Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Cliff Marleau

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Drunk Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Minor Character Death, Ilya Rozanov has no parents, Protective Shane Hollander, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Consent is Sexy, Brief homophobia, Fuck AI, pre-tunamelt, Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Jane, Shane falls first but Ilya falls so much harder, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-30 Updated: 2026-04-07 Words: 4,590 Chapters: 3/?

Take me home.

Summary

After the Montreal/Boston game, Ilya gets a phone call. His father is dead. There are no flights back to Russia until the morning. Ilya gets too drunk at the bar with Marleau and insists on being taken to Shane’s address when he leaves the bar.

Shane is surprised that he doesn’t hear from Ilya after the game and even more surprised to find Marleau holding Ilya up on his doorstep at one in the morning.

Notes

First time writing angst, so enjoy!

Chapter 1

After the initial celebration after yet another win, especially against Montreal, Ilya’s chest feels lighter. When he walks into the locker room, he can feel a real smile on his lips, not only because of the win but also because of what comes after. The room is filled with hollering and laughter as all of his teammates get ready for the showers. The nights Ilya gets to win in Montreal are his favorite. 

Marley’s running around without a shirt, and Carter is running away from Marley, still in his gear. They are really just kids. Big pain-in-the-ass kids. Coach left as soon as the game ended, so it’s just the team and the press left. That is, before Ilya, the captain of his circus, shouts at them to stop fucking around because they have an early flight. 

Before Ilya has a chance to kick off his own gear, his phone buzzes, and his smile widens. ‘Jane’ must have finally sent his address, but when he grabs the phone, he finds Alexei’s name flashing. Ilya’s smile drops into a scowl. 

Alexei has been calling nonstop for days; if he doesn’t answer soon, the bastard might follow him to America. That is, if he could afford the plane ticket without having to beg Ilya. Deep down, he knows Alexei will persist. Ilya is not trying to get cockblocked all the way from Moscow. 

Fuck.

“What do you want?”’ Ilya snaps in Russian, his voice reverberating from the now sparsely occupied locker room. 

“Oh, so Mr. Best Hockey Player can pick up the phone.” Alexei’s voice is annoyed, but there’s something else Ilya can’t quite discern. Tiredness? His voice is heavy and quiet. 

“What is it, Alexei? I’m fucking busy.”

“Papa’s dead.”

Ilya freezes, his blood running cold, “What?”

“Polina found him. And you need to get home so you can put your money to good use.” Alexei says in a too casual tone. 

Ilya drops the gear from his hands, “What, wait. What do you mean, Papa is dead? How long?”

“What do you think it means, faggot?” In response to Ilya’s silence, Alexei continues, ”Three days now, that’s why you need to get home, I’m not paying for all this bulshit.”

Ilya is nauseous, his head pounds, and the pit in his stomach churns. Three days. 

“Why the fuck am I only hearing this now?”

“Well, isn’t that a good fucking question. You want to tell me when I first called you, or the second, or the fucking fiftieth?” Ilya swallows the acidic bile coming up his throat. 

“That’s what I thought. Get here, cocksucker.” The line goes dead. 

***

The next call wasn’t much better. “What do you mean, there are no flights?”

“Mr. Rozanov, like I said before, our earliest flight to Moscow is at seven am. I’m sorry.” The voice of a patient, exhausted woman reiterates. 

“No, you said there is in one hour.”

“Yes, sir, but there is a two-day layover in—”

“I cannot have layover. My father is dead!”

“Again. I’m so sorry for your loss, but the only flight is at seven.”

Ilya takes a deep breath, “Okay. I will book flight.” Even now, he has the decency to apologize, “I’m sorry for shouting, you did nothing.”

“It’s really alright—” Ilya doesn’t hear the rest of the call. 

***

Ilya: We are going out

Worst player on Boston team: Really? Thought you would be out with Jane tonight. ;)

Ilya: No. You are coming or not?

Worst player on Boston team: Yeah, sorry man 

Worst player on Boston team: give me like ten minutes

***

Ilya, already at the bar, feels someone grab his arm from behind, “Long time no see.” 

“Marley.” Ilya glares at him, shooting his fourth (fifth?) shot. “Took you long enough.”

Marleau grins lazily, running his hands through his hair. After years of playing with Ilya, he’s become immune to the look that makes the rookies cower. 

“Well, you asked me out, so I wanted to look pretty on our first date.”

