Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow, Hayden Pike, Kip Grady, Carter Vaughn, Svetlana Vetrova, Jackie Pike, David Hollander, The One Ring (Tolkien), Arthur Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Panic Attacks, Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter Needs a Hug (Game Changers), Biting, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Anal Sex, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Rimming, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Phone Sex, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Crack Treated Seriously, Bisexual Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, No beta we die like Grigori Rozanov, i have no control over this story anymore, Scott Hunter's Sex Tape, Postpartum Depression, eventual polyamory, Eventual Scott/Kip/Carter, Eventual Ilya/Shane/Hayden, Run if you're not into poly because it's happening, fuck AI right up the butt

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-01 Updated: 2026-08-20 Words: 226,931 Chapters: 19/?

The Dinosaur Support Group

Summary

What if Scott Hunter was waiting for an elevator in Vegas?

What if Shane and Ilya had an emotional support Old Man and his Art History Twink?

Notes

Long time lurker, first time writer, but the cult demands it of me.

Chapter 1: Scott Hunter And The Awful Timing

SHANE

What did I do wrong?

What did I do wrong?

What did I do wrong?

The door swung shut behind him with a resounding thunk, he shivered as the air conditioning of the hallway hit his skin, the stressed sweat drying sticky and uncomfortable under his shirt.

Why wouldn’t he look at me?

Was it something I said?

What did I do wrong?

Was it something I did?

I can’t be wrong, I’m not allowed.

I have to be the best.

The carpet under his dress shoes was a horrifying mixture of sticky and slippery and his legs, unsteady at the knees barely kept him upright as he pushed himself to put one foot in front of the other, his chest aching right over his sternum as he forced himself to keep breathing.

What was wrong?

What was wrong?

What-

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong-

He barely registered it, pulling his phone out of his pocket, tapping at the buttons.

LILY

We didn’t even kiss.

It was like there was a disconnect between his brain and body and it hardly registered as his head hit the mirrored wall of the elevator with a dull thunk, the discomfort a distant concept. He hated the way he looked in the warped surface, the organised creases of his folded trousers, the way his collar gaped around his neck, the dark bruise over his collarbone barely visible but glaringly obvious in the corner of his vision.

He focused his eyes on the screen of his phone, the words screaming in his mind there for him to see.

His thumb played over the delete button but he couldn’t make himself hit it. Not yet.

Just a little longer.

Just a reminder.

A reminder that he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

So he didn’t.

The lights overhead were dim, sepia toned but everywhere he looked sparkles of light were digging into his retinas causing him to squint in discomfort, the pain under his sternum radiating up his neck like veins as he tried to catch his breath after bolting from Rozanov’s room, like pins and needles that dug into his senses.

What did I do wrong?

He pulled in a frantic, gulping breath as the words continue to run through his mind, a positive feedback loop of misery and panic and wrong wrong wrong-

The door pinged as it opened onto his floor.

God, he hoped it was his floor.

What was his room number?

“Hollander?”

Shane’s head snapped up and his hand slipped, phone tipping to the ground and bouncing through the open elevator doors to land at Scott Hunter’s feet.

Breathing became unimportant.

Shane couldn’t move.

He would know.

It was obvious, wasn’t it? The half-done buttons the tie around his neck the rash under his jaw the bruises on his wrists that he’d wanted so badly-

“Hollander!”

It was ingrained in him to respond to the familiar tone brooking no disobedience.

He forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze and to his horror he felt a sudden wetness on his cheeks, Hunter’s features a blur and he gasped, the first breath in what seemed like forever as the man’s hand clasped firmly around his wrist, pulling him from the elevator and into the dimly lit corridor. “I-”

“Shit.” The man looked panicked and Shane’s legs weren’t working properly as he was pulled until they were standing against the wall, Hunter’s words grazing across his consciousness, the terrified tone grating. “Shit- are you okay? Who did this to you-”

Oh God.

He knew.

Scott Hunter Knew.

How could this have happened?

It was wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong-

“Shit, look at me- kid, Shane! Look at me!”

Shane’s spiral was interrupted by a callused hand on his cheek, gently patting at the side of his face, his freckles, just as Rozanov’s had, getting messy with the tears he’d failed to stem. His nose was running and he felt disgusting and God, Hunter knew and Rozanov would never forgive him and his chest hurt and someone was fucking keening-

It was him. His throat was aching and a high-pitched whine escaped him as he pushed himself back against the wall, Hunter following him, expression horrified, his other hand coming up to grasp Shane’s shoulder, causing him to flinch away in fear. “No, it’s okay-”

Hunter knew. Hunter was angry. Hunter would hurt them- hurt Ilya-

“You are scaring him.”

It was like a sedative to his anxiety, that voice.

Soft and harsh at the same time.

Forceful and incredibly gentle.

Deep and relentless like quicksand.

Everything went silent. Hunter turned, slowly, placing his body between Shane and the elevator.

Shane couldn’t see his face. Hunter was in the way, broad back and suit jacket preventing Shane from seeing. His feet. Shane could see his feet. No socks. How could he not be wearing socks, no shoes, hotel floors were filthy and now he’d have to shower before-

“Rozanov.” Hunter’s voice was cautious. Why. “What are you doing here?” The captain of the New York Admirals stepped forward and finally, finally his hand slipped from Shane’s shoulder and he could breathe again, the age-old fear of violence assuaged with the lack of contact. The phlegm in his throat made him shudder as he tried to peer around Hunter, but he couldn’t see. “He’s-”

“Is having panic attack. Yes. I see. You make him panic.” The matter-of-fact words from the Russian would on any other day have sent Shane into a fit of irritation but right now they were the only thing that seemed to make sense. “Move away. Not helping.”

Shane watched the feet move. His ankles were bare where the legs of his navy joggers shifted, forward progress halted by Hunter stepping forward again, arm outstretched and Shane wanted to scream. The older man’s tone brooked no argument. “No. This isn’t what he needs, you’re the last thing he needs right now.”

Shane couldn’t stop the pathetic mewl that forced its way through his lips as a fresh wave of tears crawled down his cheeks, dripping onto his shirt, now ruined by the salt and whatever Hunter had had on his hands, blue smudged across the sleeves.

“Move, Hunter.” Shane recognised it, the tone. The same one Rozanov had used in the past when he’d had enough of Shane’s-

Had enough.

Ilya had had enough.

Why?

What had he done wrong?

What did he do wrong?

Is he angry with me?

Had he realised that Hunter knew-

“Fuck-”

The feet moved, Hunter’s suit shifted and Shane’s knees hit the ground, hard, reverberating up his pelvis and into his chest, causing him to let out a wheeze as he tried to breathe, suit jacket falling from his grip, landing beside the forgotten phone.

Hunter’s hands were all over him again, trying to pull him to his feet but he couldn’t, everything was too loud and he knew. Hunter let out an indignant yelp as he was shoved onto the ground beside him, slumping against the wall as Rozanov fell to his knees in front of Shane, eyes wide and panicked, hands flitting against the sides of his neck, pressing against his pulse which was thundering in his ears, face pale and wan in the lights of the hallway. “Hollander. Hollander, breathe.”

No.

A flash of irritation passed across Rozanov’s face and Shane’s eyes widened in fear as he fought to comply with the request, a pathetic hiss whispering past his lips as his hands came up to clasp around the Russian’s wrists.  “Yes. Again. Like me.” Shane’s eyes focused on the movement of the other man’s chest, covered in a Boston Bears t-shirt and Shane hated that t-shirt, reaching out to grasp it in his fist, pulling the fabric up and slamming his hand against Rozanov’s abdomen, following the movement of his abs. “Yes. Yes. Good. Breathe.”

“Rozanov-”

“Shut up, dinosaur.” Shane had never been so glad to hear those words, focusing on steadying his breathing now that his head had stopped-

“Rozanov, what the fuck is going on here!” The hand on his neck was torn away and Rozanov twisted awkwardly on his knees to face the furious man, a snarl that Shane was more than familiar with on his lips, his other hand shifting as he moved to attack- to leave.

What did I do wrong?

Shane’s arms looped around Ilya’s neck and he pushed off the wall, collapsing into the man’s broad chest and shoving his face into his neck, smelling the remnants of sweat, vodka and his own cologne, lips shifting against the small moles dotted across his skin as he whined pathetically, legs coming to rest on either side of his knees.

For a moment there was nothing. No movement. Just the sound of the air-conditioning above them, the gentle hum of the city below them, Shane’s panicked breathing heaving in counterpoint.

Then there were hands, a broad, strong touch firm against his lower back, pulling him in closer.

He felt small.

Safe.

It happened without warning, the first one.

The second Shane tried to hold back.

By the third he gave in, letting out great heaving sobs as the terror of the whole situation overwhelmed him and he.

Just.

Didn’t understand.

What did he do wrong?

Why was this happening?

Why was he here?

Was he angry with Shane?

Hunter knew.

Humiliated beyond belief and struggling for breath between sobs he pushed himself in impossibly closer, desperate for reassurance in a way he never had been before, not even with his parents, clinging with the desperate terror of a man who’d already been thrown away once tonight, trying to crawl into the warmth before him.

He bit.

Shane’s teeth bit into the meat of Rozanov’s shoulder, stifling his distress in flesh, holding on with whatever he could, blunt nails digging into the muscles of that broad back as he had not half an hour ago, the man’s warmth doing nothing to combat the rolling shivers of hot and cold running through his body.

Rozanov’s frame was stiff for a moment and any other time Shane would have pulled back, apologised, run, but he couldn’t. The arms around his sides were the singular thing holding him together and it was just too much.

He was done.

Done.

He heard murmuring, indistinct words that he didn’t try to distinguish from plain noise. Rozanov’s shoulders started to drop, his chest softened and his neck shifted slightly, allowing Shane to burrow in further, to force his way into his personal space as he knew, logically, he would usually never allow himself. He just couldn’t bring himself to care. If Rozanov wanted him gone he would be gone, on his ass, on the floor.

Like he had been.

What did I do?

His breath hitched as another sob fought its way through, this time the exhale turning into a pathetic wail that had Ilya muttering a quiet hush into his ear, a soft kiss dropping against his temple as the man shifted under him and Shane panicked, pulling himself together long enough to drag his unfeeling legs into place, locking them around Rozanov’s hips, refusing to move, teeth digging in harder.

He heard talking and then a hand in his periphery grasping Ilya’s bicep- Shane’s hand snapped out, nails digging viciously into the back of the offending limb, biting down harder as he felt the wetness of blood smearing across his lips.

The hand vanished and he settled, the murmuring growing louder for a moment before the world shifted, swayed, and he was being lifted. He clung desperately as they fell into the wall, Shane’s back hitting it lightly before he felt Rozanov regain his footing, a trickle of blood seeping between his teeth where the bite had broken skin. He licked at the offending wound and felt a chuckle against his chest, Russian in the wind.

He smelled more than felt his suit jacked being placed over his shoulders, a whiff of cologne and Ilya’s cigarettes. A gentle thump as one of the pockets hit his side, causing him to snuffle indignantly.

They started moving and for the first time Shane lifted his gaze to see Hunter standing in the middle of the corridor clutching his hand, a look of discomfort across his features, watching as Ilya carried him into the elevator. Shane’s eyes narrowed, a threat, before baring his teeth and sinking them back into the flesh of Ilya’s shoulder.

Good.

Fucking dinosaur.

ILYA

Ilya stared at the ceiling, a second cigarette between his lips, another vodka in his hand, trying not to blink. Trying to stop himself from picturing the look on Hollander’s face when he had realised Ilya wanted him to leave. Ignoring the sound of clothes being unfolded and donned- a process Hollander managed to make awkward even when Ilya couldn’t see him. The pathetic goodbye, the way that Hollander’s eyes would have become sad like a kicked dog. His lips- so soft, so wonderfully pink from Ilya’s attentions- would have quivered. The resounding click of the door.

The click of the door.

“Fuck.” He exhaled softly, throwing the newly lit cigarette into his glass, relishing the indignant hiss. “Hollander.” He whispered, burying his face in his hands, rubbing them through sex-mussed curls, the sting of the scratches on his back causing him to wince.

Shane fucking Hollander.

His mind could focus on nothing else but the way his chin had tilted up, baring his throat in the most perfect show of submission. On the way his hands had trembled as he’d run them over his chest. The barely-there hesitance before he’d begun to pleasure himself, telling Ilya that it was likely no man had touched him since Ilya had last had him.

And the look on his face when Ilya had told him to leave.

Ilya threw back the covers, moving swiftly into the bathroom and starting the shower, staring blankly into the mirror as his thoughts raced. He knew he had done the right thing, asking him to leave. He was shit company on a good day, and times like this?

When his thoughts were racing a thousand kilometres an hour?

When he was incapable of stringing together a single sentence that wasn’t designed to shame or harm?

No. The other man didn’t deserve it. Not after what he had given Ilya.

And Hollander would not care, once he was in a less pissy mood. He never cared. He-

Ilya turned at the sound of his phone going off, the particular tone that of ‘Jane’. He was tempted to ignore it. He usually did. For a little while.

Something tonight told him not to.

Leaving the water to run and steam up the glass he wandered around the suite until he found the offending piece of technology in his discarded suit pants under the table. 

Jane.

His first instinct was to roll his eyes. Such an angry kitten. He input the code and felt his blood run cold.

JANE

We didn’t even kiss.

As an athlete Ilya was more than well attuned to the workings of his body- a strange, detached voice as he dropped his phone onto the ground told him that this was an abnormal heart rate and that the sudden pain in his chest was not to be ignored.

He thought of the water running in the bathroom.

He thought of Hollander bitching about the cleanliness of hotel carpet and refusing to fuck on it no matter how much Ilya whined.

He didn’t know Hollander’s room number.

The lift took forever to arrive.

He stared at the buttons. He thought about calling the front desk. He thought about the phone still in his suite and swore.

And then he hit the next twenty floors below his own.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six- “No, it’s okay-” 

Ilya wanted to kill Scott Hunter. He was going to kill Scott Hunter.

Shane was standing- or more accurately slumped- just a few metres from the elevator doors, knees unlocked and seeming close to collapse, back pressed against the wall as if he were trying to disappear into it, shoulders hunched over and angled away from the older man, mouth slightly open and eyes widened in fear.

Ilya would snap his neck on the ice and make it look like an accident.

He was Russian.

The Demon of Boston.

No one would ever know.

Neither man noticed as he stepped into the hallway, treading softly until he was a metre or so from the panicked Hollander who was trying to pull away from Hunter’s grip on his shoulder, looking near hysterical.

“You are scaring him.” Ilya said softly, using a tone that Hollander would be more than familiar with, like trying to calm an angry horse.

Ilya watched in internal horror as Shane’s breath caught violently in his throat and he stopped breathing.

Not good.

Hunter turned, slowly, and to Ilya’s surprise placed his body right in front of Hollander, keeping his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, seeming not to notice the increased trembling it caused.

Perhaps he would not need to kill Hunter after all.

Maybe this was his fault.

“Rozanov.” Hunter’s voice was cautious. Careful. His eyes roamed up and down Ilya’s frame, taking in the bare feet, the messy hair, the way he was staring straight through the man, towards Hollander.  “What are you doing here?” Hunter stepped forward and his hand slipped from Shane’s shoulder, causing the other man to slump forward a little, taking a rattling breath that had Ilya clenching his teeth in worry. He couldn’t see. “He’s-”

“Is having panic attack. Yes. I see. You make him panic.” Ilya spat out quickly, not caring to find better English. “Move away. Not helping.” He started to step forward, hand already reaching out towards Hollander when Hunter threw himself in his way, causing Ilya to growl deep within his chest, frustration starting to bubble to the surface.

Hunter’s eyes were dark in the shitty light, his jaw clenched tight, shoulders back, an arm held out in front of him as if he actually thought he’d be able to hold Ilya back if he tried to get past him. “No. This isn’t what he needs, you’re the last thing he needs right now.”

Something in Ilya’s chest broke loose at the pathetic sound Shane made, a sad whine before a choked sob and Ilya was this close to throwing Hunter out a window. “Move, Hunter.” He said softly, trying to keep his voice down, trying not to cause a scene, trying to make sure Shane didn’t slip further, moving forward and-

“Fuck-” Hunter was closer but even he wasn’t fast enough to catch Hollander as his knees gave out. Ilya felt a sympathetic twinge in his own as Hollander hit the ground hard, not even trying to catch himself, and his breathing deteriorated even further, past shallow pants into desperate gulps for air. His hands loosened and his suit jacket fell to the ground next to an abandoned phone. The phone.

We didn’t even kiss.

Hunter got there first, kneeling and fumbling over Hollander’s shoulders, under his elbows, trying to pull him to standing but Shane’s eyes were glassy and panicked, hands weakly batting at the dinosaur trying to manhandle him upright.

Hunter let out an indignant whimper as Ilya shoved him to the side and he fell to his knees in front of Shane, assessing the situation and finding no answers but ‘not good maybe terrible’ before he fit his hands against his carotids, feeling the panicked fluttering of Shane’s pulse as the man near choked beneath him on his own panic. “Hollander. Hollander, breathe.” He said softly, sweetly, coaxingly.

He couldn’t tell for a moment if Shane had even heard him and fought down the flicker of irritation that crossed his face as Hunter tried once again to lay his hands on the panicking man, shooting the old man a glare before focusing on the man who was… Fear. Hollander was scared. Of him. He choked back the wave of nausea, forcing his stomach back where it belonged and focused on breathing. A pathetic hiss was all he gained, Shane’s hands coming up to clasp around his wrists.  “Yes. Again. Like me.” Shane’s eyes, filled with tears, suddenly focused laser-like on the movement of Ilya’s chest, cute nose twitching in disgust at the logo. So cute.

He didn’t expect him to reach out and fist the fabric, pulling it up and using his free hand to scratch at Ilya’s abs, timing his breathing to Ilya’s own. “Yes. Yes. Good. Breathe.”

“Rozanov-”

“Shut up, relic.” Ilya didn’t even bother looking at the man, keeping his attention on Shane’s racing pulse, usually steady like a metronome, but now with worrying little kicks.

“Rozanov, what the fuck is going on here!” Hunter grabbed at one of his hands, yanking it from Shane’s neck and pulling Ilya to face him, near causing him to topple onto the ground as unexpected as it was. He twisted awkwardly on his knees to face the Admiral’s captain, a snarl on his lips, other hand ready to punch his stupid, smug face-

He imagined his expression of shock mirrored Hunter’s when Shane’s arms looped around Ilya’s neck as he pushed off the wall, collapsing onto his chest and shoving his face into his neck. He smelled like stale sweat and vodka, a mixture of cigarettes and Ilya’s own cologne. There was a bitter tingle of terror intermixed, sweat collecting along his hairline, tears a tacky mess on his cheeks which were flushed, causing his freckles to disappear. He could feel soft lips against the side of his neck and there was a pathetic whine as the smaller man shifted, legs coming to rest on either side of Ilya’s knees.

For a moment he knelt, frozen, one hand in Hunter’s, the other hovering awkwardly above Hollander’s back. Both men flinched at the sound of a door opening around the corner, not daring to move until there was an answering slam of the fire door. Ilya thanked God for smokers.

He pulled his hand gently from Hunter’s lax grip and placed both securely on Hollander’s lower back, at first stabilising the swaying man then drawing him in closer as he wriggled ineffectually.

And then Shane started to cry. Great, heaving sobs as the terror of the whole thing overwhelmed him and he.

Just.

Crashed.

For a man who had experienced the overwhelming rage of Grigori Rozanov it was still the scariest thing Ilya had ever experienced. He didn’t know what to do.

And then teeth.

It was not the first time Hollander had bitten him but in the past he had always been very careful to keep it to a gentle worrying, as thought out as every other semi-permanent reminder of their encounters.

This was different.

It started as a soft nibble, as if Hollander was planning his point of attack. Then his jaw widened, teeth scraping over Ilya’s skin and he gasped in pain as teeth sunk in, just short of drawing blood, sharp and aggressive. Blunt nails raked down his spine over the claw-marks and Ilya let out a huff of discomfort as they dug into the muscle there and held, still but for the uncontrolled shivering of the man in his arms. “Hollander.” He mumbled. “Are you alright?”

“Does it fucking look like he’s alright?” Hunter whispered frantically beside him, no longer trying to grope the rare creature in Ilya’s arms who was clinging to him like one of the great Australian drop-bears. “This isn’t fucking normal!” Ilya watched the way Hunter’s gaze came to rest on the slight bruising around the back of Hollander’s neck, already blooming so beautifully just under the collar of his shirt. Ilya had been very careful this time with the placement and a wave of possessiveness overtook him, causing him to lift a hand to tug the collar back into place.

The near unconscious movement on his part was as good as an admission of guilt for Hunter whose previously worried expression morphed into one of rage. If he wasn’t so old, Ilya may have worried. “What the fuck did you do to him, Rozanov?!” He hissed out, keeping his voice down as the stairwell door closed with a resounding boom.

Now.

Wasn’t that interesting?

Not a single hint of disgust, only protectiveness towards the younger man.

Any other time Ilya would have been revelling in the 100% accuracy of his gaydar but right now, all he could muster was the sentiment that perhaps Hunter was not so useless after all.

He rolled his eyes. “Is not what you think.” He murmured softly, starting to relax as Shane settled into his arms. “I did not hurt him. Is…” He paused, searching for the word. “Consent. Yes. Enthusiastically.” He was far too tired to explain himself. It had been a very long day. “This is your fault.”

Hunter’s eyes widened and he looked angrily at Ilya. “Why the hell is this my fault? I just stepped into the hallway!”

“And yet he is not crying when he leaves me.” And because Ilya lived on the edge. “Only cries during. Is very good boy.”

That earned Ilya a blush. Perhaps tonight truly was salvageable in all the best of ways. Shane chose that moment to burrow his way further into Ilya’s chest and Ilya shifted his head to the side to allow the smaller man to slip in further. He heard a soft hitch in Shane’s breathing and some part of Ilya’s animal brain registered it as a sign of distress, his suspicion validated as a wretched sob exploded from the man, ending in a pathetic wail loud enough to wake a light sleeper. Ilya leaned over, shushing the distressed man softly and brushing hip lips against Shane’s temple. They needed to move.

“He cannot stay here.” He directed towards Hunter who was already standing. Ilya started to move and for lack of a better phrase Hollander lost his shit, legs flailing until they were locked around Ilya’s waist, refusing to move, teeth digging in harder. Sighing heavily, Ilya looked up at Hunter. “Help me stand.” That earned him a complicated mass of expressions that he couldn’t be bothered to figure out. Hollander needed to be moved. “My arm, Hunter, and around his back.” Hunter’s large hand gripped around Ilya’s bicep, ready to help haul them both to standing when he grunted in pain and Ilya turned to find Shane’s hand over Hunter’s, blunt nails digging in viciously and he gasped in shocked pain as the teeth he’d come to ignore clenched, blood running in rivulets into the neck of his shirt. “Fuck, Hollander.”

Hunter wrenched his hand back and the teeth released, just a little, allowing Ilya a moment of reprieve before turning to Hunter who was clutching his bleeding limb, looking at Hollander as if he was a rabid animal. “See? Not even Hollander likes you.” He placed a happy little peck against the sweaty hair in front of him. “Is very good boy.”

That earned him a glare. Ilya didn’t care. “You will catch if I fall.” And with that he used his not inconsiderable muscles to stagger upright, letting out an ‘oof’ as he overcompensated and sent them both careening into the wall, his hand cushioning the impact. Shane’s teeth dug in further, causing him to grunt in pain.

“Are you alright?”

Hunter’s concern had him chuckling. “Pointy kotenok.” He murmured as he hoisted Hollander up a bit higher, settling his hands under the arse he’d been fondling not long ago. “Get his jacket. Will be very cranky if has dust.” He kicked at Hollander’s phone with his toe. “In pocket. Does not like to miss calls.” He paused. “Hunter.”

The man paused and for the first time, Ilya bothered to look. Short, shallow breaths. Eyes twitching all over the place. Flinching at every ticking of the lights. Fingers wringing the fabric of Shane’s suit jacket- Ilya would make sure Shane knew it was not him that had ruined the fabric. “Hunter.” The man flinched, gaze landing on his face. “Was not your fault.” He murmured softly. “Bad timing.”

“Bad… Timing.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. Bad timing.” He took Shane’s phone from the man’s hand and quickly unlocked it. Hunter’s eyes widened and Ilya knew he Knew. “Number.”

“What?”

“Shane can use emotional support dinosaur. Is very baby gay who does not know is gay yet.” The dinosaur in question stared at him in horror for a few moments before he seemed to give in to Ilya’s particular brand of chaos, huffing in amusement, shaking his head as he dutifully input his number. He slipped the phone into the jacket pocket, draping the fabric over Shane’s still-shivering shoulders, causing him to snuffle like a little kitten. So cute.  

