dollar pizza place on the corner and bring back a whole pie. A whole pie, on the bed, in a city where almost no one knew them. A place where they could just be Shane and Ilya among millions of others. Shane made a mental note: when the cottage got too quiet, maybe they could escape here again.

He didn't know what the next few months would look like. But he was right—when he had Ilya beside him, there was nothing left to panic about

Chapter End Notes

So, like I mentioned before, my grandfather was diagnosed with WPW. He used to struggle with severe anxiety, but after his ablation, he told me he was much better able to manage any panic attacks that came his way, unless he was in an actual life-or-death situation. He said he felt so much better after the procedure, and I wanted to portray some of that with Shane here.

Of course, Shane will forever be our panic attack king, but he is also learning new things about himself, including things about his health. I hope that came across well!

As for Sasha and Svetlana, I had to remind myself that this fic is about #GetLovedRozanov, so I didn’t want to cut them out of the story completely. They will pop up again later, but I thought it was important to find a place for them here and let this “new” Shane get to work. Now that he can actually have these conversations, he can confront how he feels about them and learn how they feel, too.

Re: the email from Theirault. We all know that was intentional, right? Right?! Also, who is this man to opine on medical records contrary to the medical reports he was provided? But Shane’s priorities are, first, Ilya and, second, hockey. He’s letting Farah, and probably Yuna, do the work for him in the background while he enjoys the time he has with Ilya over the next few months.

Next chapter: June 15, 2017, Muskoka Lakes. <3

As always, I love reading your thoughts in the comment section and I consider everyone of the them as I'm editing what I've already drafted for future chapters. Thank you for all of the love, again.

Chapter 14: June 13, 2017 - Las Vegas.

Chapter Notes

SO, I lied. Turns out, I needed a smut- and kink-filled chapter for our boys. It’s been a minute since we’ve had any sexy time in the chat! The birthday chapter will come next week. I promise.

Triggers: kinky cum play, sweat play, lots of licking Rozanov’s abs, and a memory of exhibitionism from the other timeline. Oh! And a physical fight! Ilya throwing hands.

If any of the above bothers you, you may skip this chapter and move directly to the end notes for a summary of the important points. It's a bit vague but the big points are addressed.

The next chapter, from Ilya’s POV, will explain why this one was necessary. We need our lover-boy to SNAP out of this idea that he’ll never be good enough for Shane and just accept the fucking love-bombing Shane is unleashing at nuclear levels.

Shane hated being away from his boyfriend.

…husband…

Soulmate?

He fucking missed Ilya. Which was typical, really. They'd spent one full day in Montreal after their mini-vacation in New York City, one day on the couch wrapped in each other, before Ilya had to fly back to Boston to pack for nearly three months at the cottage. Three months. In the other timeline, their first stretch at the cottage had been two weeks. Two weeks of lake water and domestic mornings and Ilya shuffling around in Shane's slippers. The thought of three whole months of that same treatment was far too exciting.

He understood, logically, why Ilya had to go. Boston was where all of Ilya's belongings were, where the shit load of clothes lived that Ilya had refused to pack initially. Ilya had complained, "No Shanya, you have to come back with me so you can pick out my sexy wilderness outfits. I'm going to be attacked by bugs. I can't wear skimpy underwear and speedos every day, and if you don't come with me, then I will only pack those!"

Well, now Shane sat in his living room hoping for a dream to come true. Ilya only having skimpy clothes to wear around the cottage was everything he'd ever wanted. Shane made sure to put in an order for tons of sunscreen, given that Ilya's skin was essentially made of porcelain. Twilight-looking ass.

As for why Shane didn't go to Boston himself, it came down to two things. First, there had been a plethora of photos taken of the two of them coming back from New York and landing in Montreal. His agent had been calling relentlessly every time a new one dropped. He'd explained to Farah that he was with his friend, who was hanging out with him this summer while dealing with the mess his coach and the Metros had created. He was still talking to her consistently about a potential trade, but there was no update there. Not yet, anyway. Second, his mom had been insistent about him coming over that evening to look at Ilya's ice cream cake and at least try it, because his dad was lactose intolerant and kept trying to sneak into the kitchen while she was making it, and she had to keep slapping his hand away. Shane couldn't help but laugh and feel his heart grow at his parents' love for Ilya. So why not make an evening drive to Ottawa to visit Mom and Dad?

Regardless, it didn't make Shane miss him any less.

The New York trip had been exactly what they both needed. Shane had been turning that over in his head too, trying to articulate why it worked so well. He'd made new friends. Kip, Elena, Kyle. The Admirals had been genuinely warm and easy to be around. It embarrassed him when he thought about his own locker room back in Montreal. When he looked around the table at their celebratory night out and felt anger again at the men who swore they were his brothers until recently, he thought, Those men would have ruined it. Homophobic, racist, and too self-important to notice either quality in themselves. He'd won two cups for that team. Some nights it still made him faintly sick.

But New York itself was something different. Something new, even by the standards of his other timeline.

Ilya had put it best, sitting with him on the bed in their hotel room the morning before they flew back, both of them reluctant to move. In New York, he said, they could just exist. Hats, sunglasses, the right neighborhood, and they were nobody. They could walk down the street holding hands and the people around them were too absorbed in their own lives to care. Even those who noticed didn't know who they were, because New York was a basketball city. Hockey was background noise there. The absence of cameras, the absence of microphones being shoved toward them the moment they stepped outside. It felt, Shane thought, like oxygen.

In the other timeline, the cottage had been their sanctuary, almost their only one. They'd gone to New York for games and once, memorably, for Scott and Kip's wedding, which had taken place just outside the city in a small venue on Fire Island.

Shane had first heard of it in 2024, when the wedding invitation arrived addressed to both of them by name, which still gave him a shiver of pleasure every time he remembered it. The Hollander-Rozanovs.

He'd gone looking immediately for flights, found nothing, and then discovered, with some embarrassment, that there was no airport on Fire Island. No airport, no hotels, no roads. Just a ferry from Bay Shore or a private boat, and then a community so compact and separate from the mainland that it felt like a different country.

He'd spent an embarrassing amount of time researching it. The history alone was staggering. Fire Island had been a refuge for queer people decades before same-sex marriage was legal anywhere in the United States, back when being visibly gay in public carried physical risk. The photos were beautiful. Narrow boardwalks instead of streets, small stores with hand-painted signs, nightlife that spilled onto the beach, drag shows in venues that could barely be called clubs. Fire Island Pines drew a predominantly gay male crowd; Cherry Grove, its quieter neighbor on the same island, leaned more lesbian. And then, nestled between the two communities, which Shane had read about with an odd feeling, was the Meat Rack. A stretch of dense wooded brush where men met strangers. 

He'd been in the middle of reading about it when Ilya came home from his weekly breakfast with Troy.

"What are you looking at, dear?" Ilya asked, dropping his keys on the counter.

Shane looked up. "Nothing. Scott and Kip sent their wedding invitations. I'm trying to figure out travel."