Ilya is no longer making eye contact, laser-focused on the assortment of alcohol behind them, “I would never ask you out. I do not want chlamydia.”

Marley’s face scrunches in confusion, “I don’t have chlamydia.”

“Oh. You look like that naturally? That is worse.” 

“Fuck you, Rozy.”

“In your wet dreams,” Ilya says, pushing shots towards Marley. 

So they drank. They drank a lot. 

Marley switches to water after three of the strongest shots he's ever had, knowing one of them should be able to drive by the end of this bender. Based on how Roz is putting away drinks, it’s not going to be him. 

“So, you want to tell me why you invited me to get hammered the night before our early flight? Trouble in paradise, perhaps?” Rozanov rolls his eyes. 

According to Marley, if he has an attitude or makes the team do extra drills, it’s always about ‘Jane’. He missed Shane. He shouldn’t. But…

“Shut up, Marley.” Ilya snapped with real venom in his voice. 

Marley’s hands shoot up defensively, “Okay, man. But you know you can talk to me. About anything.” 

Ilya avoids his eyes, “Be useful and get another drink.” 

Despite Marley’s own concerns, he does what he’s told. Two more hours pass, and Marley loses Rozanov temporarily after getting whatever round he’s on. Only to find him puking in the bathroom.

“Jesus Christ, Rozanov. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“M’ fine. Just need more drinks.” Ilya's words are so slurred he might as well have been speaking Russian. 

“Absolutely not. Fuck, I should’ve cut you off sooner.” Marley, being the gentleman he is, holds Ilya’s curls back when Roz wrenches, “God damnit.” 

Ilya’s head is floaty. He can’t quite see right, and he can’t hear Marley’s concerned voice over the music. All he comprehends is that it hurts. The bile in his throat burns, and he can’t breathe. 

He wants Shane.

He wants his mom.

And his dad? Maybe. It was hard to tell. The music is too loud for Ilya to think. 

And he just wants to be home. Home like Shane’s expensive display pillows, his stupid, boring art, and the fireplace he looked so pretty being fucked by. 

“What?” Marley's voice rings, “Rozanov, I can’t understand you. Mutter in English.”

“-hane, want Shane.” Ilya slurs, incoherent.

“Jane? What happened with you two?”

“Nothing, want Shane, take me to see him.”

“Him?” God, he was a mess, “Rozanov, you need to go to bed.”

“No! Take me to Shane. Please.”

“It’s midnight. I don’t think she’s awake.”

“Yes. He is.” 

“Shit, fine. Only because Coach would kill us if I brought you back to the hotel like this.”

***

“Man, you have to give me directions if you want to see your girl.”

Ilya glares at Marley; his head is pounding. He’s too warm. 

“Phone give.” Marley hands his phone over wordlessly, and Ilya inputs Hollender's address. It’s safe to say that Ilya hasn’t exactly thought any of this through. All he knows is that everything hurts, and Hollender makes him feel better. 

Ilya pulls out his own phone, watching Marley drive.

***

Ilya: I am come to see you

Ilya: I know code wilkn be in for a second

Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: What?

Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: Ilya, it’s one in the morning.

Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: Are you drunk?

Sexy Second-best Hockey Player: ????

***

“Do you know why we get drinks?” Rozanov felt himself ask.

“Not really,” Marleau raised an eyebrow, “you want to tell me?”

“My dad died.”

Marley's face fell completely, “Oh fuck. I’m sorry—”

“Do not be sorry. Was abuser, but… I not get flight home. Not til’ morning. Was too much.” Ilya shugs, but Marley can see silent tears forming in his eyes. “Now, I just want Shane.”

“Yeah, okay, man. We’re almost there.” An uncomfortable silence falls between them. Ilya cries silently, and Marleau pretends he doesn’t notice, so Ilya doesn’t feel like he needs to stop. 

Over the years, Ilya had become extremely close with Marley. On a special occasion or when they were both super fucking drunk, they called each other brothers. The only ones both of them could trust. Hell, Marley’s the only one on the team who knows Ilya’s mom is dead. 

“Shit, this is where she lives?” Marleau asks, pulling on the property, “Fuck, does she make more than me?”

Ilya smiles like an idiot, “Maybe. Yes. Probably.”

Ilya swings the passenger door open, only to trip over his own legs, landing on the pavement. 

“Shit, Rozanov!”

“M’ fine. Shane.” Ilya looks around, confused for a moment, trying to stand. 