Ilya pressed the button for the lift, thankful it was so late and they were unlikely to encounter anyone travelling to the floors above. The doors opened and Ilya stepped inside, about to turn around when the mirrored panels revealed Shane’s head lifting, teeth bloody, watching Hunter with disturbingly lucid eyes that narrowed as the doors closed. The instant they shut his head lowered slowly and his front teeth dragged around Ilya’s shoulder until they found their previous indents, settling in place.

“So very pointy.”

SCOTT

Scott was having what had to be the shittiest night of his life.

Except.

Perhaps not.

Maybe not.

Top of the list was probably the night he realised he had less than no interest in fucking women and wanted to play in the NHL.

That night had been shit.

This was the second.

It had been alright. Somewhat. In the beginning. Watching Rozanov win fresh off a Cup wasn’t the most enjoyable waste of his time but it was fine. Lots of things in Scott’s life were fine. He figured Hollander felt the same, the younger man watching the spectacle with a trembling lip and shoulders pulled back rigidly as he nursed a glass of ginger ale.

Fucking Rozanov.

Maybe he shouldn’t have that that  many glasses of wine.

He’d made the mature decision to ignore the two morons who were eye-murdering each other across the room, heading to the public bar with the intent to get completely and utterly pissed. He was drunk enough to take the risk, knowing exactly how he looked as he leaned over the bar and smirked at the keeper, the man- an incredibly pretty, blue-eyed blonde-haired man- returning the sentiment as he passed Scott the first of many drinks on the house.

The last one was accompanied by a sharpie-scrawled number on a napkin as he sat huddled in the corner away from the TV screens, drunken hockey players streaming along the corridor outside.

He knew he wasn’t going to call. But it was nice. Being reminded that if he wanted to, he could.

It had been a long time since he’d wanted to. Or at least wanted to enough to run the risk.

God, was it a risk.

So he’d stepped into the lift, fiddling with his room key in his pocket, staring at his features in the distorting mirrors, wincing as he caught site of the slightly uneven edge on his beard, the way his mouth was screwed into a permanent grimace, eyes exhausted and miserable.

Awesome.

Great.

The doors pinged open and he stepped out onto the pale green stippled carpet, sighing heavily as the smell of cigarette smoke filtered through the air conditioning from the stairwell beside him, the door propped open by a doorstop.

Unfortunately for whoever was in that stairwell Scott really wasn’t in the mood to smell the filthy habit as he tried to sleep and he kicked at the rubber stop, huffing contentedly as the door slammed shut. He ignored the muffled indignant shouting behind him as he moved to his door, slipping the key into the lock and twisting just as the second lift pinged.

Fuck. If he’d only known what awaited him he’d have ignored it. Opened his door. Shut it behind him. Gone to bed.

No he wouldn’t have.

He turned and felt his heart drop into his stomach and start to pound as Shane Hollander, hockey’s Golden Boy, stumbled out onto his floor, clothing dishevelled, his hair a mess, face pale and terrified, hands gripping his phone like it was a lifeline.

Fuck. “Hollander?”

From there on it was a nightmare incarnate.

He recognised that look, the one Hollander directed at him, in the beginning. He’d seen it before. In mirrors. In windows. Glass panels. Every time Scott realised he’d said something. Done something. Something stupid. Something careless. That exact same look.

Scott Knew.

God, did he know.

What he didn’t know was why Ilya Rozanov also knew. At least in in the beginning.

Then those marks.

He’d seen them before. He’d caused them before. He’d just never once thought, even after ‘1221’, that Shane Hollander would ever let Ilya Rozanov leave any sort of permanent claim on that perfectly smooth skin.

It wouldn’t be until later, lying in his room, on the flight back to New York, at the grocery store, that the pieces would fall together. The look of devastation on the Russian’s face as he watched Hollander collapse to the ground. The way he’d looked at Scott like he should be worried for his life.

And then Hollander, his nails digging in until Scott bled, defending what the kid saw as his to claim. Like he knew. Like he knew that Scott was some sort of threat.

He’d watched as Rozanov carried the smaller man back to the lifts, posture screaming protectiveness, cradling Hollander to his chest like he was the most precious creature he’d ever seen.

He hated Hollander, in that moment.

Panicked and terrified he was still cared for in a way that Scott had never once experienced, never once given himself the opportunity to experience.

Shane Hollander, right now, had everything Scott had ever wanted.

He’d never hated himself more than he did at that moment.

Chapter 2: We're Still Not Doing This

Chapter Summary

In which Shane Hollander Needs to Sleep.

Chapter Notes

Well it's all downhill from here folks. I'm invested. No sleep. Written whilst watching the documentary about the 1996 Everest disaster by David Breashears. Check if out if stories of misery and death are also your jam.

ILYA

His heart raced in his chest as he locked eyes with the elevator buttons, praying under his breath that it was far too late- or too early- for them to be seen. In his arms Hollander had fallen silent, limbs long and lax, pressed against his front like a limp child. His too-fast breaths told Ilya that whilst he’d cried himself into exhaustion, his mind had not yet gone quiet.

If there was one thing Ilya knew it was that Hollander’s brain was very mean sometimes.

The doors opened and he stepped through, feet bare against the slightly sticky carpet- he acknowledged the win to Hollander. He moved quickly, quietly until he was shifting Shane in his arms to reach his keycard, swiping it clumsily against the lock and turning, using his own shoulder to shove the heavy door open.

It clicked shut softly behind them and for a few moments Ilya allowed himself time to think, the only sound that of the shower still running, the air within his suite warm and damp, the smell of deep heat permeating the space as he remembered the tube he’d haphazardly thrown onto the tiles with the plan of treating a lingering check.

“Hollander.” He murmured softly into the man’s ear, causing the teeth to shift then pull free as Shane’s sweaty forehead rotated to press into the side of his neck. “Shower, yes?” It earned him a slight shift that he took as a negative. “Too bad. You are sweaty. Smell terrible. Hunter germs, everywhere.” Without asking for permission again he carried his precious cargo into the bathroom, the air immediately turning warm and dense and pressing against his chest.

He turned and rested Hollander on the sturdy counter, reaching up to remove his arms gently- he was not expecting the devastated cry, the panicked scrabbling as Shane’s limbs flailed desperately, bloodstained nails digging into Ilya’s flesh, pulling him back in and sending them both careening into the mirror, only his desperate outstretched hand presenting it from shattering around the back of Hollander’s head.

“No no no no no no…” The word was muffled against Ilya’s neck, panicked and hot as his shirt tore with the force of Hollander’s grasp. “Don’t leave please don’t leave me I didn’t know I don’t know what I did wrong-” Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a heaving sob and Ilya panicked, because this was beyond anything he’d ever experienced with Hollander.

He would have to be an idiot to have missed the signs in their previous interactions but Hollander had never collapsed and he didn’t know why-

I don’t know what I did wrong-

God.

“Oh no. Hollander. Hollander, listen to me.” He attempted to reach up, to press his fingers into those delightful freckles but his wrist was grabbed and pinned, shoved aggressively between their chests, prisoner to Hollander’s continued frantic movements, snippets of barely English washing over Ilya’s ears as he tried to force the words through his English dictionary, one that he had never realised was attuned specifically to Hollander’s particular Canadian lilt until now.

For a moment he thought of hitting the cold tap, of forcing the smaller man under the water and letting the shock pull him from wherever his messy brain had taken him, but the thought of having to pry him loose and throw him into the shower, seeing those big brown eyes fill with betrayal had him stepping under the perfect 43 degree water fully clothed, grimacing as the heat hit his various Hollander-related wounds, letting them both soak.

The long season, the aches and pains lingering from the Cup had him sliding down the tiles, landing on his arse with a painful thump, Hollander’s legs finally releasing their death-grip on his hips.

They rested.

Hollander’s sobs, which had been hysterical when the water first hit them start to quiet, then calm, and his pulse, carefully monitored by Ilya’s finger’s around his neck started to return to the comfortable thrum Ilya was familiar with after time spent with his head resting on that perfect chest.

He let himself rest his chin atop Hollander’s hair, the soft strands silky under the water. The pressure beat the stress from his shoulders and he closed his eyes, happy to wait out the man still nestled into his chest, teeth worrying now at the jut of his collarbone, gentle and fond, fingers alternately loosening and tightening in the sodden fabric of his ruined t-shirt.

Had been a favourite.

Time passed and he felt his eyes start to slip closed for longer periods. He didn’t care. So closely intertwined it’d be unlikely he’d miss Hollander waking from whatever state Hunter’s presence had triggered.

He couldn’t help but hate himself a little for the situation he’d put them both in. He forgot, sometimes, Hollander’s relative lack of experience in these sorts of interactions, knowing that his cute little Canadian hockey player would never have even considered asking for more than what he perceived Ilya was willing to give. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew it was unlikely the ridiculous man went out and experienced what they did with others, Hollander would never risk it, certainly not at this stage of his career.

Especially now that Ilya had beaten him to the Cup.

Ilya’s cheek muscle twitched as he imagined the concept of Hollander’s sweet moans being coaxed out by a lesser man. No. Ilya would teach him. No one else. And Hollander would continue to let him.

Unfortunately that also meant that things Ilya understood as fact, things that were simply a law of the hook-up world were unknown to Hollander. Things that Ilya took for granted when it came to the illicit practice of fucking men were foreign concepts to the older man and Ilya forgot that sometimes, so lost in his own head.

But looking back at it now, lack of experience wasn’t the only factor at play here.

He knew- if he let himself be honest he’d aways known- that Hollander did not respond as Ilya’s previous partners- male or female- had. Shane didn’t know that you don’t look at your fuck-buddy- and Ilya had laughed for hours the day Marlow had explained that term to him- with such sweet eyes. That you don’t buy a building just to have somewhere to fuck your rival. That you don’t fall to your knees so readily. That you don’t chase after their lips like they’re your next breath. That you didn’t pay attention to their English, even if Ilya had wanted him to, to notice that he was smart, not the brutish caveman the media liked to call him.

Genetic…

No. Hollander was not like the others, and Ilya had forgotten. Or at least done his very best to.

His lack of care, his ghosting- another excellent term- Shane’s loss, and then Hunter, standing there when Shane still had Ilya’s bruises on his neck would have sent his poor innocent kotenok into a spiralling mess… It was all his fault.

“I’m sorry.” Ilya flinched in surprise as the soft, hoarse words reached his ears, near hidden under the thundering of the unlimited hot water. His brows came together in confusion, waiting for Hollander to elaborate.

It took a few moments but then Hollander was unclenching his fingers, palms flat against Ilya’s chest as he pushed himself upright, minute tremors still present though Ilya hoped they were due to exhaustion rather than a complete collapse of the man’s ability to regulate his own body.

Shane’s eyes were horribly red and blood-shot and Ilya winced sympathetically when he saw the crimson staining his teeth, knowing that if he hoped to avoid a complete hygiene-related melt-down the mirror would need to be avoided. His lips were bitten bloody also and Ilya felt a sudden wave of gratitude to the league for making them endure the regular testing that ensured neither of them would suffer long term consequences from Shane’s loss of control. “I… I’m sorry you saw this.”

The look of shame that marred Hollander’s perfect features sent a crushing wave of guilt through Ilya’s chest and he reached up, pressing his index finger to his nose. Boop. “No.” He said softly before starting to undo the tiny buttons of Hollander’s shirt, stiff with water and fiddly. “No sorries, Hollander. Is not your fault. Blame Hunter.” That earned him an amused huff and Shane allowed him to push the shirt from his shoulders, the fabric ending up in the corner of the shower closer to the drain.

“I still… Why were you there?” His eyes were still slightly unfocused, dancing across Ilya’s features as if searching for answers.

That had Ilya pausing where he was trying to shimmy Hollander’s trousers over his hips. “You text me?” He cocked his head to where he had placed both of their phones on the toilet seat before their impromptu soaking.

Hollander’s head shook slowly. “No… I deleted it.” Ilya was suddenly far more concerned that this wasn’t just a panic attack. Had Shane hit his head? Had Ilya done something? “I was… I was going to, then I…”

Ilya suddenly remembered the phone on the ground. “Was accident, then. Maybe.” He leaned forward, sweeping Hollander’s legs to the side so he was sitting across Ilya’s lap, making it easier to remove the rest of his clothes. “Does not matter. I came. Defended your honour from dinosaur.” That earned him a pinch in the arm. “So cruel to your hero, Hollander.” He removed his own shirt, wincing when he saw the ribbons the back had been torn into. It joined the rest of the clothes on the tiles. “Hunter is idiot. Would have called police or something stupid.”

That seemed to trigger something in Shane’s mind and a look of fear crossed his features. “No… Rozanov…” Ilya never wanted to see that look again. “Hunter knows.”

Oh. Was that all?

Ilya hummed, jostling Shane around on his lap- because the man didn’t seem to want to move which was just so cute- and wriggled his joggers off, kicking them away until they were pressed together.

For the first time in his life he had no interest in fucking Hollander.

He was very proud of himself. Svetlana would be proud of him too. Emotional maturity and all that.

He gathered Shane into the V of his legs and reached up onto the bench where his soaps sat, lathering a washer and starting to remove the remnants of the rancid sweat from his smooth, soft skin. “Is okay. Hunter will not say anything.” He lifted Shane’s arm and sat it over his shoulder when the man looked close to collapse. “Is gay as… What is thing that dance around?”

“Maypole.”

“Yes. I do not understand, but yes. Is definitely fucking men.”

“How do you know that?” Shane wriggled a little until his arse was on the tiles, legs outstretched between Ilya’s own, content to let Ilya do as he wished and wasn’t that the very best of power-trips. But not better than the cup. Never better than the cup.

He lifted Hollander’s leg, bending it to the side as he washed behind his knee. “Because he was more scared for you than of you.” Now the foot. He always forgot just how flexible Hollander was. “And he stared at your freckles.” He poked the side of Hollander’s face with his washer, leaving a smudge of foot-filled soap. It was a testament to his exhaustion that Shane didn’t even try to remove it. “He is not allowed to have your freckles.”

Shane moved his leg without prompting, allowing Ilya to continue on his quest. “He wasn’t staring at my freckles.”

“Is lie. Everyone stares at freckles.” Another poke. “Cutest thing about ugly face.” He rubbed the soapy cloth over what was, for the first time Ilya had encountered it, Shane’s soft cock. He resisted the urge to tease, knowing it wouldn’t be well received, instead he moved on, smoothing across his soft belly where his muscles were all relaxed in the heat. “You were not good, Hollander.” He said softly, settling a soft kiss over the top of his shoulder. “Hunter could have been fucking you on floor and you would not have noticed.” A soft shudder ran through Hollander’s body and Ilya abandoned the cloth, settling his arms around his broad chest and bending his knees to press against his sides. “Was scary, to see you like that. You scared me.”

Shane nodded slowly. “I… I don’t… I’m not like that. Usually.” He whispered, causing Ilya to have to lean in closer, huddling over his suddenly much smaller frame. “I can control it. Usually. But…”

“But I tell you to leave.”

Another nod.

“I am sorry-”

“No-”

“Yes, Hollander.” Ilya said softly, squeezing his arms. “I was problem. Not you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, remembering the panic that had lanced straight through him when he’d read the text. “You were perfect. Did nothing wrong.”

It wasn’t often that he said the right thing around Hollander and so it took him a moment to realise that he had. The smaller man just… Relaxed. He hadn’t realised how tense Shane had been, even in his collapsed, malleable state until he was bearing his full weight in his arms, his breathing soft and steady against his chest.

Better than the cup.

Maybe.

Yes.

Ilya chose to ignore the passage of time, perfectly content to turn into a raisin if it kept Shane warm and content in his arms. It was only when he lifted his gaze to the bare windows through the bathroom door that he realised just how long they’d been wasting water. “Hollander?” He crooned into the sleeping man’s hair, shifting slightly beneath him. “We must move. Or will drown.”

He received nothing but a sleepy ‘okay’ which left him to haul them both to standing, sitting Shane down on the toilet lid and covering him in giant fluffy towels, using the hairdryer to send his short hair into soft peaks as he swayed with each movement of Ilya’s hands, nudging at him like a sleepy kitten.

Their clothes were lost causes, already he could see the delicate fabric of Hollander’s suit shrinking with the constant heat, the fabric warping under his hands. Debating throwing it out he instead threw their clothes into the dryer hidden in the hall cupboard, so they’d be easier to take with him. Hollander could afford a new suit. Maybe red.

When he returned to the bathroom Hollander was staring blankly at their phones. Ilya poked at the screen on Hollander’s, seeing hidden messages from several hours ago. “Later.” He declared, wincing as the hour ticked over. “Up.” He gestured to the man who looked like a marshmallow in his towels.

To his credit, Hollander tried.

Ilya blessed his hockey reflexes as Hollander’s knees buckled, sending him towards the glass shower wall. “Maybe not.” He swept the unprotesting man into his arms bridal style, dropping the towels onto the floor to deal with later as he carried him to the bed, dropping him into the middle and starting to cover him with every blanket in sight.

“What… No, I have to leave.” Hollander protested quietly, kicking at the sheets and struggling ineffectually against the heavy quilt.

Pathetic.

Like little baby porkipine, hair all up in bristles.

“No. You need sleep.” Ilya turned off the bathroom light and crossed the room, setting the blackout curtains to close, confident Shane wouldn’t be able to move far before he returned. He placed their phones together on the bedside table, squinting in the darkness when yet another message came through, this one from ‘Mom.’ Well fuck. “Hollander, why is mother texting at five in morning? Is too early.”

The flailing stopped. A soft ‘fuck’ echoed from within the cocoon. “They’re catching an early flight. I said I’d meet them to say goodbye.”

“Hmm.” Ilya studied the unmoving lump of man in his bed. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” Mind made up, Ilya stepped over to the room phone, dialling reception. A friendly woman answered. “Yes. Is possible to extend stay?” Of course it was. He was Ilya fucking Rozanov. And this room was expensive.  “Good. Yes. Tomorrow. Good.” He turned to the lump. “Room service. Yes. Thank you.” As he waited for the connection to ring through, he turned on the bedside lamp, pulling out the menu. “Ah. Yes. I know is early, but you make boring hockey player food, hm? Good. Fish fine- steamed only. Baby hockey players need healthy food only. And send pudding.” He placed the phone down before unlocking Hollander’s phone and channelling his inner Canadian. “How to be boring.” He muttered to himself as he slid under the covers, plastering his naked fame to Hollander’s back, burying an arm under his neck and using it to hold the phone, his other arm coming to rest over Hollander’s chest as he started to type. “Boring, boring, boring. Devastated by loss. Want time alone. See later. Okey?” He tilted the screen towards Hollander’s face and it was a testament to how badly the man needed to not leave Ilya’s bed that he only nodded and buried his face away from the light of the screen.

Ilya waited until mama Hollander had replied with far too many words, most of them insulting his virtue, the rest calling him a self-centred piece of shit, then plugged Hollander’s phone into his charger, his own phone always well charged.

They lay in silence, Hollander tracing half-conscious patterns on Ilya’s arm until there was a soft knocking on the door and Ilya left, wrapping one of the damp towels around his waist to answer, accepting the small trolley full of bland, boring, Canadian friendly food. And pudding. “You will eat.” He placed the tray on his side of the bed before hauling Hollander bodily into a sitting position, causing the man to grumble unhappily. “No. I get you boring food, will not waste. Would be rude.” He handed over a fork. “Eat.”

Hollander’s eyes, usually so expressive- even if the expression was irritation- just stared blankly at the steaming vegetables before him, seasoned lightly so that even Ilya couldn’t complain. Sighing heavily Ilya took the fork, skewering a piece of broccoli and lifting it to Shane’s mouth. “Eat.” That earned him an irritated glare. “You do not scare me, cranky little kotenok.”

Hollander leaned forward, like it was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, to take the food from Ilya’s hand. He chewed, slowly and methodically, and Ilya shoved half of his own food into his mouth before preparing to attack the Canadian again.

“Kotenok.”

Ilya may have dropped a piece of carrot on the bed.

He turned slowly to Hollander who was reaching for the pudding. “What does it mean?” Hollander lifted a spoonful of the chocolate thing into his mouth, licking his lips. “I’ve heard it before.”

“It… Is kitten. Small, pointy.”

“…Oh.” Hollander took another bite of the sugary substance. “Kotenok.”

Ilya frowned. “Of course you have no accent.” He shook his head unhappily. “Irritating little shit.” He muttered in Russian as he retrieved his wayward vegetable.

Hollander’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “And that one?”

“Irritating little shit.” Ilya smirked into the fish when Hollander frowned in annoyance. “Is okay. I will teach you more Russian.”

“Probably all swearing.”

“Vesnushki.”

Hollander paused, already halfway through the pudding Ilya still could not believe he was eating. “I… I’ve heard that one before… But withbefore it. You say it.” He turned to Ilya, expression soft.

Ilya swallowed heavily around his mouthful, turning to face forward. “You have not looked up?” Russians did not blush.

“I didn’t know if I was saying it right.”

“Is Shane Hollander. Can do nothing wrong.”

SHANE

Can do nothing wrong.

Shane looked down at his lap. To the bowl of sugar he’d been shoving in his mouth without second thought. His mind went back to the hallway, Hunter’s eyes widening as he saw the marks. How he’d acted, crying and panicked and-

His eyes widened and the near empty bowl spilled sidewards as he lunged- unwieldly, clumsy, Rozanov’s cutlery slipping onto the covers- hands pulling Rozanov’s shoulder closer, the dim light of the bedside lamp revealing his work. “God… You need to see a doctor, you need stitches, they’re-”

“Ah ah. No.” His hands were caught and gently placed back in his lap, Rozanov’s blue eyes narrowing seriously. “No. No doctors. Is fine.” He pressed gently at the bite with one finger. “See? No blood. Will heal. Blame it on sexy woman. No big deal.”

Shane shook his head quickly. “No. You need antibiotics, the human bite-”

“Shh. Shh.” The thick calluses on Rozanov’s fingers rasped across his lips as he shook his head. “Is fine. I have anti-bugs in bag. For cuts. I will take in morning.”

“You’ll take them now.” It seemed like an age but it could only have been seconds before Rozanov was tipping his head back and groaning dramatically, throwing himself out of the bed, carrying the detritus of their… Breakfast? With him. “So boring, Hollander. Can’t handle little infection.” He grumbled his way into the bathroom and Shane hated the way his heartbeat increased as soon as the other man was out of his sight, knowing he’d be more likely to collapse on the floor than successfully follow Rozanov like he wanted to.

He felt like shit. His head was pounding, his throat was itchy and his voice hoarse. His eyes felt like someone had thrown a fistful of sand in his face and every time he breathed he felt like he was having to work to stop the exhale from turning into a sob. He hated himself. He hated everything that had led to him sitting here, half collapsed in the Russian’s bed and making no effort to leave.

God, he didn’t want to leave. He just wanted to stay here, in the dark, wrapped in quilts that smelled like them both and forget what a complete fuckwit he’d been in that hallway.

Ilya exited the bathroom, a glass of water in one hand, a handful of pills in the other. “Happy now?” He tipped them into his mouth and swallowed noisily. “No infection. Can we sleep now?” Shane watched as Rozanov’s hand hovered over his own. “Take please.”

“What?”

“You take pills.”

“You didn’t bite me.” He replied, mentally taking stock of his limbs.

“No. For you. You wince like head hurt.” Rozanov’s hand turned over and Shane saw the branded painkillers.

“Oh.” He reached out, accepting the glass with his other hand and downing the ibuprofen thankfully. He handed the glass back as he ran his tongue over his teeth, wincing. “I need to brush my teeth.”

The earned him yet another overly dramatic groan and Rozanov collapsed against the side of the bed, upper body sprawled face-down. “Why you must be so pernickety, Hollander. Must take drugs, Ilya, must cry in hallway, Ilya, must murder Hunter, Ilya. So needy. More more more.” A single eye exited the quilt to glare at him. “Is hotel. I do not have spare.”

Shane’s nose twitched as he imagined lying in bed for the next several hours licking at his teeth. “Oh.” Then he paused. “Pernickety? Antibiotics is beyond you, but you know pernickety?”

Rozanov pushed himself to his feet, already reaching into his bag at the end of the bed for a pair of joggers. “Of course. I learn words to describe terrible Canadian hockey player I fuck.” A delighted, lopsided grin filled with too-white teeth stretched across the Russian’s face. “Have many more words for you. Will share.”

Shane drew his knees up to his chest, burying the smile he couldn’t hide within the quilt. “Asshole.”

“No. Am delightful.”

Rozanov pulled a plain back t-shirt on and Shane sat upright as he started to walk towards the door. “Where are you going?” He hated the fact that he could hear more than a note of terror in his own voice.