"Where is the venue?"

"A place called Fire Island. Have you heard of it?"

Ilya choked on his own spit.

"Ilya."

"Mm. Yes. I've heard of it."

"Have you been?"

"No. No." He said it carefully. "But I have heard stories. Mostly from Kip and Kyle, when I used to go to the Kingfisher with Bennett and Hunter."

"Bad stories?"

"Beautiful place," Ilya said. "Kyle told me all about the sex he would have there. In public."

Shane's brain tried to do the Olympics of mental gymnastics. He didn't say anything.

"It is hot, yes?" Ilya asked, watching him with a grin.

"It's not really for me," Shane said. "But to each their own."

"Yes, yes. Sure." Ilya smiled. "I don't believe you, but sure."

"Ilya."

"Shane." He sat down across from him. "We have been married three years. I know my husband has some kinks he has not yet explored."

"Public sex or exhibitionism is not one of them."

"What? You wouldn't want to walk on the beach naked with me?"

Shane thought about it and yes. Yes, he would have absolutely loved to see Ilya in all his glory in the warm light, the way the water looked at golden hour, with no clothing barrier between his eyes and Ilya's body. But the moment someone else tried to approach them, or looked at Ilya the way Shane knew people looked at Ilya, he would transform into something feral.

"No," he said. "I would not. Unless—"

"Unless—"

"Unless it was a private beach. Just for us."

Ilya smiled again and said nothing else.

The wedding itself was beautiful. Shane had been surprised by how many people made the trip to such a remote location, but the queer community, as he'd learned, had historically never let inconvenience stop them from showing up for each other. Neither had the Admirals, the team Scott used to play for. Scott had been amenable enough to rent his own ferry from the mainland for everyone and offer accommodations by renting several beach homes in the area. Ilya, however, had insisted they rent a beach house and stay for a few days after the ceremony. Shane had agreed, because Ilya was almost always right about the two of them needing some peaceful time alone.

The Pines was full of beautiful men, every type you could imagine. It was a gay haven, through and through. The first time they'd walked past the Meat Rack to the grocery store after their extended stay, Shane noticed several men drifting in and out of the woods, eyeing them up and down. It made him feel exposed. Ilya had leaned in and quietly explained what those men were doing. Cruising, he called it. Shane went silent for a few seconds, then declared it was horrifying before demanding how the fuck Ilya even knew what they were doing, which made Ilya laugh at him for the rest of the day.

It was later that same evening, after dark and a bottle of wine, that Ilya had been persuasive.

"Just come look," Ilya had said. "We don't have to do anything. Just look."

So Shane had gone to look.

He lasted about four minutes before Ilya pressed him back against the base of a large pine tree and Shane sank to his knees in the cool sand, the bark rough through his shirt, and took Ilya into his mouth.

The two men were already there when it started. They cut through the woods quietly, drawn in by the sound of slurping from Shane. Ilya noticed them before Shane did. He didn't stop Shane. He just looked at them over Shane's head and said, "You can watch. That's it."

They nodded and stayed.

Shane didn't register much beyond Ilya's hand in his hair and the give of sand under his knees. At some point he pulled off to breathe and looked up. Ilya was staring straight down at him. Shane's eyes drifted sideways just long enough to see that both men had their cocks out, stroking slowly, watching him from about three feet away.

"Jesus," one of them said. "You're incredible."

The other one made a low sound of agreement.

Shane felt the praise and it was electric, going straight to the head of his own leaking and restricted cock. He then took Ilya back into his mouth.

Then Ilya spoke, and his voice was dark but extremely possessive. "You should feel lucky," he said to the two men. "This is mine."

Shane went down harder.

Ilya came with his hand locked in Shane's hair and Shane swallowed without pulling off, staying there until Ilya's grip loosened and his breathing evened out. Shane sat back in the sand. His knees were going to be a disaster. He didn't care even a little.

He stood. Ilya straightened his clothes, glanced at the two men and said, "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen." Then he put his hand on Shane's shoulder and walked them back out of the trees toward the boardwalk.

The beach house was a five-minute walk. They made it in three.

They got as far as the shower before anything else happened. Ilya had him pressed against the glass sliding door, the water running hot behind them, and Shane braced both palms flat against the glass and let Ilya take him apart from behind with his fingers. When he came, it was all over the door, smeared against the steam-fogged surface. Ilya laughed into his neck. Shane told him to shut up. They stayed under the water until it ran cold.

Yeah. The memory made him put Fire Island and New York, generally, on the to-do list for next summer. 

Now they had Las Vegas. They were both flying out tomorrow—Ilya from Boston and Shane from Montreal—and the uptick in paparazzi sightings had prompted Shane to call Ilya the night before their departure.

"What do you want?" Ilya asked, his voice filled with confusion.

"We should bring our own dates," Shane said.

"Excuse me? You're not serious."

The silence on the other end stretched long enough that Shane checked his phone to make sure the call hadn't dropped.

"I am." Shane stood and walked to the window of his Montreal apartment, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. "You know it's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Shane?"

"I just think we should take some attention off us and curb the couple publicity until I figure out where I'm playing next year. We can discuss a bigger plan at the cottage."

"But Shane, I don't want to go on a date with anyone else."

"No, baby, it's like we take one of our friends. As a beard." Shane softened. "Just for the night. Just to give them something else to write about."

Ilya was quiet. Shane heard the faint sound of a refrigerator opening, the clink of a bottle.

"Is this your way of saying you want to hang out with Rose?" Ilya asked finally.

"No." Shane turned away from the window. "I'm just saying we should give them something else to talk about until we discuss our plan."

"This plan better be fucking good, Shane. You keep talking about it and I haven't heard anything yet."

"I know. I know. And it will be." Shane moved to his couch and sat heavily, pulling a throw pillow into his lap.

"Okay, and I'm guessing you're taking Rose."

"Yes. As long as you're okay with it."

"Yeah, I guess." Ilya exhaled. "But she better not be all over you all night."

"I don't think we have to worry about that."

"Fine. Okay, who's on your pre-approved list for me?"

Shane hadn't thought this far ahead, which was stupid. He should have. "I don't have a list. I'm not going to be comfortable with many people."

"Oh, I know. My possessive bunny."

"Shut up." But Shane was smiling.

"I mean, I could take Tiana."

His hand tightened on the pillow.

"Tiana who likes all your Instagram posts and thirst traps from her dog's fake Instagram account?"

"How do you even know about that?"

"The better question is why you didn't tell me instead of me finding out on my own."

"I told you, I blocked all my old hookups in November. Trust me, Shanya. I'm not speaking to any of them. I only brought her up because she's from Las Vegas."

Shane knew that was true. Still, the thought of any of those people thinking they had a chance at the end of a night meant to celebrate the two of them and their colleagues really made him feel fucking sick.

"I know why you brought her up. And I'm saying no."

"Fuck. You're crazy."

"Sorry. I mean, I trust you. I'm sorry."

