Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes & Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Wyatt Hayes, Dallas Kent, Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Evan Dykstra, J.J. Boiziau, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Leah Campbell, Max Riley

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Bisexual Ilya Rozanov, Closeted Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Internalized Homophobia, Homophobia, Good Friend Wyatt Hayes, Out Ilya Rozanov, Canon-Typical Homophobia, mentions of being outed and coming out, mentions of casual weed consumption, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Past Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, romance chicken

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-17 Updated: 2026-08-26 Words: 34,531 Chapters: 17/?

nowhere to go but on

Summary

“What do you want, Rozanov?”

Once upon a time, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had been something of fated rivals. And then. Rozanov's national team crashed and burned in the 2014 Olympics in his own country. Shortly thereafter, he requested a trade to a Canadian team without much explanation, and by the end of the season, he was playing for Ottawa. Years of buildup and progress thrown away. The rivalry lost its luster after that, with Rozanov hardly a competition.

Now, Rozanov was looking at Shane as if they shared a private joke. “I have, ah, Marly, what's the word? Proposition? Proposal?”

“Business offer,” groaned Marlow, drawing his eyebrows together.

“That,” Rozanov smirked. “Let's sit down, Hollander. Hear me out.”

--

Or: Shane and Ilya never started hooking up. Several years into their career, some things are very different. At an All-Star game, the only out and proud player in the MLH approaches Shane with the suggestion to start a charity together. It's the beginning of something life changing.

Notes

This is based mostly around show canon, with book canon filled in where needed (hello, Centaurs) and both disregarded completely where I felt like it (Hayden's flock of kids has had their ages adjusted).

Normally, I would blame all typos on myself but today I'll blame autocorrect because I've written all of this chapter on my phone.

Title from "My Moon, My Man" by Feist.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

“Shane Hollander.”

Shane knew the voice, and the tone and cadence in which his name was being said. It was the same slightly teasing, perhaps even mocking, voice he was used to hearing on the ice, and when he turned around, he came face to face with Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya Rozanov, the center and captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, was wearing the most outrageous Hawaiian shirt Shane had ever seen. An attempt had been made to tame his blond curls, but it was slowly going to waste in the poolside bar’s humidity. And yet, Ilya Rozanov struck quite a stunning figure. He was tall and broad and had the most gorgeous green eyes and a smirk that was unfairly charming even when he was being a menace.

As always, he was accompanied by other players. There was Cliff Marlow, captain of the Boston Raiders, and Wyatt Hayes, the Ottawa Centaurs’ beloved goalie. They were hanging back, leaning against the bar, but watching. Someone once said Rozanov had no friends, just lackeys. Apparently it was true.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane replied with a small nod, unsure what was expected of him. He and Rozanov had been playing against each other for almost a decade, but the last time they'd spoken off the ice had been… Many years ago. Shane hadn't expected that to change just because the All-Star game put them on the same team.

That was when he felt another presence behind him. “Is the cocksucker bothering you, Hollander?” asked Dallas Kent, a center from Toronto. Kent had a collection of slurs to call Shane, some related to his Japanese heritage and some to his neurodivergence, but apparently Rozanov’s queerness was the biggest offence.

Because that was another thing about Rozanov. He was openly bisexual. The only active out player in the entire league.

And unapologetic about it.

He smirked now and made a cooing noise at Kent. “Does it bother you no one willingly offers to suck your cock, Kent?” he asked. “Don't worry, we are good. Hollander can punch me himself if he needs, right, Hollander?”

Shane nodded, not at all interested in Kent’s protection. The man was slimy. “We are good.”

Meanwhile, Marlow unglued himself from the bar and stepped closer, as if he was expecting a fight to break out for real. Dallas Kent sneered and for a moment looked like he might spit on the floor, but then just slunk away with a muttered slur on his breath.

“If you are going to punch me,” Rozanov continued, “please aim for my stomach. I like my face.”

“What do you want, Rozanov?”

Once upon a time, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had been something of fated rivals. Media and fans alike could hardly mention one without bringing up the other. Their previously mediocre teams, Montréal for Shane and Boston for Rozanov, had been rising to fame at comparable speed, crashing against each other in playoffs. It was a race to see which one of them would win the Stanley Cup first.

And then.

Rozanov's national team crashed and burned in the 2014 Olympics in his own country. Shortly thereafter, he requested a trade to a Canadian team without much explanation, and by the end of the season, he was playing for Ottawa. Years of buildup and progress thrown away. The rivalry lost its luster after that, with Rozanov hardly a competition.

Now, Rozanov was looking at Shane as if they shared a private joke. “I have, ah, Marly, what's the word? Proposition? Proposal?”

“Business offer,” groaned Marlow, drawing his eyebrows together.

“That,” Rozanov smirked. “Let's sit down, Hollander. Hear me out.”

Against his better judgement, Shane was curious. He nodded stiffly.

Rozanov grinned in response, delighted, and it did something to Shane's insides that he didn't want to examine any closer.

They moved to the bar. Marlow was still a step behind them. “You don't need to hover,” Rozanov told him, waving him away. “We are good, yes?”

Marlow glared between him and Shane, then nodded to Wyatt Hayes, who grabbed both their drinks and the pair moved to a table further away. Shane still felt their eyes on himself.

“What do you drink?” Rozanov asked. “Boring beer, yes?”

“Ginger ale.”

Rozanov arched an eyebrow. “They have mocktails, you know?”

“Too much sugar.” 

Shane expected Rozanov to point out that ginger ale was high in sugar, too, but the other man just shrugged. “Drink what you want,” he said and gestured for the waiter. 

Rozanov's nails were painted, deep dark red that could be almost black. Jesus. The man had no sense of self-preservation. 

He ordered ginger ale for Shane and beer for himself, then looked at Shane, taking in Shane's stiff posture. “Don't worry, Hollander,” he smirked. “I'm not hitting on you. Everyone knows you only date movie stars.”

Shane swallowed. “What is this about, then?”

“Ah, so you thought I might be hitting on you and you went anyway?” Rozanov’s smirk stretched into a wider, amused grin. “Good to know.”

The heat Shane felt rise within him was difficult to categorise. It could be anger, or embarrassment… or it could be a direct response to the way Rozanov's green gaze raked over him. It was a wonder Rozanov had kept his face mostly intact, the two times his nose had been broken on the ice aside, because there were a lot of men in the hockey world who would not take kindly to this. Shane wasn't going to punch him over it, and he was quite sure Rozanov was looking for any response rather than genuinely flirting, but it threw him off anyway.

“What do you want?” he asked once again, grabbing the ginger ale the bartender sent his way and gripping it tightly.

“I read an interesting interview recently,” Rozanov said.

“You'll have to be more specific than that.”

Rozanov laughed. “Yes, of course. Sorry. I read your interview and I think it was very brave.”

The heat now rose in Shane's cheeks. He averted his gaze from Rozanov's handsome, amused face. He didn't need this man making fun of him. “It's not brave to simply say what I am. It's not brave to be something I didn't choose to be.”

A little over a year ago, his best friend’s son was evaluated for autism. At the time, the doctors decided it was too early for formal diagnosis but in the process still interviewed the entire family. And the entire family somehow forgot “Uncle Shane” wasn't a blood relation when they said the boy was just like him, prompting the doctors to mark down that the diagnosis might run in the family. That was how Shane received a gentle recommendation to get evaluated and, a little later, a formal diagnosis. It made a lot of things make sense.

“Do you think that's something I don't understand?” Rozanov asked.

Shane forced himself to look at Rozanov again.

Rozanov was watching him, his amused expression replaced with something blank and unreadable. “Being judged for something you can't help. I know about this.”

It was different, Shane thought. No one was forcing Rozanov to come out. Before he had, no one suspected a thing. It was entirely possible to hook up with a guy or two in complete secret; Shane would know. It was different for Shane. Everyone had always looked at him like there was something wrong with him. Like he was a badly socialised weirdo, like his habits and needs were annoying fussiness that he should train himself out of instead of inconveniencing those around him. Now he knew why and he could advocate for himself better. It was so much different from Rozanov's blatant flirting and his pride tape and his painted fucking nails.

Shane shrugged. “Maybe.”

Rozanov laughed. “So diplomatic,” he lifted his beer as if in a toast and took a long gulp. When he set it down again, he turned more serious. “Listen. I liked the charity thing you did last summer. The fundraiser.”

The previous summer, Shane had organised a fundraiser in Montréal, a small training camp to bring awareness to issues faced by neurodivergent athletes and raise money to support them. “So?”

“So, I have money to burn and I'm looking for a good cause,” Rozanov shrugged. “I was wondering maybe it is something you want do again? Larger? Maybe an organisation.”

“You want to start a… a foundation or something?”

Rozanov nodded. “Sure. Why not? I would do myself, but the government tells me I need a Canadian on board and legally, I'm still a Russian citizen. Hopefully not for much longer but for now, I need a good Canadian on my side if I want to register charity.”

“And none of your teammates are interested?” Shane knew for a fact that at least a few of the players on Ottawa's team were Canadians.

“Maybe. But I was thinking… Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. That is something.”

“It used to mean something, maybe.” Shane didn't want to admit that he felt a little bitter about it. It wasn't like Rozanov ruined his life or career, or anything, by moving away from Boston to a team light years behind Shane's. If he was being truly honest, however, it did make hockey just a smidget less fun.

It wasn't the same, being the best, when there was no decent competition.

“Hollander. When you said in your fundraiser thing last year that everyone belongs on the ice. Was that a lie?” Rozanov was looking at him, really looking at him, in a way that Shane felt deeply in his bones. 

There was something about Rozanov, beyond what the media said about them. They had stood against each other twice as juniors, they had been drafted in the same year, in the first and second place, they had been rookies at the same time. They had been made captains of their teams in the same season. Shane Hollander, Canada's perfect golden boy with stainless reputation, Ilya Rozanov his mirror image, the Russian menace, the villain to Shane's hero, the fuckboy to Shane's straight-laced branding.

That used to be. Now, Ilya Rozanov was the MLH’s first openly queer player and a captain of the team known more for its laid-back attitude than hockey skills. 

And Shane Hollander… without a villain, there was no need for a hero. His Canadian golden boy image was boring with nothing to contrast it. Instead, he had become the poster boy for “you too can play hockey”. If Shane Hollander, with his Japanese mother and his autistic brain, can achieve record-breaking stats, anyone can! He hated it, sometimes.

And now Ilya Rozanov was asking him to lean into it.

The fundraiser and the interview were meant to be a one-off. And it only happened because one of Shane's teammates’ accidentally disclosed his diagnosis and Shane had to make a stance. 

“Was it a lie?” Rozanov asked again when Shane didn't respond instantly. “Does the ‘everyone’ have a little start next to it?” He drew it in the air. “‘Everyone I approve of’ written on the bottom?”

“Asterisk,” Shane corrected automatically. “And no, it doesn't. I think everyone should be allowed and encouraged to play hockey. Regardless of race, gender, orientation or disability.”

“So you don't think I don't belong on the ice. Or the locker room.”

“You're one of the best active players.”

“I'm the best,” Rozanov corrected him confidently.

“My stats are better,” said Shane and didn't blatantly point out that his stats were actually the best this season. He had the top ten memorized and kept track of the changes, but Rozanov didn't need to know that.

“You have better wingers, is all,” Rozanov smirked and took another gulp of his beer. “But. I believe you. You don't discriminate.”

“It still doesn't mean I want to start a charity with you,” Shane frowned. “We barely know each other.”

“We live two hours apart. We can get to know each other.”

Shane shook his head. “You’ve never wanted to before.” They had been playing against each other for their entire careers. They'd been at All-Star games every year. They'd never spoken once in those years.

Not since the day of their draft. It was a memory that belonged to a different timeline, something barely real, a snipped from a dream. The two of them sitting on the floor of a hotel gym, staring at each other. “We'll see each other often, yes?” Rozanov had asked, breathing hard after a workout that had turned into a race on the ellipticals. 

A hazy memory, a prologue to a different story. 

Rozanov opened his mouth. For a moment, just a split second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Then he shrugged. “You can just say no.” He tilted away from Shane and focused on his beer.

“I'm not saying no,” Shane protested. He didn't know why. Somehow, something, some part of him… he didn't want this to be the last time he'd speak to Rozanov. He didn't want to look at this moment again in a few years and wonder whether it had actually happened. “Just let me think about it, Jesus.”

“My name’s Ilya,” Rozanov said with a smirk, not looking at Shane.

“Fuck you.”

For some reason, that amused Rozanov more. “Buy me a dinner first, Hollander,” he said. “And give me your number. I'll give you mine. We'll talk about this after you think, yes?”

Shane took out his phone and placed it in Rozanov's hand.

It felt monumental.

***

montrealgrace on Tumblr 

[A clip from the All-Star game. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are on the same team, playing opposite Dallas Kent. Kent knocks Hollander’s stick out of his hands, breaking it in the process. Rozanov skates over, hands Hollander his own stick. Then he takes Kent's for himself, right out of shocked Kent's hands.]

look i’m not gonna lie to you, i wish hollander and rozanov had played against each other as captains at allstar. but i'm sending a thank you basket to whoever made hunter one of the captains and to hunter for picking them both for his team and for giving us this moment

Chapter End Notes

Wondering how Ilya got here? His POV will come.

Should I be starting new WiPs? No. Can I be trusted with them? Also no. But I have no control over myself so here we are (and I have one more in the works). Please, proceed at your own risk. Comments and kudos fuel my desire to write, which is why I don't wait to finish things before posting them, but I also have a notoriously unreliable brain. Right now, though, I'm working on all my Heated Rivalry fics diligently.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I'm really grateful for the feedback on the first chapter. I hope Ilya's POV won't disappoint.
Given the length of these chapters and that I'm writing most of the story on my phone (because I'm doing it when and where I shouldn't, shhh), I'm not committing to full text message formatting. This was already a nightmare to format. I hope they're readable enough like this.

Ilya arrived to Zane Boodram's house fashionably late. By which he meant he calculated it just so that he would be in time for food but too late for small talk. 

The air smelled like BBQ, which was always a good thing in Ilya's opinion. Music was playing, something upbeat and fun, but unfamiliar, which meant that the younglings were in charge of the playlist at the moment. He would never admit to them that he was getting to the stage of life where music was sometimes too new for him to know it existed. He was young and hip. 

Bood's BBQ was a famous gathering opportunity. Ilya's linemate was one of the better players on the team and he was an even better cook, and he enjoyed feeding his teammates, which Ilya appreciated very much. Good food made up for some of the week's pain and losses and for playing in front of mostly empty stands at home.

It had been a month since the All-Star Week and at this point, the team was playing with no hope. They would need an absolute record-breaking miracle to make up the points to get into the playoffs. There was no chance of it. For most of the other teams, playing against Ottawa was a guaranteed win.

It sucked. It really sucked. But at least they were good people and served good food, two things Ilya had never taken for granted.

"Do we have weed?" he asked Evan Dykstra, one of the defensemen, who was sitting in an armchair with beer balanced precariously on his knee and a plate in one hand. "I was promised there would be weed."

"I think Young's supposed to bring it, and he's not here yet," replied Dykstra between licking his fingers. 

"Why are we letting rookies smoke? Might be child neglect."

"He's an adult and not actually a rookie anymore," Dykstra rolled his eyes. "But you're just in time for food. Go get yourself a plate. Dillon and Nick are already here, the food will not last."

"We're not eating something you killed, right?" He knew Dykstra was a hunter, but it was on a very short list of things he would prefer not to know. Fishing he could deal with, and even be talked into. Hunting, though? No, thank you. "Please, tell me."

Dykstra tilted his head. "You do know how meat works, right?"

"Yes. Is grown in little trays in the supermarket," Ilya nodded sagely and hurried off before Dykstra could correct him. He knew how it worked, yes, but as a proper city boy, he liked at least six degrees of separation between himself and the flank of meat on his plate.

Fortunately, Bood was far more invested in telling him all about the spices he'd put on the meat than the story of its origin, and Bood's wife added enough things into the salad to make it far less healthy than the culinary category would imply, so a few minutes later Ilya was happily carrying his own overfilled plate.

He spotted Wyatt Hayes sitting on a pile of pillows on the floor. He was watching Dykstra's wife beat a group of younger players in some racing video game and when the he spotted Ilya, he patted the space beside himself. Ilya took it.

"Hazy, hey. Where's Lisa?"

Hazy was devoted to his wife in a way that was almost intimidating. Most of the Ottawa Centaurs in relationships seemed to genuinely like their partners, which was one of their pleasant abnormalities, but Wyatt was something else.

"She has a shift," he said now, mournfully. Regretfully, Lisa Hayes was a doctor and her schedule was almost as bad as theirs. Sometimes worse.

"Then I'm your date for tonight, yes?" Ilya asked, knocking his head against Wyatt's lightly. 

Wyatt laughed. "Why do your terrible pick-up lines work on me?"

"Because I'm effortlessly charming and you are lonely without Dr. Lisa. I wasn't even trying." Ilya grinned at him and he felt a surge of warmth spread through his insides. The Centaurs accepted him so easily, which was another thing he'd never taken for granted. They overlooked that he'd failed in his promise as a captain and a star center and brought them nowhere closer to the playoffs than they'd been before him. This place was so much better than he deserved, and he was sorry for all the ungenerous thoughts he'd ever thought about their hockey skills. 

Hazy was a great goalie, anyway. Beloved by the team and the people alike, and about the only player besides Ilya genuinely intimidating their opponents.

Bood was barbequing on the patio, so the door to the outside was open and letting draft in, but with the number of people crammed into Bood’s house, the air was probably a good thing. Ilya looked at Hazy. "What are we doing before the children get here with weed?"

The goalie thought for a moment. "Let me swipe for you."

"Are you getting rid of me already?" Ilya gasped, but he was already looking for his phone and unlocking it for his teammate. 

"One of us doesn't have to be lonely."

"Says the happily married man."

"I'm pining. Lisa is saving lives and I'm pining," Hazy said between tapping through Ilya's phone. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Ilya seriously. "This is why all superheroes' partners get their own superhero identities eventually. It must be nice to work together."

"Are you calling yourself Pepper Potts?" Ilya snorted, quickly mentally running through the list of characters in the things Hazy made them watch on movie nights.

"I think I'm more of a Mary Jane. But her marriage to Peter Parker is notoriously rocky, so maybe not," Hazy scrunched up his face and turned his full attention to the device in his hand.

Ilya ate his food, letting Hazy swipe his way through Ilya's Grindr matches. He rarely used apps to actually meet people, preferring the real time back and forth in clubs and bars. Nothing beat the response to a real living person when it came to judging compatibility. And he hated arranging a hookup only to find the other person a bit weirded out by Ilya Rozanov appearing on the date. 

But he liked this game. Maybe more for what it meant than for the matches Hazy swiped on. The goalie had weird taste. He selected men with faces in their profiles and puns and obscure references in their bios. It had rarely led to a hookup for Ilya but occasionally it resulted in an interesting exchange of messages.

The phone vibrated in Hazy's hand. "Oh, Roz, you have a message."

"Just answer it for me."

"I don't think you want that." Hazy tilted the phone to him and made him look. The Grindr app was still open, but there was a notification from the regular text message app on the top of the screen. 

Hazy pulled up the preview and Ilya's heart did something weird.

Hollander: Hi.

"Oh. Yeah. I'm gonna..." He put his plate down onto the floor and wiped his hands on his pants before grabbing for the phone, already getting up.

He wasn't sure why he felt like he needed privacy for this, but before he could think about it, he was already in an empty guest room with the door closed.

His heart was hammering. Which was stupid, because this wasn't even that important. It was nothing. Shane Hollander finally remembered he had Ilya's phone number and lowered himself enough to use it.

It had been a month since their conversation at the All-Star game. Ilya had suspected Hollander was the type to overthink, but even he hadn't expected it would take this long for Hollander to reach out if he was going to do it. He'd given up.

Except apparently not well enough, because he was sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest bedroom, staring at the messages Shane Hollander sent him, feeling like a schoolboy whose crush replied to their note in class.

Not that he had a crush. Hollander was extremely pretty, but he was also a boring good boy. He probably only ever had sex under the covers, fifteen minutes missionary before thanking his partner for her time. Yes, boring. 

So no, Ilya didn't have a crush.

But he had a missed opportunity that had nagged him in the back of his mind for years. 

When he and Hollander had first met, it had felt… Maybe not like fate, because Ilya didn't believe in such things, but it had felt like there was something. A connection. A spark. They could have been friends, or maybe something else. Ilya had always been curious whether what he'd seen in Hollander’s gaze in those few times they'd spoken had been interest. Attraction. He'd always wanted to know how the polite Canadian boy with gorgeous freckles would have reacted if Ilya had leaned into that intuition.

At the time, Ilya had had a plan. It was going so well, too. CCM had approached him about a promo photoshoot and he'd mentioned Hollander, asking whether they would be doing the campaign together, suggesting that it would be fun. They were excited about it. Ilya was, too.

And then his father had to ruin it.

Which was a horrible thought Ilya felt sick with guilt about. The old man's crime was that he had died. Ilya had spent the summer before his rookie season in Russia, burying his second parent and coming to terms with being fully an orphan. 

He didn't get back to America until he truly had to, and by then the opportunity had passed. Hollander had done the campaign by himself and the posters mocked Ilya for months afterwards. 

By the time Ilya had settled into his new life and the grief settled within him, he and Hollander were rivals for real. The opportunity had passed. 