“To find toothbrush. Ah!” He hurried across the room, grabbing Shane’s phone and placing a call. A few moments later Shane could hear a disgruntled male voice. “Yes, yes. You need beauty sleep because you are old. Listen. I put Hollander’s room key under door. You check out for him when you leave, yes?” Ilya squinted into the darkness. “You are stupid. He is tired. Must sleep. More important than checking out. You do it.” He paused. “Good. You are not completely useless.” He ended the call and placed Shane’s phone face-down. “You wait here, yes?” Shane could hear the question. Will you have a meltdown if I leave you here alone?

His eyes watered in shame but he nodded into the quilt. Ilya’s hand smoothed over his hair, down to his bare shoulder, causing him to shudder involuntarily. “Yeah.” He said softly, sensing that Rozanov was waiting for a verbal reply.

The door clicked shut and Shane was left with his spiralling thoughts and the soft whirring of the dryer. He tried to think of nothing. Every time a thought crossed his consciousness he pushed it away, desperate to forget… Except he didn’t want to.

Contrary to his parent’s belief, and on one terrifying occasion Hayden’s, he didn’t black out. Oh, at the time his mind isn’t his own to control but after… After he remembered everything, crystal clear and violent in its intensity, like every thought and feeling was magnified and thrown at him at once. In the past he’d forced it all down, buried it deep in parcels and shoved them to the back of his mind to be let out bit by bit until he’d processed it all… Never before had he been forced to confront his own weakness straight after the fact, shivering and weak at the bottom of a shower, crushed against Ilya’s chest and held still and quiet… No. He didn’t want to forget that.

The door clicked again and there was a faint light from the entranceway that shut off as Rozanov strode back into the bedroom, Shane’s bags in his grip. He sat them down next to his own and began to rummage through, holding up a book. “Hockey. Always hockey, Hollander. You need life.”

“Isn’t that what you’re for?”

The cocky grin returned. “Ah, yes. I am excitement in your boring life.” He exclaimed happily when he dug up Shane’s toiletry bag. “Up. We brush teeth then sleep. Yes?”

Shane nodded, pushing back the quilts, suddenly aware of his nudity in contrast with Rozanov’s clothed state. “Um… Can you pass me-”

“No. Will just need to strip you again later.” Rozanov grabbed his arm and pulled him bodily into his chest, picking him up and wrapping Shane’s legs around his waist. “Do not need clothes to brush teeth. Will protect you from nasty splashes.”

And so Shane sat on the counter, Rozanov happily humming happily as he brushed his teeth between Shane’s legs, leaning over his knee to spit into the sink and swill enough mouthwash to smell like vodka. Shane winced as flecks of dried blood washed down the drain, cringing at the idea that it had been in his mouth before he remembered that blood was far more sterile than a good other number of things he’d had in his mouth recently.

He didn’t need to ask, Rozanov picking him up once more and carrying him to the bed, throwing him into the mattress where he bounced slightly, gasping in surprise. The Russian grinned, stripping his shirt over his head and Shane bit at his lip, watching the way Rozanov’s abs contracted as he bent over, shucking the rest of his clothes onto the floor. Even in the dim light- perhaps especially in the dim light- the shadows threw the dense musculature of his shoulders and pecs into relief, causing him to remember the sight of them contracting over him and- “No sex now. Later.”

Shane could feel the humiliating blush working over his cheeks, spreading down his chest. “I wasn’t asking-”

“You ask with eyes, Hollander.” Rozanov pushed at his hip slightly as he snuggled down beside him, tugging and rolling and positioning Shane to his will until they were curved together like spoons, Ilya’s arms wrapped under his neck and around his chest, Shane pushed half onto his front with one thick thigh pressed securely between his own, Rozanov’s body covering him like a weighted blanket.

It felt…

Amazing.

The last of Shane’s spiralling anxiety collapsed to nothing and the urge to cry seeped into the warmth of Rozanov’s body, even his feet, usually so cold at night were warm, caught beneath Rozanov’s own. He matched his breathing to the man beside him, hand reaching up to play with the long, thick fingers he could barely see now that the lamp was off. “Krasivyy vesnushki.” He murmured. “You didn’t say what it meant.”

Behind him Rozanov tensed for a moment before becoming dead weight, lips nuzzling against Shane’s hairline. “You are pain, Hollander. You pain me.” The tip of his tongue pressed at his vertebrae. “It is freckles. Beautiful freckles.”

The smile that stretched Shane’s lips hurt. “You say it at our face-offs. All the time.” Ilya groaned. “They all think you’re insulting me and you’re saying my freckles are beautiful?” He couldn’t help the laugh that burst from his sore chest. “JJ would have a fit.”

“JJ can suck a dick. No one will suck his.”

“Shut up.”

“I was. Now you want to talk.” A finger tapped against his palm. “Sleep, Hollander. Will be here in morning.”

That shouldn’t have been reassuring.

It was warm, when Shane woke. His own room had east-facing windows and it had taken hours the day before for the chill of the air conditioning to warm to comfortable, not that it had mattered given he’d been in the gym before the sun had fully settled in the sky. Now, given they’d not fallen asleep until near dawn, the heavy black curtains had trapped the heat of the day around them, making the air comfortable and almost sweet to inhale.

Slowly, to avoid disturbing the koala still clinging to his back he gently stretched out each of his limbs, finding them stiff, unresponsive and as weak as they had been that morning. He felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude to the man who had made sure he wouldn’t be getting on a plane in his current state; he honestly didn’t even know if he would have been able to get himself out of bed to see his parents off.

The warmth of Rozanov’s body had seeped into his bones and despite his inability to move he was comfortable, and warm, and as he continued to think about it, the way Rozanov’s muscles were holding him in place, increasingly horny.

Not exactly a surprise.

He’d had to spend hours when this had first started conditioning himself to ignore the near pavlovian response his body had to Rozanov’s proximity. He remembered their first game after fucking, how he’d had to picture the foulest of situations to avoid imagining Rozanov naked and hard on the ice.

It had been a nightmare.

But now, here, safe and warm and under the cover of darkness he wanted. And he couldn’t care less. Tomorrow he’d leave. Tomorrow he’d shove all of this down into the locked and chained ‘Ilya Rozanov’ box and he’d never have it again but for now there was no way he could hate himself more so why not. He’d take and worry about the consequences later.

“Your brain is too loud, Hollander.” Ilya’s sleepy voice emanated from somewhere near his shoulder, breath hot against his skin. “Sleep more. No leaving.”

Shane let out a sleepy hum and stretched slightly, the movement causing him to arch his back, feeling Rozanov’s length pressed up against his thigh.

Rozanov groaned unhappily, large palm resting on Shane’s hip and pushing away slightly, Shane unreasonably unhappy when the contact between their lower bodies ceased. “Do not be cruel.” Shane gasped at the sharp nip against his spine as Rozanov began to roll away. “You are too… What is better word for tasty?” The sound of gnashing teeth then a yawn. “I will eat you.” Shane stretched again, this time humming happily as his muscles shifted against the sheets, reaching down to grip Rozanov’s wrist, pulling him back into place and then further, shoving his giant hand down against Shane’s rapidly hardening cock. “Ah. I see.” Rozanov’s grip shifted, fingers loosening and hand slipping lower, large enough that the tips of his fingers pressed against Shane’s balls, just holding. Warm and safe and comfortable. The deep purr that followed had Shane hitching his top leg up just a little higher, opening himself up and unwilling to move further. “You want to be fucked.”

Shane swallower deeply as his body gave up, the slight movements already enough to exhaust him. “I… I don’t think I can move.”

He felt Rozanov force himself upright and lean over Shane’s body, grabbing a remote sitting beside the bed. A few moments later the curtains started to shift open, the warm sunlight spreading across the sheets until it reached their bodies. From the height of the sun Shane realised they’d slept through past midday and into the afternoon, the sun that particular shade of yellow that screamed warmth instead of light.

He hated that they’d wasted so much time already.

Hands reached under his arms and pulled him up and backwards, and instead of scrabbling for purchase Shane let himself be moved until he was settled on the bed against Ilya’s chest, the man’s legs bent and spread around his sides. “Is okay. You do not need to move. I will move you.” Strong hands rubbed firmly down the front of his thighs to his knees and Shane groaned as soreness was massaged forcefully from his muscles, before Ilya grasped behind his knees and pulled his legs up and open, resting over strong thighs.

And Shane let him.

Loose and pliant and a little sore from how tense he’d been he relished the stretch of his adductors, humming happily as Ilya’s hands started to run across the junction of his thighs, firm and warm and strong, digging into the sore spots and running short nails across his skin, causing his breath to come faster through permanently open lips, his head to loll back against the shoulder he’d bitten.

Eventually Ilya shifted his hands to a more purposeful task, fingers suddenly slick and questing, testing along his rim, still soft and pliant from the night before as Ilya slowly pushed two fingers inside him, causing Shane’s breath to hitch in pleasure. Ilya paused, lips sliding over his cheek. “Is okay, yes? No pain?”

Shane shook his head lazily. “No. No pain.” He moaned in pleasure as Rozanov moved slowly, sinking his fingers in deeper, claiming with a degree of thoroughness Shane had never experienced, their couplings usually a haze of arousal and desperation, given how rarely they saw each other.

No, this was different and he was determined to indulge, let the other man do whatever he wanted.

He barely felt the third finger, content in the sun and the warmth, the quiet of the city below them. His body was relaxed, not a single tense muscle about him. He hummed unhappily when the fingers were removed and he lay there, open and wanting as he heard the foil rapper tear, Rozanov pulling his body up and back until he felt Ilya’s cock lining up against him then he sank down slowly, panting all the agonising way down until there was no further to go. And then silence.

Shane let himself get used to the fullness, adjusting in ways he’d never realised he could, slipping down further, feeling Ilya deeper than he ever had before as he relaxed past a point he’d ever been comfortable with. His legs remained looped over Rozanov’s own and Rozanov’s hands were running over his chest, his belly, the inside of his legs, avoiding his cock where it rested against his thigh, hard and heavy and leaking a thin stream of pre-come towards there they were joined.

His breathing slowed and his head fell back further, mouthing half-consciously at the underside of Rozanov’s jaw where he’d locked Shane’s head in place with his own. His shoulders fell and his arms settled along the bed, resting against Rozanov’s hips, nails gently scritching against the pale blonde hair usually hidden from the world.

Ilya’s hands shifted, coming to rest on his hips and he pushed, sinking in even further and Shane felt more than heard the great, shuddering breath of the man beneath him. The tightening of his grip on Shane’s hips, tight enough to bruise. He found he didn’t mind. “You like that, yes?” Rozanov whispered, as if terrified to break the silence. “You warm my cock so well, Hollander.”

The words drew a soft whimper from his chest and he tightened involuntarily around the dick inside him, Ilya’s responding moan causing the most perfect of positive feedback loops as he worked the only muscles left to him, Rozanov’s fingers alternating tightening and loosening as they both struggled to hold their respective positions.

It wasn’t long before Shane felt his own wetness drip onto his hole, stretched obscenely around Ilya’s cock, the near silent sound of it dripping onto the formerly clean sheets. Shane groaned in pleasure as his back arched, legs spreading wider as he reached his fingers down, running them through the mess where they joined, his muscles contracting desperately, and-

Ilya let out a helpless whimper and his body tensed, cock throbbing in place as his hips hitched, just the tiniest amount and Shane was gone, screaming into the silence, arms flying up to grasp at Ilya’s blonde curls, back arching off his chest as he came, untouched, at the thought of Ilya’s pleasure.

He had done that.

Both men sat panting, Shane staring out at the distant desert, eyes already closing in exhaustion. He winced as his legs were lifted, settled in the middle of the bed and Ilya slipped out, grasping the condom as he rolled Shane’s limp form to the side, out of the wet patch for which he was grateful.

There was the sound of shuffling, water, a damp cloth cleaning then the sensation of movement as he was rolled, the sheets changing around him. He dozed off somewhere in the middle, waking to find Rozanov staring down at him where Shane lay across his chest in the fading daylight. Fingers drifted softly along his hip and it took Shane a few moments to realise that they were following a pattern. “What are you doing?”

Rozanov huffed, shifting Shane’s head. “You have… Big kitty. With stripes.”

Shane’s eyes widened. “A… Tiger?”

“Yes!” Rozanov hummed happily. “Stripes of tiger. Very sexy.”

Shane couldn’t help but grin into Rozanov’s pec. “They’re stretch marks, asshole. Plenty of people have them.”

“Yes. But yours are very pretty.” And from the way Rozanov was patting at the thin white lines along Shane’s hips like he hadn’t a care in the world, perhaps he thought so. To Shane they were just another way his body had been changed by the sport he’d dedicated his life to, never to be acknowledged, never commented on by a lover.

“You’ve seen them before.” He said softly, fingers reaching up to play gently with the cross around Rozanov’s neck. “They’re nothing new.”

“I fuck you in the dark, Hollander. Is first time I see.” That earned him another little pat. “Sun is better. Maybe I fuck you up against window next.”

Shane snorted in amusement. “Sure, if you think you can hold me up because I am not moving until I have to.”

“Ah, Hollander. You say like that is challenge.”

Chapter End Notes

Hope my extensive experience in reading smut translated to writing it.

Chapter 3: Well I Think I'm Gonna Do It Anyway

Chapter Summary

In whilst Ilya puts on his big boy pants and Shane gets some self-esteem smooched into him.

Chapter Notes

As you can tell I'm not a regular updater- life is a shit. But I shall try :-)

I spent a long time in this chapter trying to slow burn it. Love me a slow burn with its angst.

But what do I love more than a slow burn? All encompassing borderline obsessed love to the point of offing themselves if the other dies. 100% up for that.

So that's how this story is gonna run. Ilya and Shane are Ilya + Shane and the world around them can be the problem.

SHANE

The remainder of the afternoon passed slowly, Shane’s thoughts sluggish and soft like molasses, focused only on the steady heartbeat beneath his head, Rozanov’s hand tracing hockey plays against his spine, the man’s cross tucked between Shane’s teeth, the taste of metal grounding.

They lay in silence, perhaps for the first time since they’d met the air was clear of Rozanov’s chirping, Shane’s acerbic retorts, the interactions the league had fostered for years. Six years. Six. Four years of whatever the hell they were doing that had led to this, a sun-dappled penthouse suite in Vegas after Shane had lost MVP to the most infuriating man he’d ever met. He tapped his front teeth on metal, enjoying the way it sounded.

Rozanov shifted slightly, his breathing pattern changed and Shane realised he must have been sleeping. “Checking if is real?” His voice was soft and husky, roughened by sleep. Long fingers reached up and tugged the chain trailing from Shane’s mouth, sighing when he refused to release it. “Will ruin teeth. Give me.” Shane accepted his point, releasing the cross and settling back against Ilya’s chest. “Good boy. Did you sleep?”

“Not really. Dozed a little. I don’t usually sleep that well after… After.” Rozanov hummed in acknowledgement. “Last time I was barely aware of two games before I was back on my feet.” For some reason the prospect of revealing such a weakness to Rozanov didn’t hurt as much as it would have in the past. Couldn’t get any worse than this anyway. “I feel… Better. Than in the past. Not being alone helped. I think.”

“Hmm. Good.” Rozanov’s strong fingers kneaded at the back of his neck, causing him to arch happily into the touch. “Usually alone for this?”

Shane shrugged as Rozanov needled at a persistent knot he’d been able to release himself for weeks. “I can usually keep it together until I’m alone. Sometimes not. Hayden-”

Rozanov let out a loud raspberry. “Pike is even more useless at stopping baby Hollanders having meltdowns than playing hockey. Get better friend.” He yelped as Shane flicked at his nipple, hand tightening over the bruises on his neck. “Kinky.”

“Don’t.” He bit the meat of Rozanov’s pec gently before settling again, hauling his leg across Rozanov’s thighs to stop him moving. “Hayden is a good friend. And a good hockey player!” He shouted over Ilya’s loud and dramatic groan, finishing with a laugh as the larger man grumbled into his hair. “I think you’d get on great.” He joked, if only for the amusement Rozanov’s reactions provided.

“No. Pike is only good for making little Pikes and following your stupid diet. Man has super sperm. Will get you pregnant by looking.”

Shane choked on his own saliva, coughing weakly. “That’s not how it works.”

“You would be pretty pregnant. All round and slow. Even worse at hockey.” Clearly what Shane’s muscles had required to start functioning again was a target and he enjoyed trying to smother Rozanov with his pillow whilst the man laughed himself into wheezy hysterics beneath him.

Rozanov didn’t ask him what he wanted to eat so when Shane next woke to the sound of the curtains closing on darkness he couldn’t object to the burger placed in front of him. Usually he’d have stuck to his diet, ignoring the way his stomach would twist and turn, his head fuzzy and muscles aching, determined not to let himself fall behind. Ilya was having none of that and pulled him from the bed, stuffed him into a pair of sweats and sat him at the low table in the living area, flicking the channel to a rerun of MASH.

They chewed largely in silence, exchanging chips and wings and pickles for cucumbers, hands filthy and covered in sauce by the time they were finished. The episode was half-done, Hawkeye was staring at BJ like he was the centre of the universe when Rozanov looped an arm around his waist, pulling him up along the line of his body until he was resting between his legs, Rozanov’s hands in his hair.

It was relaxing in a way Shane hadn’t experienced even with his parents. He didn’t feel obliged to get up and entertain. He didn’t particularly feel the need to ensure Rozanov was enjoying himself because he knew somehow that he was. Rozanov had never been one to do anything he didn’t want to and that knowledge was one of the most comforting things about their arrangement. Shane knew that he was wanted.

Knowing that Rozanov didn’t have any particular preference for either sex made it even easier to believe. This wasn’t easy.  Sneaking around for years on end wasn’t fun, but Rozanov still wanted to spend time- sleep, sleep with Shane and that meant something. Ilya felt he was worth the inconvenience.

He was coming to the horrifying realisation that he sure as hell thought Rozanov was.

The thought of finding someone else to give him what he wanted, what he’d come to need and crave in the months between their meetings was enough to have him swallowing around a lump in his throat, tensing against the body beneath him, causing Rozanov to hum in concern. Shane ignored him, shoving his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder, forcing his body in between Rozanov and the back of the couch until he was pinned and barely able to move. The lights were dim and the TV volume down low, he was held still, and safe, and the smell of Rozanov’s body wash rolled over his remaining sense, allowing his mind to quiet as the theme song tinkled softly in the background.

He blinked as the TV flickered to black and Rozanov turned over to face him, not stopping until he’d manoeuvred Shane onto his back, collapsing his entire body weight on top of him.

He couldn’t breathe.

It felt amazing.

“You need heavy blanket.”

Shane paused where he was trying to worm his hands under the back of Ilya’s t-shirt. “What?”

“Blanket for crazy people. Squishes.”

“A weighted blanket, Rozanov. And no, I don’t need a weighted blanket.”

“You are, how do you say- sound kitten makes. When happy. All buzz buzz.”

Rozanov lifted his shoulders up to gaze at him and Shane pulled him back down unashamedly. “Purr. Cats purr.”

“Yes. This. You purr when I am on top of you. Even when my dick is not inside you. Always pulling me.” As if to prove his point Shane’s hands were already looped into the waistband of his joggers, anchoring him in place. “Is cute. Also pathetic. Get blanket. Get drugs. They have drugs for you, yes?”

Shane’s hands stilled, breath caught in his chest. “…What?” Immediately, he could picture his mother sitting beside him after the first time it had happened, his hand wrapped in hers as he begged her not to take him to the doctor, imagining the words there for all to see, documenting yet another limitation. He bit down on the nausea rising in the back of his throat. “Get off me.” He began to struggle under the 6’3’’ slab of muscle, trying to push Rozanov off to the side. “Let me go-”

“No.” Shane stilled at the no nonsense tone beside his ear. “You need blanket. Will calm you.” Rozanov, somehow, seemed to settle even further into the fabric of the couch, arms digging under Shane’s back until he was completely immobilised. “I will buy you one. Can keep in my apartment. Hide another one under your mattress in Montreal for when I cannot squish tiny Canadian hockey player.”

The sound that wrenched out of Shane’s chest at Ilya’s nonchalance in the face of one of Shane’s greatest fears- of being seen weaker because of a quirk of his mother’s genetics- was nothing short of horrifying and Ilya’s eyes widened in fear before he was shifting, bundling Shane up into his arms and carrying him back to the bed as Shane clung to perhaps the first person who hadn’t looked at him with pity.

The earlier warmth of the day was long gone and Rozanov didn’t strip them before he bodily shoved them both under the quilts, wrapping Shane up in darkness and silence, an invincible bulwark against the outside world as he let Shane fall apart against him, arms firm and unforgiving.

HAYDEN

His phone was on do not disturb. The instant the season was over they’d agreed that the phones went off and all that mattered was them. His wonderful, perfect family. His beautiful wife. His sometimes questionably intelligent daughters. Nothing else.

Jackie shifted beside him, burying further under the covers as the soft buzzing of the device sitting beside his pillow ramped up in urgency and Hayden shoved it under the covers before his brain caught up.

Shane.

He was moving before he was conscious of it, phone in hand, ignoring Jackie’s soft grumbling as he hurried into the hallway, shutting the door before turning up the brightness.

WORK BOO

Pick up phone Pike

He frowned, hurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen, flicking on the small lamp that threw soft yellow light over the space, sitting down at the counter before processing what was on his screen.

Pike

Pike

Pick up fucking phone or will haunt you until buffalo wins cup

What the fuck.

This isn’t Shane

Good

Are not complete moron

Fuck you. Who the fuck is this?

Why do you have his phone?

You know Lily, yes?

Shane says you are annoying. Always asking

Hayden’s brain stuttered to a stop. Rebooted. Lily. LILY. Mysterious Boston Lily.

Someone he knew for a fact shouldn’t have been contacting him.

He immediately replied.

I know.

Is he okay?

This is only reason have not killed you yet.

No. Is not okay. Is very not okay

Is having panic attack

What caused it?

None of your business

Nosey

Will fix eventually

But is very annoying, yes?

Hayden Pike was flying to Las Vegas and murdering a bitch. He was already looking up flights when the next message came through.

Next flight is in morning yes?

You are very predictable

Is why Shane likes you even though are worst voyageur

Fuck you.

Hmmmm. Maybe later :-)

You are very pretty Pike. I like the little hair swoop.

But sad for you, am now heavy blanket for little kitten, cannot spend time to fuck you

That was… That was the first time he’d ever been called pretty in his life.

You have nice skin, too. You share products with Shane?

What the fuck is wrong with you?

What the fuck does he see in you?

Am hot.

And sexy.

And suck dick like is Olympic sport

Shane cannot resist

You wish Lady Pike sucked dick like me

Why the hell was Jackie catching strays?

Why the fuck are you texting me?

Told you.

Is having panic attack

know you have list

Give

What are you talking about?

You have list yes? Things that make him feel better?

Make attack shorter?

Only know few things that make less scared but is not enough.

Oh. Yes. There are a few things

A few. A few. Five years ago there had been a few. The particular brand of detergent Shane liked. The exact wattage of the bulbs allowed in the overhead lights that never turned on anyway. The bodywash Hayden wasn’t allowed to even think about. Yeah. A few.

Now? 2014? Now there was a massive excel spreadsheet Shane would be both proud of and mortified to discover existed. It was years of watching. Years of seeing the ways Shane wound flinch away from certain sights and sounds, avoid textures and taste. Years of slowly modifying his life, Jackie’s life. His girl’s lives, just to make sure Shane could slide effortlessly into Hayden’s existence whenever he felt inclined.

Do you have an email?

How long is list, Pike?

If you’re actually Lily you already have an idea of how long it is

Yes. Do not like this.

You are okay friend.

Will give you present.

Gonna send me a fruit basket?

No.

The next attachment was a picture to download. For a moment Hayden decided to use his big boy brain. The problem was that that brain was sleep deprived and still a little tipsy from the wine he’d had at dinner and let’s blame it on that, right?

He clicked on the link.

Breathing became an afterthought because.

Because he saw Shane naked all the time. It was a fact of life. Hayden was naked all the time. Shane Hollander was naked all the time. Hayden knew exactly how far the freckles went down on his ass.

But there was a significant difference between being covered in sweat and smelling like a dead animal, exhausted and half conscious and nauseated by the shit their team was spouting and- this. Whatever the fuck this was.

This wasn’t Shane trying to survive the lights and cameras and sounds of the locker room. Trying to avoid being looked at by anyone who wasn’t Hayden, or occasionally JJ.

This was Shane trying to be noticed.

He wasn’t looking at the camera. His hips were canted forwards, the top button of his pants undone. He was folding his shirt, his shoulders angled so that his chest was on show, his neck bared to the side in a carefully calculated movement that just showed a knowing smirk.

Hayden stared at the photo for far longer than he should have before he clicked. Opened the options. Deleted it from the conversation.

Why would you send me that?

Because you give me present

I give you one

Why is my best friend half naked a present?

Because I am perceptive Pike

And you look at his ass as much as I do

But is mine

All mine :-) no ass for you. You save yes?

No.

Liar

Maybe. But I’m the one that sees that ass almost daily

You are bad friend.