"No, Shane. Don't ever stop." Shane could hear the smile in Ilya's voice. "Fuck, I love it."

"In that case, fuck Tiana and her dog Chewy. Who the hell names a dog that anyway?"

"It's a cute dog."

"Don't start, Rozanov, or you'll be in the doghouse with Chewy."

Ilya laughed. "Okay, okay, who else?"

Shane hesitated. "I hate to ask this given that I'm just getting to know her, but would Svetlana be willing?"

Ilya paused and sucked in a breathe.

"Are you sure?" Ilya asked. "I thought you'd have a bigger issue with this than any of the random one-offs."

"Normally I would. But I could curse her out if she tried something stupid and not feel bad about it."

Ilya laughed again. "That's fair. Should we group FaceTime her?" Ilya asked.

"Sure. That may make me feel better, actually."

That was how they ended up on a five-minute call with Svetlana, who agreed immediately to come with Ilya. She would fly from New York in the morning. While Shane was still on the FaceTime with Svetlana and Ilya, he texted Rose, and she booked her ticket instantly from Los Angeles. In total, Shane reserved three rooms. One for Ilya and Svetlana, one for Shane and Rose, and a third where Shane and Ilya would spend most of their time.

Upon arrival, Shane walked into the lobby of the hotel and immediately spotted Ilya—those beautiful golden curls bouncing as he gestured animatedly in front of a woman in a tracksuit. Svetlana. Shane's head was already hurting but he had to resolve whatever the fuck was happening in front of him, so he approached.

"Hey, what's going on?" Shane asked.

Ilya's face lit up at the sound of Shane's voice. "Sveta here won't let me get her another room."

"What do you mean?" Shane turned to Svetlana, raising an eyebrow.

"She can't stay in mine because people are going to think we're sleeping together," Ilya explained.

Svetlana waved a hand through the air. "We can sleep in the same bed just like we used to. It doesn't have to be sexual, Ilyusha. Just like when we were kids."

Shane smiled and stepped closer to Ilya.

"Okay, everyone calm down," Shane said authoritatively. "No one is sleeping in the same bed. But I thought I made it clear, Ilya—you won't be staying in your room."

Ilya turned quickly, his eyes meeting Shane's. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I booked a third room. The penthouse, actually, for the two of us. The league booked the other two. Sveta and Rose can stay in those separately."

Svetlana's eyes rolled with annoyance. "Are you sure? It's not a big deal. I promise, we've been sleeping in the same bed for years. It's not a big deal. You'll have him all summer."

Shane turned to her and cocked his head to the side.

"And you had him years before me," Shane said in a tone just above a whisper. "And now he's mine. I made it easy for everyone. No reason to complicate it now."

Svetlana nodded, accepting the boundary. "Fine. When is your hot girlfriend showing up?"

"She's not my girl—"

"Shane! Ilya! Oh my God, it's been too long!"

Rose burst into the lobby like a bull in a china shop, instantly commanding everyone's attention in a purple jumpsuit with a plunging V-neck that dipped all the way to her navel. Before either man could react, she threw her arms around both of them, pulling them into hugs.

"How was the flight? Thank you for inviting me!" Rose stepped back. "I can't wait to get dressed up and go out. This is going to be such a fun evening!"

"Hi, Rose. Thank you for coming," Shane said, grabbing her hand.

Ilya nodded. "Yes, thank you for coming, Ms. Landry."

Rose's eyes narrowed and she reached out and slapped Ilya's arm. "You know my name is Rose, Rozanov. Don't make me remind you of that horrible playoff series against the Admirals. I don't want to hurt your feelings this early."

"Damn," Ilya muttered, rubbing his arm.

"Damn is right," Rose said. "Now, what's my name?"

"Rose," Ilya conceded.

"Thank you. And who is this?"

Svetlana stood up quickly from the lobby chair she was sitting in. She smoothed down her tracksuit and reached out with her hand.

"Hi, I'm Svetlana. Vetrova," she said.

Rose's eyebrows shot up. "Oh!"

She turned to Shane while pointing directly at Svetlana with her index finger. "This is the Svetlana?"

Shane's face grew hot with embarrassment. Yes, he'd called Rose after Russia to complain about Svetlana and Sasha. She'd become his confidant for everything. In return, she shared stories from her own sexual adventures. Men, women, and the trans man who'd broken her heart just two weeks earlier.

"This is her," Shane confirmed.

Svetlana shook her head. "You speak about me?"

"You could say that," Shane said.

Ilya glanced between them, sensing the subtext. "Can we go check in now?"

"Sure!" Rose yelped.

Svetlana stepped forward. "Here, I can take your bags, Ms. Landry."

Rose smiled but declined. "Oh no, I can take my own. But thank you."

"Are you sure?" Svetlana asked.

"You're going to have to try harder than that, Vetrova," Rose said while whipping her hair over her shoulder. "You're hot, but you have to earn the right to carry my bags."

Shane rolled his eyes at the exchange, but he couldn't help the small giggle that escaped him. Svetlana's cheeks flushed a deep pink, and beside her, Ilya was holding a laugh behind his hand, his shoulders shaking.

The awards ceremony was beautiful. Shane and Rose showed up in nearly matching suits. Rose had been excited to show off her slicked-back hair and custom Chanel suit. The tweed fabric gave it a hint of femininity, but she was clearly going for a more masculine look. On the red carpet, people snapped pictures of the two of them, and Shane couldn't help but admit they looked hot. He couldn't wait for Ilya to see his own custom Balenciaga suit.

When they made their way into the main area and found their seats—conveniently at the same table as Ilya and Svetlana—Shane sat down and turned toward the entrance, searching for his man. He found Ilya, and fuck, he was wearing a beautiful double-breasted jacket with golden buttons and accessories, all-black pants, and no undershirt. His bare chest was on full display, the jacket exposing a slight glint of sweat nestled under his pecs. Shane wanted to lick the sweat directly from under his chest. Maybe even tease Ilya's nipples with his teeth. Fuck, he looked hot with his hair slicked back. That was his future husband, and the whole room seemed to stop breathing when he walked in with Svetlana by his side. She was wearing a gold dress that almost looked like a flapper dress with how many beads dripped off the bottom seam, hitting her mid-thigh.

Ilya left Sveta as she talked to one of the women running the event at the door, seemingly asking for the restroom. Either way, Shane found himself standing up to meet Ilya. They hugged.

Ilya whispered, "Down, my Shanya. We can make out later. Right now, you have to be a good boy, yes?"

Shane pulled away from the hug. "Yes, sir."

Shane settled at the table, watching all the awards being given out. Ilya's hand was hidden under the table but firm on his lap. Rose sat to his right. Svetlana to Ilya's left. Neither of them won their nominated awards, but that was fine and somewhat expected given the season they had—Shane in the hospital for the end of it, Ilya missing the last three weeks of his regular season with bruised ribs throughout his playoff run with the Raiders.