“I better be the best man at your wedding for this.” Marleau leans down to grab a slightly scuffed-up Rozanov, walking him slowly to the entrance. 

Ilya goes to put in the code when the door cracks open, to reveal a shirtless, half-asleep Shane Hollander. 

“Shanne!” Ilya shouts, throwing himself into Shane’s arms, forcing him to catch Ilya. “I am here! Like I said. I missed you.”

“Hollander?” 

“Marleau?” The two men looked at each other in mutual shock, like some awkward stalemate. The tense confusion is broken by Ilya breaking into a sob. 

“Shane. Shane, I am here. Like I said, I was.” Ilya’s voice is weak and slurred; his accent is heavier than normal. Safe to say he wasn’t understood by either man. Hollander’s face was pinched with concern. 

“His dad died.” Marleau supplied, not really knowing what to do, standing on Shane Hollander’s porch with his wasted captain in Shane Hollander’s arms. Ilya tries to talk again, this time completely in Russian, looking frustrated with a red, tear-stained face. Shane only holds Ilya more tightly. 

When he locks eyes with Hollander (terrifying by the way), there is a note of protective competition. Like he’s daring Marleau to say anything against the spectacle to see Rozy wrapped in Hollander’s arms.

“Look—”

“Marleau—”

The men start at the same time. 

“Look, Hollander, Rozanvo is a private person. This is none of my business, and it’s not anyone else's unless you want it to be. He was just having a horrible night, and I thought seeing Jane would do him some good.”

“Nothing is going on—”

“Again, it’s not my business, just make sure he’s okay.” Shane looks like he wants to say more, but decides against it when Rozanov lifts himself from Shane. 

“Rozy, do you want me to come pick you up in the morning?”

“No, I have different flight. To Moscow.”

“Okay. Do you want me to tell Coach?”

“Yes…” Marleue turns to go back to his car, “Marley?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” 

***

“I’m sorry.” Ilya slurs from the coach as Shane gets him a glass of water. 

“Don’t be. Here, drink.”

Ilya takes the glass, tucking further into the blanket draped over his shoulders. “I’m a mess.” 

“It’s okay,” Shane says as he sits next to Ilya, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

Ilya shakes his head frantically, eyes glazed over, “No… Three days.”

“He’s dead for three days, and he’s been sitting in a cold room rotting because I wasn’t there… I didn’t even pick up the phone, Hollander.” 

Shane tries to focus on the Russian’s words, but Rozanov can be hard to understand on a normal day. The image of the untouchable, cocky Ilya Rozanov, so upset, so broken, does something to Shane he can’t even begin to name.

“I thought Alexei was just asking for more money, like always. I— I didn’t know Hollander, I swear. I didn’t know.” Tears continue to fall, and Rozanov is becoming more frantic with every word. 

“You had no way to know.” Shane tries in a gentle voice, “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is! I left my home. I knew he was sick, and how Alexei is nothing more than a fucking—” Ilya pauses, frustrated when the proper word doesn’t come, “Drug addict! That leaves our father alone.” 

“Rozanov—”

Rozanov’s standing now, pacing unsteady and angry, “No! Is all my fault!”

“Ilya!” Shane shouts, and the other man freezes with a sharp intake of breath. Ilya. 

Shane continues without noticing Rozanov's reaction, “Please. Sit before you hurt yourself.” 

Ilya locks eyes with Shane, his chest heaving from his outburst. But before Shane could reach for the other man, Ilya was on top of him. 

Ilya’s lips were wet and salty from his tears, not to mention he smelled like an open bar, so it should’ve been easy for Shane to push Ilya away. However, it takes Shane a considerable amount of resolve, keeping him at arm's length. 

“Ilya, we can’t,” Shane says, but he’s not listening. 

His head is light, just filled with Shane. His smell, the taste of his lips. He’s intoxicated with more than just alcohol. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Il…  

“Why not?”

Shane continues bracketing Ilya’s shoulders, “You’re drunk and not in any condition to consent.”

Ilya's stomach twists, “But—” I need to be close to you. I need your skin on mine. I need you to make me feel alive. 

“No. Okay?” At Ilya’s truly devastated face, Shane softens and opens his arms, “Come here.”

While Ilya wants to complain, to argue that he planned to have sex with Shane tonight anyway, he knew this would not be a battle he would win, and he was just so tired. So Ilya climbs into Shane’s Adonis arms, burying his head into the other man’s chest. 