Ilya hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it. Even less so after moving to Ottawa, disappointing everyone who had followed his rise to fame. Hollander included, probably, given the way he'd talked to Ilya at the All-Star game. Ilya had had his own battles to fight in the meantime and no time to wonder whether he'd have been able to get the pretty Canadian golden boy to suck his dick given the opportunity.

It hadn't been until last summer. When Shane Hollander stood at a press conference about his fundraiser and talked about how everyone belonged in hockey, in his earnest way that sounded far less like PR bullshit than Ilya was used to hearing it said. At that moment, Ilya thought that maybe… Maybe he and Hollander could still make a mark on the world of hockey together. Ilya had missed the opportunity to seduce him, and he'd kind of ruined their legendary rivalry, but maybe… maybe there was a third thing.

Hollander: Hi.
Hollander: This is Shane Hollander.
Hollander: Which you probably know.

Ilya was absolutely horrified to realize he was smiling.

Ilya: You think a long time
Hollander: Fuck off.
Hollander: I've been busy.

Hollander put a punctuation mark after “fuck off”. Ilya had to close his eyes for a moment. Maybe for too long, because his phone vibrated again.

Hollander: Do you still want to talk?
Ilya: Yes
Ilya: Phone call? I'm at a party rn but tomorrow?
Hollander: Let's talk in person.
Hollander: I'll be in Ottawa next weekend if you are free.
Ilya: Do you want me to pick a restaurant?
Hollander: I'm from Ottawa, I have an apartment there.
Ilya: Do I look like someone who puts out on the first date?

The response took a long time and he worried he'd overstepped. He'd gotten used to the Centaurs who took his flirting for what it was, harmless teasing. He'd grown comfortable and careless.

He was just thinking about how to walk it back, when Hollander replied.

Hollander: I don't like restaurants. Especially if we want to actually have a conversation. 
Ilya: Text me the address then
Ilya: We can order in

Hollander texted him the address and the time to be there almost instantly. Ilya reacted with a thumbs up and the conversation seemed done for the time being.

He pocketed his phone and headed back to the party.

“So, do you have an actual date?” Hazy asked him when Ilya found him again.

“I have a business meeting.”

“With the hottest player in the entire MLH, according to Cosmo.”

Ilya snorted. “That was two years ago.”

“You're just bitter you were number seven.”

“They put me after both Scott Hunter and Dallas Kent! What the actual fuck?” Ilya threw his hands out in frustration. Truth be told, he suspected his low ranking had something to do with the list coming out shortly after his own coming out.

Much later into the night, maybe after too much partying, he shot Hollander another reckless message.

Ilya: For the record I do
Ilya: Put out on a first date

Hollander's reply came too quickly.

Hollander: And I'm sure there are people for whom this information is relevant.

No one needed to know it made Ilya laugh. No one needed to know, either, that his chest clenched with odd sadness he couldn't name.

Chapter End Notes

Apparently Ilya has too much present-day set up for his full backstory to come out in just one chapter.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I think the situationship and the tuna melt incident were as important to Shane's acceptance of his orientation as Rose, therefore removing that leaves him in a little messier place in that regard. Please, be patient with him.

It was a terrible idea.

Shane knew that. He had known that perhaps since the bar at the All-Star Week. And if he hadn’t known then, the fact that he felt the urge to keep this meeting a secret from all his friends as well as his parents… Yes, that would have clued him in.

He was meeting Ilya Rozanov. At his apartment in Ottawa.

And he was freaking out. The apartment’s bedroom had clothes carefully laid out all around it as he examined his options, and it was making him a little dizzy, and he felt like he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

He should have kept ghosting Rozanov, he thought as he ran his fingers down the shirt he was wearing, examining the sight of himself in the mirror. It was a little creased, he should iron it, but he wasn't sure this was the one he would be wearing. He normally mostly wore athletic wear but he’d be embarrassed to welcome Rozanov to his apartment wearing a tracksuit or a pair of sweatpants.

Two mirror selfies and an “SOS” text later, his phone was ringing.

“Oh, honey, neither,” was the first thing Rose said when he picked up. “Who are we impressing? Your first grade teacher or your grandma? Because that’s the vibe. Keep the black jeans, though, those are good.”

Rose Landry was a movie star, much more famous than he was. In fact, he was quite certain that a better portion of the people who knew of his existence knew him because he and Rose dated briefly a year ago after meeting at a party through friends of friends. It didn’t work out. Shane genuinely liked her, she was wonderful, but perhaps he wasn’t in the best place to date. Mentally.

She’d implied another reason. Obviously, she was wrong. Shane’s (two) experiences with men were maybe a little better than those with women, but he suspected that had much more to do with performance anxiety. Male bodies were much easier to figure out, that was all. He had one. With men, it was just getting off, quick and easy. Of course it worked better.

They hadn't spoken about that since, there had been a few weeks of awkward silence, but they were friends now. Any attraction on her side had withered and he… Well, Shane didn’t have the capacity for a relationship right now, obviously.

So it was a little ridiculous if she thought he was calling because of a date.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” he muttered.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “Fine, keep your secrets. What happened to the dark shirt I made you buy?”

“I think it’s in Montréal,” he admitted. “I’m in Ottawa right now. And before you ask, no, shopping is not an option.”

“Okay, show me what options we do have.”

A video call and half an hour later, he was dressed in a sweater Rose deemed bearable. “Do you want that stylist’s contact info now?” she asked him when they were done.

“It’s not like I have wardrobe emergencies regularly.”

“Ah, but we’re really not trying to impress anyone today?”

Shane groaned. “You’re the nosiest of my friends.”

“That’s because all your other friends are men,” she grinned at him from the screen of his phone. Rose was unfairly pretty, but there was not even a flutter in his stomach, let alone anywhere lower now. Which was surely understandable, given the pressure of the swiftly-approaching playoffs and the anxiety over Rozanov’s visit. Besides, Rose’d made it clear that anything physical was off the table between them and Shane respected that.

“That’s not true, I have Jackie.”

“Jackie is a Mom friend, that doesn’t count. Do you ever talk about anything other than your diet and the best time to sign her kids up for skating courses?”

“Fuck off.”

Rose laughed. It was one of the things he liked about her; she didn’t care if he cussed or if he wasn’t exactly nice. He’d put her on the short list of people with whom he could just exist.

He was glad they’d stayed friends.

Even when she asked: “Is it a girl?”

Maybe it should bother him that she was so casual about it, but mostly he flushed as he struggled to get her off the topic.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s a work thing.”

“The sweater will be good then, you look like you mean business,” she smirked.

Mercifully, she didn’t ask him why his mother wasn’t the one helping him. Yuna Hollander was usually the one to run the brand side of Shane’s life, and if he was going into a business meeting with someone from his sponsors, she would be happy to get him ready.

He couldn’t tell Rose he was meeting Rozanov.

He definitely couldn’t tell anyone he was inviting Rozanov into his apartment.

Rozanov was fifteen minutes late.

Shane was starting to worry hope think he wouldn’t show up at all after all.

But then Rozanov was there, at his front door, wearing a nice dark coat with a long light green scarf. “Sorry,” he said without sounding apologetic, “traffic.”

Shane glared at him. Getting to meetings late was never appropriate, especially not without notifying the other party. Had it been him visiting Rozanov, he would have been sitting in his car behind Rozanov’s house fifteen minutes before the agreed time, and he would be ringing the doorbell on the exact second they’d agreed upon.

“Shoes off?” Rozanov asked.

Before Shane could tell him a polite ‘you don’t need to’ he didn’t mean, Rozanov took one glance at Shane’s shoes by the door and was already toeing his sneakers off. He couldn’t even be an asshole consistently.

The sneakers were placed next to Shane’s, the nice coat and scarf ended up hanging next to Shane’s parka. Then, Rozanov was in his apartment.

He moved through spaces like he had a right to them. Including this one. “Nice apartment,” he observed, glancing around at the open floor plan, the sparse decor. He was taking everything in, walking around the apartment like he’d come to put an offer on it.

“This isn’t how I actually live,” Shane replied.

“No, of course not. I had apartment like this in Moscow. A place to bring people you don’t want family to see, right?” Rozanov threw himself onto the middle of the sofa nonchalantly.

“That’s not what this is.”

It wasn’t. He’d bought the apartment early in his career, before he’d had the opportunity to have his summer cottage built, so he had somewhere to escape in the off-season without going all the way to Montréal. He loved his parents, really, and he enjoyed much of the time spent with them, but they could be a lot. Too much, sometimes, especially his mother. She meant everything well, but sometimes he wanted to hide away from her.

Just not too far away. Thus an apartment in Ottawa, which rarely saw much use.

“I used to come here in the summer to be close to my parents, but I’ve been spending more time at my cottage recently. So I might sell it eventually, or rent it out.”

Rozanov nodded. Today, the Hawaiian shirt had been replaced with a soft gray pullover that looked like it’d be nice to the touch. His nails weren’t painted anymore and instead, his right hand’s knuckles were bruised from a recent fight on the ice. He was taking up most of the sofa, his arms spread, his knees apart.

He was always taking so much space.

“Did I take your seat?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at Shane, who was still standing.

Shane shook his head.

“Then?” Rozanov nodded to the armchair opposite himself. “Sit.”

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Shane asked instead, because that was the correct order of things. “I have… There’s wine. I have beer, or ginger ale, or… or water.” He didn’t drink alcohol during the season, but he knew Rozanov did, so he’d stocked some. He didn’t know what else to prepare.

“Water is fine.”

Shane hurried off into the kitchen. He got a pitcher of water and glasses and brought them over to the coffee table in the sitting area. Rozanov pulled the coasters out from their little holder before Shane could reach for them.

It was both a relief and strangely awkward to finally sit down, opposite Rozanov.

“Did you… did you want to have a meal? Order in?”

“Hmm, but you will need to do the ordering,” Rozanov said, not looking from the glass as he poured water first for Shane, then for himself, not having given Shane the opportunity to do it first. “Or some restaurant might know Ilya Rozanov is at your address.”

“What?” Shane frowned at him. “Wait, do you think—”

“You are worried to be seen with me, yes?”

“No.” Yes, he was, a little, maybe. Rozanov had handed him his stick during the All-Star game and Shane’s team mocked him for weeks. He hadn’t reached out to Rozanov until it’d died down a little, but Rozanov didn’t need to know that. Or that Shane hadn’t said anything to a soul about meeting with him. “I’m autistic.”

“I know this.”

“I don’t feel comfortable at restaurants,” he said and this was true, and honestly the main reason he asked to meet in private. “They are loud, and there is too much going on, and the waiters always stand at awkward angles and I don’t know how to look up at them.” He shook his head, frowning, unsure why he was explaining this all to the other man. “And I can be very particular about what I eat, or how it is served, and… And it’s all too much noise and input when I’m trying to have a conversation.”

“Oh.” Something eased in Rozanov’s expression. “Then we eat here, is fine. You’re on some diet, aren’t you? Do you have a restaurant you like? If not, there’s a vegan place that delivers and you might like it.”

“You eat vegan?”

Rozanov shrugged. “I like their borscht. I just put normal cream in it.”

“I don’t have cream,” Shane helplessly looked over his shoulder towards the fridge, which was mostly empty except for beer and wine.

“Then I’ll order something different. Relax, Hollander, I’m not picky.”

Shane placed the order, with Rozanov navigating him. Another advantage of the restaurant he’d suggested was that it delivered fast; they’d have their food in a little over forty minutes. But it was still forty minutes of a waiting time, and now Shane was thinking that maybe he was supposed to have done this already. He should have ordered something to serve to Rozanov before Rozanov had even arrived.

Next time he was hosting someone, he would look up a guide first.

Rozanov stood up. “I’ll help you set up the table.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Shane snapped, even though he did not. All his business meetings had always been in offices and meeting rooms, and all his dates at restaurants or cinemas.

Not that this was a date.

Or anything comparable to one.

“But I like to help and I don’t like sitting around doing nothing,” Rozanov said and so Shane pointed him to where the cutlery was.

Setting up the table only took a couple of minutes.

“I should have brought you flowers,” Rozanov mused as he brought their glasses from the sitting area to the dining table. “The table looks weird without a centerpiece.”

Shane fought a blush, and he was unsuccessful.

It was one of fury, though. He was quite sure Rozanov meant none of his flirtier remarks, he just liked to get a rise out of people. There were some conspiracies that he wasn’t even bisexual at all, just wanted attention, but Shane didn’t believe that part. No one would risk that much, or put himself in such a vulnerable position, for clout.

He took a potted plant, fake because he was rarely here, from the window and placed it in the middle of the table. “Better?”

A shocked smile spread across Rozanov’s face.

Shane’s heart made a wild somersault.

Just because he was so nervous about hosting.

“Am a little scared what you’d do if I suggested candles,” Rozanov said.

Shane wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it, but he witnessed himself walk over to the coffee table, take out the tv remote from the drawer below it, and switched the tv to a fireplace channel. His Montréal place had an actual fireplace, not to mention the options at his cottage, but here, this was the best he could do when it came to atmospheric fire.

There, he thought with a surge of pride. He could surprise Rozanov.

When he turned around again, Rozanov was looking at him. The startled smile was still on his face, perhaps a little softer.

He never looked like this on the ice, or in his interviews.

Suddenly, Shane very badly needed the food to get here quickly. He needed to put the barrier of a table between himself and Rozanov.

Chapter End Notes

Shane's hosting skills are inspired by my own. Anytime I'm hosting, I feel like it's my first day on Earth. Unfortunately, I have yet to find someone who'd be as delighted by it as Ilya is by Shane.
And poor Shane doesn't even know Ilya well enough to offer him a Coke😔

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for all the comments! I'm so happy you're interested in this story.

Content warning for the chapter: vague allusions to suicidal ideation

Shane Hollander was an utter mess.

Ilya wanted to fuck him on the dining room table.

He’d never seen Hollander this outside his element. He was always so composed on the ice and in his interviews. Sure, he never looked into the camera and his chirping consisted of throwing stats in other players’ faces, but he always looked absolutely certain of himself. Seeing him so completely awkward yet eager to prove himself did something unspeakable to Ilya.

He watched as Hollander sat down, choosing the seat with his back to the fake fire. “So, you want to start a charity,” he said, no small talk at all.

Ilya exhaled. They were back on task. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I like living in Ottawa?” he suggested as he sat down. “How my season is going? What other restaurants I like to order from?”

Hollander glared at him. “I know how your season is going. Ottawa is at the bottom of the conference with fifty points,” he said, “and I thought you wanted to talk about collaboration.”

“I thought you wanted to get to know each other first,” Ilya shrugged. “Become friendly.”

The answer was a gloomy look. “How do you… like living in Ottawa?” Hollander asked mechanically.

Leaning back in the chair, Ilya sighed. “I’m not mocking you, Hollander,” he said. “I want to get to know you.” He shook his head. “Ottawa is fine. Is not that lively, but I get a lot of that on the road. People are nice.”

“Why did you move?” Hollander asked. “Boston—”

“Ah, that is too personal for a first date, maybe,” Ilya interrupted him and watched a blush spread under Hollander’s freckles. “Let me ask, do you ever wish you got to play for Ottawa rather than Montréal? Is your hometown, right?”

“My Mom is from Montréal. My parents moved to Ottawa only because Dad got a government job here,” Hollander wasn’t looking at Ilya as he replied, but he didn’t look uncomfortable. There was none of the tension Ilya felt when he thought about his own father, his own mother. “Mom’s always been a Metros fan.”

“Ah, so you weren’t upset to be second draft,” Ilya grinned. “Boston would be bigger problem.”

Hollander’s brows knitted together. “Mom would support me wherever I ended up. It wouldn’t be easy for her to cheer for a rival team, but she’d always cheer for me.”

Ilya wondered what that was like, to have the unshakeable certainty about one’s parents’ love. He had always been so sure of his father’s disapproval that he still heard his scolding voice sometimes, in his dreams and in the back of his mind. And he was certain his mother had loved him, would have always loved him, but these days he sometimes wondered what she would think if she could see him. She wouldn’t be angry with him, she would still love him, but perhaps she would be disappointed. He'd be a source of worry to her.

“I don’t know,” he said out loud. “Maybe is still good for you I’m a better player.”

“Fuck you.” Hollander pinned him with a glare. “You were a better overall fit for Boston, that’s all.”

“If that helps you sleep at night.”

“I was the rookie of the year.”

Ilya nodded, before folding his hands under his chin. “A victory from many years ago.”

It was thrilling to watch Hollander, the good boy of Canada, get genuinely riled up. It was so easy. “I’ve won the Cup twice since!”

“And you might do it again this year, if you don’t lose to the Admirals in the playoffs.”

“What about the Raiders?”

“Ah, Boston is not making it past the first series this year whoever they go against. I sent Marly my condolences already.” He was still friends with a handful of the Raiders, Marlow and Hammersmith and St. Simon. Connors, too, although he’d changed teams in the meanwhile as well, after a trade to Pittsburgh.

“Do you miss it? Playing for Boston?”

Ilya pressed his lips together. He missed playing good hockey. There were good players on his current team, Bood and Hazy and Dykstra and himself, and players with potential, but the overall structure wasn’t great. And their spirit was perhaps a little broken. But the camaraderie was even better than that of Boston, and he couldn't be upset about the support he'd gotten from his teammates and the organization in general.

“I miss watching you lose from up close,” he replied, smirking, “but just give it a season.” He didn't have that much confidence, but they did have a new GM that seemed actually interested in building the Ottawa Centaurs into something. They got Hayes early this season, they might get even more improvements next year. And maybe they'll start healing their spirit, too.

“You're an asshole.”

“Yes. But apparently you are the one who misses seeing me in gold.”

“I'm just trying to get to know you, like you said.”

Ilya was saved from reacting by the meal being delivered. He watched Hollander go retrieve it and then transfer the food from the takeout containers to plates.

“I do miss you playing for the Raiders,” Hollander said when they started eating and Ilya almost choked on his first bite. “Marlow is a solid captain, but Lahtinen is an underwhelming centre, not a player to build the team around, and the third line is barely worth talking about. Montreál has no real opposition in the division at the moment. We are coasting through our season.”

“Do you know you have reputation for being humble?” Ilya arched an eyebrow at him. “If only fans heard you now.”

“I’m not bragging,” Hollander frowned. “I’m stating facts. The rivalry between Montréal and Boston was more fun when you were there.”

“I’m sorry if I made hockey less fun for you.”

He actually meant it.

Hollander only shook his head. “You can fix it,” he said firmly, honestly, giving Ilya an intense look. “Build Ottawa up.”

And in that wild moment, Ilya imagined himself walking into a locker room and giving a speech about how Shane Hollander asked them to improve so he’d have someone half-decent to play against. He wasn’t sure how his teammates would take it.

Personally, he had never felt more inspired.

They talked about hockey some more. About what it was like to play in different cities, about the few players they’d both played on the same team with in the past, about the other teams’ prospects in the playoffs.

It was possible Hollander could talk about hockey forever.

Ilya would have let him. He was interesting to listen to, once he started talking. For Ilya, hockey had always been something he was decent at and which provided him with the means of getting other things he wanted, and occasionally it was also fun. For Shane Hollander, it seemed hockey was life.

Eventually, however, they finished the meal and Ilya suggested they open the wine now, because he suspected Hollander would stick to the water otherwise.

“I don’t drink during the season,” Hollander said with a frown, looking torn between his habits and his desire to be a good host.

“Then I drink wine and you drink ginger ale.”

Hollander’s shoulders relaxed with relief.

With the new drinks, they returned to the sitting area. This time, Ilya settled in one corner of the sofa and smiled when Hollander took the opposite one.

“We can turn the tv off if it annoys you,” Ilya suggested, because the fireplace channel was still on, crackling and casting warm light across the space, but Hollander shook his head.

“I like it. It reminds me of summer. We have bonfires.”

Before Ilya could ask any follow-up questions, Hollander set down his ginger ale and gave him a serious look.

“You want to start a charity. Why?”

The conversational part of the meeting was over. Ilya sighed.

He didn’t want to open his chest and let Hollander see all the guilt about wasted potential he carried, or the fear that without something to work towards, he might have no desire to keep surviving. And he especially didn’t want to show Hollander that he wished he’d gotten this close to him much earlier.

So he said: “I need retirement plan.”

Hollander frowned. “If you invest your earnings wisely—-”

“Not that kind,” Ilya interrupted him. “I need something to do after I retire. As much as I want to, I’m not going to play forever. And when I am not playing, I need something to do. I’m not going to be a GM or whatever.”

A dark cloud settled on Hollander’s face. “Are you planning to retire soon?”

“No, but you and I both know it could come any time,” Ilya drank from his wine, trying to look casual, suddenly worried he might trigger an existential crisis. For Hollander definitely, and for himself potentially. “And you know how fast retired athletes can fade into the background. If I don’t use my name to build something now, it might not be worth much in a few years.”

Hollander was still glaring at him. After a moment, he said: “I would have thought you’d take your money and party until it runs out.”

“That is reputation I have, yes,” Ilya glared back.

He had always liked to party. Surrounding himself with people made it a little harder for the darkness within him to spread. Sometimes, when he felt miserable or worse, when he felt nothing at all, when he felt like he was sleepwalking through life, he reached for fast cars or beautiful women or hot men, just to jolt himself awake.

It wasn’t all he was.

“I want to build something,” he repeated.

It wasn’t a lie.