Still the friend with the list

Truce.

Delete everything.

Hmm.

Maybe.

Lily.

Boring

It didn’t hit him, what he’d done, until the conversation slowly started to vanish into little blue deleted bubbles. He sat there, in his boxers in his kitchen surrounded by the remains of dinner half cleared, Legos on the ground, a barbie half stuck under his ass, shivering in the cold air, and stared at the photo he’d saved without thought.

A shiver ran up and down his spine as he moved the photo into a locked folder that had followed him from phone to phone, never added to, never opened since the instant he’d met his perfect wife.

He turned his phone off.

“Hayden? You coming back to bed?”

“In a sec, babe.” He rubbed his red, itchy eyes and flipped off the lamp. “In a sec.” He emailed it to Shane, the list. He knew the notification would let Lily know it had arrived. Hopefully the woman would delete it.

He threw the rest of the wine down the sink.

SHANE

He must have fallen asleep again because the next time he opened his eyes was to see his phone in front of his eyes, the screen dimmed as far as possible and a text thread Shane unfortunately recognised. “Why are you texting Hayden?” He whispered, reaching out to scroll back up through the messages Ilya had sent as ‘Lily,’ a mess of demands and threats that devolved into a slew of deleted messages passed back and forth. One message caught his eye and he sighed unhappily, understanding.

Only know few things that make less scared but is not enough.

Shane closed his eyes, horrified by his own body’s failures. It was like every safeguard he’d spent his life putting in place had fallen apart. He’d never had two panic attacks in such a small amount of time, never having given himself leave to do so, always pulling himself back from the precipice for the sake of others’ comfort. And his own.

His body had apparently decided that if Ilya Rozanov was present, self-preservation wasn’t required and he had his body’s full permission to die.

Great.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, watching as Ilya opened up the document emailed through by his best friend, detailing everything from Shane’s favourite ginger ale brand to the type of quinoa that fit his diet, the brands of blankets that didn’t itch his skin, fucking colours and scents and how long had Hayden been cataloguing each and every trigger that made Shane’s skin crawl.

Ilya sighed behind him. “Pike is good friend. Still shit hockey player. Too slow.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh. “Stop being an ass.”

“Am a delight.” He kissed the back of Shane’s neck. “You are okay now? Pike says squishing helps. I do not have little Pikes to sit on you.”

“You probably weigh more than Jade, Ruby and Hayden combined.”

“Of course. I am giant Russian. They are tiny Canadians.” He seemed to settle into place, happily humming to himself now that the crisis was averted. “Is good you have emergency support Pike. Is better than emotional support dinosaur. Very useless.”

“Oh God…” Shane intoned, horrified at the memory of that morning. “Did you call Scott Hunter and ask him to check me out?”

Ilya let out a haughty huff. “No, I did not. He is not checking you out. Only I am checking you out.” He nipped at the back of Shane’s shoulder. “No.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re just fucking with me. You woke Hunter up to check me out of my room, Rozanov. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Was thinking Hunter would like to feel useful. Not very useful to team. And you are Baby Gay. Need Dinosaur Gay to take you on Gay Journey. Yes?” Shane went still and silent and for what seemed like the thousandth time since he’d sent that stupid message Rozanov sensed his change in mood. “Why are you all tight again, Hollander? Is it time to panic again?

He didn’t even know. “I… I don’t know if I’m gay.” He forced out, tone wavering somewhere between a whisper and a gasp, terrified to voice the words he’d been struggling to understand since he’d first seen Ilya Rozanov smoking outside an arena in 2008. “Rozanov, you can’t-”

“Shh. You do not need to talk to me.”

“Hah!” Shane choked out. “Who am I supposed to talk to if it’s not you?”

“Is why I get you emotional support dinosaur!” It was ridiculous, how proud of himself Ilya sounded. “I am easy. I like both. Can hide much better. You look like about to vomit every time woman touches you. Soon mama Hollander will be trying to marry you off like Canadian prince golden boy, will be funny to watch you try to hide.” Shane let himself be rocked back and forth by Ilya’s mirth, not feeling particularly mirthful himself as he imagined his mother doing just that, setting him up with models and… Whatever, Swedish princesses. Already it seemed like everyone around him was pairing off happily, having families, children.

All Shane could manage to acknowledge to himself was that he wanted a cat. 

Anything more was… Permanency. It meant choosing a label and being stuck with it for the rest of his life, even if it was only in the media’s eyes. And if he lay awake some nights and spent hours convincing himself that he was fine being alone 350 days a year? If he tried to tell himself he was okay with coming home to an empty apartment, that he was okay with the fact that the simple act of a hug was beyond him most days?

Well, it was lucky he’d never been one to share. No one noticed if he skipped a team dinner or two, if he was quieter on the plane sometimes, more reluctant to join in the banter than usual. No one asked and honestly he didn’t want them to because he didn’t know what he’d say. “Would he… Do you think he’d mind? Talking to me?”

Ilya hummed, and then Shane heard a click.

“Rozanov. I swear to God it’s two in the morning-”

Shane scrambled for his phone. “Shit, Scott- Mr Hunter, I-”

“Calm down, kid. Thought it was the Russian nightmare.” Hunter paused. “You okay?”

Shane nodded, turning himself over to rest his forehead against Rozanov’s sternum. Remembering Hunter couldn’t see him he cleared his throat. “Um. Yeah. Sort of. I’m sorry you had to see that.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes, wincing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how early it was.”

“No, it’s fine.” Shane heard the rustling of sheets but there was no sound of feet on the ground, so he assumed Hunter was still in bed. “I was going to call in the morning, make sure you weren’t dead in an alley somewhere. I didn’t…” Hunter let out a staticky exhale and Shane pressed the speaker button at Ilya’s irritating pointing. “I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing, letting you go with Rozanov.”

“I-”

“Let me finish, kid. Look. I know you guys have known each other for years. And I know I’d teased you about it before even if you didn’t realise it, but God damn it, kid. Rozanov is the last person you want to have coming to your rescue. I get it, you had some weird, one night stand in Nashville- I’m not fucking blind, or deaf for that matter- but you have to stop.”

Shane shifted slightly, eyebrows coming together in what he soon realised was irritation as he understood what Hunter was saying, or at least inferring. “Scott-”

 “Kid. Rozanov is big and wild and flashy and exciting, I get the appeal, hell I more than get it but men like that are dangerous for men like us. They just don’t care who gets caught in the flak and unlike us they can cover up any indiscretions with the nearest warm body. Shane, there are millions of men out there who would be more than happy to have you. Millions. Don’t get mixed up with a selfish piece of shit like Rozanov.”

It took a few seconds for Shane to snap himself out of the fugue state he’d slipped into, imagining slamming his fist into Hunter’s face. In front of him Ilya’s breathing was shallow and soft, artificially calm and his eyes were haunted, staring out over Shane’s head. He reached out and tugged on the cross, bringing the younger man back to earth. Shane swallowed. Hunter was silent, but Shane could still hear him breathing on the line.

And then he smiled. Softly at first, and then with a hint of malice as he channelled his disdain for the man insulting Rozanov, a task he reserved for himself. He stifled a giggle against Ilya’s chest before pulling in a sharp, wobbling breath. “I… I-” He hitched his breath just slightly, pushing saliva to the back of his throat and letting his tone fall to one of abject misery. “I know, Hunter. I know it… I know I can’t.” He bit into the pillow under his head, shaking with suppressed laughter.

Ilya, having caught on was grinning down at him, eyes dancing with amusement, teeth on full show in his delight at Hunter’s horrified tone. “… Shane.” Now Hunter just sounded sad. “Kid. I’m sorry. But you know he’s not going to choose you. Not when there’s an easier option. Not when all that’s sitting in front of you is a decade of hiding in the closet until the world doesn’t give a shit about your personal life anymore and your job isn’t contingent on the whim of raging homophobes.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah. I know.” He said softly. And he did. It was just that until he’d woken up in Rozanov’s bed he hadn’t realised he’d cared all that much. “How do you handle it… Being alone?” Rozanov’s arms tightened around him and Shane was suddenly immeasurably thankful he’d hit that send button.

Hunter’s laughter was harsh and miserable. “I don’t know. Drink until it doesn’t hurt anymore?” Shane’s eyes widened in shock and he caught Ilya’s surprisingly worried expression. The two of them stared down at the phone. “I’m kidding, kid. Mostly. I’ve been at this longer than you and I wish I could say it was getting better but honestly? Every little fear you’ve ever had- being outed, being abandoned by sponsors, your team- they’re all very real. And that’s why there’s no out players.”

“Why there’s no out players.” Shane whispered, burying his now burning eyes into the pillow, all amusement at the situation vanished. “So that’s it, then. We get to sit there together and watch everyone end up happy and we just… Wait.”

“Yeah, kid. We wait. Maybe you’ll find the occasional guy willing to hop back in the closet for a while but even those are a risk- you never know who’s there for a quick few seconds of fame, a quick buck if they help fuck over someone who’s entire life is inconsequential to them. Maybe go to Australia, find a cowboy who’s never heard of the NHL for a weekend.”

Shane’s laugh was more of a miserable hiccup as he imagined the bleak future Hunter was describing. “That sounds fucking terrible!” He forced out, trying to force a laugh into his words, because the alternative was far worse.

“Welcome to my world, kid. It’s nice not being alone anymore. Now get some fucking sleep.”

“Yeah… Thanks, Hunter. You’re not as bad as Rozanov says.”

“You little-”

Ilya stabbed his finger into the end call button. “Hunter cannot have you. You are my boring Canadian hockey player.” He said sullenly, sniffing as he leaned over him to place Shane’s phone on the bedside table. “Was flirting with you. He is too old for you, Hollander. Would break him trying to fuck in ways you like to be fucked.”

“And what way do I like to be fucked?” Shane asked, smiling up at the harried Russian who was flopping over onto his back, avoiding Shane’s gaze. He hauled himself up and over onto Rozanov’s chest, resting his chin in his sternum, enjoying the tables turning. “Were you jealous?” He asked softly, genuinely interested. They weren’t exclusive, he knew that. He’d seen article after article detailing Rozanov’s many women over the years and he’d never said anything. Never spent the night in the man’s bed either, so he supposed if there was ever a time to man up and have an adult conversation it was now, when neither he nor Rozanov seemed overly inclined to bolt for the door. “He’s hot, but he’s not really my type.”

Rozanov scoffed. “Lies. Is tall, handsome, muscular hockey player with accent. Is exactly your type.”

The bed vibrated with the force of Shane’s laughter, even with their combined weight to hold it firm. “Yeah. But you have a better backhand.” He forced out, trying to get himself back under control, which was easy once he realised Ilya had stilled beneath him. “What is it?”

Rozanov’s palm came to rest on his cheek, though the larger man still refused to meet his eyes. Instead he licked his lips and tucked the lower between his teeth before he spoke. “He would be safer.”

Shane hated that he understood exactly what Ilya was trying to say. “Rozanov-”

“No.” And suddenly the Russian was sitting up straight, Shane toppling over until he was lying face up in the man’s lap, staring up at the underside of his jaw. Shane let him gather his thoughts, shifting only to settle his neck across Ilya’s thighs, a hand reaching up to press against his back under his shirt, petting the warm skin over his spine.

Rozanov took a deep breath before he looked down, finally meeting his gaze. The scant light let in by the gaps at the edges of the curtains had turned his eyes near black, pupils dilated in the darkness. His mouth, usually a permanent smirk around Shane was suddenly straight, serious, and a deep, painful ache erupted in the middle of Shane’s chest, causing him to inhale sharply. “This cannot happen, Hollander. You know we cannot happen.” He said softly, a hand reaching into Shane’s hair, petting him like a cat. “Hunter is right. And maybe if we were not us, if I was not me, would not be so terrible if discovered. But you know would end both of us.”

Shane nodded slowly, unable to do anything but agree. “I know, but… It works, doesn’t it? For you?” He asked hesitantly, realising that he’d never once asked. “This casual-”

Rozanov snorted in amusement at that. “Casual. No, Hollander. This is not casual. You are not casual.” He reached over, setting his palm on Shane’s cheek and bending over, drawing him in close as if he was sharing a secret. “Sometimes, Hollander, when is dark, and warm, and your back is arched so far off bed I think you will break, when I am so deep inside you can feel me in your throat… Sometimes you look at me like you look at ice.” He finished with a hiss.

Shane nodded slowly, blinking furiously as his fucking eyes started to water again. “So… I’m the problem. Just me.” Shane rolled over, unable to face him until he had his expressions under control. An open countenance. That was how his mother had once described his inability to hide his pain when he was a child.

Rozanov just continued to bring out the worst in him.

A strong hand slid over his shoulder and came to rest across his chest. “No, Hollander. Is not just you.” Rozanov made it sound like that single small confession was being ripped from his throat.

Shane didn’t question him further, instead clasping Rozanov’s hand between his own. “I’m not stupid. I know we’ll have to stop but…” He pulled what was left of his courage together. “But does it have to hurt so much until it ends? Can’t we just… I’m tired of pretending to hate you.”

“You do not hate me. I am frustrating delight.”

“Delight.”

“Yes. See? I learn good words for you. Conscientious. Can spell too.”

Shane wasn’t so out of it that he didn’t recognise Rozanov avoiding the subject and that was fine. Completely fine.

No. It wasn’t fucking fine.

Trust a fucking Russian to be a fucking dick when Shane was trying to have an actual fucking conversation about a situation that was going to fucking blow up in their fucking faces one day.

Shane was not fine.

But maybe it was fine. So fine. Maybe Shane would lie there and plan how to follow by example. He’d take what he’d only just now realised was valid constructive feedback and change his behaviour. He’d stop looking at Rozanov like he was the ice- whatever the hell that meant. Maybe he’d just stop looking at him.

He’d be less enthusiastic. No more running across the room and throwing himself in his arms even though Rozanov seemed to fucking love it given he was rock hard by the time Shane so much as looked at his dick.

And fuck Rozanov if he thought he’d ever see the inside of any building Shane owned ever again.

If he thought Shane would ever kiss him like he wanted to swallow him whole again.

Maybe it wasn’t fine at all.

ILYA

Hollander was quiet.

Ilya was worried.

Hollander was never particularly loud off the ice- he didn’t push, he didn’t interject, but he was nevertheless a strong and steady presence that took up far more space than his smaller frame should have. No, Hollander didn’t need to be loud.

But he’d never been this quiet.

Ilya had grown accustomed over the years to the background noise that was Shane Hollander. The content little hums as he went about whatever task he’d set himself to, be it folding his clothes or sucking Ilya’s dick. The clacking of whatever he’d found to grasp in his teeth at the time. The turning of book pages. The little murmurs and asides he’d filter though Ilya’s own language filters, altering the way he spoke, the language he used, until it had been months since Hollander had last had to backtrack and explain himself.

Ilya didn’t know if it would be better or worse to do something about it.

Instead he gently pushed Shane off his lap and threw back the covers, hurrying into the darkness of the suite. He stopped beside the long-cold dryer and popped the door open, pulling out the remnants of Shane’s suit and shirt, folding the misshapen fabric and sitting it atop the machine before moving onto his own clothes. He’d barely worn them before chasing after Hollander, they would keep another wear.

He paused, leaning against the doorframe, rubbing the meat of his palms up and down his face, trying to push down the wave of guilt threatening to overwhelm his chest.

This was a fucking nightmare.

It was a point they’d been barrelling towards ever since he’d run out of his fucking suite because of a half-formed text message, terrified he’d broken the other man. It was a point he’d known was coming for years, if he allowed himself to really think about- to push through the denial.

A fucking nightmare.

Because he knew it would be so fucking easy to just go and sink into the man. Ilya could do it. Without second thought. Cover his smaller frame with Ilya’s weight and just press down until they were enveloped by darkness and quilts and softness. To ignore the world around them for just a little bit longer.

And Hollander would let him. Hollander didn’t know any better. Hollander had for some stupid reason chosen Ilya and trusted him to keep them both safe because God knew Hollander seemed to have sacrificed all sense of self-presentation over the last day, tumbling himself into Ilya’s arms and bed and refusing adamantly to leave.

Hollander would let him leave, though. Wouldn’t say anything. Just look at him with those eyes and maybe the corner of his mouth would quiver like it had before. Maybe he’d try to force out words and then give up when nothing came.

Maybe he wouldn’t open the door the next time Ilya knocked.

“Are you okay?”

Ilya swore under his breath, jumping in surprise and stubbing his toe against the dryer, causing him to swear loudly into the silence of the apartment. Hollander stood beside him, expression hidden in the dark as he hopped around, gritting his teeth against the pain. His feet were sore enough without a broken toe due to his own stupidity. “Hollander. What are you doing?” He forced out through clenched teeth.

The shadows showed the smaller man shrugging. “I… You left. After I… I’m sorry if that was a lot.” Another shrug in the darkness. “I can be a lot. Apparently. And I’m kinda too tired to reign it in. So. Yeah. Sorry. For that.” The shadow seemed to realise he was rambling because his frame tensed and he held himself still.

Ilya was strong. Russian.

He had weathered winters when it was so cold that ice formed of his breath in his bedroom.

He’d seen his brother’s wife, beaten and bruised and been unable to do anything about it.

He’d watched his father deteriorate, slowly falling into madness.

He’d lost to Shane Hollander more times than he wanted to count.

What was one more time. So simple. Like diving off a cliff.

“At least legs are working now. Teeth. Then back to bed. Checkout at ten.”

It sent a fission of discomfort into his chest, watching as Shane’s shoulders shuddered then relaxed- no, not relaxed. Slumped. Like he’d taken on the weight of the world alone. He nodded slowly and turned away, footsteps heavy and dragging as he headed towards the bathroom.

Ilya watched the light turn on and off, waiting until Hollander had trudged back to the bed after using the bathroom, following the trail of discarded joggers and hoodie back to where Hollander had moved from the dead centre of the bed where he’d spent the last day to not quite the edge but close enough. His shoulders were hunched around his ears and his breathing stuttered, overly controlled and Ilya sent a quick prayer to his mother for strength before he slipped in behind the man, drawing his clothed form back against this chest- or he tried to.

Hollander’s arm tensed as he gripped the edge of the mattress, resisting Ilya’s attempts to move him to a less precarious position. He didn’t say anything and his expression was still hidden but Ilya had, over the years, ensured that there was no one more adept at knowing Shane Hollander than he.

Mama Hollander had nothing on Ilya Rozanov.

 And that was why Ilya knew that he wouldn’t end up punched in the dick then he reached over, looped his arm around Shane’s waist and hauled him bodily back against his chest, the force propelling them back into the centre of the giant bed where they lay in silence, Hollander slowly softening under his gentle touches, the soft cotton of his shirt itchy against Ilya’s bare chest until Shane let him remove it, lying in nothing but their underwear.

“Sleep, Hollander. We will talk in morning.”

Shane slept the sleep of the dead, unmoving and lax, drooling a little onto Ilya’s chest which he found strangely endearing. By the time the sun had risen Ilya had dozed for perhaps an hour or so before lying there awake, staring at the ceiling with something akin to existential dread. His hand rested between Hollander’s shoulder blades, soaking in the gentle warmth of smooth, freckled skin and his steady breathing, the long and slow of the truly unconscious.

Ilya could only wish he felt that relaxed.

No. Instead, Ilya Rozanov was planning.

He was a planner.

He’d been mildly disgusted with himself once he’d realised that he’d long since memorised not only his own game schedule but Montreal’s as well. Away games, home games, byes, the rare occasions when they were in the same city, whether it be playing each other or the overlap of layovers.

Ilya was good at math. English, not so good. But Hollander didn’t seem to mind.

He opened the curtains as dawn broke over Las Vegas, plans solidifying, schedules aligning, fingers tapping at his phone as he contacted real estate agents, moving companies for quotes, financial advisors, Marley.

All in all, rearranging a large portion of his life took a little over an hour.

Perhaps it should have been terrifying to realise how simple it was.

Perhaps the copious notes already in his phone, the tabs opened on his laptop for houses, not apartments, should have given him a heads up.

Ilya Rozanov wasn’t one to dwell on the idiocy of the past.

Time to wake cute Canadian hockey player. Three hours until checkout.

“Hoooollanderrrrrr.” He sung softly, shrugging his shoulder, causing the man to roll slightly onto his side before smacking back into Ilya’s chest with a groan. Cranky looking dark eyes stared at him, bleary with sleep before focusing and turning to a glare. So cute. “Is time to wake up.” He said fondly, reaching up to smooth the irregular peaks of his hair.  “Sun is up.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I am delight. Up, up.” He pushed himself upright, letting Hollander slide slowly into his lap before he was hurrying out of the bed, humming to himself as he dragged Hollander towards the windows, poking and prodding the half-conscious man until they stood looking to the east, the beginning of a gorgeous sunrise on the horizon. “Is pretty, just like you.” He murmured, rubbing his cold nose against Hollander’s neck, causing the man to shiver. He wrapped his arms around the Shane’s waist, pulling him back firmly against his body and swaying them slightly. “I am going to fuck you against this window, Hollander. And you will let me.”

That earned him a sleepy, disbelieving huff. “When have I ever not let you fuck me?” His voice had dropped into that delectably smooth, husky tone that always had Ilya reacting, grinding his hips against that wonderfully firm ass and slipping his hands down to rest on the bones of Hollander’s ships, fingers slipping under the waist of his underwear. Shane’s head dropped back to rest against his shoulder, hair brushing over the still-sensitive bite as he inhaled sharply, hips bucking forward into Ilya’s touch.

Ilya took his time. He liked to take his time. He’d never had the opportunity- aside from that morning- to take his time with the treat that was a biddable Shane Hollander. To slowly push his underwear over his lovely cock, red and hard and leaking copious amounts of pearly white fluid onto Ilya’s fingers, the remnants of the lube from their previous coupling more than enough to have three of his fingers slowly stroking in and out of the man’s hole, twisting and turning and smearing his precome back into his own body.

Hollander’s legs fidgeted below them, knees alternately locking and unlocking as he fought to keep himself still, to rock into the sensations, shaking pathetically as Ilya brushed over his sensitive prostate, pressing, staying, tiny little movements that had Shane throwing his head back and moaning straight into Ilya’s ear, the most perfect sound in the world.

He reached up, one arm holding Hollander steady around his chest, the other pinching softly at his peaked nipples, flicking and scratching until Hollander was whimpering and squirming in his arms, breathy moans interspersed with begging as he undulated his hips towards Ilya’s hard length, still confined within his underwear.

He started to bend his knees, pulling Hollander into a kneel in front of him, pressing his heaving chest and face against the glass, his hands automatically coming up to scrabble against the window, bracing himself as Ilya happily arranged Shane’s legs on either side of his own, pushing his underwear down around his thighs and taking his own cock in hand, rubbing the sensitive head against Shane’s opening- soft and pink and glistening. Perfection.

Condom.

Fuck.

He started to pull away. “Hollander-”

“I swear to God, Rozanov, if you don’t fuck me right now I’m gonna murder you.”

As if Ilya was going to object.

He leaned forward, pressing, Hollander keening high in his throat and pushing back until Ilya was seated deep, pelvis resting against Shane’s ass, palms cradling his hips and heaven. This was heaven.

He leaned over, resting his chest against Shane’s back and kissed his shoulder gently. “No.” He said softly. “No. It does not need to hurt.” Under him Shane tensed, causing Ilya to moan helplessly as the muscles around his cock constricted, his hips stuttering in answer. “Fuck, Hollander. We have hours, slowly.”

Shane let out a wet laugh. “When have we ever been able to go slow, Rozanov?” He forced out between a long, dirty moan as Ilya slipped all the way out, then in, shifting them both through long, slow strokes that rubbed over Shane’s prostate, the telltale shudder he’d memorised years ago, the particular tone of his whimpers telling him he was right on target without Hollander having to say a word.

Over and over again Hollander would try to change the pace but Ilya held firm, slowing his movements, keeping the pace to a lazy grind until sweat was dripping off their bodies, until Shane’s palms were sliding against the filthy glass, nails screeching and scratching, legs slowly spreading further as their knees slipped on the damp carpet, testing the limits of even Shane’s flexibility, breath heaving, Ilya’s eyes fixed on the perfection that was Shane Hollander lost in pleasure in the reflection, his mouth swallowing low moans that quickly turned to bitten off wails as Shane’s body started to shake in his arms.

Ilya locked his hand around Shane’s neck and ripped their mouths apart, unwilling to lose a single one of those delectable sounds, Shane arching his back so deliciously that the cold air of the room spun between them, goosebumps running over Ilya’s skin and causing him to whine at the increased sensitivity, everywhere they touched feeling like fire.

“Yes, Hollander. Good.” He jerked his hips up violently, slamming inside and Shane let out a choked scream, hands scrabbling over his arms where they locked the smaller man in place, devolving into incoherent pleas. “Take what you want, Hollander.”

He didn’t expect Shane to rip his arms away.