But when Scott gave his MVP of the Year award speech, Shane couldn't help but cry. He had cried watching it for the first time from his parents' couch with a sling on his arm. Now, seeing it live and watching Kip cry from the audience too, it was just a beautiful moment that made him wish he was the one giving credit for his success to the man he loved. Soon enough, though.

After the speech, Shane and Ilya lingered at the bar with their drinks, Cliff and JJ flanking them on either side. Rose and Svetlana had disappeared somewhere into the crowd about twenty minutes ago, but Shane wasn't worried. They'd been trading barbs and flirting all night, so it wasn't surprising they'd found a corner to themselves.

"Hi guys! How are you?"

Shane turned to find Kip approaching with a man he vaguely recognized. Miles.

"Good! Kip, I didn't know you'd be here," Shane said with excitement.

"Of course! Scott said he was going to talk about our relationship in his speech, and I wanted to make sure none of these assholes caused trouble on his big night." Kip's protective tone was endearing.

"I don't think you need to worry about that," Shane said. "Most of them are too scared to say anything with this many Admirals around."

Kip laughed and nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Shane turned his attention to Miles, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes drifting toward JJ. JJ, for his part, was grinning with a mask of lovestruck excitement.

"And Miles, I didn't know you were coming?" Shane asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I found an invite lying around somewhere," Miles said with a shrug, his eyes moving back to JJ.

"Well that's great. Rose is around here somewhere," Shane offered.

"Oh, I know. I just ran into her and some other girl in the bathroom making out," Miles said.

Shane's head snapped toward Ilya, who was already looking at him, howling with laughter.

"Light skinned, red curls, gold dress?" Ilya asked between gasps of laughter.

"Actually, yes."

Both Ilya and Shane dissolved into chuckles.

"Seems our dates have found their own dates," Shane managed between laughs, reaching over to squeeze Ilya's arm.

Ilya agreed. "Good for them."

Kip took a sip of his drink, not really understanding what was going on, and asked, "So, are you all going to join us for Scott Hunter night at Club X?"

Club X was exactly what a Scott Hunter Night deserved to be—a celebration of a man who grew up in the millennial era and actually changed hockey for the better. When Ilya heard the party theme at the awards ceremony, he threatened to show up in sweater vests and with a walker with tennis balls attached to the bottom, just to be the most on-theme guest there. Shane slapped him and told him to shut up.

The DJ was spinning early 2000s hits, and judging by how loud everyone was singing, the entire club knew every word.

Shane stood at the bar nursing a whiskey and watching Ilya dance—objectively one of his favorite things to do on this earth. In a perfect world, he'd be out there with him, hands on Ilya's hips, mouth at his ear. But they were in Las Vegas at a publicly photographed event, and the paparazzi presence alone made that particular fantasy a liability. So instead, Shane watched from a safe distance, which was its own kind of torture.

Ilya danced with Svetlana for a while, never touching, which delighted Shane, especially when Svetlana kept looking back at him and rolling her eyes before eventually leaving to find Rose. Then, somehow, Miles appeared beside Ilya on the dancefloor, and then Kip, which made Scott and JJ visibly uncomfortable at the bar. Shane noticed that throughout it all, Ilya kept his hands to himself. Arms above his head, waving them around, showing off his frame and the size of his biceps—nothing that could be misconstrued, nothing that would give anyone a reason to look twice. He caught Shane's eye once, and the corner of his mouth pulled up. He knew exactly what he was doing and he also knew that Shane would kill him if he touched anyone else with his hands or let them touch him. Despite the attempt from multiple blood thirsty men on the dancefloor with him.

Shane smiled into his glass watching them all be rejected.

At some point Ilya had lost his jacket. Shane genuinely couldn't tell you when it happened or where the jacket went. One moment Ilya was fully clothed and the next he was shirtless on the dance floor with a whistle around his neck, blowing it in time with the beat every time the DJ dropped something heavy. The crowd loved it. Shane loved it, even as he scrubbed a hand down his face in secondhand embarrassment.

It reminded him of a scene from White Chicks—specifically the scene where Terry Crews was on the dance floor with a whistle, and he nearly choked on his drink thinking about it. He and Ilya had watched that movie together in the other timeline, curled up on the couch at the cottage sometime after they got married.It was one of Ilya's favorite to laugh at. Ilya always spent the following week singing A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton until Shane had to scream at him and tell him to shut up.

He was back at the bar now, whiskey nearly gone, watching Ilya attempt to teach Miles some kind of step that Miles was butchering, when he realized that at some point in the last thirty minutes, Rose, Svetlana, and Cliff had all disappeared. He scanned the room. No sign of any of them. He wasn't especially alarmed—Rose was a grown woman and Cliff was a six-foot-four professional athlete—but it was a little odd that all three of them had evaporated simultaneously.

He turned back to the bar and flagged the bartender for another whiskey.

He was mid-order, half-turned on his stool, when he heard something familiar. A voice from his left, close enough to carry over the music, colored by an accent he recognized immediately.

"Shane?"

He turned slowly.

They were at a gay bar in Las Vegas. There was absolutely no way.

There stood Jeff.

Shane's brain began shutting down at the insanity of the situation before him.

Jeff looked exactly the same as he had in Mexico, maybe better, if Shane was being honest with himself, and he really didn't want to be. He was huge. Not hockey-player huge, but broad across the back, arms that stretched the short sleeves of his shirt, a chest the fabric had basically given up trying to contain. Dark hair, cut short on the sides with a fade, a little longer on top, slightly messy. Blue eyes that still struck Shane as stunning against a face that beautiful. And the man had an ass that entered the room a solid beat before the rest of him did, something Shane's body remembered before his brain caught up.

Jeff smiled, and those blue eyes swept down Shane's frame and back up without any subtlety.

"Wow," he said. "It's really you. I thought I could recognize that ass from across the room."

Shane inhaled wrong. The whiskey went somewhere it wasn't supposed to go, and suddenly he was coughing, drink sputtering down the front of his dress shirt, grabbing blindly for a cocktail napkin from the bar while his eyes watered. He pressed the napkin to his chest and glanced sideways at JJ and Scott, both of whom were standing a foot away, looking like they were watching a train derail in real time.

Shane cleared his throat. "Hey. How have you been?"

Jeff responded. "What? No hug from the best fuck of your life?"

The sound Scott and JJ made in unison was somewhere between a cough and a choke.

Shane weighed his options and decided that engaging with the best fuck of your life claim in any public way was off the table. But standing here without acknowledging Jeff at all would raise more questions than it answered. He opened his arms.

Jeff stepped into the hug immediately, and Shane was overwhelmed. The weight of those arms around his back, the warmth radiating off his skin, the faint smell of cologne underneath the alcohol. Jeff's mouth was too close to Shane's ear, his grip too tight.