Most likely, he would never be the captain to take Ottawa to the Stanley Cup finals. He would never be the hockey legend he could have been if he’d stayed in Boston and whatever fame he had now would quickly disappear; he wouldn’t be a name to remember past his active years. Most of his teammates’ names would fade even faster, but most of them had life outside hockey. Ilya had no family and likely never would. He couldn’t imagine anyone would want to be stuck with him for the rest of their life, and Ilya would never force it on anyone.

He needed something.

Something to leave behind. And something worth not leaving too early.

“You want to focus on inclusivity,” Hollander said, as if retrieving a mental note from their previous conversation.

It was one of those multisyllable rare words that would have given him a pause a few years back. Since his coming out, though, he’d heard it so often that he was confident in its meaning.

“Among other things. Is important to me.” He would never be able to return to his birth country because of anti-propaganda laws. He may as well do some propaganda.

“Is that why you approached me? I check the right boxes.” Hollander looked away. “I just want to play hockey. When I retire,” he said as if the thought physically hurt him, “I’ll stay in the sport as an analyst or a GM or something. I don’t need a retirement plan.”

“When I came out, I started getting a lot of messages. A lot of hate mail, but also a lot of messages from people who thanked me. Do you know which ones made me think the most?”

Hollander shook his head as if the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“The ones from boys who stopped playing, or never started at all, because they felt they’d never be welcome. Because they thought they would have to choose between themselves and being welcome in locker rooms. That potential, wasted. And maybe it wouldn’t have been if someone told them earlier they belonged, yes?” He leaned forward, focusing on Hollander even though the other man was not meeting his gaze. “Imagine more of me in the league. More of you. That would make hockey more fun, wouldn’t it?”

Hollander thought about it for a moment. “I guess,” he said eventually.

“And as upside,” Ilya added, “if you agree, you’ll have to spend a lot more time with me.”

“And to think you’ve almost sold me on it,” Hollander replied drily.

Ilya laughed. “Why does no one talk about how much of an asshole you are?”

When Hollander smiled in response, Ilya’s heart sped up a little. Cosmo was wrong about most of their picks when it came to that one list of attractive players, but they weren’t wrong about Shane Hollander.

He was breathtaking.

“If we do this,” Hollander said, “it’ll be a lot of work.”

“I’m not scared of that.”

“You’ll need to take it seriously.”

“Hollander, you got me, you figured out my plan,” Ilya rolled his eyes. “I want to start a charity, but I want to slack off and be lazy about it, so I come to good boy Shane Hollander, who’ll do all the work. I have to do nothing except write my name on things. And you’ll be so busy with all the work that you will not train much and Ottawa will win every game against Montréal. Is very clever, yes?”

“Fuck you,” Hollander chuckled.

“Promises, promises.”

A decorative throw pillow hit him square in the chest.

“This was actually nice,” Hollander said in the hallway while Ilya was tying his shoelaces. They had talked for a little while longer and decided that they'd both think about what exactly they wanted to do, and research what they'd need to make it happen, and then they would discuss it some more. Hollander would probably come in with a presentation next time.

“Don't sound so surprised.” Ilya stood up. “I’m good company.”

They were standing close. Ilya could have been counting all of the individual freckles scattered across Hollander’s cheeks.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hollander replied, but he failed to hide a smile.

“Next time, you come to my house and I’ll show you just how nice it can be.”

Hollander didn’t react to the suggestiveness of that offer. Instead he mock-sighed: “We haven’t even really agreed on anything, and it already looks like I’m going to be doing all of the driving.”

Chapter End Notes

1) For a moment, I thought Ilya would actually put out on the first date, but then they started talking and apparently we're on a slow burn train. How slow is yet to be seen.

2) Why no mention of mental health? Because at this point, Ilya is not yet ready to talk about his mother (and definitely not about his own issues).

3) This was such a difficult chapter to write. I rewrote parts of the conversation like a dozen times 😭

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for your response to the previous chapters! Your comments mean a world to me.

Shane wasn’t sure how long he’d been running on the treadmill by the time Hayden Pike joined him.

“Hey, what’s up?” Hayden asked.

Small talk had always been frustrating, empty words that didn’t have meaning beyond existing, but this was fine. Because when Hayden asked him a question, he actually wanted to hear the answer. That was why he was Shane’s best friend.

Even if Shane answered, predictably, with: “I’m fine.”

“You seem more in your own head than usual.”

“The playoffs are always a tough time.” Shane shrugged. “And I hate the playoff beard.”

“It doesn’t look that bad.”

“It’s itchy.”

Hayden laughed. He rubbed his chin, which had grown some facial hair since the beginning of the playoff season. “Jackie likes it,” he joked.

“We’re not making knocking up Jackie a playoff tradition.”

Hayden and Jackie Pike had four children already, the youngest barely a year old. It was their middle child that got Shane his diagnosis. Shane loved them with his whole heart and saved most of the handmade cards and unidentifiable drawings they gifted him, but four were more than enough. Jackie agreed.

“Well, I’d much rather you didn’t,” said Hayden.

“I don’t think Jackie would ever let me come over for dinner if I ever suggested it,” Shane shook his head and slowed down the treadmill to walking pace.

“Sometimes I think you only hang out with me for my wife’s cooking.”

“Don’t forget your ability to pass the puck,” Shane grinned at him. Beyond being his best friend, Hayden was his linemate and the “A” to Shane’s “C”. He was pretty much Shane’s favorite person.

So when they stepped off the exercise machines and Hayden lightly checked Shane with his shoulder, Shane cleared his throat and staring ahead of himself asked: “You liked the fundraiser we did last year, right?”

“The hockey camp thing?” Hayden shrugged. “Yeah, it was fun. And it’s always nice to do something for a good cause, you know?”

“Would you be interested in doing something like that again?” The sentence came out of his mouth a little jumbled, emphasis on the wrong words while other ones blended together a little, and the inflection was completely alien. He’d rehearsed it in his head before, last night before bed and today before morning skate, but it still didn’t sound right.

But Hayden didn’t seem to notice, or mind. “You’d want to do it again?”

“Maybe. On a larger scale, perhaps.”

The playoffs should be the biggest thing on his mind right now. He shouldn’t be thinking about anything other than plays and games and their opponents’ strengths and the Metros’ own weaknesses. Instead, he was catching himself thinking about other things. Not constantly. Not in a way that should worry him. Just enough that he felt a little guilty.

Because at night, when he was too tired to analyse another game, instead of going to sleep he found himself opening spreadsheets or at least a text conversation, looking at the ideas and plans he and Rozanov were bouncing around, and at the snark surrounding them.

So far, they’d agreed that their joint project would be inspired by Shane’s previous fundraiser activity, when he and a handful of volunteers spent a long weekend improving kids’ hockey skills. Hockey was something he and Rozanov both understood. They could build on that.

“Are you sure?” Hayden asked, continuing the conversation as they made their through the workout room. “You holed up in your cottage for two weeks afterwards.”

“I always spend a few weeks at the cottage.”

“You told me that if you had to look at another person within the next month, you’d move to Alaska and become one with the wilderness.”

“I didn’t say that!” Shane protested. He was almost sure he hadn’t, but it was possible that he said something which implied the aforementioned. “And if I had, I was clearly exaggerating.”

It was true that the fundraiser had been a lot. It had been a bit of a circus, with press and cameras everywhere, which was the biggest issue. The training had been okay. The kids had been fine. The need to perform for the media the entire time, that had drained him off his will to live for the rest of the summer.

He made a mental note that if he and Rozanov went through with their plans, he would limit his media availability and the media presence overall.

This time, though, he would be working with Ilya Rozanov. He was sure they could divide their tasks fairly. Shane would happily do all of the paperwork if Rozanov handled the cameras. He liked attention.

“It’s just an idea now,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t be until next year’s summer, I think. But if I was going to do something like that, would you be interested?”

“Yeah, of course. You don’t even have to ask.”

Shane: I talked to Hayden. He would be interested in coaching.
Shane: Hayden Pike.

Rozanov: Hayden Pike
Rozanov: Exactly who I think about when I think diversity

Shane: Fuck off.
Shane: He is a good friend.

Rozanov: Do you know anyone on the women’s team?

Shane: Women’s?

Rozanov: There’s a women’s hockey team in Montreal.
Rozanov: You know this, right?

Shane: Are you trying to use the charity to pick up?

Rozanov: Yes Hollander
Rozanov: All the college graduate lesbians are waiting for my dick

Shane: Not all of them are gay.

Rozanov: But all of them are too smart to hook up with me
Rozanov: You’re allowed to be friends with women you know

Shane: Fuck you.
Shane: I have friends who are women.

Rozanov: Your Mom doesn’t count

Shane: I have Rose.

Rozanov: Girlfriend doesn’t count either

Shane: Exgirlfriend.

Rozanov: Hate to break it to you but “we’ll stay friends” definitely doesn’t count

Shane: Fuck off.

For a moment, Shane considered telling Rozanov that Rose and him were true friends. The fact that she had helped Shane with a wardrobe crisis was more than solid proof. Except, he really didn’t want Rozanov to know how worked up he’d been about their meeting last time. Rozanov would never let him live it down.

Shane: We’ll talk more after the playoffs.

Rozanov: Enjoy winning your last cup ever
Rozanov: I already told my team we're eating you alive next year
Rozanov: Because you asked nicely

Shane: Maybe I’ll dedicate it to you.

Shane smiled to himself.

Against his better judgement, he was enjoying talking to Rozanov. Even when Rozanov got snarky, and maybe especially then.

He enjoyed being snarky right back. The list of people who didn’t expect him to be a polite boy with stainless reputation who barely understood sarcasm and vulgarisms, let alone used them, was very short. Hayden didn’t, Rose didn’t, and now Rozanov didn’t either. Shane could be rude, he could be a little mean, and Rozanov would come back for more.

Rozanov: Asshole is a good look on you

Chapter End Notes

As someone mentioned in the comments, this universe sadly has no Jane and Lily. It really hurts my heart a little.

Chapter 6

It was Svetlana’s couch Ilya was leaning against, and Svetlana’s social circle he was surrounded by. Svetlana was his childhood friend, a piece of a country he could never go back to, and the apartment was in Boston, a city where he no longer belonged.

Ilya’s mind had gone on a strange journey as he sat on the floor, Svetla’s fingers with long nails combing through his curls. There were conversations happening, jokes being told and food and alcohol being shared, and he felt like he was far away from it all.

He was watching the game on the screen.

Being in Boston, he dutifully booed every time the Montréal Metros touched the puck, but he knew deep down: Hollander was going to take the Cup home for the third time.

Svetlana’s fingers in his hair tightened their grip every time Hollander shot on the net. It reminded Ilya to exhale.

He and Hollander hadn’t had a chance to meet in person since the somewhat awkward meal at Hollander’s spare apartment, but they kept talking. For some reason, Hollander was still talking to him and it seemed that they might actually go through with the plan. There had certainly been several spreadsheets shared with Ilya. It was not quite friendship. Not quite flirting either, but the attraction had to be mutual. It was something, though, and it was enjoyable.

And then Hollander was lifting the Cup above his head.

And as the camera zoomed in on his face—

Shane Hollander winked.

Ilya couldn’t know whether the wink had been for him, but oh, his dick definitely assumed so.

Shane woke up on the floor of his own living room.

The light inside was too bright and he squinted as he rolled onto his back, wondering whether he had the willpower to get up and shut the blinds. His head was pounding and his mouth felt like a desert.

A hand almost hit him in the face, and he found the defenseman J.J. Boiziau half awake on his couch above him. Shane’s house had several perfectly good bedrooms, but apparently not one of them made it that far.

There was water running in the bathroom, then it stopped and Hayden stumbled into the room. “Your phone has been going off,” he said when he noticed Shane awake.

“They can fuck right off,” Shane muttered, lifting one arm to cover his eyes. It was probably congratulatory messages still, anyway. It had been some forty eight hours since they turned the Montréal Metros into a dynasty and he was sure to receive congratulations from eighty percent of people who had his number and interview requests from the rest.

“What if it’s your Mom?” J.J. mumbled in French.

“Not applicable, obviously,” Shane groaned. “What did we drink yesterday?”

“The last thing I remember is Drapeau yelling ‘fucking dynasty!’ and shoving little green shots in my hand,” said Hayden, sitting down onto the floor next to Shane. He had crashed at Shane’s because Jackie had made it clear he wasn’t welcome home until he didn’t smell like someone who’d just won his third Stanley Cup. Even though she was very proud of him.

J.J. sat up. “My last memory is Comeau trying to hire strippers. Or hiring a car to go to a strip club? I don’t know, stripping was involved.” He shrugged. “I think that’s when Capitaine here called it a night.”

The rest of the team was probably still partying.

“More importantly, why did we drink?” Shane asked. He thought he might be sick if he attempted to sit up. He didn’t like to think about himself as a lightweight. Between his weight and muscle mass, he should be able to process outrageous amounts of alcohol. But he rarely drank at all and the celebration took a toll on him.

“We won the cup, baby!” J.J. yelled.

“Oh my god, shut up,” said Hayden. He nudged Shane’s foot with his own. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question, not a sign you lost your memory.”

“Just the will to live.”

He knew the excitement and pride would return when his head stopped pounding, but for now, he had other priorities. His clothes from last night felt completely disgusting and he needed to gather the strength to get up, shower and change.

“I’m ordering some food,” Hayden said. “Then I have to go home. I miss my kids so fucking much.”

Shane loved the Pike kids, too, but he couldn’t imagine enjoying their company in his current state.

“Mitty dropped location to where they’re now,” J.J. said, looking at his phone. “So I might shower and go there.”

“Just leave me here to die,” said Shane.

They didn’t leave him to die.

Hayden ordered food and by the time Shane crawled into the shower and emerged from it, it had arrived. They ate, Shane distributed painkillers from his well-stocked emergency kit, and then Hayden went home and J.J. chased after the team to join the party again.

Shane crawled into his bed to celebrate with silence and solitude.

It was a few hours later that he finally checked his messages, which he’d barely glanced at the past couple of days. They were exactly what he’d expected. Except, ah, there…

Rozanov.

Shane’s stomach did a flip.

There were two messages from the Centaurs’ captain, the first one sent several hours after the winning game had concluded.

Rozanov: Congrats or whatever 🎉

And another one just a few hours ago:

Rozanov: Greasy food is good for hangover

Shane shook his head, a corner of his mouth curling up.

Shane: I know how to deal with a hangover.
Shane: I’ve won the Cup twice before.

He shouldn't be thrilled by how fast Rozanov replied.

Rozanov: And he’s humble too

Shane: I never said I was.
Shane: I don’t need to be.
Shane: I’m the best player of my generation.

Rozanov: Eh
Rozanov: 2nd best maybe

Shane: Again: I’ve won the Cup three times.

Rozanov: Is a team sport

Shane: And my team is a dynasty.

Rozanov: And mine has the least game misconducts and leads the league in charitable engagement
Rozanov: [photo of Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes and the team’s beaver-shaped mascot taken at a children’s hospital. The players are signing drawings for kids while the mascot is engaging in what looks like a lively conversation with other patients. The children’s faces are not visible in the photo]

Shane: [gif of himself winking into the camera while he lifts the Stanley Cup above his head]

Rozanov: I knew that was for me

Shane bit his lip. He could feel heat rising into his cheeks and he hid his face in the crook of his elbow for a moment, even though no one was around to see him. He was alone in his bedroom and no one was here to judge.

The wink had been for Rozanov.

He’d meant it as a joke. As a provocation, a challenge.

He didn’t want Rozanov to take it the wrong way.

After he emerged from his hiding place, he found the conversation still open. Rozanov hadn’t sent anything more.

Shane typed and deleted several variations of “don’t take it personally” and “no, it wasn’t”, before he settled for changing the topic entirely.

Shane: We said we’d talk after the finals.
Shane: About the charity.

Rozanov: Yes
Rozanov: I owe you food
Rozanov: In Boston now but I return to Ottawa next week

Shane: I have a three day window next week I could fit you into.

Rozanov: I ask him to come for dinner and he invites himself for a long weekend

Shane: That’s not what I meant!

Rozanov: Relax Hollander
Rozanov: I know
Rozanov: Text me time and I’ll send you address

Shane: Fine.

Rozanov: It’s a date

Shane ignored the turn of phrase and closed the conversation, opting to instead answer all the other messages waiting for him. If he left his parents without a response any longer, one of them was bound to barge into his house any minute now.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Ilya would be happy to know that in the last chapter, everyone was focusing on calling Shane out for the wink and overlooked that Ilya's an embarrassing double-texter. They're both pathetic about each other (affectionate). I blame it on that fact that while never really talking until now, they've been each other's celebrity crushes for years.

“Let me do your nails,” Svetlana said, wrapping herself around his back.

There were very few people since his mother’s death who spoke to Ilya kindly in his native tongue. His father had yelled, his brother had yelled, his coaches had yelled. Only Svetlana and an old lady in a Russian store he’d used to frequent in Boston spoke the language with some degree of friendliness.

Ilya hadn’t painted his nails since All-Star Week. There had been no point with the games and practices, the varnish would never survive long. But the season was over and he couldn’t argue with Svetlana anyway. “Ottawa red,” he requested, even though that shade was too bright and too jarring on him.

“Absolutely not,” she replied, matter-of-fact, and got up to grab her nail kit. They were in her bedroom, on her bed, because they always shared a bed, even on the nights when they weren’t having sex. “We’re in Boston now, we’re going with gold.”

His phone vibrated just then and he reached for it, but it was just the Centaurs’ group chat. Hazy was in Vancouver and kept spamming pictures of his nephew. And Ilya couldn’t even mind, because seeing a hockey player so proud of his lesbian sister’s family warmed up Ilya’s cold, cynical heart.

“You’ve been checking your phone a lot.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

“Please,” she snorted. “I’m not jealous. I’m wistful. I keep hoping someone will make an honest Canadian out of you.”

“The government, hopefully.”

Svetlana had offered to marry him, a lackluster proposal over a lukewarm pizza, when he told her he was coming out. She was an American citizen, thanks to her American mother and despite her Russian name, so to marry her would have been a fast track towards a new passport. He’d told her no. Not because he desperately didn’t want to agree, because who wouldn’t want to be saved? But Ilya never wanted to drag someone down with him. Svetlana could still return to Russia, she could still see her father and her babushka. Ilya didn’t want to complicate her life by dragging her into his own scandals, and he didn’t want their friendship to fall into ruin when they both wanted more from a marriage than they could give each other.

“Ah, so you’re waiting on a text from the Prime Minister,” Svetlana teased now as she settled opposite him armed with a nail file and several tiny bottles of nail polish. “I see.”

“Who else?”

They drove to the airport together, but Svetlana soon abandoned him for an earlier flight. She was headed to Russia for summer. Ilya was returning to his life in Canada.

The length of summer was stretching ahead of him. There was a three-day drink fest dedicated to Hammersmith’s thirtieth birthday in August, but between then and now there were great many joyless days of nothing much. Those of the Centaurs with children had seaside vacations planned and those without were visiting their parents or partying the summer away in Ibiza. He’d been invited to several such things, but these days he was trying to limit the time he spent blackout drunk in countries where he didn’t have permanent residence.

At least he’d finally have the time to look through the spreadsheets and bullet point lists Hollander had shared with him.

As if he’d summoned him, as Ilya was walking through the airport, ballcap pulled low into his face to deter Boston fans, his gaze snagged against the front of one store and…

Smirking, he lifted his phone.

Ilya: There’s a guy who kinda looks like you at the airport
Ilya: [photo of an advertisement: Shane Hollander posing with a bottle of cologne]

Hollander: That’s literally me.

Ilya: No is a model

Hollander: They play the ad during games.

Ilya suppressed the urge to point out that Hollander had lovely freckles scattered across his cheeks and this model guy didn’t. Because someone at the advertisement company thought it would be a good idea to airbrush them out until Hollander’s face looked alien smooth and nowhere as interesting as it did on the ice.

Instead, he wrote back:

Ilya: Who has time to watch ads during game

Shane was exhausted.

He was bone-tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. This was the downside to victories: they came with social obligations that left him wanting to crawl into a deep, dark cave and not resurface until the training camp. He’d had to celebrate with his team, he’d to celebrate with his parents, he’d just barely weasled his way out of a dinner with Hayden Pike’s entire extended family, including Jackie’s grandparents.

He didn’t want to see a human face or hear a human voice for weeks.

Except he was standing in his parents’ living room, with the sports channel on in the background, and his mother was saying: “We have a few days until the Toronto shoot, so you could do a livestream tomorrow and the interview request from Ms. Brittany Ayers—”

“No,” Shane interrupted her.

Yuna Hollander blinked. “No?”

Shane had a wonderful Mom. She handled the aspects of his career and sort-of-a-celebrity status that he didn’t enjoy dealing with himself, and she’d made sure that he would have options once his hockey career was over. His mother helped him earn, his father helped him invest, and Shane would probably never have to work a day in his life after he was done with hockey. His children, if he had any, probably wouldn’t either.

It was a lot, though.

“I don’t want any more interviews,” he said, looking away from his mother’s startled expression. “Or any more photoshoots, or campaigns, or anything. I’m not doing any livestreams, sponsored or not. My summer’s already so packed—”

“I’m not trying to cut into your vacation,” Yuna said quickly. “You’ll have two weeks off, no meetings, no shoots, nothing. You can go to the cottage and rest,” she stood up from her place on the sofa and spoke to him soothingly. “But it’d be a shame to not take advantage of the time before you have to fly to Toronto.”