He didn’t expect Shane to shove him onto his back and attack his mouth in a brutal kiss, feeling his lip split under the onslaught of tongue and teeth as Shane pulled and pushed until Ilya was atop him, between his legs, Shane already guiding his cock to his entrance, groaning long and decadent as Ilya slipped inside, Shane’s heels against the small of his back, digging in almost painfully.

Ilya was but a willing slave.

He slammed home, already picturing the bruises around the bones of his pelvis, the red marks of Hollander’s nails against his spine, the carpet burn on his knees as he railed Shane exactly the way he wanted, ignoring his boring Canadian’s neglected cock and focusing on that wonderful handsfree orgasm that he was rewarded with when he worked very.

Very.

Hard.

“Yes, yes, Rozanov, harder, fuck!” Shane’s legs tightened around his hips and his jaw clenched like he was in pain, his eyes shut tight, the tendons of his neck standing out against the drops of sweat that ran from Ilya’s face, dripping down onto Hollander’s perfect skin. “Fuck, fuck I’m gonna-”

Yessssssss.

Ilya gasped as Shane tightened around his cock and came, breath a choke in his throat, cock jumping as he came across his chest, Ilya following moments later with a heartfelt groan, hips stuttering to an oversensitive stop, buried deep and content with his lot in the world. He collapsed down against Shane’s chest, causing the man to let out a small ‘oof’ in protest, but he could tell he didn’t really mind.

Unsurprisingly it was Hollander who broke the post-orgasm haze by complaining. Of course. “Your come is dripping onto the carpet.” He wheezed out breathlessly, poking at Ilya’s ribs. “Move.”

“Nooooo, Hollander. Why you make me move.” Ilya whined, but nonetheless pushed himself up on his arms, slowly pulling back until he could watch the remains of their coupling slowly dripping from Hollander’s asshole, the muscle twitching as Hollander stretched out his legs, sore from being held around Ilya’s shoulders for so long.

Ilya reached out, running a finger through the mess and Hollander shuddered through his entire body, gasping as Ilya continued to trace the sensitive rim, taking full advantage of the novel sight. “You surprised me.” He said softly, leaning over and catching Hollander’s lip in a soft kiss, halting just a few centimetres above him as he pulled back. “You do not like mess.”

Shane blinked lazily, eyes near golden in the sunlight dancing across the room. “You’re clean.” He said softly, as if it were really that simple. “I haven’t slept with anyone but you.” A finger ran along the angle of Ilya’s jaw, then over his lips. “This is the last time, yeah? I wanted to have it. That.”

What the fuck.

Ilya groaned, collapsing back onto Hollander’s chest regardless of the mess. “Sometimes I think you want to break me, Hollander. Cruel.” He mumbled, scritching against the man’s ribs.

Beneath him Hollander took in a deep breath. He sounded calm. “That’s not my inten- It’s not what I meant to do.” He swallowed heavily. “I just… I think I pretty much told you what I wanted. But I don’t know what you want.”

They lay in silence for a while, Hollander’s legs bending slightly so that they could brush against Ilya’s sides, enclosing him in warmth in the relative cool of the air conditioning.

“Fine. You win.”

Shane huffed in amusement. “What am I winning?”

Ilya propped himself up on his elbows, folding his hands over Shane’s smooth, hairless chest. He watched his silly little Canadian hockey player, smirking as Hollander’s eyes were immediately drawn to his biceps. So cute. “Your pathetic eyes filled with tears and bad attempts to flirt have won you greatest prize. I will be your boyfriend.” Shane’s jaw dropped. Ilya waited patiently for the shock of being awarded such a great honour to pass. When it didn’t and Hollander looked like he was about to pass out from lack of breathing Ilya decided to proceed. “Wake up, Hollander, important things to discuss.” He reached out and tapped the man’s chin. “You are catching bugs.”

That snapped Hollander out of it and he scowled- not the reaction Ilya had been hoping for but at least familiar. “Catching flies.”

Ilya shrugged. “Is also bug. Now that I am your boyfriend-”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“You do not want say, you want me. Be quiet. No more murder alley.”

“What?”

“You say this many times, be quiet.” And there was the familiar look of irritation. “Your murder dungeon is creepy. You will sell. Or rent. And from now on we will meet in boring Montreal apartment.” He didn’t give Hollander a chance to argue, ploughing on ahead before he lost his nerve, hoping to confuse Hollander enough along the way that he agreed to Ilya’s conditions. “When you are in Boston no more hotels. You will come to my house and I will fuck you in superior bed. I will keep ginger ale in fridge.”

For some reason that was the statement that changed Hollander’s expression from one of building anger to shock, and then as if he was seeing the light for the first time his features relaxed into something akin to hope, a quivering smile affecting one side of his mouth. “You will answer texts, Hollander. No being like ghost. If you are cranky with me you will tell me. If you are busy you will tell me.” Ilya dragged himself further up Hollander’s body until their eyes were locked. He sat back against Shane’s soft belly, reaching forward and tracing his thumbs along those perfect freckles, tucking his fingers around the back of Shane’s head. Rich brown eyes flickered shut and Shane’s mouth opened slightly, tongue peeking between his lips as he pressed into Ilya’s grip. “Hollander, I need promise.” Shane hummed in acknowledgement. “If… this, happens again. You will call, yes?” Shane’s eyes opened slowly, taking a few moments to focus on Ilya’s features. “If I am on plane you will leave message. If I am about to play game you will call anyway. It is three in morning you will wake me. This is not… Arguable.”

“Negotiable.” Shane murmured. And then he nodded. “Okay.”

Ilya was so fucking good at this. “Good. Now you.”

Shane looked confused. “Wha- I don’t get it?”

Ilya sighed and rolled his eyes. “Is negotiation, yes? Like contract. I tell you what I want. Now you.” Still so much confusion, poor Hollander’s brain looked about to explode. And then there it was. A flicker of a familiar emotion that he’d seen Shane fight down time and time again. “No, Hollander. You do not get to hide from me. You tell me what you want. No sad.” He reached down and traced the tear that had fallen unbidden down the side of a shocked eye. “What do you want, Hollander?”

“I…” Shane swallowed. “I don’t want anything else.” He said quickly, eyes flickering to the side before racing back to meet Ilya’s. “I don’t need-”

“You cannot lie to me, Hollander. You can ask. I might say no! But will listen.” Ilya tried to put on a carefree grin but he could tell he had failed as his mind raced to find something, anything Hollander would be afraid to ask of him after all this time.

“I want you to stop sleeping with other people.”

Ilya hadn’t even thought of that. Sharing his Hollander was such a foreign concept it had never even crossed his mind.

Shane was continuing whilst Ilya realised he’d been an idiot for not even considering the point. “I get that we’re different. I don’t… I don’t really think about sex if it’s not with you.” Ilya was absolutely captivated by the deep blush that dyed Hollander’s face and chest deep pink. And then the words truly hit him. “I get that you’re not like that, that you… That I’m not enough for you but… I hate it.” Within an instant Shane’s expression changed from one of embarrassment to shame, and then misery. “I tried not to, but I hate it every time one of the guys talks about your latest model, or your ‘Russian hockey princess-’” He spat out the last words, face twisting into a derisive sneer. “I know I’m not as experienced as you, it’s not like I can go out and practice so I can be better, so I can be more like that you want but…” He sniffed, bringing up a hand to wipe away the tears that were accumulating in his eyes. “I feel so fucking stupid for even asking and I get that it’s not possible so can… Please. Can you just… Not be so loud about it?” His voice was all phlegmy, consonants softening, his pronunciation blurred by his inability to properly clear his throat in his current position.  “I just… I don’t want to hear about it. Please. I get that you’re just giving me what I want when you say you’re my boyfriend, that I’m not the same to you but-”

Ilya slammed a hand over Hollander’s mouth, stopping the tirade of horrible, devastating words. “No. That is not what is happening.” He said firmly, biting back the way his throat wanted to close. “You are perfect. Perfect for me, Hollander, you understand? With the freckles, and the yelling, and the hockey, and your mouth, Hollander, if only you could feel your mouth, is like I am in bliss.” He leaned over, replacing his hand with his mouth for just a moment, conscious of his morning breath, knowing how Hollander hated it. He took in the stunned man below him. “You are perfect because you are just for me. No one else to teach you bad habits. You understand?” Shane nodded, just a slight inclination of his head but enough. Good. “And yes. No more girls.” He cocked his head to the side in mock thought. “Pike will need to leave room so you can talk to ‘Lily’ more.” He finished with a smug smile, already imagining the irritation of Pike. “My boyfriend will need to see to my needs.”

For a few moments Shane looked like he was about to cry. And then he smiled.

It was like the sun crossing the desert.

It was like that very first time. Shane sitting on the stairs in his hoodie, warm and snuggly and clutching Ilya’s jacket to his chest like a teddy bear. His eyes were exactly the same, soft and open, looking at Ilya like he was special, his entire posture screaming kissable.

He always wanted Ilya to kiss him.

Ilya was more than happy to provide.

Chapter End Notes

I kinda like it when I'm prewarned about fics so I'm gonna do that here now that I'm about to slip back into more canon timeliney stuff.

I'm only using Books 1, 2 and 6- the rest are just too much in terms of timelines and I'm le tired. So Scott will be my main extra boo. And boy do I have plans for that helpless boo.

THINGS TO EXPECT
-Playing fast and loose with hockey, less so with timelines for my own convenience
-Homophobic language and a very short, single gay-bashing because Voyagers. You shall be pre-warned and I promise there shall be no mental breakdowns afterwards
-Someone's gonna get drugged without their knowledge at some point- again, more for plot movement, is shitty but no long lasting harm at all. You shall be warned
-Unintentionally unsupportive parents
-Shitty friends, some of whom will be redeemable
-Fairy gaymother Ilya
-Little shit Shane
-I may love Marlow a little
-Scott is both very down and not down at all for the chaos of it all, and Kip is along for the ride
-Sveta and Rose being boss bitches because Rose deserves a functioning gaydar and Sveta needs a hockey buddy

THINGS THERE WILL NOT BE
-No SA, no breakups, no beards, sad endings. Just no. I am not here for this
-No major mental health conditions- no suicide attempts, just garden variety mild to moderate depression, anxiety, somewhat toned down from the book because in my AU, actually communicating with your beloved can HELP
-No eating disorders- again, not something I know how to write well
-No significant dom/sub- it's not my jam in terms of writing even though I love to read them
-Good Voyageurs

Let's do this shit.

Chapter 4: Can You Please Stop Doing That?

Chapter Summary

In which the boys are slightly love-dumb and start to figure this out.

Chapter Notes

Oh my God, how did I not realise that there are two full years here for me to play with between Vegas and the next Chapter???

I'm so excited :-)

Also... Book 7? Maybe? Maybe must a little bit excited? Yes. Only a little bit. Not rabidly.
But also glad I went the AU route instead of a continuation plotline because for some reason I have always pictured Haas as a POC and I have PLANS for that boy.

SHANE

June 2014- Somewhere over Nevada

LILY

As your new boyfriend, I demand you buy better vodka. I give you list.

Shane had a boyfriend.

A boyfriend.

Ilya Rozanov was his boyfriend. And he hadn’t even had to ask.

Ilya Rozanov was texting him about vodka. His phone buzzed in his hand and he couldn’t stop the absolutely stupid grin that his lips formed, cheeks hurting, his eyes crinkling shut as his heart thudded in his chest- not out of anxiety but excitement.

Also better books. I will send list.

In retrospect Shane felt almost bad for his ex-girlfriends. He knew he shouldn’t, academically. At sixteen and seventeen he’d barely known what he was doing, just following along with what his classmates had liked, wanted, and a girlfriend had seemed an appropriate rite of passage. He remembered the first time he’d told his mother about Isabelle, his pretty blonde classmate who had given him chocolates on Valentine’s Day. She’d been… Pushy. Matter of fact. Told Shane they were dating and he’d just gone along with it until she’d gotten the idea that he wasn’t really that good of a boyfriend. And then it had ended. And he’d been fine.

 His guy friends had always complained that their girlfriends wanted to hold back on sex until there were feelings, but in Shane’s experience each and every woman he’d ever been with had been obsessed- never out loud but he’d spent years watching for micro-expressions of displeasure when he’d turned the conversation and situation away from removing clothes. Things had always ended pretty quickly after, or… The few times he’d given in he’d been… Ambivalent? It had always seemed so much work, stressful, so many expectations placed upon his shoulders that it had never been more than adequate, a chore.

Okay he’d been a shit boyfriend.

Something told him he’d be a lot better this time.

His phone buzzed.

Your pillows in murder dungeon are too flat. Not good for fucking on. I will replace. I do not trust fussy Canadian taste. You will also get silk pillowcases. Good for my hair.

Suyetlivyy. Is fussy.

Fuck. He leaned over, resting his warm forehead against the cool glass of the window of the plane taking him back to Montreal and grinned into his palm, the older woman in the seat beside him looking at him as if he was insane.

He felt insane.

I like my pillows. They’re ergonomically sound.

Made up word. You need more soft things.

Will buy heavy blanket. Give address will send express.

Shane typed out his apartment’s address without second thought, already thinking about the condo- the murder dungeon, as Ilya had described it.

In retrospect it hadn’t been his most sensible of purchases. At the time he’d rationalised that the thing with Rozanov wasn’t going anywhere, that it would collapse and fracture like every other relationship he’d ever had- not that he’d thought of it as a relationship until he was brushing the man’s blood off his teeth.

The condo had served a dual purpose- of course secrecy was perhaps the most important reason but it had also allowed him to compartmentalise Ilya, keep him separate from the life he had outside hockey, prevent him from spilling too far into Shane’s actual personal life.

Not that he really had one outside his parents and Hayden.

Good boy.

If-coming to Montreal must also buy boring car to live in garage.

You hurt me Hollander. You and your snow and your cold is Russia again.

Get a jeep.

Dead Hollander. I am dead.

Shane pulled out his laptop and started to draft an email to his realtor, thinking about the modifications he’d have to make to his own home to accommodate Ilya’s request to meet there. There were the obvious issues- the fact that people knew where he lived, that there were cameras everywhere, once a reassuring security measure now a possible source of leaks.

Shane wasn’t willing to risk this, even more so now that he had something irreplaceable.

I’m going to buy a house.

It makes sense. It’d be easier.

I don’t think my place in Montreal is safe. Too many people come there. Hayden and my parents have keys.

Immediately he regretted sending the messages, realising just how… Pathetic he sounded. They’d been… Fuck, they’d been dating for less than a day and he was already being too much. It had taken them years to get to this point. As Ilya had kissed him, long and slow and deep, thorough in a way he’d never been at the end of their previous encounters, Shane had allowed himself to acknowledge the fact that he’d been slowly and painfully chipping away at the boundaries they’d both put in place since the very beginning. Since he’d seen Ilya Rozanov standing in the cold six years ago.

And now he was asking- telling- Ilya that he was going to buy a house so that they could continue to see each other?

He was a mess. He honestly didn’t know why Rozanov put up with him. Ilya had looked happy when Shane had left, wearing Ilya’s Bears shirt under his hoodie, Ilya’s teeth on show as he walked towards the fire stairs whilst Shane used the elevator. He’d looked happy but was Shane running the risk of shattering something he hadn’t realised was impossibly fragile? Would this be enough to tip the other man over into regret? Would he even reply? Shane groaned silently, scrunching his eyes closed and going to turn his phone off, already resigning himself to a good five hours of hating himself.

A single buzz.

Three links.

I think second one. Counter is sturdy to fuck you on.

Fire looks cozy. Cupboards to store your crazy blankets.

Maybe Shane wasn’t a bad boyfriend.

He clicked on the link and had to brace the muscles of his mouth, pursing his lips, preventing a helpless grin from breaking out.

Maybe if he had felt for his exes even a fraction of what he felt when Ilya Rozanov sent him house listings he could have been a better boyfriend sooner.

I like the windows.

Of course. Want everyone to see how well you are fucked.

Buzz.

Shane’s eyes widened in shock and he slammed his phone down on his lap. Slowly, slowly he turned to the woman in the seat beside him. Who just looked at him. With a slowly growing grin.

Shane blushed. From the top of his head to his chest.

The woman drew her fingers across her lips, miming a zipper. And then she went back to her book.

He knew Rozanov was on a plane. He had to be. Their flights had left within 30 minutes of each other. Which meant that Ilya Rozanov had a secret folder of dick pics that Shane just knew he was going to be tortured with. In public. Maybe. Just maybe. For the rest of his life.

He was far less horrified than he should have been.

Montreal was… Home. Of course it was. It had been for years now, ever since Montreal had drafted him. Whenever he’d stepped off the plane in the past Shane had felt a sense of rightness, like everything was brighter and his senses had settled.

Now it was… Dirty. The glass of the airport windows was smudged with countless hands and faces. The carpet was dark and dingy and mildly sticky. It was loud and people were everywhere and part of Shane knew that it was the lingering effects of his panic attack- plural- but he could swear it had never been this bad in the past.

He picked up his Land Rover from the airport parking lot, throwing his bag into the passenger seat and leaning forward, resting his head on the steering wheel carefully. The interior of the car was sun warmed and comfortable and he felt the sudden urge to push the seat back and take a nap. He was allowed to do that. The season was over. He was free until Theriault had them back on the ice for conditioning and whilst Shane would have already been back in the gym last year, this year he just… Didn’t want to. For the first time in his life he really, truly didn’t want to.

What the fuck had Rozanov done to him?

He wasn’t going to find any answers headbutting his car.

The drive was depressingly familiar and did nothing to distract him from his racing thoughts, oscillating between ecstatic excitement and looming concern for his lack of motivation. At the next intersection he pulled off onto a small side street, calling Hayden and connecting the call to his car. 

“Hey-”

“Fucking Rozanov! What the fuck was that!” Shane flinched as Hayden’s incensed tones filtered through the speakers, far louder than he’d been expecting. He quickly dialled down the volume before flipping on the indicator and pulling back into the flow of traffic. On the other end of the line Hayden continued to yell about Shane’s boyfriend.

If anyone had been watching him they’d think Shane was an imbecile for how deranged he looked. Shane had a boyfriend for Hayden to yell about.

Not that Hayden knew that. But still. “Hay- calm down. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! Your numbers were better, your plays were better, you’re not a complete dick-”

“Language!” Jackie’s voice rang from the background and Hayden muttered unhappily before Shane heard the telltale sound of a jar opening, coins dropping on paper. The infamous swear jar.

“I said it was fine, Hayden. And I didn’t call to talk about Rozanov.” Though he wished he could. His boyfriend was amazing.

Shane was pathetic.

"Well maybe you should be given that the asshole sent you into a fucking panic attack that had Boston Lily texting me in the middle of the night!" Oh. Shane had... Completely forgotten about that. Maybe calling Hayden wasn't the best of ideas, given that he'd continued to rant whilst Shane had been distracted. "Seriously dude. Not that I’m judging but I kinda figured you’d be into someone a little nicer- seemed a bit of a bitch.”

“Swear jar times two!”

“Sorry, babe! Anyway, you should bring her to visit when she's in Montreal, now that it’s actually confirmed that she exists."

Aaaand Shane was tuning out, maintaining just enough attention that if Hayden changed the subject or asked for his input he could reply. It had gotten worse, Shane thought. In the past he’d actually listened, hoping against hope that one day Hayden and Jackie would stumble across a woman that would catch Shane’s interest, but those days were over.

Shane Hollander had a fucking boyfriend.

If he hadn’t been sure he was at least a normal amount of gay he sure as hell was sure now.

As he turned into the parking garage under his apartment he mused that he should probably have put more thought into the decision about his sexuality but he couldn’t muster the effort. Unplugging his phone he transferred Hayden’s rambling to the handset, something about WAG chats. “I was actually wondering if you wanted to hit the gym? It’s a bit late for a run.” Shane cut off Hayden’s espousing of Jackie’s vegan low fat apple crumble as he threw his duffle over his shoulder, heading towards the lift bank. “I need some extra motivation today, the jetlag is hitting me a bit.” In the past he may have felt guilty lying to his friend but over half a decade of practice had cured him of that particular issue.

“Maaaan, four weeks. Four weeks of the whole year. That’s how long we have to relax before Coach has us back on the ice. Do you really want to spend it pumping iron and running around in short shorts?” Shane huffed in amusement, unlocking his front door and toeing his shoes off into the rack.

He looked around the sterile whiteness of the apartment. The fancy grey couch his mother had insisted on. The abstract art on the walls he’d never once looked at with any thought more complex than ‘ugh.’ The beige walls. The rug with the geometric patterns. The bed, a standard queen with navy blue coverlet, too many pillows and a mattress that had come from a sponsor.

If he had it his way Ilya would never once step foot in here. “Maybe you’re right. Tomorrow?” That earned him a pathetic whine but Hayden soon agreed to an eight o’clock run- grudgingly. Shane gave his love to the twins and Jackie before hanging up and moving to stand in the middle of his living room.

How was it that he had felt more at home in a hotel room in Vegas than this… Show piece? His home was a show piece. Somewhere they could stage interviews. Clean and entirely without personality.

God, his mother had modelled his public persona off this fucking apartment, hadn’t she?

He looked down at his phone. Did some quick calculations. Put on his Bluetooth headset. Hit the call button. Waited begrudgingly through three rings. “I hate my apartment. How did I not realise that I hate my apartment?”

Ilya’s deep, rumbling chuckle was like porn directed straight into his ears. “Let me guess. Very white.”

“Ilya, it’s so white. How did I never realise that everything but my quilt is a shade of white?”

“Quilt is navy?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“You are basic bitch, Hollander. Entire house from pottery barn.”

Shane turned around once. Then again. “Oh my God you’re right. My designer just imported the catalogue.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving his phone on the counter as he hurried into the bathroom. “My towels are green. It’s the only other colour in here. How did I not notice this?” He was mumbling more to himself than Rozanov, who sounded like he was out shopping. “I need to sell this place. Now.”

“You get boyfriend and sell house. Too young for middle of life crisis. Am I bad influence, Hollander?” Rozanov said smugly, sounded far too pleased with himself. “What will mama Hollander say when she finds out you wish to paint walls red?”

Shane moved back into the kitchen, suddenly hungry as he remembered skipping breakfast in preference of a far too long shower that had ended with him on his knees. He opened the fridge, scowling at the contents which were lacking anything not a seasoning. “Maybe green… Blue. Red is supposed to convey feelings of anger.” He paused. “I’d put a picture of you in there.”

“You will not. You will keep picture in bedroom, in nice frame. Or I will be sad.”

“You deserve a rage room.” Shane said half-consciously as he opened the pantry. Also a bust. “Why is there no food in my house?”

“Because you eat like bird, Hollander. How you have ass of peach I do not know.” Shane choked a little at the description. “Go shopping. Buy colourful rug. Persian one. You will call before bed, yes?”

“Fine.” Shane grabbed his keys, shoving his feet back into his shoes. “I did like the second place more than the first. The first seemed kinda dingy. And the third one…”

“Third one?”

“The shower glass looked thin.” Sometimes he wished he’d inherited just a little bit less of his father’s pale skin. Even alone he hated the way he would blush at every thought of sex.

“Thin… Shower glass.”

“Yes.” He slammed the door shut, mildly annoyed that he hadn’t thought to grab food on his way home.

“Ah.” He didn’t need to expound. Ilya knew. “Yes. Too thin.” That dark chuckle again. “Eat well, pomidor.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tomato. I hear you blush from here.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.”

ILYA

August 2014- Montreal

Ilya had held on desperately to the remnants of his Shane-induced happiness for as long as he could, using it to get himself through his father’s disappointment, his brother’s snide remarks and casual threats but the constant cold of Russia had settled into his bones until the hottest of showers in his Moscow apartment had done nothing.

At first he’d hidden his misery from the cute little Canadian who would send good morning messages- he, Ilya Rozanov, was receiving cute little ‘good morning’ and ‘did you sleep well’ and obscure facts about Russian grammar that Ilya had long ago absorbed as a fact of life, causing him to dig out ancient knowledge to explain tenses and the concept of a homonym because his boyfriend had decided to learn Russian.

Because he appreciated Ilya’s efforts to improve his English.

That conversation had kept him warm for two whole days before Alexei had set him off again, sending him storming from his father’s home before Ilya could snap and attack his brother.

He hated that he no longer fought back. That he had been so conditioned to accept their cruelty that he was left tucking tail and running into the night like a scared child.

After the third time he had called Hollander, desperate to hear him call Ilya an asshole like it was an endearment, not an insult. Instead he received only unwavering kindness, patience, and after two hours on the phone a request to come home. Because the man he’d been having sex with for four years, the man whom the world assumed hated him was worried about his safety.

Ilya had packed his bags that night, boarded a flight to Boston a few hours later, spent five minutes in his apartment then chosen his most boring of cars to drive the five hours in the dark to an address he’d already memorised.

Did he tell Hollander he was coming?

No. Good to keep little kotenoks on cute little toe beans.