“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” Shane whispers, his palm rubbing circles into his back. 

“Seven.” 

“Sleep, I’ll wake you up.”

Ilya's brows pinch in confusion, “You have early flight as well?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Shane pulls a blanket over the two of them. 

“....Hollander?”

“Mmn?”

“Call me Ilya again.”

“Go to sleep, Ilya,” and Shane smiles, almost sad that no one was there to see it.

Chapter 2: Mixed-signals (You know that river in Egypt)

Chapter Notes

Thank you all so much for your support!! This chapter is a little shorter than I wanted, but I wanted to get something out to y'all while I plan some more angst. Enjoy!

When Ilya opens his eyes, everything is wrong. The first being that his head is pounding and he’s about to vomit. He gags before he has a chance to sit up. Strong hands, familiar hands, pull him onto his side, guiding him to a more suitable place to dry heave. 

“Hey… you’re okay.” Hollander’s gentle voice tells him. Ilya groans into the bucket, hoping to communicate that he is not fucking okay.  

“I know, Ilya.” 

Ilya…? 

“I have some medicine for you, and Marleau dropped off your bags. I have them in my Jeep already; you just have to get in the car.” Shane whispers.

“The car? The fuck are you—” and then it hits him. Montreal. The beautiful 4-3 game. The horrible phone call. His father. 

And then the drinking. What he doesn’t remember is how exactly he got to Hollander’s home. To Ilya’s confusion, Shane continues.

“Marleau brought you here at like midnight last night, he said something about not being able to go back to the hotel with you wasted,” Hollader explains softly, as he hands a glass of water and two pills to Rozanov. 

The way Hollander is looking at him like some wounded animal makes Ilya squirm. Here, in Hollander’s house, dressed in Hollander's clothes, on his couch with Shane, no, Hollander, looking at him with his dark, expressive eyes. It’s too intimate, too much. 

Rozanov swears under his breath. What a fucking mess. 

“I have to go to Moscow.” He blurts, his voice hoarse. 

“Yeah…” The silence is heavy before Hollander breaks it without making eye contact, “Look, I really am sorry about your—” His voice is so thick with pity it makes Ilya sick. 

“Stop. Stop your stupid sentence and shut your stupid, boring face.” Shane’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move to interrupt, “I am tired, I will sleep until we are at airport. Then I will go to Moscow, and we can forget that any of this ever happened.” 

When Shane’s worried, fearful eyes meet his, his stomach flips. God, has he always gotten this nauseous hungover? 

“You’re coming back, right?” Shane’s voice is so small that it breaks Ilya’s aggression. 

“What? Of course, I am coming back. I just have to have funeral and whatever else—” Shane's face is pinched in the same way it does when Ilya goes out to smoke.

“I still have job, Hollander. I will be back soon.” Ilya trails off in a softer tone. 

Shane swallows and looks away, “We should get going then. Don’t want to miss boarding.”

Hollander’s voice is stronger but colder. Which is good, he should not get the wrong idea. They are nothing. Fuck, Hollander doesn’t even like him as a person. They could never be more.

***

After ten tense minutes, Ilya’s phone buzzes, and the pit in his stomach grows heavier as the phone rings. 

“Are you going to answer that?” Shane asks from the driver’s seat.

“Huh? Oh… eh da.” When he turns the phone, he almost breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Svetlana.”

“Ilya, are you okay?” she spits off in worried Russian syllables. 

Ilya glances at Shane, who is pretending to take no interest in the phone call. “No. Not really. I am on the way to the airport now.”

“When did you find out?”

“Last night, after my game. Alexei called me.”

“I am already here for work, so I’ll be there to meet you…” Ilya makes a noise of understanding. 

“Did you still meet with your lovely Jane Hollander?” Her voice lightens. 

“I told you to stop calling him that.”

“Him? But I thought you were dating this beautiful girl, Jane. Jane Hollander.”

His lips give a small curve before he coaches his face back into indifference. “I fucking hate you.”

“You love me. Now, stop avoiding the question.”

“I got drunk with Marley after the game, and he dropped me off at Jane’s house. I don’t really know what happened, but he’s acting… weird.”

“Maybe, because you showed up at your ‘situationship’s’ house at one in the morning, drunk, in the arms of an NHL player that now knows that Jane is really Shane. Plus, who knows what you said or did while you were drunk.”

Touché. 

See, Hollander, you’re not the only person who knows French. 