Shane was maybe regretting not packing up to spend the three days empty of obligations at the cottage. He could have been staring at the water, sipping tea, doing yoga. “I have other plans in Ottawa already,” he said, voice stilted.

His phone had been buzzing with messages from Ilya Rozanov. The man was clearly bored at the Boston airport.

And as the past few months had shown, a bored Rozanov would bother anyone available, even Shane.

“Plans? What plans?” Yuna startled, as if it was inexplicable that she didn’t have every one of Shane’s planned movements on her calendar.

Shane reminded himself that he loved his mother very much. And that if she suddenly told him she had her own plans he hadn’t heard about before, he’d be similarly baffled.

“I’m meeting… someone.”

“Oh? Who? A friend from school?”

Shane had lost contact with most people he’d known in school. He’d never been very good at connecting to people who didn’t care about hockey and wouldn’t know what to talk to the people he had once shared classes with. Sometimes someone sent him a congratulatory message or invited him to some minireunion, but he’d always just sent a polite “thank you” back and never went. It wasn’t as if formal education had played an important part in his youth, even though he was smart. Hockey had simply taken over his life.

“No, just… someone.”

He would have to tell his parents about Rozanov eventually. Once they turned bullet points into solid plans and actually started working on the charity properly, he would have to tell everyone. That was mercifully far away, however. For now, they didn’t even have a name. Not even a working one.

Yuna watched him for a moment, expressions unreadable. She sat back down. “You know, I thought Rose might visit at the end of summer…”

Shane shrugged. “She still might,” he said. His parents had liked Rose. They’d liked him with Rose. Rose might have given up on their relationships, but Shane’s parents definitely hadn’t. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing; at least it meant he didn’t have to explain he still wanted her around as a friend. “The reshoots she’s working on should be done mid-August.”

“It would be lovely to see her,” Yuna said. “Tell her that. In fact, we’re always happy to see any of your friends. Make sure they know they are welcome, okay, honey?”

“Oh, look!” Shane’s father walked into the living room from the kitchen, a towel over one shoulder, and nodded towards the television screen.

The channel was showing highlights from Shane’s season.

The hattrick against New Jersey, the buzzer-beating winning goal against the Admirals, even the moment from the All-Star game when Rozanov handed him his own stick.

“That was nice of him,” David Hollander mused.

Shane crossed his arms, looking away from the screen. He’d heard one too many remarks in the locker room about this afterwards. “He was just showing off.”

David walked over to the couch and took a seat next to his wife, but Shane remained standing, waiting for his next opportunity to escape into his quiet room.

“I know he’s a bit cocky,” David said and Yuna snorted, because that was quite an understatement, “but I can’t help but think how hard things have to be for him.”

Shane echoed his mother’s snort. “The Centaurs’ social media feed is mostly barbeque and hanging out at bars and Rozanov’s sportscars. A really tough life.”

“He’s lost his parents at a very young age,” Yuna reminded him. “It doesn’t exactly excuse some of his attitude, especially when he doesn’t have any achievements to back it up… but maybe it explains some of it.”

“Isn’t he gay?” David asked.

Shane didn’t say anything, because suddenly he didn’t think he could speak. Even if he opened his mouth, not a sound would come out.

“Bi, I believe,” corrected Yuna. “He came out via an Instagram post.”

“That has to have taken a lot of courage,” David said.

“It couldn’t have been easy, even for someone with such tough skin as Rozanov,” Yuna agreed. “But I heard his team is very accepting.”

Maybe they kept talking after that, but Shane wouldn’t hear it. He was already on the way up to his room, the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and this topic carrying him up the stairs on autopilot.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again.

He didn’t reach for it.

Chapter End Notes

Please, for this fic, suspend your disbelief about how literally anything works. Reality is subservient to the plot and plot is subservient to the emotional beats I want to hit.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

This is a third version of this chapter I've written and finally one I'm happy with.

Please excuse any typos, the entire thing was written on my phone and autocorrect keeps going wild on me (but I also can't turn it off because my spelling is terrible).

Shane almost let the three days go by without reaching out to Rozanov. After the comments from his parents, the thought of meeting up with him again felt too much. Everything about Ilya Rozanov felt like too much. If overstimulation was a person, it would be an assholish Russian with painted fingernails and a cocky smile.

And yet.

Once he'd escaped his parents to hide away at his Ottawa apartment, still close enough to come for dinners but far away to not be bombarded with needless conversations, all he thought about was Rozanov. Rozanov sitting at his couch, teasing him but also listening to every word Shane said like it was worth hearing. Shane hadn't lied when he’d called their meeting nice.

And Rozanov did have a point, about his intentions with the charity. Hockey would be more fun if more people with their talent were on the ice. And if they weren't because hockey itself was discouraging them…

So in the late afternoon of his last free day, with a morning flight to an ad shoot in Toronto looming over him, Shane found himself driving towards the security gate of Rozanov's residence.

The gate opened for him as he was approaching.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected out of Rozanov's house. Rozanov didn't really give house tours to the media, there were no articles in the architecture magazines Shane read about his house. It shocked Shane to find the address to be in one of the quieter neighbourhoods, but he wasn't surprised to see that the house itself was more of a mansion.

The property was huge and sprawling and the architect had taken advantage of its natural sloping to hide the house from curious passerbys while still allowing beautiful views and, Shane could already tell from the outside, a lot of natural light.

He parked on the driveway and got out of the car just as the front door opened and Ilya Rozanov leaned casually against its frame. He was wearing a loose fitting t-shirt but paired with shorts that were barely decent, drawing attention to his well-formed legs.

Shane did not want his attention drawn there.

He focused his gaze firmly on the space next to Rozanov's face.

“I see you forgot about flowers, too,” Rozanov said when all Shane carried was a laptop bag.

Shane glared at him, refusing to let himself get flustered over that remark.

“For the record,” Rozanov added as he stepped out of Shane's way, “I like lilies.”

“I'll remember to send you some the next time Ottawa wins a game.”

“Maybe we play Montréal first game pre-season. You can bring a bouquet.”

By then, Shane had already taken his shoes off, noting that Rozanov was wearing slides rather than his usual sneakers, and was stepping into the house proper.

He stopped on the edge of the living room.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected from Rozanov, but perhaps not this. The panoramatic view of the yard through the windows, yes, but not the tasteful interior.

There were no jarring colours or seats made of glossy plastics Shane would despise twenty minutes into sitting on them. Instead, it was full of cozy, earthy tones and natural materials. Clean lines, moody finishes and curated details, Shane's interior designer would say. A coffee table made from reclaimed wood, oak probably, soft-looking cream-white couch with decorative throw pillows in accent colours, a modern fireplace. An open floor plan that stretched into a kitchen with black cabinets and gray marble countertops on one side, and into an inviting dining area with space for many people on the other.

“You okay, Hollander?”

Shane realised he'd been just stood there, taking everything in. He took a few steps inside, looking around almost reverently. At the pendant lights above the kitchen island, the velvet upholstery of the dining room chairs, at the seating nook by the wall of windows. There was a glass-door wine cellar right in the living room and magazines thrown haphazardly around the coffee table, along with an Ottawa Centaurs branded jumper thrown over one of the chairs, so of course this was Ilya Rozanov's house, but ah, it spoke to Shane.

“Do you know the architect of this house?” he asked, walking towards the couch to see if the material felt as good as it looked. “Who's your interior designer?”

“I didn't know you were so into that kind of stuff,” Rozanov laughed quietly behind him.

Fuck, the couch was nice to the touch. Shane kept running the pads of his fingers over the edge of the backrest. “I think architecture and design is really cool,” he said. “I’ve always liked it. The balance between form and function. Every space, every piece of furniture has a necessary function but a skilled designer can push it to be… more than that. But only so far. The same basic elements, put together in ways that…”

He trailed off, realising he'd been rambling. When he turned around, forcing himself to take his fingers off the couch, he found Rozanov staring with expression that Shane couldn't read.

Rozanov cleared his throat. “I can give you the contact for my designer. I just hired a firm, but they did good job, yes? They listened to what I wanted.”

“Is that you trying to persuade me you have taste?” Shane cocked his head. This time, he was ribbing Rozanov entirely on purpose. To rebalance the moment.

“I mean,” Rozanov gestured to all of himself as if something about his outfit was meant to prove his good taste.

Then he shrugged. “You brought work. So set up in the dining room, is the best place. I'll be right with you.”

Shane was almost sorry to be chased away from the couch, but the dining room’s table was the perfect height to set up his laptop while sitting comfortably. He had just turned on the computer when Rozanov joined him, cans of ginger ale and Coke in one hand, a large serving platter of open-faced sandwiches in the other.

“You cooked?” Shane blinked as Rozanov put the items down.

“I had nothing better to do so I put things on slices of bread, is hardly cooking,” Rozanov waved dismissively. “Is high fibre, low carb bread. Proper Russian cold cuisine should be drenched in mayo, too, but I make a sacrifice for you.”

“Thank you,” Shane said uncertainly.

Rozanov just shrugged, sitting down next to him. He opened a can of Coke, clearly intending to drink straight out of it.

His fingernails were gold. The polish had just started chipping on his index finger, from things like opening cans.

“Why do you paint your nails?” Shane pressed his lips together, but the question had already escaped him.

Rozanov blinked. He arched an eyebrow at Shane, then looked at his hands as if he had forgotten how they looked. “Do I need a reason other than I want to?”

“I don't know. You don't look… like someone who paints their nails.”

Rozanov snorted. “How does someone who paints their nails look? Because I am someone like that.”

“I don't know,” Shane repeated, looking away. Rozanov never seemed like someone who liked such things. Even in advertisements he'd done, they rarely put any visible makeup on him. Shane hated wearing any, it was itchy and they always tried to soften the way he looked. “It was a stupid question. Sorry.”

“It makes people uncomfortable, when I wear it,” Rozanov said.

“And that is a reason?” Shane frowned.

“Why not? They want me to be uncomfortable,” Rozanov leaned back in his chair. “They want me to be uncomfortable so I make myself small and invisible. So they can be comfortable, so they don't have to look at things that are different. So I make myself loud.”

Shane snorted. “You could never be small or invisible.”

“I could. It would not be nice for me.” Rozanov let out an impatient sigh. “Work. You have ideas and bullet points. We will look at them.”

Shane nodded. He opened his folders, squinted at them, then sighed. “Sorry, I…” He reached into the side pocket of his laptop bag and took out his glasses case.

“You wear glasses!” Rozanov sounded, for the lack of a better word, delighted.

“It's just for reading,” Shane muttered, putting them on, trying to not feel the way Rozanov was looking at him.

“I'm learning all sorts of new things about you today.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.” Shane reached for a sandwich topped with turkey, egg and avocado.

“Oh? What did you learn?” There was a hint of genuine curiosity in Rozanov's voice.

“You have a solid taste in interior decorators, you drink liquid sugar and you can make a passable sandwich.”

“Passable!” Rozanov shook his head. “See if I ever bother cooking for you again.”

But he was smiling.

They went over Shane's proposed timelines for registering domains, submitting applications, reaching out to facilities and all the other numerorous things they needed to do. To Shane's pleasant surprise, Rozanov did appear actually invested, taking notes on his phone and volunteering himself for tasks that needed to be accomplished if they wanted this project of the ground.

“We'll need a logo, too,” Rozanov said eventually. “A whole branding thing.”

“We'll hire someone for that.”

“I'll ask around who did the Centaurs' logo,” Rozanov nodded, and when he saw Shane's horrified look, he cackled. “So we can avoid them.”

“We'll need a name first, anyway,” Shane said, fighting a smile.

“Yeah, a Hollander-Rozanov Foundation sounds awful.”

“Like a centrum for researching deadly diseases.”

“No,” Rozanov shook his head. “Would be a centrum to analyse hockey skills. I keep hearing that they should study me in a lab.”

Shane shuddered. “Ah, I've seen that about myself, too.” He knew people meant it as a compliment, but it made him a little uncomfortable. “Let's not imply we want to use coaching camps as science experiments.”

“I'll speak to J.J.,” Shane said when they reached the topic of eventually needing more coaches for their camps. “I think he'll do it.”

Rozanov nodded. “And I'll talk to the women's teams, since you are scared…”

“I'm not scared of women!”

Rozanov just smirked. “And I was also thinking of asking Price.”

“As in Ryan Price?” Shane frowned. Ryan Price was a recently retired enforcer, a mountain of a guy, terrifying on the ice and from what Shane heard, unpredictable off it. Not someone he could imagine coaching the youth.

“I played a season with him. He's different than they make him look. Hockey did him dirty,” Rozanov said, something mournful in his tone. “He's gay, did you know that? He's seeing a musician.”

Shane didn't know that and he shook his head, but out loud he said: “You know there's more to diversity than… you know.”

“The alphabet mafia?”

“You said those words, not me.”

“Because you can't bring yourself to say it out loud,” Rozanov snorted.

“Fuck off. I'm not… I'm not homophobic.”

“No, not really, I guess,” Rozanov agreed reluctantly. “You are here with me, and you've not punched me once.” The bar was, apparently, very low. “Even when I flirt with you.”

Shane felt heat rise to his cheeks. “You've been flirting with me?”

“I low-key do with everyone,” Rozanov shrugged. “It annoys people and it keeps my social circle free of people I don't want there. At the low, low price of getting punched sometimes.”

Shane shook his head. He didn't understand Rozanov. Why would he want to live a life like that? He wasn't even fully gay, he could have just kept hooking up with girls as he has in the beginning of his career and no one would bother him.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Rozanov recoiled, blinking. “That's very forward, Hollander.”

“No,” Shane's face was burning. “I mean. Why did you decide to come out?”

Rozanov responded with a chuckle that didn't sound friendly. “I'm a strong independent hockey player, Hollander. I don't need to do things for a man.” He got up and took the empty serving platter. “I got tired.”

“Tired?”

“Tired, Hollander. Tired of the hiding, tired of questioning everything I do, tired of paying people off. Tabloids, hookups, my own fucking brother, everyone thinks they can ask for money and I will pay so they don't tell on me.” He put the platter into the dishwasher and closed the appliance with more force than necessary. “I'm Ilya fucking Rozanov, I don't need to pay for sucking anyone's dick.” He leaned against the counter, bracing against it with both hands, looking away from Shane. “If I want to flirt with someone, or dance with someone, or make out with someone, or take someone out for a fucking candlelit dinner, or put someone through the mattress, I will do it for free. For the low, low price of getting punched sometimes. Or a referee looking the other way when someone aims for my teeth with their stick.”

Shane stood up, pulling his glasses off his face and putting them aside. “I'm sorry, I —”

“I don't need your pity, Hollander,” Rozanov sighed. “I chose it, yes? I knew it would piss people off. I knew my country would call me a deviant, an extremist. For putting a little flag and pronouns in my socials, for putting pride tape on my stick sometimes for warm-ups. They think I should be ashamed. And I refused to feel ashamed.”

“I…” Shane's voice wavered. “I don't think you should feel ashamed.”

“No?” Rozanov looked at him and there was none of the usual challenge in his gaze.

“No. Some of the guys in the league are on their third divorce, or everyone knows they are stringing several girls along, or they have allegations against them… and they don't feel ashamed,” Shane shrugged. “Sucking dick is tame in comparison.”

There, he could also prove to Rozanov that he could say such things out loud.

Rozanov laughed, quiet, somehow unsure and surprised. “Look at you, such language!”

“Fuck you, I'm not a prude.”

“No, I guess not,” Rozanov smiled, actually smiled, and pushed away from the counter. “It's getting very late, Hollander. And we've already made plans what to do, yes?”

Shane blinked. “Yes…”

“Then maybe you go home before you turn into pumpkin.”

“Are you throwing me out?” Shane frowned, but he was already reaching for his things. It was clear Rozanov didn't want him around any longer.

“You say something almost nice, Hollander,” Rozanov shrugged. “I get emotional, I'll offer to suck your dick, and I don't want to be crying when I do for the first time.”

Shane hated the fact that his lower regions were quite intrigued by Rozanov's words.

Especially when he was sure Rozanov was just trying to get him out of the house.

“Right. I'm not sure I believe you ever cry, but I'm going.” He nodded, closing his laptop bag and checking his pocket for his car keys. “We'll stay in touch? About the charity.”

“And nothing else,” Rozanov nodded. “Except maybe if we don't see each other until pre-season, don't forget you owe me flowers for my next win.”

“Yeah, well, I'll look for a florist if you find the net.”

Chapter End Notes

Look, a glimpse into Ilya's backstory! Not the full story yet, but we're getting hints.

Also... Are Ilya's shorts actually indecent or Shane just horny? You decide!

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

I keep bragging to my non-fandom best friend about how amazing the people who comment on this fic are. Thank you so much for being amazing and kind to me. I'm a very self-conscious author so I appreciate it a lot.
---

This chapter has a brief Ilya Rozanov/others moment.

Bood's message found Ilya lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling.

Bood: Proof of life, Roz?

He’d probably ignored the group chat for much too long. His A was starting to worry, because while other teammates were also absent from the online world during the summer, they had the excuse of having actual lives. All Ilya had been doing for the past forty eight hours had been stopping himself from jerking off to the memory of the words “sucking dick” formed by Shane Hollander’s mouth.

Ilya sent Bood back a selfie. With exaggerated duck lips and a peace sign, for good measure.

Bood: Nice manicure

Ilya: Sveta’s in denial about my relationship with Boston

Bood: Like you’re in denial about your relationship with her?

Ilya: I tell you is not like that
Ilya: We’re family

Bood: I literally walked in on you

Ilya: Very modern family

His team here had a very different attitude from the one in Boston. The Boston guys had understood Ilya had a steady hook-up in every city with a rink in it, and a revolving door of one-nights stands, and they didn’t question his relationship with any of them. They didn’t care, pretty much, just high-fived him when he came in with visible marks of a night well-spent, or barely caught the team bus in the morning, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. They knew that making an inappropriate comment about Svetlana would earn them a punch, but they didn’t expect Ilya to go steady with her.

Half of Ilya’s current teammates had married their first serious girlfriends. Bood wasn’t one of those, but he’d also found the love of his life, and for whatever reason, married people always thought everyone should be tying the knot, too.

Worried he might get well-meaning welfare checks from other teammates, Ilya opened the Centaurs’ group chat. It was a lively place. These guys actually wanted to share their lives off-ice with one another, like they were actually friends and not just co-workers. And not just drinking buddies.

Ilya scrolled past all the messages about everyone’s day-to-day life, scanning for any announcements of engagements, pregnancies and divorces, but it looked like he hadn’t missed anything too important since he’d last checked in. He reacted with hearts to Hazy’s newest batch of Vancouver pictures as well as a bunch of photos from Dykstra. After one traumatized rookie, Dykstra had learned to only share nice, G-rated nature shots from his hunting trips and most of the team appreciated that change.

Dykstra: he lives!

Ilya: 🖕

Hazy: @Ilya When did Canada become a country?

Boyle: Omg let him have a summer break

Ilya: I867
Ilya: @Hazy also 🖕

Another notification from a DM from Bood popped up.

Bood: You in Ottawa now?

Ilya: Yep

Bood: Bergy’s in town

Bood: Wanted to suggest you keep an eye on his conditioning

Bood: I’ve never seen a pro athlete with running form that bad

Ilya wanted to tell Bood that he didn’t need a babysitter. He most certainly didn’t need a babysitter who was a baby-faced kid unable to legally drink in one third of North America. He was doing just fine.

Except. What exactly was Ilya doing? Not jerking off to Shane Hollander and counting days to drinking his weight in bad booze for Hammersmith’s birthday? Even he himself knew how pathetic that sounded.

And Ilya was the team captain, by someone’s mistake.

So instead of telling Bood to fuck off and play running coach from his island vacation if he wanted to, Ilya spend the next few weeks dragging Holmberg out of bed in the morning and forcing him to run laps, which meant listening to Holmberg complain about his girlfriend, first for calling too often, then for not calling enough. He dispersed advice, telling Holmberg that if he washed his ears sometimes and changed his underwear daily, he’d deserve to have a girlfriend at all.

This wonderful activity had the added benefit of forcing Ilya out of bed before noon six days a week.

In between, he was hunting down contact information for PWHL players, writing emails, studying flashcards in the much too complicated app Hazy had set up for him, and not hoping that the next time his phone vibrated, it would be Shane Hollander.

Hollander hadn’t messaged him since their last meeting.

Ilya was determined not to read too much into it.

Hollander was probably too busy shooting more commercials, which could haunt airports and hockey games across North America.

“Rozy!”

Marly’s voice rang in his ear from much too close when he’d made his way onto a balcony. The Boston’s captain’s body crashed against Ilya’s in something much too harsh to be called an embrace and much too loving to consider it a mere collision. There was a cigarette in his hand, now hovering around Ilya’s ear.

“You disappeared with those girls, I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight.”

Hammersmith had rented an entire party house for his birthday. A villa with a pool and a pool house. It was full of hockey players, hockey-adjacent people and the occasional mid-range influencer, because Hammy liked to think of himself as a celebrity but didn’t have the kind of luster that’d bring A-listers to his parties.

He knew how to fill a house with more hot people than there were bedrooms, though, so Ilya wasn’t complaining.

At one point, Ilya’d ended up in a bed with not one but two very beautiful women. It should have been disappointing to realise that they were way more interested in exploring each other than him, but he was thrilled to see it. Not because of the aesthetics of it (although he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a hot sight) but because it always pleased him to witness someone discover what they truly wanted. When the brunette kissed the redhead like she’d just found a new religion, Ilya excused himself from the situation, though.