He remembered what it felt like to be picked up by those arms. Jeff had lifted him like he weighed nothing, backed him against the hotel room wall, and kept him there for an embarrassingly long time. He remembered the feeling of being completely full, pinned in place, unable to do anything except hold on and take it. Jeff had stayed hard through multiple of Shane's orgasms, either a biological anomaly or a testament to the man's endurance, Shane had never figured out which. When he'd finally finished, he'd pulled back and the condom had been so obscenely heavy that Shane had actually laughed. That made Jeff laugh too, which had been one of two genuine moments of the entire encounter. The second was watching the sunrise from the balcony before Shane escaped back to his own villa, where JJ and Hayden were knocked out and still drunk.

It had been good. It had been very good. Jeff was objectively exceptional at sex, and last summer, Shane had been more than willing to provide that.

But Jeff had never, in all of that, made Shane feel the way Ilya made him feel standing completely still across a room.

Shane stepped back out of the hug and resisted the urge to immediately check whether Ilya had eyes on him yet.

"Fuck, you look good," Jeff said, grinning. "Still playing hockey?"

Shane blinked. "Wait, you knew I played hockey?"

"Dude." Jeff laughed. "We may have met in Mexico, but you're not exactly the most incognito person in the world. I live in Vegas, man. I work as a PT for the Comets."

The Las Vegas Comets. The MLB team.

Of all the people in the world to have systematically taken him apart in a hotel room in La Playa, it had to be someone professionally adjacent to a major sports franchise. Of course it did.

"Oh," Shane said. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, well." Jeff shrugged. "We didn't exactly do a lot of talking when we were together."

That was an accurate accounting of the events.

Jeff raised his hand and reached toward Shane's face, fingers moving toward his jaw. Shane pulled back on instinct, fast enough that he nearly collided with JJ, who had quietly repositioned himself directly behind Shane at some point in the last thirty seconds. JJ caught him by the shoulder.

"You never told anyone?" Shane asked. "About Mexico?"

Jeff looked a bit betrayed. "I didn't know you were out. I'm not a fucking dick."

Shane exhaled. "I mean, I'm not. Out."

Jeff's eyes moved, with amusement, around the interior of Club X. The drag performer on the elevated platform, the rainbow lighting rig, the two men making out enthusiastically on the banquette to their left.

"Shane," he said. "You're at a gay bar."

"Yeah. With friends from the league. It's Scott Hunter Night."

Scott, to his credit, stepped forward, hand extended. "Hi. I'm Scott. And you are?"

Jeff looked at him. Looked at the outstretched hand. Looked back at Shane.

"Not interested, old man."

Shane bit his lip. He had a type, and that type was men who were assholes for sport. The difference was that when Ilya said something like that, it came with fourteen layers of context and a decade of background information. When Jeff said it, it was just mean.

Scott retracted his hand. JJ made a sound that suggested he wasn't too pleased about how this was going either.

Jeff turned back to Shane and placed his hand on Shane's waist. Shane was wedged between the bar and the small cluster of bodies around him and didn't have the angle to step away without making it a production.

"So what do you say," Jeff leaned. "I'll call an Uber right now, we go back to my place, and you explain why you blocked me while you warm my cock with that hole again."

JJ had enough then. "Jesus fuck, why don't you—"

And then Ilya was there.

Shane felt a pair of eyes burning into the side of his head. He knew Ilya wouldn't be far once this started, but what he saw was something he hadn't witnessed in either timeline. Ilya approached fast, his face flushed from dancing, his eyes wide and locked on the hand resting on Shane's hip. He looked feral in a way that was decidedly unpleasant, the look that suggested murder wasn't just possible, but likely.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He reached out and grabbed Jeff's wrist, not hard enough to be an assault, but firm enough to be completely unambiguous, and removed Jeff's hand from Shane's body. Then he put his own hand on Shane's waist and pulled him back against his shirtless chest in one smooth motion. Shane went willingly, melting back into him like they were in that club in Boston all over again, Ilya's sweaty skin warm through the fabric of Shane's shirt.

"And who the fuck are you?" Ilya said over Shane's shoulder.

Jeff extended a hand. Ilya looked at it and let it hang there until Jeff dropped it, mirroring the moment between Scott and Jeff just minutes earlier.

"My name is Jeff." And Jeff was smiling. Shane knew instantly this was going to be an asshole-off. "And Mr. Rozanov. Didn't realize you knew this little dick pig too."

Ilya's grip on Shane's hip was bruising. "Dick, what? I'll fucking—"

"Okay." Shane put both hands up. "How about this. We go that way, you go back to your corner of the bar, we all act like this never happened."

Jeff smiled and looked at Shane like a piece of meat, which only made Ilya growl from behind him.

"Meu bem." he said loudly. "I could never forget you happened."

Shane instantly felt sick. He had completely forgotten that Jeff spoke Portuguese. He'd found that out somewhere between orgasm two or three, when Jeff had switched from the wall to the bed, and then to the chair in the corner of the room where he'd pinned Shane to his lap with his hand and drilled up into him. It explained a lot of things, actually. A dark bar, blue eyes, an accent, an asshole persona. Yeah, Shane definitely had a type.

Ilya's mouth was very close to Shane's ear. "Shane. Who is this man?"

Ilya wasn't really asking a question. He had to have known from their prior conversations, they'd both talked about their jealousy issues. This run-in had never happened in the other timeline, so Shane was navigating uncharted waters. Jealous Ilya was hot, sure, but not hot enough to risk missing his birthday because they were dealing with Vegas prosecutors pressing charges for whatever might happen to Jeff right now. So Shane decided to skip the fight and just remind Ilya about the one other man he'd slept with in the past.

"You remember I told you about Mexico?" Shane said. "When I went with JJ and Hayden last summer?"

Ilya gritted his teeth in Shane's ear. Then looked past Shane's shoulder at JJ and pointed.

"You," he said. "You were the reason this happened. You."

JJ spread his hands wide. "I have no idea what's happening right now."

Jeff stepped forward slightly, closing the distance, and Shane became acutely aware that there was now no oxygen between him and Ilya, Ilya's chest damp against his back.

"Shane and I," Jeff said, "are going to go celebrate our one-year anniversary."

Shane stopped, anger flaring up on his face now because what the fuck? "Our what?"

"Our first night together. Next week makes one year." His face did not have an ounce of shame on it. "I remember it well. You don't sleep well after a night like that."

Shane heard JJ exhale something that sounded like a prayer.

Ilya turned Shane around by the waist to face him. His eyes were slightly filled with water at the brim.

"Did you cheat on me?" he asked.

"No." Shane said it immediately. "No, baby. This was before November. I told you about Mexico, this was in June. Before we met in November and talked things out. Just after our last Vegas meet."

"Then why is he acting like this?"

Shane didn't really know what to say about why Jeff was being so brave in the face of four MHL players and a room full of guys who would definitely swing at the first chance Scott and Ilya gave them. So the only thing he could think of was the alcohol he'd smelled on Jeff's breath and how Jeff had definitely acted this way in Mexico. Shane surrendered. "I have a thing for assholes."

"Yes. And apparently assholes have a thing for your asshole."