“Okay… but you don't realize how weird he is acting!” He can practically feel Svet rolling her eyes over the phone. 

“I told him that we should just forget this ever happened, and he looked at me with his big eyes, so wide, he’s calling me Ilya, and he’s just being weird.”

“You mean being empathic?”

“It’s not empathy, it's pity.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“Okay.” She is not convinced. He will fix that, “I’ll see when you get here, yeah?”

“Okay, yes. Goodbye.”

***

So, Shane is freaking out. Internally, quietly. 

He just dropped Ilya off at the west gate of the terminal, only to drive to the east terminal to wait for his own flight that boards in four hours. Four wonderful hours to just sit with his thoughts of Rozanov, and his phone call, and his hangover, and his lips.

Shane doesn’t know a lot of Russian, but ‘Jane’ and weird (strannyy) kind of stand out. It’s not like Rozanov doesn’t insult him to his face. Half of Ilya’s words are sexual or mean, but in Russian with Sveltlana? It’s different.

He is not going to survive these four hours. He sits, and he waits. Pretending that everything is normal. He debates getting breakfast for a while, but he only finds an assortment of fast food, so he settles on getting a coffee. Black. Not because he likes it, but because his microbiotic diet demands it.  

It’s safe to say the coffee did nothing to distract from thoughts of Ilya. His tears, how small he looked, crying into Shane’s chest, his call with Sveltlana. His Russian best friend, with whom he used to have sex with. And it’s fine. 

He checks his watch, fifteen minutes. Rozanov might not be in the air yet. 

“I will go to Moscow, and we can forget that any of this ever happened.” 

He felt like he was choking in an ice-cold pool. When did the very mention of breaking things off with Rozanov become a problem? They never got too close; they had a good time, stress relief, and then they would part. Shane didn’t need cocky, cruel Rozanov to be his boyfriend, but then… it changed. He changed. 

Last night wasn’t out of the blue; it was just the apex of the soft touches, the sweet whispers, true and intimate care that went beyond the arrangement that started rookie season. But that’s exactly what’s eating at Shane. 

Does Ilya even remember last night? If he does, does he regret it? If he didn’t remember what there was to forget? Them? There friend—no, not friendship. Their arrangement. 

His thoughts are interrupted when his phone buzzes. Hayden probably. But when the phone buzzes again, Shane checks out of caution. 

Lily: Thank you for driving me. 

Lily: Hope to see you again soon.🩷

Airplane mode activated ✈️

Shane groans, slamming down his phone. What the fuck?

Three hours and forty-five minutes…

***

“Yo, Hollander!” Hayden crashes into the seat next to him as the rest of the team files in. 

“Hey Hayden.”

“You, like…” Hayden pauses, assessing Shane, “Good?” Shane nods and looks back toward the widow.

“You sure? You have like a weird energy about you.”

“I do not.” He bites back a little too forcefully. 

 “Okayy. My bad.” Hayden looked surprised, but dropped it and quickly started to do what he does best, talk without expecting Shane to respond. “I had a great night with Jacki. Her parents took the kids and—” 

Shane never sleeps on the plane, but they had a seven-hour flight, and he didn’t sleep at all last night. He had to make sure Ilya didn’t puke in his sleep and… watch him breathe. 

Shane passed out before the plane took off. 

Chapter End Notes

Please let me know if you guys are still enjoying this story. I have some plan of where I want to take this fic, but I am open to suggestions!!

Chapter 3: Eight-hundred miles

Chapter Notes

Another short-ish chapter! Thanks for all the support.

True to her word, Sventlana is waiting for him at the end of the terminal. She looks gorgeous, all bundled up like a stylish penguin with a bag of Russian sweets, Ilya immediately recognises. His Mama’s favorite. 

“Oh, thank fuck.” He groans and takes the bag, inhaling the dark chocolate and the sweet zefir. 

“Are you here for the sweets or for me?” 

“The sweets.” He tries to smirk, but it’s a smile as he hugs her. It’s been too long since he saw her in person, let alone in their home country. 

When they break away, she has a bittersweet smile of her own, “Are you ready?”

“Not at all.” Ilya looks around, just taking in his homeland, “I never know when it will be the last time I come here.”

Ilya always spent his summers in Russia, but in recent years, he found excuses. He found any work he could be doing and jumped on it. He was never close to his father, but he couldn’t watch him deteriorate. 

“Are you ever going to join the dark side with me and get American citizenship?”