It was not because he could only watch so much emotional intimacy before the hollow places inside him started to scream. Really, it wasn’t.

Ilya took the cigarette out of Marly’s fingers and took a drag of it. “They could only handle so much of me,” he said, because the alternative was telling the truth and he wasn’t about to out anyone.

Not even to Marly, who was a staunch ally. When Ilya had come out, Cliff Marlow had assigned himself the role of his personal bodyguard, which Ilya hadn’t asked for and didn’t need. Ilya had been a scrawny kid with angelic blonde curls and a mean older brother; he’d learned to fight to win long before he reached his current size. And now he had biceps that would easily bench press half the league. He prided himself on being able to end any fight he provoked.

The thought counted, though.

“You are very sober,” he observed.

Marly shrugged. “Someone has to keep an eye out on all these losers. Captain duty and all that.”

Ilya handed him back the cigarette.

Below them was the pool, but no one was using it for swimming. Some people were hanging around it, legs dangling in the water, or were strategically using it to show of their aesthetically wet bodies, but that was about it. This wasn’t the kind of a party where people played tag in the pool and tossed around balloons. It was, instead, the kind where people got drunk, made out with strangers and someone would inevitably fall into the water fully dressed and much too high or inebriated and Marly and Ilya would have to heroically save his life.

“Ah, I forget what it’s like to babysit stupid children. My guys are smart.”

“Boring, you mean.”

“Maybe I’ve turned boring.”

Which might have been true, because he was thinking about how fun it had been to have a pool party at Boyle’s at the end of last season. They had watched Jaws projected onto the side of Boyle’s house while lounging on floats in the pool or bean bags on the pool side, and it had been nice. Fuck, maybe he was getting old and boring.

He was hanging at the edge of a party of the summer and instead of looking for a hot body to take to bed, Ilya was mentally at Bood’s barbeque.

Marly snorted. “I see. Is that why you wanted to hang out with Hollander the other day?”

“Maybe was because I wanted to talk to someone who’s good at hockey.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I can’t believe the fuckers got their third Cup.”

Ilya pulled away from Marly and leaned against the railing instead. “Worst thing is Montréal isn’t even that good. We’re just shitty.”

“Speak for yourself, Roz. At least we got into the playoffs.”

“If by got into you mean fell out in the first round on Game 5 then sure,” Ilya nodded. “Congrats.”

“Fuck you,” Marly said, but without much heat. It would be stupid to argue with someone whose team came dead last in the division. “How did it go, anyway? Making a business offer to Hollander.”

“We’re working on something.”

“Really? I thought he’d turned you down. That you didn’t mention it because you were too embarrassed.”

“If you’re ever bored enough to come coach in the summer, I maybe have a thing for you.”

“Eh, not really my idea of a good free time but we’ll see.” Marly threw away the cigarette butt and took out a packet, offering Ilya a new one. “Honestly, I feared Hollander was too much of an uptight little goody-two-shoes to give you the time of the day.”

Ilya thought about how frustrated Hollander had sounded when he claimed to not be homophobic. And also how his gaze kept snatching on Ilya’s body in a way straight men’s didn’t. “Is more progressive than you give him credit for.” Even though he was clearly baffled by Ilya’s determination to display his otherness and perhaps not entirely ready to acknowledge his own.

“I hate to break it to you, man, but not everyone who dislikes you is a homophobe. Some people just can’t stand your personality,” Marly teased him. “They are wrong, obviously, but they exist.”

“Believe it or not, Hollander thinks hanging out with me is nice.”

And perhaps he needed to either stay sober, too, or lose his phone, because his fingers twitched for it, wanting to check whether Hollander hadn’t messaged him after all, or perhaps to send him something stupid to see if he’d reply.

Ilya: [photo of the Centaurs on the ice mid-practice]
Ilya: First look at the men who’ll destroy you this season

Summer had mercifully reached its end and the training camp had begun. Ilya resented that he benefited from the predictable routine of team activities, and would deny it if asked, would deny it even drunk or under duress, but here he was, excited to be back with a pre-season schedule plastered to the locker room door and the loving banter of his teammates echoing around the locker room.

He was midway through assembling a group for a trip to McDonalds when Hollander’s reply came through.

Hollander: I hope they learned to score over the summer.

Ilya: Oh some of them definitely scored over the summer

Hollander: That was terrible
Hollander: Even for you

Bood knocked his shoulder against Ilya’s. “What’s got you grinning like that, Roz?”

Ilya opened his mouth only to find Bood’s hand over it.

“If you say ‘your mom’, I’m never inviting you to a cookout ever again.”

Wisely, Ilya didn’t say anything.

Pre-season started as it always did: They lost 4-1 in Toronto, and then they lost to Toronto on their own ice, 5-2. And that was with Toronto’s team playing like they were still halfway on a vacation.

The tragedy was that the Centaurs weren’t bad players. They just played badly. In practices, they executed flawless plays, but the moment there was an actual ref keeping score, and an actual opposing team on the other end of the ice, they seemed to give up in advance. Like the moment the other team touched the puck, the Centaurs had already resigned on getting it back.

Meanwhile, Montréal won 4-2 in Toronto and destroyed Chicago 5-0, when the Metros’ goalie was nowhere near as good as Wyatt Hayes.

Hollander: I talked to J.J. He is interested.

Ilya: I have a question

Hollander: Ask, then?

Ilya: When you say you talked to Pike and Boiziau
Ilya: Did you mention I was involved?

Hollander: I thought it’d be easier for them to comprehend when Ottawa is on a winning streak.

This time, Hollander’s comment didn’t make him smile.

Instead, it made him march into the locker room.

“Listen here!” He banged his fist against his stall until he had everyone’s attention. To the Centaurs’ credit, that barely took any time at all. “I had a very interesting conversation. Shane Hollander… Do you know Shane Hollander?”

Almost two dozen pairs of eyes stared at him. Everyone had, naturally, heard of Canada’s prince of hockey. And they were in Ottawa, Hollander’s hometown. Even the people who barely knew what a puck looked like would be familiar with the name. Half of this room used to have posters of him on their walls. The other half still had some, probably.

And the Ottawa Centaurs were about to play against him.

“He’s only my sleep paralysis demon,” Hazy muttered.

Ilya nodded. If they were the Boston Raiders, he would tell them that Hollander had been mocking him. He would tell them that they needed to make Hollander’s team bleed and their captain cry. Except these guys weren’t the Raiders.

They were the Ottawa Centaurs.

“I talk to him recently. I promised we could challenge him, not let his city be a guaranteed win.” He looked around their bewildered faces. “He tells me he thinks Ottawa can do this. I think we can do this. So the other team’s guys are big and scary. We’re big and scary. Nick, you’re three Boiziaus. Dykstra hunts bears for fun, he can handle little Canadians!

“The other team has fast forwards. I’m faster. Bood passes better than half the league, and definitely Pike. LaPointe memorises plays like he’s paid for it… wait!” He paused for a laugh, then went on to name all the advantages his teammates had over other players.

He wasn’t sure any other team would be inspired by their captain yelling compliments at them, but the Centaurs were special. Maybe a little “I believe in you and Shane fucking Hollander believes in you, so please believe in yourself” would work some magic on them.

Bood elbowed him later, on the way through the tunnel: “Did you actually give us a ‘don’t embarrass me in front of a hot guy’ speech?”

Ilya shrugged. “Do you love me enough for it to work?”

They lost the game.

But they forced Montréal into overtime first and that by itself was a victory.

In the handshake line, Hollander smiled. He leaned in and said: “Tonight was actually fun.”

Ilya could not be held responsible for what those words did to him.

Chapter End Notes

We've sped through Ilya's summer in this chapter, but let's place bets:
There is almost a year between this chapter's events and the first time they can actually run a camp. Will they figure their shit out before then?

Chapter 10

From Men in the Crease podcast
JT: It’s been a while since we had a reason to talk about the Centaurs...

Dylan: Hmm, normally it’s the team we tell you to not bother watching. We just wait for Rozanov’s highlights after the game.

JT: The very few Rozanov highlights, yeah.

Dylan: But they did play well last night, in their exhibition game against Montréal.

JT: Even Hollander broke some sweat, didn’t he? They made the Metros work for those goals.

Dylan: I always say not to base expectations on preseason games, but, JT, do you think we should start paying attention to Ottawa?

JT: It was one good game, Dylan. And they lost it! So, I wouldn’t be getting my hopes up about Ottawa. Which pains me to say---

Dylan: For the listeners who don’t know, JT’s an Ottawa native.

JT: And so is Shane Hollander!

Dylan: Yes, yes, your six degrees of separation from Shane Hollander…

JT: It’s more like four, but I can’t talk about it without doxxing myself and half my family.

Dylan: So, we’ll just have to take your word for it.

JT: I won’t be upset if the Centaurs bring some good hockey to Ottawa, that’s all I’m saying. It’d be nice to have a reason to take out my vintage merch.

Dylan: I dare say we wouldn’t mind seeing that Hollander-Rozanov rivalry rekindled, either. Those were the days!

Shane emerged from the summer exhausted.

His two weeks at the cottage were long in the past and a large portion of his August had been spent travelling between photoshoots. Given how much he enjoyed those, he was happy to be back in the locker room and on the ice.

It would be unfair to blame the entirety of his exhaustion on his brand partnerships, however. One of the things he had to thank for his restless summer was Rozanov. When Shane wasn’t looking into the logistics of starting a charity – and there was so much still to do, every step he researched in detail somehow produced five more that would need to happen first – he was thinking about Rozanov himself.

In unguarded moments, Shane’s mind would pull up the memory of Rozanov joking sucking Shane’s dick. And the anatomical part in question didn’t seem to understand that it had been a joke, or that Shane had no real intention of fooling around with Rozanov even if he’d been serious.

Sometimes, though, in the shower or when he was just about to fall asleep, Shane’s mind refused to apply reason and instead produced thoughts such as: Rozanov would be good at it and Rozanov probably fucks as he plays, showy and aggressive, and that apparently appealed to some primal part of Shane’s brain.

The part that had gone too long without enough physical activity. That was another reason to look forward to playing again. During the season, he rarely longed for sex. This had been the main obstacle to his relationship with Rose, after all.

Once the season started properly, he would be too busy thinking about plays for images of Rozanov’s hands and mouth to haunt his thoughts.

“Capitaine,” J.J. flung himself into the seat next to Shane. “Hayden sent me to make sure you’re getting some rest.”

Shane looked up from the tablet in his hands, then glanced around. They were on a plane headed to Florida for their next preseason game and Shane had been trying to distract himself from the vision of muddy heat and too bright sky with the knowledge that the ice rink would be cold as anywhere else. The last he’d seen of Hayden, his best friend was invited to a game of poker, which Shane happily avoided because Comeau always cheated. Now he spotted the back of his best friend’s head alone a few rows ahead. “If Hayden has concerns, why doesn’t he come voice them himself?”

J.J. rolled his eyes. “He is being a dad. Jackie sent him a video of some recital or something, he’s watching it now.”

“And he didn’t come show me?” Shane was an honorary uncle to the flock of Pike kids, so the thought that Hayden would not subject him to long minutes of his children doing whatever children did hurt a little.

“I think he’s worried you’ll make him work.” J.J. smirked, nodding his chin towards the tablet where a now paused game was clearly visible.

“Well, as an A---”

“See? It’s preseason, Capitaine. You need to relax.” J.J. leaned in, giving the screen a proper look. “What are you even… Ottawa and Carolina? Seriously?”

Heat crept into Shane’s cheeks. There was no good reason for him to be watching the game. The Montréal Metros wouldn’t be playing against Carolina anytime soon and the Ottawa Centaurs were still a bottom-ranked team. “Ottawa’s improved,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t want to be caught unprepared.”

“Just because Rozanov scored on us last game doesn't mean they are an actual contender,” J.J. shook his head. “We still won.”

“In overtime, J.J. The game should never have gone into overtime.”

And just like that, they were talking hockey and Shane wouldn’t have to admit that he’d been watching Ottawa play because Rozanov on ice awoke something inside him. Or that he had been hanging out with Rozanov in his free time, and planning to start a charity with him.

Or that he wondered whether the Centaurs playing more confidently had anything to do with his and Rozanov’s recent conversations.

There was the issue with the flowers, too.

Every time Shane looked at the results of the Centaurs’ games, he thought about the challenge Rozanov had issued. A bouquet for a victory. Even though Shane often struggled to identify when people were joking, he was very certain that Rozanov hadn’t been serious. The mentions of flowers had been squished in between mocking remarks and flirting that Rozanov himself had admitted wasn’t genuine. Ilya Rozanov flirted with everyone, just to see if they’d flinch.

So, he was almost, almost, sure they didn’t actually have an agreement for Shane to get Rozanov flowers if Rozanov won a game. He had only barely worried about it when during their game Rozanov had checked him into the board five minutes until the end of the third period. Rozanov had been grinning, his body briefly pressing against Shane’s own, the scoreboard still showing a tie… No, Shane had not wondered whether he’d have to humiliate himself by punctuating his loss with an order from a florist.

Therefore, he didn’t have to examine why the thought was, maybe, a little thrilling.

Perhaps he didn’t need to worry about it anyway. The Ottawa team had marginally improved, but they weren’t winning any games.

It was not flirting, Shane reasoned when he typed ‘florists Ottawa’ into Google.

The Centaurs had won their last preseason game, beating Detroit 4-1. Rozanov scored a hattrick. And now Shane was sitting in his living room, looking at reviews of bouquets.

It was not flirting. It was… seeing if Rozanov himself would flinch if someone played along, that was all. Shane was just leaning into the joke. Rozanov would definitely understand that it was a joke. Because that was all it was.

Maybe it’d set them on a more even footing for when Shane emailed him a list of things they needed to start working on. They were approaching the stage when they’d need to involve lawyers and start filling forms and agree on how much of their own finances to pour into the project. They’d need to start talking to actual people about it.

So maybe looking at flowers was easier than picking up his phone and calling Yuna Hollander to say: “I’m going to be working with Ilya Rozanov,” and having a conversation about how that’ll impact his brand.

So maybe, just maybe, he wanted Rozanov to feel as flustered at the thought of Shane Hollander as Shane had been any time Rozanov crossed his mind in summer.

So yes, Shane dropped a few hundred on the flowers. Just on the off chance it made Rozanov pause for a second. It was a shame he wouldn’t get to see it.

It would probably backfire and make Rozanov even cockier.

It was the afternoon practice the day after their game against Detroit. The Centaurs won. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time the locker room buzzed with this much positive energy.

They won. They could do it again, in games that mattered, in games that counted towards their actual point standing. Some of the guys were definitely fantasizing about play-offs already. Ilya wasn’t that naïve, they had won games before only to go back to a losing streak, but today, he would allow himself to feel hopeful.

And then their equipment manager, Dale, walked in with a shout of: “Hey, Roz, a delivery for you.”

Ilya looked up from his skates and for a moment, all he could see was---

Red.

Red roses and red orchids and red lilies.

He could barely see Dale through all the flowers. “I had to sign for them on your behalf,” Dale was saying, “but there was no card.”

Ilya didn’t need a card to know who sent him lilies the size of his hands in the exact shade of the red on Ottawa’s jerseys. He got up, taking the bouquet from Dale’s hands. It was heavy, huge and so preciously fragile all at once.

There was no place to set it down in the locker room. Perhaps… the break room? He had no idea. He had never received flowers before, not even when he’d been to hospital a few times. Get well cards and joke gifts and plush toys he’d later donate, but never flowers.

“You okay, Roz?” Bood clasped his shoulder.

Mutely, Ilya nodded. He had no way of explaining that his insides didn’t get the memo this was clearly a joke. That his heart was slamming against his ribcage and sending blood who knows where, and now he was feeling a little light-headed.

And he had an enormous bouquet to get home in a Corvette without crushing the fragile flowers.

Which should not matter, because it was a joke gift. A little humiliating, too, if he was being honest with himself. A pat on a head for winning a game when he was one of the best players in the league and victories should be expected.

But his insides didn’t get the memo.

Shane’s phone rang.

“Hollander.” Rozanov sounded… off? His voice sounded like it was about to crack as he said: “You sent me flowers.”

He’d hoped Rozanov would be a little flustered by it, but he’d mostly expected cockiness. Instead, Rozanov sounded wrecked.

Shane wished he could see his face.

“We agreed, right?” He shrugged. He caught his hand brushing through his hair in a nervous gesture as he tried to steady himself. Why was he nervous about this? “Did you like them?”

“Hollander.” Rozanov took a ragged breath. He was quiet for a moment, then he said: “You need buy smaller. We will win a lot, I don’t want it to be a burden on your wallet.”

Shane laughed. “Montréal pays well.”

“Ah. Well, in that case…”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, but neither of them hung up either. Shane caught himself wondering where Rozanov was now, whether he was looking at the bouquet Shane had picked for him.

Whether he actually liked it, at least a little.

Finally, Rozanov spoke: “Can you be in Ottawa sometime next week? There’s a player on Ottawa Charge I want you to meet.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

There wasn't going to be an outsider's POV in this fic, but I love some outsider's POV. Apologies for the fact that this is entirely an outsider's POV chapter, however. It was meant to have an Ilya POV portion, too, but after several attempts, I couldn't make it work.
Leah Campbell and Max Riley are characters from the The Long Game.
---
CW: mentions of transphobia; mentions of death threats

When Leah Campbell got the notice that someone was waiting to meet her in the room usually used to view film, she wasn't sure what she was expecting. The young communication's intern was a scatterbrained creature and could not provide more information, so Leah was just hoping she wasn't walking into trouble.

Maybe she should have stayed in the locker room until the info given to her contained more details. Some details other than "visitors to see you". At least she was pretty sure it wasn't press; even the intern wouldn't let them through without proper warning. So worst case scenario, it was someone who could be sort out by being handed her agent info.

That was what she had been thinking, at least, until she stepped into the room to find Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander.

Leah had been skating for as long as she could walk and playing hockey for almost as long, too. And playing hockey meant paying attention to hockey, although even without the intense focus on the sport, she'd have recognized them immediately. They were some of the best-known faces in Ottawa. The Russian menace turned something of a queer icon and the golden boy of Canada whose careers started as something of a legendary rivalry.

She wouldn't have thought she'd see them in one room outside of an official MLH event, let alone in a room waiting for her.

Why would these two men, of all people, be waiting for her?

Leah's impression of Ilya Rozanov had always been that he was an average-sized human who postured to appear larger. Now she saw a massive man putting effort into looking unthreateningly small. The too big Ottawa Charge jersey he was wearing did a lot of the work for him.

Beside him, Shane Hollander in a dark polo shirt looked like he got lost on his way to the accounting department's meeting. He glanced at her with recognition, however, and accepted her offered hand. "Leah Campbell. We met at the Olympics in 2014," he said and smiled when she nodded. "Amazing shutout against Switzerland."

She shrugged at the compliment and opted not to ask whether he'd paid attention to the final, too. There was a gold medal in her trophy collection at home where his would hold a silver one, and a silver one from the Olympics he'd never attended; she figured that might be a bit of a sore topic. Not as sore as for the Russian in the room, though.

Leah turned to shake hands with Rozanov.

"Ms. Campbell."

"Leah," she corrected him, at least in part because being called a 'Ms.' by a guy her age in an oversized jersey known for being a player, in the not-hockey sense, was at best hillarious and at worst making her feel like she should make a hip-replacement appointment. "Are you allowed to wear that?"

"Is fine when it's another league," he said, glancing down at his outfit. "But if your team ever wants to play against mine, I think that would be fun."

"We'd win."

Rozanov shruggered. "Possibly. Though we have a very good goalie, too."

"Campbell's career save percentage is 91.8%," Hollander said seriously. He had the face of someone who was always serious. "Hayes' is only 91.6%."

Rozanov waved one hand. "I'm terrified you know that from your head and I'm not willing to check."

"I think that's correct." Leah didn't actually have her stats memorised, but it sounded plausible, and she was willing to trust the guy people said lived and breathed hockey.

"I didn't memorize all the leagues," Hollander said, shaking his head, a little flustered. Perhaps he wasn't quoting player stats off the top of his head just to show off. "Rozanov said we were meeting someone on this team, so I looked it up."

"Hollander's very good at homework," Rozanov said with nod and smirked when Hollander turned a glare his way. "Leah, I'm so glad we could meet," he continued then, sounding actually serious. "It's really difficult to get a hold of you. I've emailed your husband, too, but no reply."

It should be the bare minimum, calling Max her husband. And yet the bar was in hell and Leah found that the simple lack of hesitation in Rozanov's voice was enough for her to consider him a probably decent human being. Probably, because he was still a male professional athlete, a hockey guy, and so some wariness was surely understandable.

"Max is on a bit of an internet detox," she said. It wasn't entirely true. Max was incredibly active online, but he wasn't opening emails from unfamiliar addresses. Or from the guys from the MLH, although Rozanov seemed like a fairly safe option, all things considered.

Rozanov nodded. "Ah, yes, hatemail gets boring after a while," he admitted. "But I'm glued to my phone, not looking at it all the time is very hard. I paid for a custom filter that redirects death treats straight to my lawyer's team," he kept his tone conversational and completely ignored the way Hollander's eye widened. "Perhaps Max would be interested?"

Leah would have chuckled politely, except that she suspected Rozanov was entirely serious, in this case. And she could imagine how the kind of a filter would in fact be useful to Max, because his inbox hadn't been the most pleasant place since his transition. There were many messages of support, but also some far less kind ones. Max had tough skin, but Leah could tell there were days some of the stuff got underneath anyway. She'd offered to take the role of an assistant and filter the inbox for him, but he'd only huffed.