So there he stood, having parked several blocks away and walked to the boring looking apartment building. With a doorman. Ilya had not expected that. He had also not expected the man to look down at his phone, cock his head to the side and ask Ilya if he was going to come inside.

Ilya wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Even if it meant that Shane Hollander, paranoid out of his mind Shane Hollander, had given Ilya access to his building. He had to assume an NDA was in place.

The lift wasn’t card activated but there was a small keypad that he eyed suspiciously before hitting Shane’s floor number and keying in 1221, smirking to himself when the doors opened with a soft ping. He stepped inside, startling himself when he caught a glance of his face in the mirror.

He was grinning like an idiot.

The lift was fast and it was empty and Ilya was on the sixteenth floor in a matter of seconds, hurrying along the corridor, head down, avoiding the inevitable security cameras. He knocked softly, hoping that Shane hadn’t yet gone to bed. He had been waiting for Ilya to text that he’d landed and had never failed to reply unless he was on the ice, so he was hopeful.

Soft footsteps from within the apartment had his heart racing and Ilya ran a hand nervously through his messy, slightly greasy hair, grimacing at the feeling of dried sweat left over from the flight. He always felt disgusting after flying, but hadn’t even considered showering before he’d left Boston, just throwing fresh clothes into his duffle and grabbing the heavy parcel currently tucked under his arm.

He realised he’d been stupid to worry because Hollander was standing there, looking at him as if he was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen and Ilya wanted to cry. He switched to Russian, unable to find the words in English, too tired to think. “Privet.” He choked at the end, wincing, swallowing heavily as he realised he hadn’t spoken to anyone since he’d last called the man in front of him. He blinked violently, eyes dry and tired.

Yes. Just tired. Not completely mentally wiped out from three weeks of being constantly on edge.

Shane smiled softly. Sadly. “You look like shit.”

That had him letting out a huff of laughter. “Is also how I feel.” He let Shane pull him into the apartment, bag and parcel falling from his numb hands as he slumped forward against the smaller man’s chest, Shane taking most of his weight, strong arms around his waist as he breathed in his boyfriend’s scent- antiseptic and bleach. His Canadian had been cleaning today. “I want to sleep.” He said, words muffled by Hollander’s jumper. “But first I want pizza. Find me a pizza, Hollander.”

Shane laughed in his ear. “Sorry, I don’t have pizza. I can make you a smoothie?” Ilya groaned. Long and loud. “Okay, let me find something.”

He shuffled them down the corridor and into the living room, Ilya lifting his head just enough to peer curiously around the apartment, dimly lit by two of those antique gold lamps with opaque green hoods, completely out of place compared to the rest of the décor. There were boxes, too, scattered in small piles, appearing unopened. “You moving, Hollander?” He asked as Shane flopped them both down onto the uncomfortable couch.

The pillows were hard, lumpy, but better than nothing and Ilya used a few to shore himself up against the arm of the couch, bare feet in Shane’s lap as Hollander peered down at this phone, searching through menus. They sat in silence whilst Shane completed his task, Ilya perfectly content to just bask in the contentment he felt at being close to his boyfriend.

It didn’t take long before Shane sat his phone down, turning to face him. “I hope kebabs aren’t too heavy? It was the only thing open.”

Ilya nodded, slumping down further. “Is fine. Better than smoothie.”

“My smoothies are fine. You need to shower.”

Ilya opened a single eye. “Are you saying I smell?”

“I’m saying you smell like airplane and I’m not letting you in a bed until you don’t.” He stood, hauling Ilya to his unsteady feet. “Come on, you’ll feel better and you can eat when you’re done.” He led Ilya into a bland-looking bedroom and he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. He understood, when he considered it rationally, that they had only ever shared beds to sleep in hotels but he had hoped that he wouldn’t be shoved into the guestroom like a… Well. Guest. Even if that was what he was.

The shower turned on, jolting him from his self-pity and Shane started to tug at his clothes. “Did you even change before you came here?” Ilya shook his head, letting his shirt fall to the floor, joining his shucked joggers. He didn’t know where his socks were. Had he been wearing socks? He stepped into the shower, ducking his head under the water as Shane closed the door, saying something about clean towels.

The remnants of the Moscow cold ran down the drain with Shane’s minty bodywash, his shampoo and conditioner smelling like citrus, leaving his curls soft and fluffy. He towel-dried himself before stepping into the clothes Shane had laid out whilst his eyes were closed, nose twitching as he smelled food.

Hurrying back into the kitchen he found Shane unpacking a large bag filled with kebabs, chips and various sides, pushing a glass bottle of coke in his direction. “Go sit down, I’ll bring this over in a sec. It’s still too hot to eat.” Ilya doubted that, given the current state of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten before he’d left Moscow and he’d dozed fitfully through his flights, missing each and every meal service.

Nevertheless he left Hollander to his fussing and returned to the living area, pulling one of the pillows from the awful couch onto the ground and leaning forward against the low coffee table, using the remote to turn on the large wall-mounted TV, watching in fascination as a mountain climbing documentary continued to play.

He was riveted by the time Hollander arrived with the food, accepting whatever was put in his hand and shooshing his tiny Canadian as he learned about The Beck Weathers. He forced himself to ignore the way that Shane stared at him as they ate, unable to believe that anyone could look at Ilya with such adoration and not be a mirage. The disbelief didn’t stop him from shuffling towards Hollander until they were pressed together from shoulder to ankle.

It was cozy, and Ilya must have been more exhausted than he’d realised because soon his eyes were drooping, each time he opened them his head would have that swoopy falling feeling of having been pulled back from sleep. Shane noticed and herded him back into the spare room, leaving him with a water bottle, his phone and far too many quilts before bustling back out to clean up their mess.

He checked his messages as he dug himself deeper under the mass of feathers, ignoring the angry requests from Alexei, the confused ramblings from his father, Marlow’s porn recommendation- though he’d check that one out later- and the new timetables the Bears had emailed him. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and leaned over to turn off the bedside lamp, throwing the room into darkness only alleviated by the moonlight entering through the open windows. He was too exhausted to close the curtains, accepting that he’d be awake early anyway.

The lights outside the open bedroom door started to flicker off and he heard the chain lock on the front door slip into place. Shane’s soft footsteps passed his door and he turned away, hiding his disappointment in the sheets as he slowly started to drift off to the sound of water running. 

A full body flinch woke him seemingly only moments later, the cool air of the apartment hitting his skin as Shane slipped into the bed beside him, curling up against his back, His boyfriend wriggled around, pulling Ilya further from sleep as he hooked their feet together, his hand coming to rest against Ilya’s chest, his cold kitten nose nuzzling against the back of his neck as Shane exhaled softly.

Every little bit of tension in his spine fell away. “Here I think you leave me all alone.”

Shane sounded a mixture of sleepy and confused. “Why would you think that? I was just cleaning.”

“You leave me in guest room?”

Over his chest, Shane’s hand stopped petting his pec. “What? This is my room.”

His room.

Shane’s room.

That was so impersonal it looked like a hotel room.

“Hollander. I hate your apartment.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Where are we going?”

“You asked that thirty seconds ago and I told you, it’s a surprise.”

“I do not like surprise. Surprise is usually naked woman, and I think would make you cranky.”

Shane’s sputtering was music to his ears and he settled his chin on his arms as he stared out the window of the SUV, watching as the city of Montreal sped past them, Shane driving like a grandmother as he took them out of the city proper.

He’d been woken from a dead sleep to the violence of an orgasm, jacking bolt upright and crying out in pleasure, hands flying down to grip Shane’s short hair where the man was choking himself on Ilya’s dick, eyes watering as Ilya forced his head down further without second thought, swallowing clumsily and gripping at Ilya’s thighs to hold him in place.

His mind had been clumsy, confused, and so fucking horny that he’d been hard again within minutes and any plans Shane had had to be out of bed early had been severely derailed as Ilya had railed him into the mattress, complaining about the slippery nature of Shane’s sheets that had had him dragging the smaller man down onto the wooden floor, fucking him up against the side of the bed whilst Shane bit into the side of the mattress to avoid waking the neighbours downstairs.

A truly excellent morning, even if both of their knees were now bruised and the sheets had needed changing.

Ilya was in an excellent mood, and so even though he had wanted to spend the day on the uncomfortable couch with the heavy blanket he hadn’t complained when Shane had bundled him into his car along with a myriad of those smaller boxes Ilya had seen the night before, refusing to say where they were going. 

Ilya wasn’t stupid.

Coffee deprived, yes. And sore in all the right places. But not stupid.

Shane Hollander was showing his boyfriend his house.

Shane seemed to realise that Ilya had caught on because he just sighed and pulled into a generic drive-through, ordering them both coffee and some sort of breakfast wrap, Ilya’s full of bacon.

After that the rest of the drive was far more enjoyable, out through the suburbs towards houses that were spread apart, large, lush areas of trees and brush between them. Ilya found himself liking the area far more than the city.

He kept his head down as they passed through the security laden checkpoint of a gated community, an action he discovered was unnecessary as a guard asked for his ID and nodded like it was every day the Demon of Boston drove through his gates with Shane Hollander. A nod a wave an autograph and ten minutes later they were pulling up to a brick-fenced property, the house itself not visible from the road. There was a soft beep from somewhere above the rearview mirror and the heavy gate shifted on its rollers, granting them access to a driveway that sloped steeply down under an archway of large trees.

Ilya sat up, eyes widening as shade fell over the car and Shane guided them down towards a large garage, the doors already opening. A high hedge obscured the house itself and Ilya felt like he was unwrapping a present. They came to a stop in the empty space beside a gleaming black Land Rover, a newer model than Hollander’s. “You have two cars? Why need to collect jeeps?”

Shane sighed as he killed the engine. “They’re not jeeps. Jeep is American. Land Rovers are English.”

Ilya waved away the distinction, poking at the shiny new vehicle. “English, American, does not explain why you have two.” He let out a surprised cry when a collection of keys flew at his head, barely catching them. He caught the tail end of Shane’s smile as he moved through a door on the opposite side of the garage, flicking on the light inside.

“You said you needed a car for Montreal.”

Ilya had said that.

And his boyfriend had bought him that car.

Ilya realised that this was ridiculous. That you weren’t supposed to go out and buy an entire brand-new fucking car for your boyfriend of a month. He was sure that was something that Marley called ‘love-bombing.’ Ilya had looked it up. Very toxic.

Ilya chuckled as he placed the keys in his pocket. As if Shane Hollander was capable of anything that involved the word toxic.

He had the best boyfriend.

And a new car to add to his collection. Even if it was Jeep adjacent.

It was two steps up out of the garage into the main house and Ilya shut the door behind him before halting, staring.

“Hollander…”

“I only got it a week ago.” To the side Shane sounded nervous, as if he didn’t think Ilya would approve. “It’s not everything I want but it was close enough. There’s a lot of work I need to get done but I think-”

“I like, Hollander.” He turned to his jumpy little Canadian who was gripping the countertop as if it were a life raft. “Is very beautiful.” The word earned him a watery grin as Shane crossed the dark tiles of the kitchen to grab at his hand, pulling him into the living area. “You have created us a home.”

Shane turned back to him, his deep brown eyes glinting in the bright sunlight pouring through the entire wall of windows. “Dom. Doma. Home?” He cocked his head to one side in questioning.

Ilya’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Da. Yes. You are learning.” Shane’s answering smile took his breath away and Ilya just… Melted. Shane pulled on his hand and Ilya spent the next hour being led from room to room by his very pretty boyfriend, focused more on the feeling of his callused fingers in Ilya’s palm than the colours Shane was planning on painting the walls, the lamps he’d already bought, the giant deep red Persian rug he had placed in the room he’d claimed as his own.

It was in this most fateful of rooms that Ilya noticed the most fascinating feature of the entire house. “Hollander… You wear glasses?”

“Oh.” Shane dropped his hand and walked around the low-sitting king-size bed to where a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses sat. He picked them up, opening the draw and withdrawing a case. “Just for reading.” He said sheepishly, placing the glasses into the case and shutting them quickly into the draw. Then he paused, taking in Ilya’s expression. “Are you okay?”

Ilya shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the closed draw. “Put them on, Hollander.”

“What?”

Ilya swallowed heavily, thoughts racing as he pictured his slutty boyfriend in his even sluttier little glasses. He watched as Shane’s eyes widened and his respiration rate kicked up, eyes flickering between Ilya’s eyes and his already thickening cock where it was pressing against the front of his jeans. “Put. Them. On.”

Shane licked his lips.

He reached for the draw.

Ilya truly had the best boyfriend.

Chapter End Notes

Lookit me. Able to write a chapter without a full on sex scene. I was strong.

Next time- Shane's little autistic ass falls in love with carpet, Ilya loves Aragorn, and the world continues to make them miserable together.

Chapter 5: Squish

Chapter Summary

In which our heroes continue to settle into long distance domesticity. And smut.

Chapter Notes

Hello once again my peeps- firstly, many thanks to those who leave comments, the muse is well fed and I love you all and will eventually get to replying.

Secondly has anyone else read Secret Service by Tal Bauer? I am slightly devastated there's no sequel. For obvious reasons.

SVETLANA

June 2014- Boston

There were few things in life Ilya Rozanov loved more than a little gloat.

His mama. That was a given.

A truly excellent bottle of the finest vodka. Well of course. He was Russian.

Medovik, slathered in cream and a drizzle of maple syrup. She understood the former, less so the latter but to each his own.

Beating Shane Hollander on the ice. Went without saying. Knocking Hollander down a peg was perhaps the one thing he liked better than a good gloating, perhaps because he could do them at the same time. Or sequentially. Depended on how he was feeling at the time, she supposed.

So yes. Her Ilyushka loved to gloat and his favourite thing to do whilst gloating was her.

That was why when she didn’t receive the customary wheedling texts asking her to visit after Vegas she was somewhat… Confused. Not concerned. Not yet. But confused.  And perhaps a little irked. It wouldn’t have surprised her if her dear friend was holed up in his Vegas penthouse with the hottest puck bunny in the vicinity and delayed his flight back to Boston, but it was somewhat rude that he hadn’t responded to a single one of her texts in the meantime.

So she gave him a day.

Then another.

On the third day of her texts being ignored she booked a car.

Usually Ilya would pick her up in one of his ridiculous sportscars and she’d pretend she didn’t like the attention but whilst her messages had been delivered and read they were otherwise left to sit, and to be perfectly honest that was even more worrying than if they’d not been acknowledged at all.

It meant that she was being ignored.

And that was personal.

The taxi dropped her off outside Ilya’s apartment and she didn’t hesitate to stalk straight past his doorman and into the elevator, punching in his code and tapping her foot irritatedly against the gaudy tiled floor as she was carried slowly upwards to the penthouse.

She didn’t bother knocking.

The first thing that hit her was that it was dark. It was just past sunset but not a single light was on through the giant open plan kitchen and living area.

The second thing was the smell.

The familiar, acrid smell of stale hockey player sweat. Spilled alcohol. The nauseating scent of food slowly going off, sour milk.

She rolled her suitcase to sit by the shoe rack and slowly stepped forward, glad she hadn’t removed her shoes as she kicked an empty bottle to the side gently, the glass rolling loudly against the wooden floorboards.

The sound awakened the beast within and in the dim light left from the open curtains she saw something shift on the couch, a heap of blankets that slipped off her dear friend and onto the ground, revealing the troublemaker himself.

Svetlana moved forward slowly, carefully, reaching out for the small lamp sitting on one of the hall tablets, the soft yellow glow illuminating the carnage of Ilya Rozanov’s home. Bottles and plates and boxes of takeout, an overflowing ashtray, bags dropped by the end of the couch as if he’d barely made it that far and refused to move any further.

Ilya looked… Awful. His eyes were bloodshot and there were pale grey tracks down his cheeks like he’d been crying whilst chain-smoking. His hair was greasy and limp, like he’d been running filthy hands through it since he’d returned home. He was wearing a t-shirt stained with sauce and a single sock, his joggers hanging low on his hips.

His lips started to quiver.

“Oh Ilyushka.” She whispered as she hurried forward, catching him around his shoulders as he let out a terrified sob, digging his forehead into her stomach, burying himself in the fabric of her jumper as his entire body shuddered, his voice hoarse as if he’d been crying on and off for days.

She didn’t doubt he had been.

“What happened?” She murmured, wincing as her hands ran through the tangles of his curls, coming away covered in a thin layer of oil. “You were so well when you left. You looked so happy at your little hockey awards.”

Ilya pushed further into her grip, muscles tense under her fingers as he sniffed pathetically. “I was fine, Sveta, except I did something stupid and it all went to shit and I broke my Jane and… I don’t know how to do it, Sveta!”

Oh no.

There were many things Svetlana Vetrova could fix.

This was not one of them.

It was hard to fix something you knew next to nothing about. “Oh Ilyushka… If she cares about you I am sure you can fix this-”

“But I did!” He wailed dramatically, pushing himself upright, blue eyes murky in the darkness as he stood, pacing frantically between bottles and bags. “I don’t know how to do this, it’s not me, Sveta. I break things, I don’t fix them and now that I have I don’t know what to do next! I don’t know how to be worthy of her! My Jane, she deserves everything, she deserves the best and I am nothing! I am trash, I am a whore, a slut, an animal! The entire world can’t be wrong about me and I’m so scared, Sveta. I don’t know if I’ll survive when she realises she can do so much better than me.”

She slapped him.

Hard.

She didn’t even realise she’d done it until she realised she was standing, her palm aching as Ilya pressed gently at his cheek.

She didn’t regret it. “No, Ilya.” For some reason English came to her first. Perhaps it was because she wanted him to truly take the time to understand what she was about to say. “I will let you say many things about yourself. Some of that was even true. But I will not let you demean yourself for this woman. I will not.” She stepped forwards, taking his face in her hands, shaking it gently from side to side. “You are worthy of everything. Everything. You deserve the best. You are not trash, you are one of those over expensive vintage lamps with the green shades you like so much but refuse to buy. You are not an animal, the world just makes you out to be.” She pressed their foreheads together, feeling the soft trembling through his entire skeleton. “And this Jane of yours? If she lets you go I can guarantee that she will be forever chasing a better that does not exist.”

“Sveta…” He collapsed into her arms, sending them both back into the filthy couch where he lay across her lap, face buried into her stomach, a favourite position of his. “You are too nice to me. I don’t deserve you.”

“Yet another thing you’re wrong about. You deserve all the nice things, Ilyushka, all of them. Even this Jane, whom I don’t know if I like if she has left you to think these things alone in the dark in Boston.”

Ilya rolled into his opposite side, reaching for a previously unseen box of tissues. “No, no. Is not her fault.” He blew his nose in the classic fashion of a male- loudly. Obnoxiously. Like the whole world needed to hear his sinuses roar. Men. “My Jane-”

“Your Jane?”

He nodded pathetically. “Yes. She is mine now. And I am hers. Only hers.”

Pigs were flying.

Demons were playing ice hockey.

Grigori had added Ilya to his will.

“You… You’re together? Exclusive?”

He nodded again. “Things happened in Vegas… Things that hurt her. So much. She told me… Told me that I could keep sleeping with other people, but to do it less loudly… She didn’t want to know.” He looked up at her pathetically. “Is that what people think of me? That I would do it to her? When we tell people, one day, will the entire world try to convince her that she can do better? Will they introduce her to other men, nicer men, men who haven’t slept with half the women in Boston, men who will be sweet, and kind, and not make her call them asshole all the time?”

“Ilyushka, here are so many things you can offer her-”

“But I can’t, Sveta! I can’t! What do I have? Money? She has more! Fame? She is more famous than me and hates it! She has a nicer apartment, real-estate, a perfect family, friends who care, and me? All I bring her is trouble and Sveta… What if I am too much trouble? What do I do if I get everything, if she gives me everything I’ve wanted ever since I saw her and then takes it away? How do I live with that?”

Never in all her years of knowing Ilya Rozanov had Svetlana ever thought that she would be in this situation, having this conversation.

She’d always imagined it, the day her Ilyushka would find his soulmate. She was under no illusion that it would be herself- they had had many chances over the years to try and yet neither of them had ever been inclined to do so. She’d always known that if they were to marry it would be because Alexei or Grigori had fucked up to the degree that Ilya was forced to find a way to stay in the US and they were looking at a marriage of last resort.

She’d always thought it would be a long courtship. Ilya would be the sort of man to fall in love at first sight and pursue his future wife with the single-minded determinedness that he did Hollander down the ice. It wouldn’t be subtle either. She’d imagined sky writing and romantic gestures that encompassed entire cities, parties and lavish gifts…

But her best friend had chosen Jane.

A woman that Svetlana had never met.

A woman she knew nothing about.

A woman who had forced her Ilyushka to go against everything he was, that was determined to keep him a secret.

She hated Jane.

“Ilyushka… She makes you feel like this? I don’t think that this woman is right for you-”

He sat up abruptly, putting space between them. His expression was one that brooked no discussion as he shook his head firmly. “No, Sveta. My Jane is the only woman for me.” He said with it stunning finality. “It is Jane or nothing. No one will ever be as perfect as her.”

“You are lying here in a filthy apartment drinking yourself to death, Ilya, clearly she isn’t perfect. I want to meet her-”

“No!” He cried out, and Svetlana didn’t think she’d ever seen him so panicked. “You have to promise me, Sveta, promise me that you won’t try to find her. She is so scared, Sveta, that people will know-”

Red fucking flag.

“Ilya-”

“No. No. You do not get to decide for us, Sveta. When my Jane is ready, when I am ready-”

Svetlana couldn’t keep the anger from her tone. “Is she ashamed of you?” The look on her friend’s face told her everything. “Oh Ilyushka. No. This woman. This Jane. She doesn’t deserve you. You deserve everything, Ilya, everything. You are a good man. A great hockey player. You deserve to be loved, and be loved openly-”

“You don’t understand-”

“I don’t need to. You should not be with someone who is ashamed to be seen with you.”

“It’s not that!”

“Then what is it? You must tell me something, Ilya, or I swear I will hunt her down-”

“Him.”

…

…

…

“Oh. Your Jane. She is…”

He nodded slowly, refusing to meet her gaze. She leaned forward, tipping his chin up with her finger. “You know I love you, yes?” He nodded again. “I still do not like this.”

“You don’t have to.” His eyes went watery. “It’s not your relationship.”

“You think that he is worth this? All of the pain?”

“Yes.

“You won’t leave him, will you?

“No… I don’t think I will.”  

ILYA

September 2014- Boston

Ilya had not expected Hollander to buy a house. At first Ilya had been somewhat… Peeved. It had been his idea first and he’d been excited to show his little Canadian the pretty house he was going to buy for them.

Trust Shane fucking Hollander to one up him and turn up with a brutalist masterpiece.

Ilya was a little in love with Hollander’s house.

With the dark wooden panelled floors, the textured stone walls, the quiet. With the picture of their CCM photoshoot resting on Shane’s bedside table. With the myriad of bits and pieces of Shane’s life he’d been allowed to see and touch and sometimes sniff when his boyfriend was distracted by coat hangers as they unpacked the last of those smaller boxes in the boot of Shane’s SUV, pieces Ilya had realised were the last of Shane’s personal effects before the other man formally moved out of his apartment.

Apparently it didn’t always look like a mausoleum.

He’d asked, as they’d wrestled a vintage Japanese wedding chest up the stairs into the spare bedroom, if Shane’s team had helped him with the move and received a short ‘no’ before Hollander was asking him if he wanted lunch, turning his back on Ilya’s focused gaze and retreating to the kitchen.

Perhaps, when the season began, he would spend some time in the penalty box for a far more personal reason.

Ilya had suspected it, for some time, that perhaps all of Shane’s talk of his best friend, his close knit, perfect team was not as it seemed. It had Ilya worrying. He was an asshole, but in this instance he wasn’t overly happy to be right.

He settled on one of the stools opposite the cooking area, watching as Hollander flit around like a hummingbird, pulling out bits and pieces and spices and vegetables and Ilya prayed to any God listening that he was not making a smoothie. Hollander was many things. 2^nd best hockey player. Vampire. Emotional mess. Best at blowjobs. Worst cook Ilya had ever come across. But he adored him anyway. “Did Pike not help? You say you are with him always at his house. He has not been here?”

Shane shook his head silently. “No… Hayden’s a good guy but he can’t keep a secret to save his life. He and Jackie share a single brain cell, no filter between the two, and if Jackie knows so do the WAGs.” He glanced over his shoulder at Ilya. “I doubt Lily is interested in being invited to wine night.”

Lily couldn’t think of anything worse than being forced to interact with a woman who had married Pike. Or for that matter any other member of a team that cared so little about their Captain that they hadn’t noticed him packing his life into boxes.

Ilya sat and googled ‘single brain cell’ as Shane prepared a salad, little rabbit that he was, though Ilya smiled when Shane added a large portion of cheese to Ilya’s. Smart man. Avoiding arguments.