Ilya just shrugs because he truly has no idea. His life is just hockey; what happens when he retires is not something he ever wants to dwell on. After the initial rush of seeing Svet wears off, his chest gets tight. Being his bestfriend she feels it with him. 

“We can take a walk before we meet with Alexei,” Svelt suggests, gently taking his hand. 

Ilya lets out a big sigh, a walk would be amazing, “No, no. Let’s just get this over with.” 

***

The next twenty-four hours were a blur. A nasty cold blur.

Ilya, acting as Alexei’s personal bank, was dragged around by the funeral planner with Svet silently at his side. He did as he was told, paid for whatever they suggested, and didn’t speak. Eventually, he was able to retire to his own home, spent and drained.  

Ilya poured himself a glass of vodka, looking at his phone for the first time since the plane. Boston won 3-2 against the Admirals, which got a real smile out of him. He only regrets that he couldn’t beat Scott Hunter himself. 

Without realizing it, he unconsciously checks the Montreal game. They won 4-2. This also elicits a smile from him, but he would rather not investigate that. 

Jane: how are you holding up?

Ilya swallows a lump in his throat. He hates how much he wants to talk to Hollander. Not necessarily about his dad, but perhaps Russia. About his sweets that Shane would never come within thirty thousand feet of, and his mother bringing them home after practicing on the ice. 

Lily: Are you alone?

Jane: Yes

Lily: Call?

As soon as the call connects, Ilya breaks out into a cershire grin, “Hollander.”

His severe face turns confused, “Uh, yes?”

“You are wearing glasses.” 

“Oh yeah.” He says, taking them off and setting them out of frame, “I wear them to read sometimes.”

“I didn’t tell you to take them off.” Ilya smirks, leaning back to expose his abs, “I was enjoying the view.”

Shane only rolled his eyes, “I called to make sure you were okay, not to do whatever you’re thinking about.”

“Don’t you want to make me feel better, Hollander?”

Shane deadpans. “No.”

“Fine, for later then.” Ilya lets out a dramatic sigh, but then he smiles and grabs a bag of candy from his bed. 

“What is that?”

“Zenfir. Is like um, marshmallow?” Ilya struggles through the word with clunky Russian syllables. “You would not eat because it is yummy and you are opposed to things like that.”

“I’m on a microbiotic diet.” Shane defends immediately. 

“Fancy name for boring diet.”

“You can not judge my diet. I saw you eating McDonald's right before a game—”

“I was hungry. I got McGrittle. Win-win.”

“You’re literally in the NHL, and you’re eating McDonald’s—”

“Exactly, I can afford all the McGrittle I want!”

And it’s nice, the banter. Maybe it was easier with eight hundred miles between them. Whatever it is, Shane finally feels lighter seeing Ilya’s eyes dance and tease. He looked good and strong; he looked like him. 

***

So, Ilya was actually not doing well. 

A week in, Svetlana leaves for New York, and Rozanov gives up keeping himself together. He drinks, chainsmokes, and has sex with nameless people in clubs. Just wishing he could get back to Boston, to hockey, to Shane. 

God, he misses Shane. Hollander. Whatever. He doesn’t text him. Since their call last week, Hollander hasn’t reached out. Which is fine, they have gone longer, much longer, before. But Ilya might be going insane. 

The night of his father’s funeral, Ilya’s too drunk to think better than to call, walking away from the bars.

Ila yells, walking into a tunnel, “Proshchayte, druz'ya!”

“Rozanov?”

“Hollander!”

“Rozanov, are you drunk?”

“Eh- no.” Ilya trips over the snow, with a wide smile, “Okay, probably. Maybe yes.”

“It’s two pm.”

“No, I am still in Moscow. It is prime of night!”

“Right, I forgot. You alright?”

Ilya’s smile fades, “Yes. I just love being in Russia and missing hockey and not being in Boston while my fucking team loses games.”

“Rozanov—”

“No, Hollander, I am great!”

“Rozanov.”

Something in Shane’s voice is so gentle. Inviting. Like a warm light, quite attractive to Ilya considering the Russian cold. 

“I want to— I hate—” Ilya sighs, letting silence wash over him, “I do not know how to describe in English.”

“Do you want to tell me in Russian? I may not understand, but maybe it will feel good to say it.”

“Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

I wasn't sure how I wanted to do the phone call part because I wanted to keep it verbatim from the show version. So the next chapter will pick up there! Thanks again for all the support.