"We have people looking into it," she said, however, still a little cautious of Rozanov's intentions. And it was sort of true. If by 'people' she meant her teenage brother with interest in all things computer, who had wiped their inboxes of the worst of it. "And perhaps I'd like to first know what you're selling. "

"Selling?" Rozanov shook his head. He sat down onto one of the chairs, making the transition look effortlessly charming where Hollander was all awkward stiffness and Leah a little wary. "No, I sell nothing. Hollander and I, we want to ask for your help."

"Why didn't you tell me you got an email from Ilya Rozanov?" Leah asked her husband over dinner.

Max gave her a weird look, tilting his head to one side as he searched her face for a joke. "Why would Ilya Rozanov be emailing me?"

"Apparently he's been emailing a lot of players," Leah shrugged. Her own email was private and her team wouldn't give it out, which was what had led to the surprise visit at the practice facility. "He and Shane Hollander came to see me today."

"Now I know you're kidding," Max snorted and turned his attention back to his curry. "Are you telling me Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were in the same room without the buffer of the entire MLH between them, and they both survived?" He shook his head. Although the rivalry between Rozanov and Hollander was nowhere as much of a hot topic as it used to be when they'd been drafted, most people wouldn't expect them to want to spend time together. Squeaky clean Hollander, whose only scandal was an amicable breakup with a Hollywood sweetheart, and Rozanov, who provoked everyone, the MLH included. "You'll need to think of a more believable prank."

Between the two of them, Max had always been the one more likely to prank someone, so Leah just rolled her eyes. "I can't believe you missed an email from Ilya Rozanov," she said.

Three minutes later, the curry had been pushed aside and Max's laptop took the central stage on their dining table. "See, no mail from Rozanov."

"Check your spam folder?"

Max shook his head but did so, and paused. "…is he still using the email address he made in high school or something?"

Because there was the email. From roz81i.

"It could have been way worse," Leah said gently.

"Oh yeah, it could have been addressed from Rozilya, the eighty-one year old lady that sells dry tomatoes at the local market and hates her grandchildren," Max sighed, although somewhat fondly. "Or a dick joke. I think this is his professional high school email." He shook his head. "What even is this about?"

"Honestly," Leah admitted, "at first I thought it was some PR stunt MLH was making them pull to cover whatever scandal they might be trying to hide. But after talking to them today, I think it's actually homegrown activism."

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for the comments on this fic. Special thanks to everyone who said Ilya and Shane are playing romance chicken, because yes, I think that's exactly the right term for it.

PS: That's not Ilya's high school email. That's his personal email he made after moving to America for things he didn't want attached to his MLH one. His high school one was far far worse.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Shane Hollander's car was in Ilya's driveway.

Shane Hollander was in his hallway, taking his shoes off.

Ilya was still wearing the Ottawa Charge jersey, a little bigger than he'd normally wear, and he felt silly as he put his feet into his slides and waved Hollander in. "We'll be able to say we have two-time Olympic medalists on our coaching staff," he said.

They'd driven from the Ottawa Charge's facility separately, so now was a good opportunity to talk about their conversation with Leah Campbell.

"They haven't agreed yet," Hollander pointed out. This time, he walked into Ilya's house with a lot more confidence.

He headed directly for the dining room area, even though he didn't have his laptop on him and Ilya had not made food.

"They will," Ilya said, following Hollander into his own house. He was about to add that no one could resist his charm for long, when he saw the other man freeze.

"You kept them."

The red flowers stood on the dining room table. Over a week since Ilya had received them in the Centaurs' locker room, they looked a little less impressive. Many had already wilted and Ilya and his cleaning lady were taking turns trying to rearrange the bouquet so that it still looked okay. It had come with enough flowers closed, however, so it was holding up.

"I get nice flowers, I keep them," Ilya shrugged, his tone betraying none of the turmoil inside him. Whenever he looked at the red roses and orchids and lilies, he felt… a little too much of everything. "But is a problem. Is a high quality bouquet," he said, almost certain he was mispronouncing the last word but he powered through anyway, "but I only have one vase. So I can't win again until they are gone."

Hollander looked at him. "You have a mansion but only one vase."

"Is not a mansion, just a big house," Ilya waved his hand dismissively and gestured towards the couch. "Come sit," he invited Hollander before taking a seat himself. He took the corner of the couch, leaving enough space for the other man.

Hollander, predictably, took the other corner.

"You were right about reaching out to the players from other leagues," he said, slowly. He rearranged the decorative cushions as he spoke, making the space more comfortable for himself, before keeping his hand on one of them, fingers toying with the decorative stitching around the edge. "I remember Campbell and Riley from the Olympics. Their team was much nicer about them winning gold while we got silver than ours would have been."

"You're all polite Canadians," Ilya shrugged and hoped his face betrayed nothing about the games being a sore topic. "You'd have been nice enough."

"I think you and Riley will get along."

"Yes? Why is that?"

"You're both loud and outgoing. I wasn't in a celebratory mood at the afterparty, you know, after losing the gold medal game. But I think that almost all the beer I drank was handed to me by Riley."

"How much beer was that?" Ilya asked curiously.

And maybe with something akin to jealousy.

Hollander didn't look like someone who'd drink a lot. He refused to drink during the season and Ilya had never heard much about drunken shenanigans when it came to the Metros' captain. Even his Cup celebrations were fairly tame compared to other players, even Hollander's own teammates. After Montréal's third Stanley Cup win under his captaincy, Comeau and Drapeau were still drinking questionable booze from each other's shoes and putting various substances into all orifices, when Hollander was already at home, responding to Ilya's texts with shocking coherence.

"Probably the least out of everyone else there," Hollander snorted with a shrug. He wasn't looking at Ilya, his gaze resting somewhere on the conference table, but it didn't feel like he wasn't engaged in the conversation. "Riley's fucking good. It sucks what happened to him."

"Yes."

Following Max Riley's coming out and transition, he'd lost his position on the women's team and currently, there was no professional team for him to play in. It wasn't just MLH that sucked. Hockey sucked. Professional sports sucked.

Sometimes, Ilya was desperate just to make the world see it.

"I love hockey," Hollander said.

"Me too." It wasn't a lie. Sometimes, hockey was the only thing in Ilya's life that made any sense at all. In practices, he felt like he was doing something worthwhile. When people cheered for him or booed him in games, he felt seen, he felt loved. Or hated, but that was always better than not being at all. "But sometimes it fucking sucks."

Hollander nodded.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Hollander looked like he had more to say, but he was quiet, a small crease forming between his brows.

"Have you considered whom else you want to invite to the board?" he asked finally, not at all a question Ilya had been expecting as a follow-up to their conversation so far.

When he didn't reply immediately, Hollander turned his eyes to him with a frown on his face.

"It was one of the points I sent you," he reminded Ilya. "We need three directors on the board and we can't register until we have a board."

They'd touched on it briefly last time, but Ilya kept putting it off. He liked working with Hollander, he'd found out. They had a good rhythm, a good rapport. Ilya was actually looking forward to receiving messages from him. For whatever reason, he didn't like the idea of introducing someone else into that dynamic.

"I found you," he said with a pout. "Is your turn now."

Apparently, Hollander didn't like that idea because he was frowning even more. "Well, one of the prospective coaches would be a good—"

"No," Ilya interrupted him, shaking his head. He wasn't even sure why the thought sat badly with him, but he didn't want to share this thing with any other player. "Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander's foundation is something. Is not the same thing if it's Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander and some fifteenth best player on the Montréal Metros."

He earned himself a glare, but won the argument.

"Not a player, then." Hollander sighed. "We could… No, that's a bad idea."

"What is? You have to tell me now," Ilya looked at him eagerly, curious as to what Hollander had in mind. "I judge if the idea is good or terrible."

Hollander snorted. "I'm not sure I trust your judgement. You drive a sports car in Ottawa."

"Sports cars," Ilya corrected him. "And I also own a sensible SUV for the winter, am not stupid."

"You will think this idea is stupid."

"I can think nothing if you don't tell me," Ilya pointed out, arching an eyebrow at Hollander, because Hollander was definitely stalling. While he knew the man to be a strategic player, he'd never known him to be a cowardly one. Hollander's playing had always been as fast as it was precise. Where Ilya intimidated the other players on ice by cutting through them with brute force, Hollander scared them by executing plays before they even realised what he was doing.

"We need someone reliable and competent," Hollander said. "Someone we can trust and who will support the ideas behind the project rather than try to turn it into something else."

"Not stupid so far."

"You don't want it to be another player, and I'd rather not make it some stranger we're employing, like a lawyer or something."

"Hollander," Ilya sighed, finally losing patience. "You're stalling. I'm starting to worry you want to involve Crowell or something." The MLH commissioner was probably the last person Ilya could imagine working for an inclusivity-oriented organization. If anything, the man would be appalled to hear about it. Ilya got a carefully worded but definitely threatening phone call from him roughly every three months.

In response, a jumble of words tumbled out of Hollander's mouth. Ilya had grown used to English, to many accents beings spoken one over the other, and his listening skills had vastly improved since his high school years. Now, however, he felt like he was sitting back in class, trying to understand the voices on a crackling tape that were noise more than meaning. The words came too fast, the cadence all over the place, sounds blending into each other.

"Come again?"

"We could," Hollander took a deep breath, "ask my mother?"

In the first moment, Ilya wanted to ask Hollander to repeat himself again. He was aware of Yuna Hollander as an entity, of course, because she was far from unknown in the hockey circles. He'd known of her for almost as long as he'd known of Shane Hollander, having first experienced her sitting in the stands at the World Juniors with an expression not unlike one of his coaches. As far as he knew, she was still managing Hollander's brand and was the force behind his face being plastered all across North America.

"Your mother."

Hollander shrugged. "I told you it'd be stupid," he sighed. "But I've been thinking… I need to tell her before we announce anything anyway, because it'll impact my brand. And we really only need a name on a paper, right?"

"Would she be willing?"

"My main concern is that she would be a little too enthusiastic about it," Hollander admitted. "She likes it when I position myself as a good role model."

He sounded almost gloomy saying that.

"Would she be okay with my involvement?" Ilya frowned. He had been called many things in his life, but a good role model wasn't one of them. Not even back when he was the overhyped first overall draft, the rising star of MLH, the one Boston was putting their hopes into. People were entertained by him on ice and off, and admired his skating and his hits, but in the next breath they'd tell their kids to not take his lifestyle for an example. That sentiment only grew after his coming out, and the years he'd wasted not winning much of anything.

Hollander thought about it for a second. "I think so," he said slowly. "You're a lot more polite than she'll expect, too, which would definitely help."

Ilya barked out a laugh.

Then he hesitated. "Does that mean you want me to meet her? Hollander! I didn't know we were at the meet the parents stage."

Hollander glared at him. "If you don't like the idea, you just have to say," he replied. "We can ask someone else. One of your friends might be willing?"

Ilya thought of Svetlana. She would probably agree, and it would be nice to have an excuse to see more of her. Maybe she would agree, but maybe she would eat Hollander alive in the process.

"Your mother, she would not like if we established this foundation behind her back, would she?"

He didn't have parents anymore. Hollander seemed to have a good relationship with his own, however, and Ilya didn't want to be the one to damage that.

"She might be upset," Hollander admitted. "I can't imagine her being against it, but she would be hurt that I didn't talk to her about it."

"And you haven't talked to her about it at all yet?"

Shaking his head, Hollander admitted: "I wanted to be certain we were going through with it first. And I think we are, right?"

"I hope so," Ilya nodded. "So maybe you need to talk to your mother. We see what she thinks, we decide after."

He didn't want to show it, but a thread of tension tangled itself around his ribs. They'd already done enough work, invested emotionally, and he was sure it would all collapse now. Yuna Hollander would hear that her perfect role model son, the golden boy of Canada's hockey, the hope and aspirational idol of hockey-playing Asian Canadians and neurodivergent kids everywhere, had been hanging out with the cautionary tale that was Ilya Rozanov. And she would put an end to it. Regardless of Hollander's age and competence, he would let his mother influence him, and Ilya would lose this last chance at making up for the missed opportunities of the years past.

He should have seen this coming.

Yet he wouldn't be the one to tell Hollander to keep this a secret for a little longer. He missed his mother viscerally every day, and he wouldn't be the one to damage someone's relationship with theirs.

He realized his fingers were clutching the cross at his throat and he forced his hand to drop into his lap.

Hollander slowly exhaled, thinking. "I was going to have a dinner with my parents today," he said. "Since I'm already in town. Would you… Do you want to join us?"

Ilya was momentarily taken aback. "I was joking about meeting parents, Hollander."

"It's okay if you don't want to," Hollander said, but the crease between his brows betrayed him.

"Do you actually want me to?"

"I thought it'd make it easier, if you helped me explain."

"I thought might be harder, with me there."

"I think my mother would understand better why I want to work with you if she actually met you. But I understand it might be a lot. I'll talk to her, and then I can introduce you later, if that works better for you." Hollander shrugged. "We don't have to actually involve her either, that was just an idea."

"No." Ilya stood up. "No, I will join you for dinner with parents. I just need to change," he pulled at the front of his Charge jersey.

If today was the end of everything, at least he would get a resolution in person. He would have Hollander say to his face that his mother was right, that their cooperation would be damaging to his proper boy branding, that he was very sorry, that he would still support Ilya's efforts, just not too loudly, he'd definitely donate. And Ilya wouldn't hold it against him. They would part their ways on the Hollanders' porch and Ilya would not let it show how much it hurt.

At least it would be in person.

At least it wouldn't be a polite, apologetic phone call.

He could sit through one dinner with the Hollanders before they politely threw them out of their house.

"Okay," Hollander nodded, looking at him a little wide-eyed. He looked at his sponsor-provided Rolex watch. "Okay. You have time to change, I will call my parents to expect a guest."

"Will they like an Ottawa Centaurs jersey or should I see if I still have old Boston ones?"

That earned him a glare. "Just don't wear a walk-on suit, please."

Ilya wasn't sure how Hollander knew he'd been considering it.

He put on a pair of dark jeans and pulled one of his nicer shirts out of his walk-in closet. He checked his hair, he'd already shaved earlier and he still looked okay. His fingernails were trimmed but polish-free, which was probably a good thing. He couldn't imagine Hollander's parents approving of such flamboyance; Ilya's own father would never and these people raised Hollander, who was all proper and wore boring clothes.

When he returned downstairs, Hollander was standing in the dining room area.

He was looking at the flowers.

It was shame these would be the last ones Ilya had ever received.

He wasn't sure whether to hope that Hollander would keep it up for just a little longer. Send him a bouquet or two before they stopped keeping touch for good.

He watched Hollander reach out and pick up a stray rose petal that'd fallen onto the table. Hollander then turned around and his eyes caught on Ilya. His gaze trailed down the entirety of Ilya's body, and it seemed he liked what he saw. If the swiftness with which he looked away again, or a lightly pink tint spreading under his freckles, was anything to go by.

"I'm ready to charm Mrs. Hollander," Ilya said, forcing a grin.

Hollander cleared his throat. "Let's take my car," he offered.

It was okay. Ilya could always call an Uber to pick him up from the Hollanders' driveway when they were done with him.

Chapter End Notes

The boys just doing everything out of order in this universe.

("But you are brave," Ilya to his reflection in the mirror while getting ready.)

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

"You look nervous," Rozanov pointed out from the passenger's seat of Shane's car.

Shane was trying not to look at him. The shirt Rozanov was wearing opened at his neck just so, revealing his cross and a hint of collarbone and Shane's gaze kept getting dragged there. Trust Rozanov to wear something like that to a dinner with Shane's parents.

"It's a last minute change of plans," Shane said in response to Rozanov's observation. "I have to… recalibrate, I guess."

"If you'd rather talk to your mother alone—"

"No," he lifted his hand to stop Rozanov, "that would be yet another change of plans, we're not doing that."

He wanted his mother to meet Rozanov before she could pass a judgement. Because Rozanov was different than Shane first thought he would be, and Shane would like her to see that before she dismissed him on the aspects of his public persona she found difficult to excuse.

He couldn't believe he was about to introduce Ilya Rozanov to his parents as a friend and ask them to like him.

Except that he was realising they had indeed become friends. And Shane liked him. He liked talking to him, and being around him.

Rozanov often threw him off-balance, but at the same time, in his company Shane felt… not normal in the sense that he'd now understand how neurotypical people functioned. More like it didn't matter that much that he never would.

"You're really okay with getting my mother involved?" he asked so that he didn't have to dwell on that train of thought.

"If she agrees," Rozanov nodded and out of the corner of his eye, Shane could see Rozanov's fingers toy with the cross at his throat. "She is responsible for your face being everywhere, yes? If she could make a charity that visible, that would be nice. She could get sponsors for the camps, which would mean less money going into the running of the thing, more for actually doing good things. Would be nice, I think."

"I half expected another jab about my Mom being my only friend," Shane admitted.

"Ah, no. She is just your only competent friend, is different."

There was a part of Shane that worried whether Rozanov would be capable of behaving. Sure, he'd been a pleasant company for Shane, but he was still taking up a lot of space in every environment he walked into and challenged Shane after every other sentence. He'd been unusually quiet during those twenty minutes in the car, though, and held himself half a step behind Shane while Shane unlocked the door.

"Mom! Dad!" Shane called while Rozanov wordlessly removed his shoes. "We're here," he added as they stepped into the living room area.

His parents were sitting on the couch and got up to their feet when Shane entered with Rozanov in tow. The surprise on Yuna and David Hollander's faces was undeniable and understandable. Shane hadn't told him who he was bringing over.

"Mom, Dad," he repeated. "This is Ilya Rozanov."

"Hi," said Rozanov, voice tiny. He cleared his throat. "Is nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander. Mr. Hollander. I'm sorry I come empty-handed. It was a last-minute invitation on your son's part." Although he shifted all blame to Shane's shoulders, his tone was so light that no one could take offense.

David recovered first. "No worries, son," he said warmly. "We have everything we need here, and we're always happy when Shane brings over a friend."

Not that Shane brought many friends home. Hayden had been here a couple times, JJ once. His high school girlfriend had made it to the porch and Rose to a dinner at a restaurant with Shane's parents.

"Right," Yuna nodded, voice pitched a little higher than normal. "We're very happy to have you. Let's— Let's sit down, shall we?"

She gestured towards the dining room, which saw use only on holidays. Normally, when Shane came over for dinner they would eat in the kitchen, but apparently a guest demanded proper seating. The table was already set. Shane's parents had definitely read a hosting guide in their life; Shane wished they'd shared the skills with him.

There was no center-piece on the table, however, just a spot where to put the pot.

No bright red flowers, like the bouquet still decorating Rozanov's house.

"I hope you like pasta, Mr. Rozanov," David said when Shane navigated Rozanov to the seat that was usually empty.

"Please, call me Ilya," Rozanov said, which was not something he'd ever offered Shane. "And yes, I like pasta very much."

When Shane lifted an eyebrow at him, Rozanov kept his face neutral. Shane had hoped the man would be well-behaved at his parents' place, but he was starting to wonder who'd snatched him out of Shane's car and replaced him with a robot assistant.

"Ilya," David repeated with a nod before disappearing into the kitchen to bring out the pot of pasta.

"I'm sorry it's so last minute," Shane apologised. "Our schedules are so busy that it seemed urgent to take advantage of both of us being in town right now."

Yuna nodded. Her hands were folded in front of her and she was looking at Rozanov.

"I have to say," David returned with the food and gestured for them to serve themselves, "I don't think we've realized you two were, ah, friendly?"

Rozanov looked at Shane. Shane shrugged.

"We've been talking more since the All-Star Game," Shane explained.

Yuna and David exchanged a glance.

"We discovered we have, maybe, some things in common," Rozanov said. He'd waited his turn to get his pasta, but now he was shoveling it onto his plate like he hadn't eaten in a few days.

"Some things?" Yuna repeated. "What things, exactly?"

"We are the best players in the league, for one," Rozanov smirked briefly, "but also… We both noticed that the league perhaps has some blind spots. When it comes to diversity."

"What Rozanov's trying to say," Shane sighed, "is that we are both minorities in the league. You know there are not many Asian players in MLH, or players that would be publicly neurodivergent. And you know Rozanov is…"

"Bisexual," Rozanov supplied when Shane hesitated. "I came out a couple years back," he added, looking between David and Yuna. For a moment, he forgot the pasta, his hands frozen in the air.

Yuna nodded. "I remember that."

"It must have been hard," David said much more gently.

"I have a good team," Rozanov shrugged. He turned his gaze back to his plate and began to eat in between sentences. "The owners are good, the coach is supportive and my teammates are mostly okay. If there are any that mind, they keep it to themselves." He exhaled. "But no, it was not always easy. Which is why we have been talking," he gestured between himself and Shane with the fork in his hand.

"Rozanov approached me at the All-Star Game with an idea," Shane said, fully realising that he was using a different name than the man had offered to his parents. However, Ilya Rozanov's first name simply wouldn't pass through his lips. "We talked about the fact that professional sports, especially hockey, aren't exactly supportive of people like us. The locker room culture fosters discrimination, if anything."

"It demands conformity," Rozanov added. "They say is a team sport, distraction and disruptions don't belong. What they mean is that being a little different makes us more difficult to package and sell to the fans. To sponsors. To people who don't think someone like us can play, or should be allowed to."