They were the best boyfriends.

In the interest of time Ilya chose to be the bigger man and left the issue alone.  They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up together on the couch with a calendar open in front of them, trying to eke out a minute here and there to see each other. It had been a depressing realisation, that it would be near a full month before they were in the same city but it had made Ilya all the more excited to see Shane’s SUV parking in his driveway, visiting his house for the first time.

Ilya had never had a house before. Always apartments. Always someone above and below and side to side and yelling when he fucked too loudly.

A house was imperative. Hollander was wonderfully loud. Three noise complaints already. His neighbours had looked relieved when his entire team had turned up to empty his apartment, loud and boisterous and more than happy to mock his collection of vintage shirts, massive DVD collection, and a truly ridiculous collection of heavy blankets.

Yes, Hollander, they are ‘weighted’.

Ilya didn’t care. 

The doorbell rang and Ilya hopped up from the couch, mocking himself internally as he stood up straight, smoothing his hair back, shifting his shoulders to put his pecs on best display. He pulled the waistband of his fancy joggers down until the V of his hips was visible. He was not wearing underwear.

He opened the door and melted a little. He couldn’t stop the stupid, broad grin that he directed at the smaller man.

His boyfriend was here. In Boston. In his house. For the entire weekend.

His boyfriend, in his cute reebok sneakers, dark jeans that hugged his powerful thighs,  was wearing one of Ilya’s t-shirts- just a little baggy all round.

Perfection.

He stepped back, unable to muster words just yet, but Hollander just stood there. Staring.

Just staring.

Ilya felt the nerves return and he frowned. “Hollander? Is alright?”

Shane cleared his throat. “Yeah.” But he was still staring.

“Oh…” Ilya was getting worried. “Do you- Will you- My house? Do you want to see?” He choked out as Hollander slowly stepped through the front door, his bag dropping on the ground, keys dropping beside his shoes and Shane stepped closer until they were almost touching. 

“Can we do it later?” Ilya cocked his head to the side in questioning. “The… tour. Can we do it later?” Hollander sounded slightly breathless and Ilya watched carefully for the signs Pike had carefully written out, a list that Ilya had in his phone.

“But… Will ruin- what is word- theatre.”

“Theatrics.” Shane murmured fondly, pretty bedroom-eyes roaming over Ilya’s features.

“Yes! Theeaterics. I wish to show you my home, Hollander.”

“Can we do it later?” Shane breathed out, all shy and adorable and his freckles were showing under his blush because it was summer and summer was kind because more freckles and Ilya was an idiot.

Because Shane had placed a hand on his chest and was pushing him against the nearby kitchen counter, white marble and sturdy.

Shane was moving slowly, fingers tracing each of Ilya’s abs as he pressed him into position. His eyes were focused, gaze unwavering as he sunk to his knees.

Ilya breathed out slowly, hands shifting to soft hair as Shane leaned forward and slowly, still so slowly placed his teeth around the drawstring of his joggers, pausing to nuzzle. Inhale.

Ilya was rock. Fucking. Hard.

If he was honest with himself he’d been hard since he’d heard the SUV pull up.

Leaking precome down his thigh.

Hollander said nothing as he leaned back, eyes still locked on Ilya’s as he pulled the bow loose, leaning in, teeth grazing at Ilya’s contracting abs as he got his jaw around the waistband, the stance of his hips widening, back arching under his clothes as he dragged Ilya’s joggers around his thighs, careful not to entrap Ilya’s cock where it hung heavy and throbbing between them.

“Hollander.” He whispered as Shane opened his mouth, teeth grazing at the head before slipping forward, mouth already full of saliva to ease the way as he sunk down Ilya’s length.

Slowly. Gently. Ruthlessly.

Never stopping. Never pulling back until his nose grazed Ilya’s skin, tickling at the short, well-maintained hairs Shane had insisted upon. Because his boy was fussy.  

His eyes were wide, gaze hazy and tears slipping down his cheeks. He swallowed and Ilya groaned loudly, throwing his head back as he gripped at the counter, struggling to stay upright.

At the sound Shane pulled back slowly, licking at the saliva dripping down his chin and Ilya felt like he’d been gut-punched, making a similar sound.

Shane’s voice was hoarse, a choke more than words. “Fuck me.”

“Fuck.” He hauled Hollander, who was laughing delightedly, over his shoulders and quickly pointed out salient features as he hurried them towards the bedroom, throwing the smaller man onto the bed where he bounced, ripping his clothes off as Hollander threw his own clothes onto the ground- folding was for idiots who had time to waste and people to impress and hadn’t had to wait a month- before grabbing his hips and flipping him onto all fours, forcing him to arch his back and stick out his ass and then.

So fucking hot.

Ilya dove in and licked a broad stripe from perineum to asshole and Shane screamed, arms collapsing and face burying into the pillow as Ilya went. To. Town.

A very, very small portion of his brain thanked Marlow for the expression. 

The rest of him was focused on the divine sounds Shane Hollander made as Ilya ate him out, broad, long stripes and short kitten licks, hands locked into perfectly round cheeks and pulling them apart as he stabbed his tongue inside his wonderful boyfriend who just moaned, and whimpered, and cursed, pushing his ass into Ilya’s face until he was suffocating.

The perfect way to die.

It took him what seemed like an age to hear past the blood rushing in his ears, finally processing the constant stream of filth running from Shane’s mouth, the way he gasped out Ilya’s name in the most perfect of ways over and over again, shaking and shuddering as Ilya pulled back and shoved two fingers straight into his hole, shoving them down against his prostate as he shouted in pleasure, hips undulating between humping mindlessly against the bed and the sharp pleasure of Ilya’s fingers as he twisted his wrist, adding a third finger and- “Hollander… You came prepared.” He chuckled deep in his chest, smug beyond all measure of reason. “Did you drive all the way here thinking of me fucking you as soon as you opened the door?” He shoved a fourth finger through that pliant rim, Shane’s voice rising in pitch as he gasped for breath. “Did you lube yourself up before you got out of the car?”

Shane let out an explosion of laughter. “No.” He grunted out as Ilya removed his fingers, shoving his pants around his thighs.

“I took out the plug.”

Ilya came.

Untouched.

Choking on his own saliva.

Collapsing at the waist and onto Shane’s back as his come dripped over Shane’s gaping hole, staring at the sheer eroticism of it.

It took a few moments for his head to clear and he pushed himself up on weak arms, glaring down at his boyfriend who was struggling to breathe through his laughter. “That was mean.”

“Oh my god, oh my god you-” He wheezed out, rolling over onto his back, cock already soft against his thigh, belly covered in come. “Fuck, that was amazing.”

Ilya smacked his thigh, leaning over to lick at the sticky white fluid on Shane’s abs. “You are sadist, Hollander. Sadist.” Shane just chuckled in the back of his throat as Ilya caught his lips in his own. “You laugh, but you came just as fast.” He murmured against his lips.

Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya’s hips, pulling him in to rest along the length of his body. “I always come fast, you think it’s hot and I get twice as many orgasms as you do.” Ilya nodded in smug agreement. He was very good at wringing his boyfriend dry now that they weren’t running out of each other’s hotel rooms. “So sue me if I wanted to see if I could get you to do the same.”

“Is humiliating.” He kissed along Hollander’s collarbone, leaving little red marks along the length as payback. “I had plans, Hollander.”

“You wanted to show me your house.”

Ilya groaned in humiliated. “Shut up.”

“Three times, Ilya.”

“Shaaaaaane!” He whined.

“I asked you three times and had to get on my knees before you realised I wanted you to fuck me.” Shane sounded ridiculously smug for someone who hadn’t gotten fucked. “Three times.”

Ilya shoved himself onto his elbows. “I miss when you were all shy and needy. Now just needy.”

Shane smiled tenderly up at him, the muscles around his eyes relaxed and fond, adoring, indulgent, all words Ilya had been learning to describe the way his Hollander looked at him. “You like me needy.”

He couldn’t be bothered to deny it. He couldn’t be bothered to deny a lot of things these days, not now that he was so fucking happy. “I do, Hollander. I do.” He sat up. “Now, come and see my house. I want to fuck you on rug in front of fireplace.”

Hours later, once his boyfriend was well fed and well fucked Ilya returned to the living room on shaky legs, naked as the day he was born and not worried about flaunting it. In his absence his lovely boyfriend had rolled over onto his side and was staring lazily over the floor in front of him.

Ilya frowned. “Shane?” He paused, damp towel in hand as Shane’s sun-dappled muscles shifted under that smooth, unblemished skin, arm reaching out to pet Ilya’s rug. Ilya crossed the rest of the distance, entranced by the way his leg shifted, opening him up and causing him to rest half on his side, chest arching down into the floor.

His eyes locked on that ass, the way Ilya’s come trickled out down onto his thigh, the usually obsessive man either unaware or uncaring of the mess.

His cock twitched. Which was ridiculous. It had been five minutes. He was two orgasms in.

Hollander was a witch.

His eyes were rich and bright, blinking slowly, contentedly, lazily, like a cat in the sun as he rubbed his cheek against the thick fluff. He let out a quiet moan as he arched his back further and Ilya’s abs clenched as a bolt of arousal hit him like lightning.

He had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Ilya?” His tone was soft and gentle, fond, loving, and Ilya sucked in a shuddering breath, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He didn’t reply, just knelt to wipe the remnants of their coupling from that perfect body, shuddering at each shift, sigh and arch into his touch.

He threw the towel to the side and blanketed Shane with his body, rubbing his slightly stubbled cheek against his shoulders, exacerbating the red stubble burn he’d previously left. “You are so… krasivvy.”

Shane moaned loudly, the sound reverberating through Ilya’s chest. “Krasivvy. Beautiful.” He gasped out as he writhed under Ilya, hands kneading into the thick, soft fibres of the rug as he did, as if he was trying to bury himself in both the rug and Ilya’s body.

He had to fight back the urge to cry as those perfect lips slipped around Ilya’s native tongue, accent flawless, every word he spoke learned straight from Ilya’s mouth. “Yes, Hollander. You are beautiful.” Shane keened under him as Ilya gave in to the temptation of that perfect ass pressing up against him, bucking his hips until his head caught, slipping into his lover once again to the sound of Shane’s long, decorous whine, his come easing the way but it was tight. So tight. Even now that they were having far more regular sex Shane’s muscles never ceased to grip him tight and raise him from perdition.

He came to rest, fully ensheathed in warmth, pelvis resting against Shane’s heated skin, feeling the minute shudders as his beautiful boyfriend slipped into pliancy, letting Ilya manipulate his limbs until he was fully resting on the rug, face down, legs spread, arms pinned over his head as Ilya rose up on his knees to snap his hips down forcefully, aim as perfect as it ever was.

Shane shuddered. Gasped. His eyes widened in shock.

And then he screamed. High pitched and painful and for a second Ilya’s heart stopped in panic- “Oh fuck, Ilya- Ilya-” And Ilya was coming- again? God damn it Hollander- sudden and painful and his mind was blank and he collapsed, face first into the rug beside the man who was moaning softly, breath hitching as he dug his hips into the rug below him in pleasure, eyes watery and unfocused, the arm closest to Ilya scrabbling at his chest, red nail marks appearing on his skin, drooling.

“You killed me.” Ilya forced out between heaving gasps for breath, English beyond him as he tried to still his body, legs twitching, hand locking around Shane’s bicep and squeezing involuntarily as he came down from his high. “I am dead, Hollander. Cannot move. We will starve here.”

Shane took a few moments to get his eyes to focus, licking at his wet, reddened, bitten lips before he spoke in a croak. “I think… I really like this rug.”

Ilya took that in for a moment. Translated it for a second time. And then laughed. Deep and hard and from his belly, flopping over onto his back, eyes locked on Hollander’s perfect blush, reaching over to brush his fingers against his freckles. “You leave me for alpaca carpet, yes?”

Shane giggled, breaking eye contact to rub his cheek over the dark brown alpaca fur, inches deep at its zenith. “Can’t I have you both?” His voice was muffled but his eyes were glued to Ilya’s features, darting this way and that as if he couldn’t decide where to land. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so nice.”

Something pinged in the back of Ilya’s mind, something from Pike’s list about textures. Ilya hadn’t paid attention back them, having better things to do than google unknown words but after spending several hours in a little dingy Russian-run rug store deep in Boston’s seedier side he knew what texture was. And apparently this was a very good texture. “I will find you more rugs.” He said softly, rolling over to place a kiss against Shane’s shoulder. “I will send you one, da? Imported from South America. Is not even very expensive. Made by people on mountain somewhere.” Not expensive was an understatement. Ilya had been ready to shell out an arm and a leg the instant he’d seen the rug hanging on the outside of the shop, fur plush and multicoloured, showing a herder capturing one of his flock. Marley had thought it was ridiculous but Ilya was very rich and had nothing to spend his money on aside from cars and what Marlow had called a ‘love nest’ when he’d helped Ilya assemble his new bed frame. And his boyfriend.

Marlow was good friend.

Voyagers were cunts. He had discovered the word watching a strange maybe documentary about ‘Chopper-’ Australians were strange. Also excellent at sweaing. And hunting crocodiles. He had been very sad when he had discovered that Steve Irwin was dead.

But anyway. Yes. He would buy enough rugs to cover every bit of tile and wood in the house, especially if it meant Hollander would let him fuck him in the kitchen. The laundry. The spare bedroom. The hallway- oh, Ilya had plans for the hallway. At the end there was an antique stained-glass window that threw reds and golds and purples over the floor and he had imagined fucking Hollander there at three o’clock on the dot the instant he’d seen the mosaic on the dark wooden floorboards, the best time, when everything was muted and warm.

He reached over Shane’s prone form and grabbed the towel, giving them both a perfunctory wipe down before rolling Shane’s limp form out of the wet spot, rubbing out the stain before it set. Not that he really cared. The rug should be honoured to have Shane Hollander’s cum all over it. Ilya knew he was.

“Up, up, Hollander, shower then I will make you a tuna melt.” Shane gave him his ‘unimpressed’ eyebrow. “Why you look at me like you want to murder? I will let you have sex with rug later.” And wasn’t that a thought. To watch his little Canadian rub himself against the thick pelt… Later. He reached down and grabbed Shane’s hands, pulling the pile of mush upright and letting him collapse against him, lifting him up with hands on his ass as Shane’s legs rose to clamp around his sides, the smaller man humming happily as Ilya carried him into the bathroom. “I have movie to show you. Is favourite.”

Another hum.

“I think you will like. Or will fall asleep. Your taste in movies is… What is word for surprise?”

“Unpredictable?” Shane closed his eyes and sat back on the stone bench that ran along the side of the shower, letting the hot water run over his face as he breathed quietly.

Ilya nodded, stepping up to rub shampoo into Shane’s hair. “Da. Close eyes please.” If Shane smiled when he smelled his own shampoo, neither of them mentioned it. “Is good movie. Many strong, sexy men.”

Shane’s eye squinted open. “We’re not watching porn together.”

“You are no fun. But no, is not porn. Close eyes, you will be cranky if soap gets in.” Shane hummed in agreement and leaned forward, resting his head against Ilya’s stomach and going limp. “No, Hollander, no sleeping in shower. Will become raisin.”

“Prune.”

“Always obsessed with fruit, Hollander. Eat a candy.”

“I don’t like candies. They feel weird against my teeth.” Shane nipped at his hipbone, causing him to drop the bottle of conditioner. “I like chocolate, though. The really creamy ones. Sometimes.” He said it quietly, even for him, as if he was worried Ilya would disapprove.

As if Ilya had ever denied himself anything that made him feel good. If he had his way, Shane would learn a similar philosophy- he wasn’t naïve, he knew that Hollander, Golden Hockey Boy, would never be one for shoving his face full of bacon burgers until he was too fat to move, but all in moderation.

Ilya was very good at moderation. Just look at how well behaved he was being, with Hollander’s mouth right there.

Focus.

“Is four hours long.”

Shane went stiff. Slowly, his gaze rose and his eyes narrowed.

“Ilya.”

“Yes, my little cherepakha?”

“I don’t know that one. Are we watching the Lord of the Rings?”

“Yes.”

“Extended editions?”

“Yes.”

“That’s twelve hours.”

“Fifteen. For sex breaks.”

Shane seemed to contemplate that. He sat back. Raised three fingers. “Fuck me during Arwen rescuing Frodo, the battle of Helms Deep, and the Paths of the Dead. I have issues with those. We can eat between.”

Ilya truly, truly, had the best boyfriend. “You will suck me off at Parth Galen. Viggo is very sexy then.”

“You want to come when Boromir’s dying?”

Ilya shut off the water. “Of course. Need to be happy to survive emotional death of son of Gondor.”

Shane stood, accepting the fluffy towel Ilya handed him. “Done.”

SHANE

October 2014- Montreal

Shane sat in his old apartment, on the couch he hated, staring at the blank wall behind his mother’s head as she spoke. His feet were bare, curling into the dark grey, nondescript rug that had replaced his previous one, the feeling of the soft strands between his toes and the comforting buzz of his phone under his thigh the only things stopping from him completely disassociating from the conversation.

The rug had arrived a week or so ago, delivered by a shifty courier who had taken one look at Shane’s apartment, then the rug, and nodded as if understanding why such a sedate shade had been chosen. Shane had accepted the delivery and then spent the entire afternoon on his back, in the middle of his living room, table pushed back as Ilya explained exactly how he wanted Shane to fuck himself.

It hadn’t been a particularly productive afternoon but Shane counted it as a win for his shoulder flexibility.

Regular sex was really helping his backhand.

“Shane? Are you paying attention?” He nodded, saying something that sounded intelligent enough that had his mother smiled and his father laughed from the kitchen in which exactly two cupboards were stocked.

After that he’d gone back to staring at the wall.

He’d kept the apartment for times like this- the business meetings, because this sure as hell wasn’t a family dinner, those nights after home games and long practices when he couldn’t be bothered to drive out of the city, and originally for any sudden visits from his teammates.

It’d been months since their last visit.

Hayden had always been the most common visitor, popping by once a week or so to ‘shoot the shit’ as he’d said. That had dropped off dramatically with the birth of the twins and now that Jackie was pregnant again it was just easier for Shane to visit them, not that he minded at all.

In terms of the rest of the team… Well. He hadn’t really cared before, that they didn’t seem to invite him to the majority of the ‘team building gatherings.’ The last time he’d sat to the side with a glass of water as his teammates sprawled out over couches, the floor, the table, watching games and playing games and telling him all about the women they’d been sleeping with, the wives they were ignoring, Hayden showing him picture after picture of the twins and Jackie and…

Yeah. He wasn’t the best of company. He could admit that.

But being on the outside since he and Ilya had gotten together had opened his eyes to how tense he’d been in the past, surrounded by men he’d thought to be his brothers. 

The rampart homophobia that was just a fact of his life.

He’d spent years ignoring it, wilfully, convinced that if he said something then that weird brand of fear would be turned on him, even if it hadn’t been true at the time.

Now that it was Shane hated himself for every moment he didn’t say anything.

Hayden shut it down more than he did and wasn’t that just a kick in the teeth.

The casual ‘fag’ and ‘fairy’ and ‘sissy’ that were thrown around without second thought, directed at each other, the players on the TV screen, each one caused Shane to flinch every time he imagined the slurs being thrown at him instead, imagining the looks of disgust that would accompany them.

And so he stayed silent.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would have done to him if he’d discovered his sexuality and not had Ilya Rozanov to cling to. He called his boyfriend more nights than not, hour long whispered conversations doing more than anything else to keep him whole and steady in an NHL that seemed ready to burn them at the stake.

“Shane!” His mother’s tone was heading into one of irritation and Shane sat up in his seat, shrugging sheepishly.

“Sorry, I didn’t sleep well.” The thoughtless lie had his mother’s expression immediately settling into one of pity. “You were talking about the Armani campaign?”

Yuna Hollander nodded, handing him a tablet with a model on the screen. “They want you to wear them at the next awards…” The rug was so damned soft. He nodded, agreed verbally where appropriate, and wondered if Ilya would like him in the white silk shirt on the screen. It would cinch his waist tight, and even though Shane knew he didn’t have more than the most superficial layer of fat under his skin he knew that Ilya loved to lock his long, dextrous fingers around the narrow point of his waist just under his ribs when he fucked him from behind… Maybe Shane would buy the shirt after he was done with it. Or just ask for it. He usually didn’t bother, but Ilya did like a fashion show.

He shifted slightly as his father came to sit beside him, handing him a bowl of food that complied with his diet. He imagined the little cubes of garlic encrusted bread Ilya had snuck on the top the last time he’d been in Shane’s kitchen, making the whole thing more palatable.

Believe it or not, Shane was aware his diet tasted like nothing. It was why there was now an entire shelf in his fridge dedicated to the odds and ends that kept on turning up in cooler packed parcels- cheeses and calorie dense spreads and weird and wonderful packages with Russian labels that Rozanov would happily throw into pots and pans, sending Shane’s tastebuds into overdrive whilst ensuring his calorie intake remained within range.

He poked at the steamed white meat of some sort, mixed it in with the kale and the spinach and shoved it into his mouth. Delicious. “How’s Hayden coping with Jackie’s pregnancy? Baby number three, right?” His mother asked.

Shane nodded half-consciously. “Yeah. Jackie’s over the morning sickness, and she’s less tired.” Hayden had spent the entirely of their last few runs espousing the joys of marriage, telling Shane just exactly how wonderful his beautiful wife was.

Shane hadn’t said it, but in his opinion? Ilya was prettier. For that matter Hayden was prettier.

His boyfriend was right. Shane was super gay.

Not that a single word- especially not pretty- was enough to encompass just what Shane thought each time Ilya appeared in front of him, ranging from an avenging angel in hockey pads to a Russian Sex God, naked and sweating and glowing in the sunlight now that they weren’t limited to the darkness of hotel rooms and-

“You’re not getting any younger, Shane.” His mother’s tone was kind. Sympathetic. Encouraging. A tone he’d heard far more often than he wanted to. He braced himself for the oncoming conversation, readying the same excuses. “Have you considered what we discussed, last time?”

Last time, in a ballroom in Vegas. An hour before he ended up fingering himself open in Ilya Rozanov’s bed, begging to be fucked.

Last time, when his mother had offered to set him up with a friend’s daughter who volunteered at the animal shelter. When his father had mentioned, so very casually, a pretty young female colleague who spent the weekend coaching kids on the ice.

Last time, when they’d said they were worried he was too dedicated to hockey, that he should spend time getting a life.

The fucking hypocrisy of it all.

As if Shane hadn’t spent every minute since he’d first stepped onto the ice under his mother’s tutelage erasing everything but hockey from his life at her behest, poked and prodded gently into a mould. It wasn’t something that he’d begrudged, at the time or now- he loved almost everything about the life they’d forged together as a family but seriously? Now? When he’d finally found something he wanted outside hockey, now they wanted to start meddling in his personal life? “I don’t know, mom. I was thinking of getting a cat.” The instant it exited his mouth he knew he’d made a mistake.

His parents looked at him with identical expressions, a mixture of pity and ‘oh the poor child just don’t understand how the real world works.’

“Shane…” His mother sighed, putting her bowl down and reaching out to sit a hand on his knee. “Sweetie, this… Locking yourself away. It worked when you were younger, still trying to establish yourself. It wasn’t that long since you’d had your last girlfriend and everyone accepted that you were busy but... You’re twenty-three now, honey. And… I hate it, to push you like this but we’re starting to worry about you. We don’t know if we pushed you too hard, kept you too far away from all the things people your age were doing… Sweetie, people are starting to talk.”

And didn’t that pull him out of his stupor.

Contrary to his parent’s belief Shane wasn’t entirely unaware of social cues, case and point immediately cluing on to the fact that Ilya Rozanov wasn’t looking at him platonically. Since then he’d made sure that there were certain cues beaten into his brain, wired to wailing klaxons.

This was one of them.

This was the ‘people are starting to think there’s something wrong with you’ cue.

The ‘people are starting to think you’re gay’ cue.

This was the ‘we need to change your image by pimping you out, Shane’ cue.

Again.

Because people had more of a right to Shane’s life than he did.

“You’re quiet, kid.” His dad murmured softly and Shane was surprised, given that his father rarely involved himself in these sorts of conversations. Hayden had always said that Shane got his aversion towards talking about anything involving sex from his father and he’d been right. ‘The talk’ had been the most awkward five minutes of silence Shane had ever experienced before his mother had taken over the conversation that had become completely and absolutely irrelevant a few months later. “You don’t really go out unless someone’s forcing you to. You don’t really talk to girls-”

“Did Hayden tell you that?” Shane couldn’t help the hostility that entered his voice, eyes narrowing in irritation. “Have you actually been talking to my team about my dating life?” His eyes widened at the guilty looks on his parent’s faces. “Are you serious?” He asked loudly, trying not to yell, knowing it would just make things worse. “It’s bad enough I’m constantly having to fend off women being forced on me by my team every time we go out but now I’ve got you both invading into my private life?” He stood up, causing both of his parents to flinch back in surprise.