"Can we please not—"

Shane turned back around. Jeff was watching them with a new sense of interest.

"You know," Jeff said seductively, "the offer could extend to both of you. If you want, Mr. Rozanov. We could stuff him from both ends. I've done it before with others and I'm sure Shane is—"

"No." Ilya was screaming now.

Shane's pulse spiked. This was definitely not on the spreadsheet. His brain was running the numbers on every possible way this could end and not a single outcome was good.

"Jeff," Shane said with his hand on Ilya's chest. "I need you to walk away. Right now."

"Oh, come on." Jeff took a small step forward, gaze fixed on Ilya. "Let's go, Shane."

Ilya's arm came around Shane's front and pulled him sideways, out of the space between them, putting Shane behind him and to the left and in JJ's space. Shane recognized this motion. He'd seen Ilya do it on the ice multiple times with his rookies that he was protective over.

"You will not be going anywhere," Ilya said, "with my fiancé. And if you so much as look at him again, I will fucking kill you."

Fiancé? Well, fuck, this time he was missing a step and not spewing out random shit from the other timeline. But he didn't even have time to be giddy. JJ's mouth was open. Scott had gone very still.

Shane touched Ilya's arm. "Ilya—"

But Jeff was already moving closer one measured step at a time, until he was near enough that Shane could smell the alcohol on his breath again even with Ilya standing in front of him.

"I don't think," Jeff said, "that you have the balls, Rozanov."

Ilya moved first.

It was a right hook, and it caught Jeff across the cheekbone hard enough to snap his head to the side. Jeff stumbled, steadied himself, then came back with a hard swing into Ilya's ribs. Ilya grunted and set himself for the left hook follow-through, but Shane was already moving.

He got between them before Jeff's second punch could land, both hands out, one on each chest, using every pound of his own frame to force space between them. He felt Ilya's chest heaving under his palm. He felt Jeff take a half-step back.

"Enough," Shane yelled. "Both of you, enough."

Security was already moving through the crowd toward them.

Shane turned to Jeff, and bitchy Shane ignited. "You think I'd want to be with you? When I have this?" He pointed at Ilya. "You come over here acting fucking insane, like a fucking weirdo. I haven't thought about you once since that night in Mexico, and I never will again. You're objectively attractive, sure, but if you put some of that gym time into therapy, maybe you'd have a chance with someone who looks like a general store version of me. Fucking prick. Get out of here." Shane stepped closer and yelled, "And if I find out my relationship with Ilya was leaked because of you, I promise you'll wish you'd stuck your dick in a pit of crabs on the beach instead of me. You'll be just another nothing in the world." Shane waved in his face and then pushed him back toward the crowd. "Go put some ice on your face, and don't ever fucking speak to me or my fiancé again."

Jeff looked at him for a long moment and then he nodded once, almost to himself, and turned and walked toward the other end of the bar without another word.

Shane exhaled. He turned to Ilya.

Ilya was pressing his hand against his ribs, his face tight, his breathing uneven. He looked at Shane for exactly one second with tears in his eyes, and then he turned and walked toward the exit.

"Ilya—"

But he was already gone, weaving through the crowd toward the door, head down, and Shane was moving after him before the thought was even finished.

The front door of the club swung shut behind him and Shane was already moving, eyes cutting left and right across the strip of sidewalk, scanning the clusters of smokers and valets and people climbing in and out of rideshares. No Ilya. He turned left toward the only alleyway visible from the entrance because it was either that or Ilya had flagged a car the second the door opened, and Shane wasn't ready to believe that yet.

He found him twelve feet in.

Ilya had his back against the brick wall, shirtless, gold chain dangling across his chest. He was bent slightly forward, one arm pressed hard against his left side, the other hand braced against the wall behind him. His face was flushed, chest rising and falling in short breaths. Shane knew his ribs were already a wreck from the playoff run, and whatever Jeff had done with his fist had found the exact wrong spot on an already-damaged body.

Shane ran toward him.

Ilya heard the footsteps and reacted before he could see who it was. His head snapped up and he came off the wall swinging, fist cutting through the dark toward Shane's face. Shane ducked back, barely, and he felt the air move past his nose.

"Hey!" He grabbed Ilya's wrist. "Hey, it's me. It's me. Ilya, stop. Stop swinging, it's Shane."

Ilya stopped moving. His chest heaved.

"Fuck." He closed his eyes. His free hand found the wall again. "I'm sorry. Just give me a minute. I need to be alone."

"No." Shane didn't let go of his wrist. "You don't need to be alone. What the fuck, Ilya?"

"Shane." Ilya exclaimed. "Leave me alone. Go back inside."

"Absolutely not." Shane released his wrist and stepped closer, and Ilya didn't swing again, just let him approach, still breathing rough. "Let me look at your ribs."

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine. You can barely breathe, and your hands are shaking. Let me look."

"Shane—"

"Now, Rozanov."

A long pause. Then Ilya moved the arm he'd been pressing against his side.

Shane looked.

The old bruising from the playoff run spread across Ilya's left ribcage in overlapping washes of yellow and green and faded purple. On top of it, fresh and ugly and immediately obvious even in the low light of the alley, was a concentrated bloom of red already purpling at the edges. Shane pressed two fingers gently against it, and Ilya sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth and went rigid.

Shane pulled his hand back.

"Okay," he said. "We're going to the hospital. I need to make sure nothing's broken."

"No." Ilya shook his head. "No, we can't."

"This is not up for debate."

"Shane, I'm fine—"

"You are not fine!" Shane's voice came out louder than he intended, echoing down the alley. "I don't know why you do this—why you act like nothing's wrong when I'm standing right here. You're my whole world, Ilya. Do you understand that? I need to know you're okay, that you're not bleeding internally, that your lung isn't doing something that's going to kill you in six hours." His voice cracked. He felt his hands rise to his own hair, that desperate urge to pull at the roots, one of his worst panic triggers, and he forced them back down. "You fucking asshole. I love you too much to lose you over something this stupid."

Ilya looked at him and he nodded with tears in his eyes.

Shane got him out of the alley and to the line of waiting cars at the curb. He found an Uber driver waiting on a pickup, a polite older man in a white Suburban who looked deeply concerned when Shane knocked on his window. Shane told him he'd pay triple his current fare in cash if he canceled the pickup and drove them to the closest emergency room right now. The driver glanced at Ilya's shirtless, visibly injured form, then accepted Shane's offer.

That was how Shane lost four hundred dollars and how the two of them ended up in the intake bay at MountainView Hospital at two in the morning with Ilya still wearing his dress pants and no top.

The scans took over an hour. The results came back the same as they always seemed to with Ilya. No broken ribs, no internal bleeding, no structural damage to worry about. Heavy bruising concentrated over the third and fourth ribs on the left side. The attending physician on duty asked several pointed questions about Ilya's existing bruising and about what, specifically, had happened tonight.

Shane sat in the chair beside the hospital bed and said nothing.