He was still eating. Shane could barely touch his meal through how nervous he was, wanting his parents to approve, but Rozanov was digging into his food like it was the best pasta he'd ever eaten.

Yuna nodded. "I can't disagree," she admitted slowly. "Although what I'm hearing is a lot of observations, but not an idea. Shane, are you planning to release a manifesto of some sort, because that—"

"No," Shane interrupted her quickly. "No, nothing like that. We have been talking about starting a foundation. A charity that would promote diversity in hockey. The idea is that we would run a hockey camp in the summer, then use the profit to fund initiatives that promote and support diversity."

"Not just promotion," Rozanov added. "Real help, where possible. Stipends and the like. Hockey can be very exclusive just because, you know, is hockey. You need to spend a lot of money to even start playing hockey."

"That's a very nice idea," David said.

"My one concern is that it could be considered an open critique of the league," Yuna said, "which is not a wrong thing to do, exactly, but it could make both of you even less palatable. Both of you are nearing the end of your contracts, I would worry about getting a reputation for being difficult."

Shane's heart clenched.

He hadn't even thought of the possibility that the league could see it as an attack. His summer fundraiser had been PR-friendly, very inspirational. Now they were talking about systemic issues.

"Well, I already have reputation," Rozanov chuckled. "But I don't want to damage Shane Hollander's. Is not a critique of league. Not directly, at least. We criticise the sport, but do it from a place of love. We both love hockey," he glanced at Shane for confirmation, "perhaps more than anything. But it doesn't always love us back. We talked to people from other leagues—"

"We had a meeting with Leah Campbell, who plays for Ottawa's women's team," Shane explained. "Women's sports are notoriously underfunded and underpromoted in general. And Campbell's husband, Max Riley, has no opportunities within professional hockey at all at the moment, even though he is a very good player."

"I told Shane," Rozanov said, "it would be nice if everyone who could play good hockey actually got a chance to play. We deserve to be playing against the actually best players, not just the players who are sort of okay but socially acceptable."

It was a nice thought, but what snagged Shane's attention was the way Rozanov had said his name.

His first name.

It sounded different in his mouth than anyone had ever pronounced it. And it wasn't just Rozanov's accent. Shane had heard Rozanov say "Shane Hollander" before, teasing and challenging, so he knew how Rozanov's accent wrapped around those words. No. It was the way he said it now.

Naturally.

It lacked the usual edge.

Shane's heart was somewhere in his throat.

Yuna was speaking: "I think that's an excellent approach. If you frame it as promoting the sport and access to it, as something the league could even support…"

But Shane could barely listen.

He got up.

David found him in the kitchen, where Shane was leaning against the fridge, eyes closed.

"Are you okay, kiddo?"

Shane nodded. "Too many thoughts at once, I think," he breathed out and opened his eyes. "I got a little overwhelmed."

His voice sounded rough for some reason. David filled a glass with water and handed it to Shane. "Maybe we should have eaten first and had a debate later," he said with a small smile. "It's quite a heavy topic on an empty stomach."

Shane chuckled, wrapping his hands around the glass like it was a mug of hot chocolate. He took a tentative sip.

"Ilya Rozanov…" David mused. "He's different than I'd have expected."

"He's on his best behavior," Shane snorted, but then he found himself nodding. "Actually, he is…" Nice would be the wrong word. Rozanov wasn't nice, not in the traditional sense. "He cares a lot, I believe. I didn't think he cared about anything, but getting to know him better, I think maybe he cares a little too much."

David nodded. "I think that if we stay here for a little longer, Ilya and your mother will have plotted world domination."

"Ugh, they would, wouldn't they?" Shane took several gulps of the water, trying to recenter himself.

He had been nervous about the possibility of his parents not liking Rozanov.

He wasn't prepared for what to do if his mother and Rozanov actually got along.

"For the record," David said, "I think what you and Ilya are working on sounds wonderful. You could really change the game."

David let Shane hide away for a few moments longer and took a bottle of vodka and one of wine into the dining room.

When Shane finally returned to the table, Rozanov gave him a questioning look.

"Sorry. I needed a few seconds of silence." Shane knew he shouldn't have left Rozanov to his own devices facing a likely interrogation from Yuna Hollander, but he wouldn't have been of any use to him while spiralling.

"Is okay," Rozanov said softly. "We were talking about camp logistics, about the coaches we've already approached."

"I was telling Ilya I like that you're applying the philosophy you want to promote to your coaching staff as well."

"Yes," Rozanov nodded seriously. "Hayden Pike, very diverse."

"Shut up," Shane snorted. "You want Wyatt Hayes."

Rozanov grinned at him.

"The idea is overall very solid and I love the philosophy behind it," Yuna said. "And I believe we can package it in a way that will not force the league to take a defensive stance. Now, when do you want to announce it? Have you taken any administrative steps yet?"

Rozanov looked at Shane.

Shane took a deep breath. "Actually, that's what we wanted to talk to you about. We'd like to ask for you help."

Chapter End Notes

I could write a thousand takes on Yuna and David meeting Ilya and I wouldn't get tired of it.

Chapter 14

"You with me here, Roz?" Bood's voice cut through the buzz between Ilya's ears.

It was a nice buzz. It was the kind of buzz that came from having been awake the entire night because your life had taken an unexpectedly good turn. Ilya had had a dinner with Shane Hollander's parents last night, and his life hadn't ended. There had been no awkward goodbyes on the porch. Instead, Yuna Hollander had listened to their proposal and started patching the holes in their plans before they'd even noticed them.

They'd be announcing the charity officially after the next Ottawa vs Montréal game.

And the Hollanders fed him homemade pasta, and a bowl of ice cream afterwards in the living room, and they drank vodka and wine, except for Hollander, and they talked about hockey and Ottawa's weather and ethnic grocery stores.

They talked about the charity, too, until Hollander reminded everyone that he needed to get to Montréal. He then dropped Ilya off at his house on the way out of Ottawa.

It had been the best evening Ilya had in a very long time.

"Yes, ah, yes, I'm right here," he said now, nodding at his Alternate Captain. They were standing at their stalls in the locker room before training. "I agree," he added, because it seemed like Bood had been waiting for some sort of a response from him.

"Really?" Bood arched an eyebrow at him. "I didn't think you'd be so eager to do bag skates all practice."

"What?"

Bood rolled his eyes and grinned. "I knew you weren't listening."

Ilya shrugged. "Try again," he said. "Make it interesting this time."

"And you'll tell me what's got you so spaced out?"

"No."

Zane Boodram with his Caribbean heritage was definitely the target demographic for the foundation. He was also one of the people closest to Ilya, so there was no good reason to not tell him everything about the foundation right away. Except Bood was also very perceptive. So was Hazy, but Hazy would keep his observation mostly to himself. Bood would realize Ilya had a stupid crush on Shane Hollander and he would make a big deal out of it. He would try to make it into something real and Ilya couldn't allow that. Whatever he and Hollander were doing was too fragile.

Not that it wouldn't happen once Ilya and Hollander announced the charity publicly, but that was still a few weeks away. He could enjoy the last few moments of relative peace before he had to discover that Hollander couldn't handle their friendship being perceived. It would be bad enough to deal with Bood's attempts to give Ilya hope then.

"I was saying," Bood returned to his original subject with a sigh, "that we should work on Young's passes. He telegraphs them so wide my mother-in-law could tell where he's sending the puck and she doesn't know the difference between hockey and curling."

This was why Bood was a great A. This, and the barbeques and his perceptiveness. He really cared about the team. Compared to him, Ilya sometimes felt like an absentee father.

"Okay," he nodded. "I can take Young aside for a bit."

When the practice ended, Ilya found an email on his phone.

from: Max Riley
to: Ilya R
subject: Re: charitable camps

Hey man!

Leah brought this to my attention because it ended deep, deep in the spam folder. Might have something to do with the yahoo account or the fact that it looks very much like a scam and I wouldn't have opened it if my wife hadn't sworn it was actually definitely from you (I'm still not 100% I'm not being pranked!).

If this is indeed a genuine thing and Leah isn't pranking me (if you are, it's gone on for long enough and I promise to not forget to take the trash out again), it sounds our interests are aligned! Attached is a list of initiatives I think you should look into.

That said Leah and I are very interested.

Best

Max

PS: Get an official email omg. I'm sure Hollander can figure out how to register a domain.

Grinning, Ilya forwarded the email to Hollander with a simple note: Told you they'd agree.

Ilya: Thank your parents again for having me over for dinner

Hollander: They were happy to have you. Mom is excited to have a project, and she agrees with Riley that we need to register a domain and build a website. So I think we'll have one by Friday.

Ilya: Your mother is scary
Ilya: In a good way
Ilya: You got that from her

Hollander: What do you mean?

Ilya: Terrifying competence

Ilya was sitting at his kitchen island at home, a fork in one hand and his phone in the other. Tonight's dinner was much less nice. Most days, his meals were a rotation of healthy dinners preapproved by the team nutritionist, because he was a professional athlete, supplemented with a variety of fast food and takeout because he needed a source of joy in his life. Neither of those alternatives really compared to David Hollander's homecooked pasta.

His thumb hovered over the Send button, the unsent message reading Your parents are nice.

No. No, he couldn't say that. It was too vulnerable, it screamed "I'm an orphan" and "I've never had a kind father" a little too loudly. He couldn't let Hollander see that.

Yes, everyone knew he was an orphan, or at least anyone who bothered to read the three sentences about his personal life that were available on Wikipedia. Most of the time people didn't think about it twice, however. Usually only about three seconds after they'd just made a Yo Mama joke. He'd learned to let those roll over him without catching against the vulnerable edges of his being. He threw them back easily, too, chirps about players' mothers and girlfriends and, if he was particularly ready for a fight, fathers.

He already knew he would never make a chirp about David Hollander.

Ilya erased the vulnerable observation and instead replaced his message with something that edged on dangerous. Playing with fire was where he felt comfortable.

Ilya: Meeting parents is not 3rd date activity tho

Hollander: Third date?

Ilya: Well yes
Ilya: 1 dinner at your secret apartment
Ilya: 2 dinner at my place
Ilya: 3 dinner with your parents

Hollander: The apartment is not a secret.
Hollander: And I think that by your definition, it was actually the fourth date.

Ilya: ?

Hollander: We had drinks at All-Stars.

Ilya took a shaky breath. It was so easy for Hollander to make Ilya's head spin, and he probably had no idea he was doing it. The fact that Hollander played along with the joke, a flirtatious one, it did something to Ilya. Something dangerous.

He needed to stop.

And yet he couldn't.

Ilya: Ah then it was actually date 5

Shane: What else are you counting?

Ilya: Gym on draft day

There was a long silence.

The indicator of Hollander typing kept appearing and disappearing.

Finally, when Ilya was about to send him something about the charity just to get away from the topic, Hollander sent his response.

Hollander: That was years ago. Meeting the parents was long overdue.

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

"Oh, honey, what are you doing?"

Shane felt like he was living in a strange dream. He was standing in Ilya Rozanov's living room with his mother, and Yuna's words were addressed to the owner of the house.

"You look like you're going to audit someone's taxes."

Her words were harsh, but not exactly wrong. Rozanov was wearing the most conventional outfit Shane had ever seen him in, more boring than the one he'd worn to their joint press conference their rookie year. It was a gray suit with a light blue shirt underneath, complete with a tie.

"I thought—" Rozanov looked down at himself and ran his hands over the flaps of his jacket. "Is a serious matter."

"I'd think you were replaced with an alien clone if you walked like this into a post-game conference," Yuna said, "let alone something that's not MLH-related. Isn't the whole point of this project to stop hiding yourself?"

"Do you want me to change?"

"We have the time," Yuna said, and Shane almost told her she is welcome, because it was his anxiety that made them meet well before the conference. "I'd like to see you wear something more you. Or at least more your brand."

Behind her back, Shane rolled his eyes at Rozanov.

Rozanov bit his lip and nodded, "Okay." Over the years he'd spent living in North America, his accent had softened somewhat, but this one word, this sounded exactly like a memory from Saskatchewan.

He disappeared up the stairs.

Shane and Yuna were left standing in Rozanov's open plan living room, and Shane realised he'd been running the pads of his fingers over the couch's backrest for at least a couple minutes. He attempted to shove his hands in his pockets, only to remember that his dark blue suit had none.

"What a beautiful house," Yuna said softly, looking around. "Very tasteful. Does it all look like this?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen any more of it." The two times he'd visited Rozanov, he'd never made it further than the living room. The house was much larger than that; Shane wouldn't be surprised if it had more communal areas, probably a den downstairs, and it definitely contained multiple bedrooms upstairs.

"I'd like to meet the designer," he added. "I like the style."

Yuna nodded. "It's very… bachelor but sophisticated," she said ponderingly. "Your place in Montréal could use an upgrade."

"Is it not sophisticated enough?"

"It's leaning a little too much into the bachelor aspect, I fear," Yuna sighed, but offered him a smile to soften the blow. "It screams 'I'm a bachelor and I'm also never home.' I definitely don't recall seeing fresh flowers at your place."

Shane blushed.

He was not going to reveal that the bouquet of colorful lilies she was looking at was his doing.

Rozanov had stopped calling him after every bouquet delivered, but Ottawa had been playing with quite some fervor recently. In the two months since the dinner with Shane's parents, Shane had had to buy several floral arrangements.

A narrow win against Edmonton earned Rozanov yellow lilies and vibrant sunflowers; landslide against Buffalo cost Shane white lilies and purple carnations; an overtime victory with Pittsburgh was a bouquet of lilies and roses and carnations, all pink, so huge Rozanov had sent him a video of not being able to fit them into his car until he lowered his roof in the November chill. "Harris wanted to take a picture of it for our Instagram," Rozanov was saying in the video, "but I didn't let him. Is for me only."

After that, Shane had stopped sending the flowers to the rink.

Rozanov: [link: Ottawa vs San Jose: Ottawa beats San Jose 3-1]
Rozanov: [link: Rozanov scores the winning goal…]
Rozanov: [link: HOCKEY: San Jose loses in Ottawa]
Rozanov: [link: Ottawa beat San Jose in the MLH regular Season match]

Shane: Are you done?

Rozanov: I wasn't sure you saw

Shane: I already read this one: [link: San Jose loses in Ottawa despite more shots on the net]
Shane: Maybe I should be sending flowers to Hayes instead.

He didn't tell Rozanov that there was already a bouquet of blue hydrangeas, white roses, and lilies headed to his home address.

He was, however, extremely pleased with himself when a few hours later Rozanov sent him a photo of it sitting in a brand new vase on his coffee table, followed by a picture of the pink monstrosity from a few days ago, still looking fresh enough in Rozanov's dining room.

The lilies that were decorating his dining room table the day Yuna Hollander visited had been something of an anomaly.

Shane's phone rung a few seconds after he'd received confirmation of delivery from the florist.

"We lost," Rozanov said, voice oddly tender, like he might have been breaking devastating news to Shane.

"I know. I placed the order before Toronto's miraculous comeback in the last six minutes," Shane sighed, knowing full well that his life-long experience with hockey should have prepared him for the possibility of Ottawa losing despite a four-goal lead. "And you did score that beautiful hattrick."

"You watched?"

"I didn't have a game," Shane was trying to sound neutral, like watching Rozanov on ice didn't leave him a little breathless.

"And you thought I was beautiful."

He could hear Rozanov grinning.

"Your goals were."

"Mhmm…"

And now Shane's mother was in the same room with the orange and red and yellow lillies, which actually matched Rozanov's decor very nicely, and Shane was hoping his face remained unreadable.

It was not like it actually meant anything. Rozanov flirted with everyone and Shane…

Shane was enjoying the thrill of it. It was easy to play along in a way flirting had never been easy with anyone else. The closest he'd come to something like this before had been with Rose, but with her, it had never been flirting, exactly. An easy connection over mutual interests and a shared sense of humor, which got awkward the moment their clothes came off. With his past girlfriends and the small number of hookups, he'd always felt like he was trying much too hard to say the right things. With Rozanov…

It didn't really matter what he said with Rozanov. Rozanov had always somehow turned it into the right thing, even if it was boring, and especially if it was a little mean.

Or if it was a little over the top, like a large bouquet of flowers that threw Rozanov off as much as they pleased him.

"Yuna, you were right," came Rozanov's voice from the top of the stairs as he made his way down. "I feel much readier to face the press."

Shane looked up and his breath caught.

Rozanov had changed from the boring suit into a different one entirely. A form-fitting black one one, its jacket had satin lapels and a structured stand colar. He'd replaced his shirt with a deep-cut dark red t-shirt that showed off his cross pendant in the space between the lapels.

"My friend Sveta said I should be wearing this with nothing underneath," he said, grinning, as he ran his fingers down the satin lapels, "but I don't want to shock the old men too much."

Yuna nodded. "This is more what I'm talking about. Is that Alexander McQueen?"

"Sure is."

Shane swallowed. "I'm not sure I'm not underdressed now."

Rozanov laughed. "Don't worry, Hollander. You, ah, what's the phrase, clean up very nice," he gave Shane a gleeful smile.

Flustered, Shane turned his face away.

"Did you have to tell him to change?" he asked later with a frown as he drove his sensible car behind Rozanov's sports one.

"That was exactly why I wanted us to meet before driving to the venue," his mother replied from the passenger seat. In the couple of months since Shane first introduced her to Rozanov and they invited her to their project, she'd been making sure everything was running smoothly. She'd talked to their agents, she'd got quotes from rinks where they could hold the camps, she'd helped them complete the registration and establish a website. Rozanov would message Shane: Your mother is scary followed immediately by I like her. And now she was apparently making sure they dressed appropriately for press conferences. "Although I thought I'd have to make him tone it down, not the other way around." She shook her head. "But you don't go into a battle without an armor and that boy was practically naked when we got there."

Shane wasn't sure that was the word he'd choose for a shirt buttoned all the way up. "You told him to be himself, but now it's an armor?"

"This is something you could have learned from Rose," Yuna sighed. "You can use clothes to draw attention to what you don't mind people scrutinizing, and keep it off what you don't want them looking at. Ilya doesn't seem to mind showing off his sexuality, or his sex appeal, but I think he'd mind a lot more if they noticed he's also thoughtful… and lonely."

Shane repressed the memory of his mother using the word 'sex appeal' instantly. Instead, he asked: "You think Rozanov is lonely?"

"Isn't that what this whole thing is about?"

From Men in the Crease podcast

Dylan: We should probably talk about the Hollander-Rozanov conference…

JT: I guess we must.

Dylan: Earlier today, just barely made the deadline for today's episode, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov held a joint conference in Ottawa.

JT: They played a game against each other last night, which Montréal won 3-1.

Dylan: Beatiful goal by Boodram off Rozanov's assist, though…

JT: Not as beautiful as Hollander's two goals. I really thought he was going for a hattrick last night. I'm still saying Hayes should have been the first star of the game, because the number of times I was absolutely certain the Metros were going to put one in—

Dylan: I didn't think we'd get carried away from the original topic, because we never used to have much to say about the Centraurs' games.

JT: They've been doing much better this season. Which is notable, because there haven't been any huge changes to the roster.

Dylan: But we should really talk about the conference. It was quite a throwback, wasn't it? I felt like we were back in 2011 or something.

JT: Except now Hollander and Rozanov are telling us that they are friends, actually, and that they want to start a joint project.

Dylan: Yes, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov introduced their joint Game Changers Foundation. The nonprofit will hold hockey camps in summers, which will help finance stipends and other initiatives aiming to make hockey more accessible to marginalised groups.

JT: I don't know what I think about it…

Dylan: From what I'm hearing, it's going to be a chance to get coaching from some of the best players in the league. Which is never a bad thing.

JT: A good player isn't automatically a great coach.

Dylan: Well, no, but wouldn't you want to spend a week on the ice with one of your idols when you were like twelve?

JT: I mean, obviously… But I'm not so sure about the core message, you know?

Dylan: What are you saying?

JT: Obviously, I'm not saying the message that everyone can play is wrong. Of course not. It's just that I think Hollander and Rozanov have it backwards, you know?

Dylan: I don't think I know…

JT: It's like they are saying that, you know, they're great players because they're different. Right? Which we could argue with how great Rozanov even is, given he hasn't made it into playoffs like, ever…

Dylan: Have you looked at his plus/minus stats? It's hard to argue whether Rozanov is a good player. You only have to watch him play for like ten minutes to see it.

JT: Yeah, whatever. What I mean is, obviously, the two of them are great hockey players. But empirically, I'd say it's in spite of their… diversity or whatever… not thanks to it. Rozanov's argument that improved diversity will improve hockey overall is… well, backwards, like I said.

Dylan: I don't think Rozanov is saying that they're great because of that. I believe what he said was that people who don't fit the conventional image of a hockey player, currently, are discouraged from playing at all, by like, the culture—

JT: But obviously Hollander and Rozanov made it in.

Dylan: Well, yes, but—

JT: So it's not like it's impossible.

Dylan: Okay, first, there's the fact that some of their, like, diversity markers weren't public knowledge when they were drafted. Like, even Hollander didn't know he was autistic until like last year, and Rozanov came out what, four seasons in? And Hollander got a lot of shit for being Asian.

JT: But they still made it.

Dylan: They did, but how many guys maybe don't want to hide, or can't hide, or don't want the threat of discovery hanging over them, so instead they're choosing some other career? You could argue then that maybe you're not playing against the best possible players, just the ones who either are your conventional hockey player or they just have the thickest skin.

JT: Don't you want hockey players to have thick skin, though?

Dylan: Look, I think you're deliberately missing the point. Personally, I want everyone to get a chance to reach their potential. We'll see whether this foundation can actually make any positive changes or whether it's just a platform for Rozanov to show off, but I honestly can't say I disagree with the core message.

Chapter End Notes

There's some chance that for a time I was stalling the actual foundation thing because I desperately hoped I'd figure out a way for it to be the Irina Foundation, but these emotionally repressed assholes just weren't ready to talk about topics that private yet...

(Slight note on timeline: Timeline is a bit of *handwave* in this fic. I'm imagining this set roughly in the 2017-2018 season, but also we have Ottawa Charge (established 2023) existing... Yeah. I'm just borrowing what I need when I need it, from canon and from reality.)

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Please pretend the game commentary in this chapter isn't somewhat clunky. I almost never watch games in English so I had to translate in my head in a way I normally never have to when writing.

The day after the press conference found Ilya with his hands cupping a man's face while he stared deeply into the man's eyes. They were in Toronto's visiting team's locker room and the man was Wyatt Hayes.

"Tell me what today's plan is," Ilya said, holding Hazy's gaze firmly.

"Win the game," the goaltender said with conviction.

Ilya shook his head. "The plan is to make Toronto question their every coaching choice but especially letting their best goalie warm the bench for years."

Hazy laughed. "I didn't warm the bench that much. Usually, I watched from the press box."

For most of his career in MLH, Wyatt Hayes had been the Toronto Guardians' third goalie and he hadn't dressed for many games. Ilya still found that baffling, because in Ottawa, Hazy had quickly become their undisputed starting goaltender. He was miles better than either member of the tandem Toronto currently had, and whatever issues the Centaurs' had, they were not Hazy's fault.

"If Toronto skaters don't wake up from nightmares about you, we fail," Ilya said firmly.

"That reminds me of a Defenders storyline, where—"

Hazy was rudely interrupted by the left wing Tanner Dillon: "Hey, Cap, you've seen what Kent said on Twitter?"

Ilya shrugged. He let go of Hazy to lean towards the phone Dillon was shoving into his face. "I wouldn't know. I have life, I don't spend time online." At least a half of that statement was true.

@kentthebeast_guard: lol rozanov thinking he knows whats good for hockey when he spends more time stickhandling of the ice than on

Uncomfortable heat rose in Ilya's chest. Part anger and part… not shame, no, but something almost related to it. Neither Toronto nor Ottawa had made it to the conference final in the spring, but Toronto had gotten much further. This season, everyone was considering the Guardians as a likely contender, Kent and his linemate Barrett rising stars of MLH, while the Centaurs' wins were still treated as flukes and Ilya Rozanov was a has-been at best, a bust most often. He knew, deep in his heart, that he was the better player, but he didn't have a successful career to back him up. The people who thought he had no business playing would agree with Kent.

Suddenly, Ilya wanted to send so many puck's into Dallas Kent's ugly face people would start calling him Dallas Net.

Coach Wiebe must have walked into the locker room around that time, because suddenly he was pointing his finger at Ilya: "Do not engage." Then he turned to the rest of the room. "None of you."

"But who's going to correct the spelling mistake?" Ilya pouted. Not that he would. For some reason, he didn't ever feel like correcting the public's perception that his own occasionally imperfect English correlated with lack of intellect in general, or that it was still as bad as it had been in his rookie year.

"The internet's already on it," Bood assured him, looking at his own phone screen. "You've some very intense fans."

"Is the abs," Ilya snorted. "People will go to war if I promise they can touch."

"Also, rich of Kent to be talking about stickhandling when we all know why he never signs up for that skill competition at All-Stars," Bood rolled his eyes. "He's a mean brute, that's all, he can barely handle his own stick. If anything, it's Barrett putting in goals while Kent scares off the defense."

That was maybe a little unfair, just a little, but the spirit was there.

Young laughed, scrolling through Twitter. "I didn't know there was a gif of you taking his stick from him," he said, "but that's, like, the most popular reaction."

"There's a gif of everything I've ever done," Ilya said. "That happens when you look like me."

"Kent's face in it looks like he doesn't even know what the stick's for," Holmberg snorted.

"They should punish him for unsportsmanlike behavior," someone suggested.

Something in Ilya eased at his team's display of loyalty.

He wanted to keep winning with these guys. For Shane Hollander's bouquets, for his own dignity, and for this group of people that had their hearts in the right place.

"They won't," he said out loud, however. Getting punished for behavior off-ice was rare and the bar was set very high. Kent would probably have to jump him behind the rink for the MLH to bat an eye. "They say freedom of speech."

"Coach," Bood turned to Wiebe, "I want to suggest a new strategy for tonight."

Wiebe lifted an eyebrow but nodded, focusing a questioning expression on the alternate captain.

"Ah, no stupid penalties," Ilya said as if he didn't get at least one game misconduct a season. In his infamous Olympic year, he held the league's record for the highest number of them.

Bood shook his head. "No, I suggest we don't let Kent touch the puck."

"How's that new strategy?" Ilya argued. "That is always the strategy."

"I mean it literally," Bood said, a small smirk appearing on his face. "We do not let Kent touch the puck. At all."

Wiebe tilted his head, interested. "Elaborate?"

At center ice, Kent smirked. He had a face that begged to be punched and the confidence of someone who hadn't been punched nearly as much as he deserved. With all puberty points spent on muscle mass and body hair and none on brains, he looked older than he was but still rolled through life with the attitude of a middle school bully.

"You're sucking Hollander's cock now?" he asked.

"Don't be jealous," Ilya replied easily. Only Kent would think the implication could offend him; he couldn't possibly imagine how much of a privilege it would be to get on his knees for Shane fucking Hollander. "I'm sure you can find someone to suck yours. You might need to pay but—"

The puck dropped.

Kent lost the face-off.

Commentator #1: We're watching a very frustrating game tonight.

Commentator #2: We're fourteen minutes into the second period and we're yet to see a goal.

Commentator #1: We've barely seen anyone attempt to score! The Centaurs have been hogging the puck, but we've barely seen them shoot.

Commentator #2: Their strategy tonight seems to be to tire the Guardians out.

Commentator #1: The strategy seems to be to drive Kent crazy. They're just not letting him near the puck at all.

Commentator #2: The entire game, Toronto's star center had the puck for a total of fourteen seconds after he's won a face-off. Ottawa's making sure he's never open to pass to. Holmberg has been shadowing him the entire time and Dillon is skating slowly in front of Kent…

Commentators #1: Ottawa's first line is more interested in passing to each other back and forth than they are in getting the puck into the net.

Commentators #2: Toronto's fans are booing Rozanov anytime he touches the puck.

Commentators #1: There's been a lot of booing.

Commentator #1: 46th minute of the game and we're still without a goal.

Commentator #2: Last seconds of Ottawa's powerplay…

Commentator #1: Kent is serving penalty for boarding. Dillon is on the bench, but it looks like the team's doctor has cleared him to keep playing. We'll likely see him return onto the ice in this game.

Commentator #2: The Centaurs are really putting pressure on Nilsson now. Maybe we'll actually see someone score tonight…

Commentator #1: Fans on both sides are begging for a goal.

Commentator #2: Barrett attempts to intercept Rozanov's pass, but Ottawa keeps control of the puck. Boodram passes to Young… Young to Dykstra… Dykstra returns the puck to Boodram…

Commentator #1: Toronto will want to move that puck out of their defensive zone…

Commentator #2: Toronto needs to touch the puck first… Boodram takes the shot—

Commentator #1: —and misses.

Commentator #2: Rozanov has the puck, but Houde and Aucoin are on him. Toronto's defensive skills are getting tested tonight…

Commentator #1: Ten seconds of Ottawa's powerplay left. Rozanov passes to Young.

Commentator #2: Young takes the chance—

Commentator #1: —and scores!

Commentator #2: Nilsson didn't have the chance to react. In the 47th minute of the game, we've just seen the first goal.

@ilyasecretwife retweeted @kentthebeast_guard and added: Brave words for someone who spent 19 minutes and 58 seconds on the ice and barely touched the puck.

@cents4life_94: [a gif of Toronto Guardian's first line left wing, Troy Barrett, looking somewhat pale and even more gloomy than is usual for him] did barrett eat rotten fish for lunch or is looking like you want to throw up body's natural reaction to kent's proximity?

"I could kiss you," Ilya said, squeezing Bood's shoulder.

They were back in the locker room, pulling off their sweated-through, stinky gear, and Bood's tattooed skin was damp under Ilya's hand.

It had been one of the best games Ilya had ever played. Not because they'd won, although that was definitely pleasant, but because he'd had fun. They'd barely played to win, they'd played to annoy Dallas Kent specifically, and somehow they'd managed to do so without unnecessary penalties. Toronto's Coach Cooper had tried to argue they were engaging in a delay of game, but no one had taken him seriously.

Dillon would need a new tooth, but based on the bloodied smile he was flashing everyone, it didn't bother him too much.

"Give me a second to call Cassie how much tongue is allowed," the alternate captain replied with a gleeful grin.

Ilya chuckled. "Ah, no," he shook his head. "I can't. I'll fall in love and you already have soulmate."

"What about me, Cap?" Young called from his stall. He'd been the only one to score in the entire game, and he looked like his body could barely contain all that pride. "I won the game!"

Nick Chouinard booed him. "We won the game!"

Ilya made his way through the locker room and patted Young's head. "Was a beautiful goal, kid," he said. "I'll buy you a present."

They'd won. They deserved to celebrate. They deserved presents.

"I like Ferraris," Young grinned.

"I was thinking more like nice bottle of vodka."

Ilya wondered what his bouquet for tonight's game would look like.

"See," Bood shouted to Young over his shoulder, already on the way to the showers, "this is why we run passing drills. For a night like this."

The violent sound of a phone vibrating on a wooden shelf distracted Ilya from the conversation. It was his own phone, announcing itself from where he'd left it before the last period. It'd been years since his brother last called him, but somehow he still couldn't force himself to take his phone off the vibrate only setting. He'd prefer it silent, but sometimes his agent or his coach needed to reach him.

He grabbed the phone.

And he froze, just for a second, when he saw the caller ID: Hollander.

Ilya was still half-dressed, still completely gross from the game they'd just played. He should shower and change, maybe let the team bus take him all the way to the hotel before he called Hollander back.

Instead, he accepted the call.

Couldn't wait to congratulate me? was on the tip of his tongue, but Hollander spoke first.

"How do you deal with assholes?"

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Shane felt stupid the moment Rozanov picked up the phone. The last image he wanted the other man having of him was Shane sulking in his dark apartment, asking for advice. Tattling on his teammates like a child.

"You want a video of my best fights, Hollander?" Rozanov asked. "Or are we talking about literal assholes?"

In the background, Shane could hear the familiar sounds of a locker room.

"Shit. Sorry, you've just had a game, haven't you?"

Shane's day had been mercifully game free, just a long afternoon practice. He wasn't sure he could have handled an actual game playing along with his teammates today, and the thought was making him sick.

He was at home, having tried to work off the unpleasant energy with additional shot accuracy practice and then more gym time than was strictly necessary and, in the end, still ended up pacing around his apartment until he collapsed onto the bed.

That was when he'd dialed Rozanov's number.

"No, Hollander, don't say sorry," Rozanov sighed. "Yes, I just played a game. But is fine, game is over."

For the first time in a while, Shane had completely forgotten to pay any attention to the Centaurs' results. He didn't even know whether to congratulate Rozanov on a win.

"You probably need to get back to the hotel," he said, because at least he remembered it was an away game. "Or go out with your team."

"No going out," Rozanov replied. "We have an early flight tomorrow and a game in the afternoon, so there's no clubbing for us. But is possible I have to do interview. And my dick is still trapped in my gear and if I don't deal with that soon, I'll get horrible rash and will be out of the game with lower body injury and people will think I have a venereal disease. Which I haven't had since I was nineteen, maybe. And that wasn't anything a round of antibiotics couldn't solve."

Shane snorted. "Are you trying to make me laugh?"

"Is working?"

"It was a valiant attempt."

"Listen. I'll go wash myself now—" Rozanov paused because his name could be heard in the background. He amended: "I go do interview, I go wash myself and I call you when I'm at the hotel, yes?"

"You don't have to."

"I will," Rozanov's tone left no space for argument. "Unless you have better plans? Are you going out tonight? If not, I call and you pick up. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," Rozanov repeated.

"Rozanov!" his coach yelled somewhere in the background.

"Gotta go!"

The call turned to silence.

Shane dropped the phone onto his sheets.

He couldn't believe that a three-minute conversation about STDs with Rozanov was the most pleasant interaction he's had all day.

After a moment, he reached for his phone again and looked up Rozanov's post-game interview.

Reporter: It's early into the season, but the Centaurs are doing better than this time last year. What do you credit with the improvement?
Ilya Rozanov: We stopped listening to people that say we can't win and started listening more to those that believe in us. Feeling like you belong on the ice, like you're wanted there, it does wonders for your game.

Reporter: What do you say to the fans who were not entertained by today's game?
Ilya Rozanov: When the teams' skills are not well-matched, it can be not fun to watch, yes. But we can't take it easy on the other team when they are terrible. That wouldn't be fair to our fans either.

Reporter: Have you seen the remarks Dallas Kent's made about you online? Was today's strategy in response to them?
Ilya Rozanov: I practice stickhandling instead of wasting time online. Maybe Kent can try next game?

Shane was mindlessly scrolling through a florist's website, frustrated that his mood today was ruining the usual thrill of selecting the right bouquet for Rozanov's victory reward, when his phone rang.

"So, what's wrong?" Rozanov asked without a preamble.

"I want to feed Comeau's teeth back to him," Shane sighed. He was still lying on his bed; the sky outside had gone completely dark and the only light in his room came from his phone.

Ilya laughed, startled. "Wow, very violent. Are we talking stick, puck or what's it called, the dentist thing? Not scissors."

"Pliers?"

"That."

"I was thinking my fist."

"Ah, no, Hollander. You would hurt your hand and you need your hands to play good hockey against me. I need a good rival, too."

"I know how to fight," Shane grumbled. Just because he rarely did, because his team needed other things from him, didn't mean he didn't know how to throw a punch.

"So do I. Is still your hand hitting someone's thick skull," Rozanov replied. "It hurts."

Rozanov's voice was serious and unusually soft. Oddly, Shane wished he could see him, but he would feel awkward requesting a video call.

"But usually we punch the opponents. Comeau is on your team, yes?"

"That's why I didn't actually do it." He'd really wanted to. When he closed his eyes, a fantasy of his knuckles connecting with Comeau's remaining teeth popped up in his head.

"What did he say?"

Shane opened his mouth. Then closed it again. He thought about where to start, then frowned. Having just realised that perhaps he shouldn't be talking to Rozanov about this, he was silent for a little too long.

Rozanov sighed. "Hollander, was it because of the press conference?"

"They don't get it. They don't know what it's like…" Shane trailed off, trying to find the right words. "They said a bunch of stupid shit."

"They?"

"My teammates."

"So not just Comeau."

"It started with Drapeau asking whether I was going to hand out hockey sticks to all little weird kids in the hopes that one of them latches onto hockey," Shane frowned.

"And he thinks that would be a bad idea?"

Shane snorted. "I guess no one wants to be on a team made of awkward bores like me," he half-joked. He knew that his teammates considered him a stuckup and a bit of a killjoy. While he liked to think he'd gotten much better at social interaction, he was much better at charming sponsors in one on one conversations than he was at parties. "And that's what they imagine as the end result."

"Hmm, a team of Shane Hollanders would be much better than a team of Drapeaus or Comeaus. I think one Comeau's more than enough…" Rozanov's tone was disgusted enough that Shane could imagine him grimacing. "Sorry, they're not important enough for me to remember their first names."

"Patrice and Gilbert."

"Sounds like a couple of cartoon characters. Like they should be on a Canadian version of Dumb and Dumber."

Shane snorted. He shouldn't be encouraging someone, especially a player of a rival team, talking about his teammates like that. Tonight, he didn't care much. He made a noise of confirmation. "Then Comeau started about how he thought I'd be getting tired of being the league's favorite diversity mascot," he groaned. "And then he had a whole rant about diversity quotas and how it was one thing if it's guys like me or J.J., who are actually good…" Shane shrugged to himself. "I told him that when he has a fifty point season, at least, he can start having opinions."

Ilya laughed. "And people think you're nice and polite. Meanwhile you murder man with words."

"I can be mean."

"That wasn't mean. It was true. Comeau's upset because deep down he knows that he's too mediocre to make it if the competition was actually fair."

"Maybe."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Shane didn't mind. He liked knowing that Rozanov was on the other end of the call. The only thing better would be if he was in the same room. Shane had rarely wanted someone in the room with him, preferring solitude, but he thought perhaps being alone with Rozanov would be even more comforting than being alone on his own.

"I thought—," Rozanov finally spoke. "I worried they'd be shitty to you because of me."

Shane sighed.

"They were," Rozanov guessed. "Were they jealous a hot, bisexual star player is playing attention to you and not them?"

"Something like that," Shane admitted.

"Let me guess. They said it's going to be bad look for you. That people will think you're queer if you are seen with me."

Shane didn't answer immediately. In part, because that wasn't untrue. Hayden'd said something like that, he'd suggested people would start speculating. Neither Hayden nor J.J. were exactly pleased that Shane was working on this project with Rozanov, although neither had been as horrible about it as some other of Shane's teammates.

"Or… they're thinking it?" Rozanov guessed. "Are they being homophobic to you?"

"Comeau thinks I'm too stupid and naive to know when someone's trying to get into my pants."

"Ah. He thinks you should be worried about being alone with me?" Rozanov huffed. "Not bend over too much?"

"Sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"It's not anything I haven't heard before."

"It's why I wanted to rearrange his stupid face."

"You should have. Defend your honor, Hollander."

Shane sat up. "Yours," he corrected. "I'd be defending your honor. It's a fucked up thing to imply about you."

"I hit on you all the time."

"I don't—" He swallowed. "I don't discourage it. I think you'd stop if it was something that bothered me. I don't care."

Which wasn't exactly accurate. He didn't just not mind that Rozanov flirted with him. It was exciting and fun, but he didn't want to say that out loud. He didn't want to make it sound like he was exploiting Rozanov's playfulness for a boost to his own ego.

"In Boston—" Rozanov started after another beat of silence, this one a little heavier. His words were followed by another pause, before he said: "I came out to the GM. He'd said I needed to keep that shit quiet. How can captain be queer? Players won't trust, the team can't in good consciousness let rookies billet with gay captain…"

"What the fuck?" Shane breathed out. He knew some people thought like that but it was still incomprehensible to think Rozanov had encountered such treatment.

He wanted to punch someone for the second time in the same day.

"Is my own fault, maybe. I flirt too much."

"That doesn't make you a— a predator!"

"Hmm… Is one of the reasons I left Boston. I know the fans would have been good there, most of them, and some of the guys on the team are still friends. But the front office was shit, very old hockey. Very… they think everyone acts like they do, yes?"

"They think you'll treat guys like they treat women."

"Yes."

"Fuck them."

"Hmm, I'd rather not, is the point."

Despite his anger, Shane laughed.

"Give me the hotel address, where you'll be staying tomorrow," he said after a moment.

"Oh? Do you want to come surprise me?"

For a second, Shane imagined it. Appearing in Rozanov's hotel room. And then… what? Oddly, he had the urge to hug him. Which was weird, because Shane had never been much of a hugger. Rozanov just looked like someone who gave good hugs, solid like a weighted blanket. A mental image of laying face to face on a bed replaced that thought. Would they be able to have a conversation this vulnerable if they could see each other?

In his mind's palace, Rozanov's fingers were touching his torso. Sneaking under the hem of his shirt, or in between the buttons, brushing against his abs, his hot skin.

Shiver ran through him, and he chased the fantasy away.

"I need to send you flowers for tonight's game."

"I'll be home in four days," Rozanov replied. "Send then."

"Are you planning to not win any more games before then?"

"I'll win all of them. Too many bouquets to carry on plane."

Shane snorted. "You'd have trouble explaining so many bouquets." He'd never asked what Rozanov told people about the flowers. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"I say they're from a secret admirer with very good taste in flowers and hockey players."

"You think I admire you?"

"Secretly."

Shane could hardly believe he was grinning. He'd started the phone call so gloomy, and the anger was still bubbling somewhere deep down, but this… He liked this.

"I'll still be in Montréal in four or five days."

"Yeah?"

He wanted to see Rozanov's reaction to his flowers in person. He'd never seen his face when receiving them.

"I could deliver them in person."

From the other end of the call came a sharp intake of breath. "Hollander…"

"There's a lot of work we have to do, anyway. We need to decide on a facility to rent or we'll have trouble booking it, and the lawyer sent a draft of the volunteer contract and—"

"Keep talking dirty to me, Hollander."

"Shut up!"

"No, I mean it, is very hot." Rozanov laughed. "Is unfair. You'll start talking about spreadsheets soon, and then I won't even be able to fall asleep. Too sexy."

Heat crept up the back of Shane's neck. "Fuck off, that doesn't work on me."

"No?"

"No, you won't get out of work like this. It doesn't scare me off."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Yeah?"

Rozanov let a beat of silence pass between them once again. He cleared his throat. "I'll see you next week, Hollander," he said, almost softly, before ending the call.

Chapter End Notes

Am I happy with this chapter? Not really. Am I happy it's finally written? Yes, very much so.