Ilya answered her. He walked through the playoff run, the timeline of the existing bruises, the altercation at the club, and exactly how Jeff had punched him. The doctor listened, asked two follow-up questions, and eventually nodded. She prescribed rest, ice, and a follow-up with his team physician, though she didn't look especially convinced the rest would actually happen.

They were released at four in the morning.

The Uber back to the penthouse was silent. The penthouse itself was silent.

Five hours until their flight to Ottawa.

Shane went to the bathroom without a word and stood under the shower for a short amount of time, washing off the spilled whiskey that had dried into the fabric of his shirt and the sticky sweat from the club. He stood with his hands flat against the tile and his head down and let the water run hot until the pressure in his chest began to ease.

When he came out with a towel around his waist, Ilya was still standing near the window in his dress pants. He hadn't moved toward the bed. He hadn't moved toward his suitcase. He was just standing there, his back to Shane, watching the city.

Then he turned.

"I understand if you don't want to be with me," Ilya said. His words came out without emotion, as though he'd rehearsed them while Shane was in the shower. "I can figure something else out for the summer. Stay in Boston if you don't want to see me."

Shane stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't like violence. You never fight anyone. And I just—" He stopped. "It was how I was raised. I couldn't control myself. He crawled under my skin and he was saying things about you that he shouldn't have said, and it made me feel—" He exhaled. "It made me feel fucking sick. So I hit him. And I hurt someone when I should have just told him to fuck off."

He moved toward his suitcase then, crossing the room and crouching down to unzip it. He winced at the quick movements.

"I'll change, clean up, and then I'll change my flight, okay?" He didn't look at Shane. "I understand. I'm sorry."

Shane watched him stand up and start toward the bathroom.

He stepped directly into his path.

Ilya stopped.

Shane looked at him for a moment. Then, because he was exhausted, angry, scared, giddy, turned on, and deeply in love, and didn't know how else to express all of those things at once, he said:

"Rozanov. If you don't shut the absolute fuck up and listen to me speak, I'm going to break those ribs myself and you'll be stuck on my couch all summer with me taking care of you, which is, incidentally, exactly where I want you."

Ilya visibly gulped.

"What you did," Shane said, "was unnecessary. In the grand scheme of things, yes. But I am not mad at you." He paused. "I thought you would be mad at me. Because of course, of course, in Vegas, of all the cities in the world, this particular man walked into the bar we were at and made a complete fucking mess of things. I wanted to come back here tonight and get absolutely fucked out of my mind and instead we spent three hours in an emergency room because of something I did last summer. So that's what I was thinking about in the hospital. That it was my past that did this. Not you."

"Shane—"

"I said don't interrupt me." He held up his hand and put it on Ilya's mouth. "I understand what you felt. I do. Because I have sat with the knowledge of every single woman you've been with, and Svetlana, and Sasha, and all of the other people I will never know about, and I cannot go around punching all of them. I am aware of that."

"No," Ilya said after Shane moved his hand off Ilya's mouth and to his jaw to trace it with his finger. "That would not be very feminist of you."

Shane laughed a little. "I don't think that's exactly how that works, but okay. Sure." He exhaled. "What I am trying to say is—first, it was incredibly hot. Watching you do that. You fighting for me like that." He held up a hand again before Ilya responded. "And then he hit your ribs, and I watched your face, and for one second I thought he might have broken one and it could pierce your lung and you could be bleeding into your chest cavity from something that happened because of me, and I wanted to scream. And then you ran, and I came outside and I couldn't find you. I could not find you for forty-five seconds, maybe, and that—" He stopped. He moved his hand from Ilya's mouth to his chest. "That is the only thing I was actually angry about. Forty-five seconds of not knowing where you were. It scared the hell out of me."

"I'm sorry," Ilya said quietly. "Shane, I'm so sorry."

"Good." Shane took a breath. "And don't you ever, ever tell me you don't want to spend the summer with me. We're going to Canada. We're going to celebrate your birthday with my family. And then we're going to spend months at the cottage together, just us, where we can be ourselves and figure out what we want and make a plan for our future."

Ilya looked at him. "I thought you already had a plan."

"I have a plan," Shane said. "But it's our plan. I don't want to show up with an agenda and have you just follow along. If you want to change something, we change it together. I don't want to do this alone."

Ilya went lax and finally let the stress that was built up in his upper body release at Shane's words. He exhaled slowly and said, "I would follow you anywhere, Shanya."

Shane grabbed Ilya's hand and brought it to his mouth and kissed it.

"I know," he said. "I know you would."

"I'm so sorry I scared you." Ilya whispered. "I'm so sorry. Thank you for still taking me to the cottage. I am so grateful for you."

Shane pulled him into a hug carefully, keeping his arms loose and high so they wouldn't press against the bruising. Ilya immediately tightened his own grip, pulling Shane flush against him, breathing through the sting of it into Shane's shoulder without complaint.

Shane pulled back slightly and looked at him.

"Take your pants off and lie down on the bed."

Ilya closed his eyes open them again, furiously and seemingly in shock. "Shane. I don't think I can fuck you right now. It may actually kill me."

"I'm not asking you to fuck me. I want to take care of you. Make you feel good."

"Shane." Ilya pulled away and motioned down at himself. "I'm sweaty. I'm disgusting. You don't like that."

"I have never once said that."

"You hate when the bed is dirty—"

"I hate when the bed is dirty. Not you. There's a difference." Shane looked into the ocean of Ilya's eyes and claimed it. "I can make an exception about the bed tonight."

"Let me shower first. Just five minutes."

"No." Shane stopped the thought. "I want you exactly as you are."

Ilya found himself flat on his back on the bed, completely naked, his cock soft against his right thigh. He watched Shane from the pillow when Shane reached up to the knot of his towel and let it drop.

Shane watched Ilya's cock twitch. Watched it start to fill.

He was already fully hard himself by the time he climbed onto the bed. He moved up to Ilya slowly and kissed him and then pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth.

"I'm going to take such good care of you," he said. "For the rest of your life. My fiancé."

Ilya laughed. "Oh. You caught that?"

"I caught that."

"I was hoping it would scare him off. Make him turn around and walk the other direction." Ilya chuckled against Shane's lips again. "I didn't expect you to follow my lead."

"In my head," Shane said, "we're already married. So."

Shane could see it happen in real time, watched Ilya's mouth open into a moan and his body tense as his neck flexed.

"Shanya." He groaned. "Fuck. If you say that again I'm going to cum. Don't."

Shane smirked and turned his head downward to watch Ilya's cock. "Oh?"

He loved an experiment with instant results.

"What," he said. "You think it's hot? Being married to me? Being my husband?"

"Fuck, Shane—fuck—"

And that was that. Ilya went rock hard and came without a single touch, ropes of it striping up his abs and chest while Shane knelt beside him. His cock throbbed visibly, Ilya's whole body drawn tight and shuddering as each rope escaped its prison.

"Fuck," Shane gasped. "That's so hot, baby."

"Fuck, Shane, that's, I'm sorry." Ilya's head fell back. "Fuck, I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize." Shane moved closer, hovering over him, keeping his own weight off the bruised ribs. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. Now your future husband is going to make you feel good. All you have to do is nod your head and relax. Okay?"

Ilya nodded quickly. He put his right hand on Shane's left ass cheek like it was instinct.

Shane went to work.

He started at Ilya's collarbones, pressing his mouth to the sharp point of bone, and licked. Ilya had been sweating for hours and Shane tasted all of it. The salt escaping his pores, the warmth of his skin, and it was extraordinary. He kissed at the peak of each collarbone until Ilya made a noise beneath him.

Then he moved down to Ilya's chest.

He'd thought about this earlier tonight, standing across from Ilya at the awards ceremony, and now he made good on every detail of that fantasy. Pressing his face into the warm hollow beneath Ilya's pecs, licking the sweat pooled there, tugging lightly at one nipple with his teeth while Ilya swore in Russian above him. He stayed there for three minutes until Ilya was squirming against the sheets.

Then he moved to the abs.

Ilya's first orgasm had started to dry against his skin in thin, tacky streaks across every ridge of muscle, and Shane worked through it. Tongue flat, licking each one clean, and tasted Ilya's load and felt his own eyes roll back slightly. He wasn't even thinking anymore. He was operating entirely on a frequency that he rarely had without Ilya pushing him there. By the time he'd cleaned every last trace of the load, he was running after his own orgasm with each drag of his tongue and doing everything in his power not to rush.

When the abs were clean, he moved back up to Ilya's mouth and kissed him deep, shared the taste across his tongue without warning, swapping spit and Ilya's own release back into his mouth. Ilya moaned into it and tried to chase the kiss deeper when Shane pulled back.

Shane wasn't done yet.

He moved quickly, sliding down the bed and positioning himself between Ilya's legs, and inhaled into his pubs. The scent was intoxicating. Musk mingled with the smell of Ilya's first orgasm still warm on his cock and thighs. Above him, Ilya was falling apart, cursing in Russian under his breath.

Shane took Ilya's semi-hard cock in his right hand and held it steady without stroking, just applying pressure to the shaft. He moved lower, pressing his mouth and nose into the dark hollow behind Ilya's balls, sucking at the coarse hair there, dragging his tongue through it, and felt something in himself tip over into an entirely new category of want that he had no reference for. He felt dirty and fucking turned on by it. He wedged himself deeper beneath Ilya's thighs until Ilya's legs draped over his shoulders, calves resting against his back, and then he finally brought his mouth up and took Ilya's cock between his lips, releasing his grip.

It was mostly soft. He'd never done this before—taken Ilya soft, he was always brick hard before they got to this point—and the sensation was extraordinary. The weight of it resting in his mouth, the way he could feel every heartbeat pulsing against his tongue as the blood started flowing. He felt it happen in real time, felt Ilya thicken and lengthen and stretch his throat. He kept his mouth still and just held him there, warming him, breathing through his nose, letting Ilya's body do the work.

Ilya's chest came off the bed.

His head hit the pillow up and down many times.

Shane's eyes were open, watching him through his lashes, watching Ilya fall apart from nothing more than the heat of his mouth. Within moments, Ilya was fully hard, pressed deep against the back of Shane's throat, and then he was coming for the second time, his hips stuttering up infinitesimally, the orgasm pulling out of him in slow waves. Shane swallowed everything without moving a centimeter. He hadn't needed to stroke him. Hadn't needed to move up or down. He'd only needed to be warm and suctioned onto all nine inches.

It was only when he finally pulled back and lifted his head that he noticed what had happened to the comforter beneath him. He had come without realizing it, his release smeared across the bedding in a wet streak where his hips had been resting. He stared at it for a moment. Then felt absolutely no shame about it.

He lowered Ilya's legs back down to the mattress carefully and pressed one single kiss to the bruised mess of his left ribs before climbing up the length of his body and settling beside him.

Ilya looked drunk. His eyes were half-closed, pupils dilated, mouth hanging open as he breathed heavily through it.

"Baby." Shane touched his cheek. "Are you okay?"

Ilya nodded furiously. Shane wiped the sweat from his forehead with his thumb and started pressing kisses to his face until Ilya finally found his voice again.

"You are a sex god," Ilya said. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again. Fuck. No wonder that man was completely insane."

"Ilya." Shane sat up on the bed. "Do not bring him up right now."

"No but Shane—fuck—" He turned his head on the pillow to look at him, eyes still glassy with tears. "That was the best, no one has ever made me cum hands-free. Never. Not once in my life." He paused to swallow and lick his lips. "And then you kissed me after. I could taste myself on your lips." He looked up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. "If I wasn't injured right now, we'd be going for a third round."

"We'll save that for the cottage," Shane said.

"Please."

Shane leaned in and kissed him again.

"Okay." Shane started climbing off the bed. "Now we actually have to shower. And I mean it, no funny business in the shower. We need at least three hours of sleep before we catch this flight."

"Okay. Yes. Okay. Fuck. Yes baby. Anything you want."

Shane laughed. "Come on, future husband."

He helped Ilya up carefully, one hand under his elbow, and walked with him toward the bathroom.

Walking across the carpet with Ilya's shoulder pressed against his own, Shane knew exactly what he wanted by the end of the summer.

He was going to propose. He needed to get a ring like he did in the first timeline, but soon. As soon as possible. Fuck, he wanted to see it on Ilya's hand. Wanted it on his neck. Wanted the world to know.

He'd figure out how. He always did.

Chapter End Notes

The purpose of this chapter was to show that Ilya is still afraid Shane will leave him at some point. We’ve spent so much time talking about Ilya’s past and everything he can’t let go of. He constantly feels like he has to punish himself. He simply can’t fathom Shane loving him despite all his mistakes—or despite how fundamentally different they are in the way they approach life.

But Ilya is willing to change. He wants to be better. He just doesn’t get many chances to show it when they’re constantly surrounded by other people. Don’t worry, though—we’ll be getting some time alone with them at the cottage soon!

I also wanted to show our boy JJ being brave! He and Miles will pop up again after the summer, I promise. Miles is messy, though, so buckle up for that perspective. (I may even turn this into a series with one shots talking about the other relationships from this newly alternate timelines).

Svetlana and Rose, who would have guessed they would have been making out in the bathroom?

ALSO, Cliff, Sveta, and Rose went missing at the club?

At least Jeff from Mexico/Vegas will never be a problem again!

We’ll also get an answer about Shane’s hockey future within the next two chapters.

NEXT CHAPTER: The birthday chapter, from Ilya’s POV. Ice cream cake included. <3

THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER: July 14, 2017—Shane freakin’ out because he never got his “I love you” day in the previous timeline. But Ilya makes it okay. Promise!

Leave me comments! They keep me going! We’re working our way up to Shane spilling some major tea.