He started to pace along the rug, bowl of boring, bland food forgotten on the table. “I… What do you all want from me?” He asked, genuinely confused. “For years you’ve been telling me to focus, to only think about the hockey, not to worry about anything else and I’ve listened to you! Don’t drive too fast, Shane, what will your fans think? Don’t smoke or drink, Shane, you’ll be a bad influence for all the Asians out there. And now? Now you’re telling me I need to go fuck some nameless woman in an anonymous hotel room just so that you, that people, can feel better about my life?!”

Now he was yelling.

And if there was a Russian accented voice in the back of his mind cheering him on? So be it.

“Shane-”

“No.” He cut his mother off angrily, for perhaps only the second time in his life. “No. Did you even think to ask if I’m happy?” He shouted, directing the question at both of his parents. “I’m twenty-three. In any world other than hockey that’s barely an adult! I’m barely halfway through my career, I’m not half-way dead!” He continued to pace, back and forth. “What time is there to have an actual relationship? Is it so bad that I don’t want random hookups in every city we pass through like JJ, or have kids and a wife I never see like Hayden?” His mother’s jaw dropped. “Have you ever thought that maybe I want more than half a relationship?”

He could picture the exact moment his mother’s heart broke for him.

Truly inspired.

Ilya was going to be so proud.

“Oh sweetie. I’m so sorry.” Shane rocked on his heels as his mother threw herself into his arms, wrapping him up into a hug. It was warm and the familiar smell of her perfume, lilies, was comforting, helping him regulate his breathing under her hands where they rubbed across his back. “I didn’t even think… It’s just…” She pulled back, cupping his cheeks with her fingers. “You all move so fast, Shane. It seems like kids these days are married with babies before they’re even out of training skates.”

“Not everyone’s like Hayden, mom.”

That earned him a watery laugh and he winced as his mother wiped half-spilled tears from the corner of her eyes. “True… But I just… I want you to have what we had. What we have.” She threw a glance over towards Shane’s father and Shane felt like he was intruding as they smiled at each other, the exact same way Ilya smiled at him when he’d done something he called myagkiy. He would then proceed to squish Shane into his chest, peppering his face with kisses. Squishable. Shane likened it to cuteness aggression.

“Not everyone meets the love of their life in high school, mom.” Shane said softly, stepping out from between his parents, letting his mother sit down next to her husband, taking his hand in her own. “Some of us are okay to wait a little bit longer.”

It wasn’t until they’d left, leaving mountains of prepped meals and far too many cans of ginger ale for him to leave them all here, that he realised what he’d said. 

“Oh my God, I’m my parents.” He whispered out loud, determined to never, ever let Ilya know.

“You should get cat.” Shane paused at the mirror where he was brushing his teeth. He looked down at his phone, propped up against the toothbrush holder, where his boyfriend was shaving. He stared for a few moments as the straight razor passed over the side of his long neck, bared, and Shane’s teeth itched. The edge of the bite Shane had given him was just visible at the side of the screen and Shane’s eyes were drawn to the ring of silvery scars that lined up perfectly with his top teeth. He then choked on his toothpaste, bending over the sink to spit and rinse. “Sexy, Hollander.”

“Shut up!” He shot back, scrubbing at his mouth as he started pulling out the various creams, serums and other potions his sponsors had slowly been forcing him to add to his nighttime routine. It wasn’t something he complained about often, it was a soothing process, even when he was dead tired and wanted nothing more than to ignore the world and just fall into bed.

Ilya liked his soft his skin was.

His boyfriend was moving through his house, shutting curtains and bolting doors before barricading himself in his bedroom, the soft light of the bedside lamps running along those high cheekbones Shane loved to trace when Ilya was sleeping beside him.

He was allowed to do that now. Sure, some people may find it creepy that sometimes he’d just lie there in the moonlight and stare at his boyfriend, but Shane was taking a page out of the Russian’s book and refusing to shame himself for enjoying those innocent pleasures. He was sure Ilya did the same.

He finished his last step before replying to Ilya’s earlier statement. “I can’t get a cat. I’m never home.”

Ilya shrugged, settling down under the sheets shirtless, propping his phone up against a pillow as he lay on his side. “Cat is independent. Would not need you all the time. But would be good to snuggle when I am not there.” He ran a hand through his mussed-up curls, soft and chaotic, biceps contracting with the movement and causing Shane’s mouth to water.

He swallowed. What the fuck was wrong with him? He blamed Rozanov for the fact that his previously non-existent sex drive was now constantly in gear.

Maybe it was the regular orgasms.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ilya asked softly, eyes appearing dark and bottomless in the quiet of the Boston night.

Shane walked into his wardrobe, discarding sleep shirts until he found what he was looking for, slipping the massive jersey over his frame and slipping under the covers, the bears logo prominent over his chest. “About what?” He said, propping his phone up to mirror Ilya’s.

It took Rozanov a few moments to tear his gaze from the jersey- his jersey. A spare Ilya had ‘lost’ a few weeks ago. Shane had smuggled it out of Ilya’s away bag before leaving Boston the last time he’d visited and had lied through his teeth as his boyfriend had torn his house apart trying to find it on the other end of a video call. “Cruel little incubus…” Ilya muttered under his breath, eyes raking down his chest as Shane translated in his head, blushing as the words registered. “You will not distract me, Hollander, you lied to your parents. You do not like to do this.”

Shane instantly felt defensive. “No.”

“Hollander-”

“No, it’s not your problem-”

“Shane!” Ilya called loudly, and Shane’s thoughts shuddered to a halt. “My beautiful, panicking kotenok. Everything about you is my problem.” He smiled happily. "Is best problem."

“Oh.” He truly did forget that sometimes.

“Yes.” Ilya snuggled down further into his pillows. “Now. You will tell me why you are scared to tell parents truth. They love you, da? They are not like my family.”

Shane shook his head slowly, remembering the night Ilya had arrived on his doorstep straight from Moscow, quiet and haunted in a way he’d never seen. If they hadn’t been together then Shane doubted he would have been able to hold out after seeing Ilya like that. “They love me. I know that. And I think if I came out… I think they’d be shocked. And I think… They’d try to hide it but I think they’d be disappointed. In me. For not trying harder. And maybe they would be right- maybe if… Maybe if we weren’t us, maybe I would have found someone.” He hated the way a flicker of guilt crossed Ilya’s stoic features as he voiced the fears he’d held in since he’d watched Ilya sitting on the gym floor in ’09. “I think my mom… At least in the beginning, I think she be angry. I think she’d hate that I wasn’t thinking about my career.”

“Shane…”

“It’s not just that… I’ve held it in for so long and I think… Maybe they wouldn’t be angry but they’d hate that I didn’t tell them. So much of the most terrifying moment of my life would be about how I didn’t trust them. How it made them feel.” He finished softly, hating himself for feeling that way about his parents. “They love me more than anything, Ilya, what does it say about me that I can’t trust them to love me after?”

Ilya reached out and Shane pictured him stroking the screen of his phone. “No, Shane, is not your fault. This is cruel world, da? World has made us scared. Even with those who love us.”

Shane felt tears start to run down his cheeks, sniffing as he reached for the box of tissues by his bed. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know. But is no rush.” Shane nodded, settling back down. “One day you will be happy and safe. And maybe will not matter so much when you tell them. Maybe will be so happy you will not care what they think.”

“Maybe.” Shane yawned, exhausted. He was tired of being an emotional wreck. “I wish you were here.” He said, looking around the giant bedroom, with the dark blue walls, bamboo sheets Ilya had insisted on, the silk cases on the pillows his boyfriend had express shipped from Turkey. The rustle of the wind through the trees outside the window that Ilya had spent an entire morning watching, telling Shane he’d always hated the bleak grey cement that seemed to encompass Russian architecture after the Cold War.

Ilya’s face in the dark.

“Me too.”

Chapter End Notes

I have fed the smut demons twice today, because next chapter is Scott and Marlow. I think I'll keep the format the same from here on in, two POVs per chapter unless something strikes me in the middle of the night.

Enjoy!

Chapter 6: And This We Continue

Chapter Summary

In which Cliff is bestest of bros. And Scott is le Tired.

Chapter Notes

I hath returned! The muses have spoken and this chapter is long because I ain't splitting it up. So enjoy seeing Hollanov from the perspective of an Old Man and his support Bear.

HAYDEN

SHANE’S LILY

Pike

Pike

Pike

Here little fishy

Why you are not picking up

Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike

What do yo want

Cannot spell anymore?

I’ve got kids, you try and find time to type properly

What do you want?

You are so mean to me

You’re saying that like you’ve been nice to me

Am nice.

Am very nice

Do not tell Shane to cut you off even though whole team is piece of shit

The team isn’t a piece of shit

What the fuck are you saying

What’s Shane told you?

Ah. I see. You are just stupid, not mean

Does not surprise me

Lily. Seriously. What the fuck are you talking about?

Shane hasn’t said anything about the team in weeks

I shut down the last fuckery

What is this fuckery?

Wait.

Do you speak English?

No.

Of course not.

Am having entire conversation with the Google

Focus little fish

What is this fuckery you say?

It’s… Look, if you don’t already know I shouldn’t be telling you

I swear to god pike I will end you

… Are you a Rozanov fan?

Because you sound like a Rozanov fan

PIKE

FOCUS

OR WILL CUT OFF YOUR HEAD

Calm down

Promise me you won’t tell Shane

No. Have no secrets

You understand. You do not hide things from Lady Pike

I hide plenty from Jackie

I see. She is divorcing you, yes?

Do you want me to explain or not?

…

…

…

Fine. Will not tell Shane.

But you are on thin water Pike

Ice

What?

The saying. You’re on thin ice

Pike.

Please.

Sorry. The guys have been… They’re not great.

Most of the time. I mean, they’re normal? For hockey players?

They run their mouths and since you guys are so secret they spend a lot of time saying things about Shane

And about you

I try to shut it down but I’m one guy and I’ve got kids, Lily, I can’t risk fucking this up

Not everyone earns millions in endorsements

Ah yes. You are 15^th best hockey player

Shane tells me that best ever hockey player calls you this

Fuck you

Do not fuck married men

Call when Lady Pike decides you have too many secrets

I’m seriously questioning Shane’s taste in women

Has horrible taste in women, yes

Keep being his friend, Pike

If goes whole week without looking like about to cry I will buy you a pony

Fuck, seriously?

I’ll call him, see if he wants to come over and cuddle the twins

He’s always busy with you, I didn’t know he was taking it this hard

…

13^th best Voyageur

Send list of worst ones

Thanks?

Sure, as long as you don’t tell anyone it was me

We are secret buddies, little fish

Shhh

CLIFF

BROTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER

Marley

Hottest of bros

Bestest of friends

Giver of favours

Dude it’s 3AM

Can this wait until morning?

I wish to murder some bitches

Am I putting on pants?

You are best

No pants yet

We ride at dawn

Yes My King

Vic’s been feeling up to some murder lately, gonna text him

Yes. Good plan.

Summon the husbands

We need the WAGs

Oh.

Oh so this is like MURDER murder

Who we going for?

Screenshot0691.jpg

Ooooooh yeeeees.

I got you brother.

Let’s ruin some fucking marriages.

SCOTT

November 2014- New York. Montreal vs Admirals

The last few months had been… Odd.

Or perhaps not odd but… Traumatic. That was probably the best word.

Scott’s phone had never been so busy. Scott’s phone had never needed a password either, before Ilya Rozanov started sending him pictures of the most random shit- a selfie with a creepy looking man gesturing wildly at a rug. Multiple blocks of cheese he wanted an opinion on. Three different types of ginger ale- why the fuck did he assume Scott knew anything about ginger ale?

And why was he demanding that Scott kept bottles of it in his apartment?

He thought that Rozanov would settle when the season began, prayed that he’d go back to chirping about Scott’s age and the state of his knees and his back which Scott refused to admit was acting up and forget about their newfound… Whatever the hell this was.

Wishful thinking.

Before games, during games, after games the constant chirping should have been enough to have Scott blocking Rozanov’s number except that every now and then there were nuggets of gold. Carter’s backhand. Andersson’s splits. Tiny little titbits that told Scott that not only was Rozanov watching his games, but he was also watching them.

Between games it was worse. Rozanov hounded him constantly with pictures of pillows, blankets, dinnerware, all confusing as hell until he’d offhandedly mentioned he’d purchased a house in Boston. The first time- and he wished last time- Scott had replied had opened the floodgates and now he received something akin to a stream of consciousness from the Demon of Boston, from the flavour of his toothpaste to Hollander’s stupid mouthguard to the taste of red Gatorade being inferior to blue to his rage at the Battle of Helms deep because-

“The elves should not have been there! Hunter!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

That had been a mistake. A huge, life altering mistake. Because a day later he was sitting on his couch, Rozanov on speaker phone as he forced Scott to watch The Fellowship of the Ring. With cast commentary.

Twice.

Because apparently he hadn’t appreciated the absence of the ‘OG Balrog Slayer.’ Fucker had known each time Scott went to leave the room. Or tried to fall asleep because fuck it was long. Would start yelling about Scott needing a nap. He was only three years older than them! What the fuck!

Over time he learned to deal with it. He watched as anonymous sources caused the divorce of a good three Voyageurs in a hushed up cheating scandal, listened to Rozanov giggle into a glass of wine for a good half an hour since Hollander was apparently too pissed at his boyfriend for ruining his second line to listen to his bullshit.

With time he came to realise that Rozanov didn’t actually care if he replied most of the time, he’d call if it was actually important but it kept Scott occupied when the rest of the team decided to get together with their WAGs, or their bits of the moment and Scott was just standing there, alone, watching as his life passed him by. Waiting for Rozanov’s next message.

Or Hollander’s.

The kid had called him ‘Mr Hunter’ the first time they’d really spoken. He’d blushed when Scott had asked about his drink. He’d been polite, and sweet, and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Then he bit Rozanov so hard Scott had sincerely wondered if vampires were real.

The nail marks he’d left on Scott’s hand had scarred over, little silvery dots he’d blamed on a stray cat, a reminder that Hollander was just as violent as any other hockey player, he just kept it better hidden. Scott was more than a little terrified. And thankful, that they only met on the ice a few times each year.

At first the messages Hollander sent were apologetic.

Sorry to disturb you.

Sorry to dig my nails into your tendons.

Sorry to give you a heart attack by having a panic attack in a hotel corridor.

Sorry for scarring you for life by making you realise you’d heard me having sex with the hot Russian you once dreamed about reaming into the rug at the foot of your bed and promptly woke up feeling vaguely dirty.

That one had been a real fucked up realisation- not the railing but the Rozanov of it all. At first it had been the overwhelming knowledge that Shane Hollander, the nicest, sweetest, most respected little centre in the NHL had been assaulted in the room beside Scott by Rozanov and Scott had just laid there, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately not to get hard.

That panic had lasted for about 0.2 seconds once Scott remembered Hollander throwing himself into the giant Russian’s arms and clinging to him like he was the only port in a storm. Desperate. Needy.

Then he’d just been straight up confused, because Scott had an excellent gaydar. It was what had kept him, and the few others he’d come across over the years, safe. He’d seen Hollander coming a mile away.

Ilya Rozanov had been a surprise of epic proportions.

Scott assumed it was an intimidation thing, seducing Hollander to establish dominance.

It was three days later when Scott was running through Central Park that he realised that wasn’t the case.

Rozanov’s hands had been far too familiar with Shane Hollander’s ass.

That had not been a ‘I’m straight except to establish supremacy’ grip. That was a ‘have fucked someone close to my weight up against a wall whilst they clung desperately to my shoulders and I know how to do it and not drop them’ sort of grip.

Rozanov fucked men. And Scott had missed it. The knowledge that Rozanov had fucked Hollander- little itty bitty Hockey God Shane Hollander- was enough to make Scott realise that yes. Maybe he as too old for their shit.

Seriously. Thank fuck he’d missed it because he didn’t think he’d have survived if he’d ever tried to step between those two freaks.

So now here it was, bleary eyed and feeling like a gay sounding board as Hollander messaged him at two in the morning asking if Scott had any recommendations for designers that didn’t look like a mixture between a psych ward and an expensive hotel room, based on the current state of Hollander’s apartment.

Asking him which lube was better for anal- because his research was inconclusive.

Asking him to send links for sex toys, asking which brands were more reputable.

He was half sure that the man was fucking with him but wasn’t brave enough to ask in case it scared him off. Scott had spent so many of his early years as a gay man asking himself the same questions, wishing he’d had someone to ask who wouldn’t destroy his life so he continued to answer the messages with as much objectivity as possible.

It was Hollander’s phone calls that broke him a little.

The first was after the opening game of the season and he’d come home to find two missed calls from Hollander’s number, the second a message apologising for bothering him.

It had been well past midnight wherever Hollander was so Scott had sent a message asking if he was up before hopping into the shower for a more thorough wash, a beer then bed.

He’d been halfway through the second when Hollander’s name had appeared on his screen and he answered once he finished swallowing. “Good game, kid. Two goals and-”

“Are the Admirals… Are they as bad as Montreal?”

Scott had sat up in his bed, immediately clocking onto Hollander’s tone. “You okay?”

A thin, depressed laugh filtered through his phone speaker. “Not really. But there’s not much I can do about it.”

Scott heard the rustling of cutlery in the background and prayed Hollander was eating and not contemplating far worse. Wouldn’t be the first time Scott had gotten one of those calls.  “Hollander? Should I be calling someone?”

The man snorted. “No.” His next few words were so muffled by chewing that Scott didn’t even bother trying to interpret them. “I just- They’re such fuckwits!” Scott winced and held the phone away from his ear at the sudden shout. “How did I put up with it- how do you put up with this? I’m one of the best fucking hockey players in the league and I have to spend hours every day being called a faggot because they think it’s hilarious!” A plate slammed down on stone and Scott sighed, remembering his own awakening to the joys of the NHL.

“Calm down, kid, and welcome to my world. Be grateful you came into it after I did, it was far harder at seventeen-”

“I was, though. Seventeen.” Shane’s voice was soft now. Reminiscent. “I was just a better liar and aggressively closeted back then.”

Scott rubbed his hand over his beard, wincing. “Shit, kid. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like you knew. No one really does. Except Ilya.”

Scott huffed in amusement. “Thought your little tryst would have been more taking your anger out on each other than sharing tragic backstories.” Hollander had just laughed at that before launching into an all-out tirade against a Comeau, a Voyageurs’ forward Scott had really never registered who seemed to think that Shane’s lack of ‘pussy game’ made him a fairy.

He then spent the next hour talking himself down from committing murder on Hollander's behalf.

Suddenly those divorces didn’t seem that much of an overreaction.

Time passed. Scott played. Carter would occasionally force his way through the door and spend the night in his spare room after an afternoon of whatever caught the other man’s fancy. Most of the time Scott came home to an empty apartment and the occasional heavy package from Rozanov that contained weighted blankets, little bits and pieces from Hollander that he picked up in airports, markets and museums, things he thought Scott would enjoy. Both men had just decided to… He couldn’t believe it, but Hollander and Rozanov had befriended him, and he found himself looking forward to when they’d first play each other.

Because he was an idiot.

It was late into November when Montreal rolled into town like a fucking bad smell, a last minute goal from Hollander himself sending the score 1-0 to Montreal and leaving Scott with a bad taste in his mouth, one Carter insisted could only be cured by copious amounts of alcohol and a strip club.

A strip club.

Scott was standing in a strip club. Holding what Rozanov would call ‘weak as shit American potato juice.’ So sue him. The occasional bottle of the good stuff Rozanov kept on sending had spoiled him. He had a good five litres acting as paperweights around the place because clearly Rozanov thought he was an alcoholic.

The lights were flashing and the music was loud and some woman was undulating on the stage and Scott grimaced, downing the rest of his glass. He felt a presence by his side and looked slightly down, flinching in surprise at the look of concentration Hayden Pike was fixing on his features. “Hi?”

Pike just turned back to the front. “I need a favour.” The man was typing furiously on his phone and Scott was more than a little horrified to see ‘SHANE’S AWFUL TASTE’ at the top of the chat, Scott’s surname scattered throughout the chirpy messages.

What the fuck was happening. “What?”

Pike jabbed towards where poor little gay as all fuck Shane Hollander sat squished on a couch in front of the stage between two of his massive defenders, wide eyed and terrified, clutching his phone like a lifeline and a few dollar bills away from having a conniption. “I need you to get that man the fuck out of here, Hunter, before someone locks him in a room with one of those women.”

Scott saw red. Slowly, he placed his empty glass on the empty table beside him, turning, looking over the slighter figure of the Montreal winger. “Excuse me?” He spat out, causing Pike to take a step back. “What the fuck-”

Thankfully for him Pike seemed to realise how that had sounded and he quickly backtracked. “Why the fuck are you looking at me like that!” He cried out, backstepping furiously and raising his hands in defence. “I’m the one trying to get him the fuck out of there! Lily said-” He winced but forged forward, as if revealing ‘Lily’ was the lesser of two evils compared to strippers. “They said you were a good guy. And if I go over there it’ll just make it worse.” Scott had never seen the man look to insufferably twitchy and he found himself pitying him.

Scott was pitying Hayden Pike.

What was the world coming to.

“Why the hell did he come out if he didn’t want to be here?”

Pike rolled his eyes, tugging on Scott’s sleeve, dragging him towards the carnage. “Dude, have you seen him lately? I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, he just gives me that look that says he’d hiding something then fucks off, but he’s on fire and in their tiny little concussed brains that means he needs to be celebrated, whether he wants to or not…”

Pike wasn’t wrong, Hollander had been tearing the ice to shit the last few games Scott had tuned into, twice as intense as Scott had never seen him. “Look man, clearly there’s something he doesn’t want to tell me, and that’s fine, but Lily says you might know something about it and…” Those giant blue eyes stared straight through Scott’s fucking soul. “You’re kinda like him. Captains. Way too serious captains. I’m kinda hoping here that maybe you’ll be able to tell me if there’s something more I need to worry about.”

More.

More.

“More?”

Pike just shrugged. “You’re not an idiot, Hunter, don’t act like one.”

That pulled Scott up short. “And here I thought you’d lost all your brain cells through your dick.” He chirped back, patting him on the back. “Direct a few of those back to managing your piece of shit teammates.” He left Pike standing by the bar as he forced his way through the drunks and the puck bunnies towards Hollander who’d caught his gaze and was already trying to wriggle out of the booth.

“Oi! Hollander!” Scott ignored the boos that accompanied the jeers and the empty beer cans being thrown at his head, bending over the low back of the booth, shoving his hands under Hollander’s armpits and hauling. The smaller man slipped backwards out of the grasp of his shocked captors, going limp and letting Scott pull him back and upright, brushing the worst of the glitter off his jacket. “Hollander, you’re never getting this shit out.” He ruffled short black hair, grimacing as the little particles clung to his own clothes. “Come on. Need to talk to you.” He nodded at a thankful looking Pike who immediately returned to his phone then grabbed Hollander by the back of his jacket and started dragging him towards the back door of the club, then towards the taxi rank. “Shit, kid, just say no next time.”

Hollander snorted as he zipped up his jacket against the cold night air, using Scott’s larger bulk as a windbreak. “Yeah, because that’s the best way to hide the gay. Avoid all the naked women.” He shot Scott a dirty look as they slid into the cab that smelled like curry, the driver halfway through his dinner. “Hey, can you drop us off wherever you got that?” Hollander asked happily, leaning over the back of the driver’s partition and pointing at his food.

Ten minutes later they were a few blocks from Scott’s apartment and carrying bags of takeout, Hollander near skipping in his contentment as they analysed their game, Hollander surprisingly as happy as Rozanov to throw out little bits of advice. It was like an overeager puppy trying to impress his senior.

Rozanov had infected the kid.

It wasn’t until he was unlocking his front door that he realised that Hollander was the first person he’d ever bought home who wasn’t a teammate and by teammate he meant Carter. Hookups to hotels. Other teammates to larger and louder houses. He paused. “Um- sure you don’t want to go back to your hotel?”

Hollander was Un. Im. Pressed. “Kiska.” He muttered as he grabbed Scott’s key from his hand and unlocked the door, barging straight in like he owned the place.

“Kid…” Scott followed the smaller man into his kitchen where Hollander was already poking through his cupboards, pulling out plates and bowls and cutlery, setting it all out on the counter. Scott let him.

It wasn’t until they were settled, Hollander poking at his vegetables, Scott knee deep in a beef masala that he really took in the kid. Relaxed shoulders. Slight smile directed at his phone. Not a carb counter in sight. “You’re… Not what I expected, Hollander.” He said softly, making sure he didn’t sound accusatory.

Hollander looked up and frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“You… Come on, kid. You know the sort of reputation you have. And now you’re invading my apartment and insulting me in Russian.”

A forkful of rice was chewed thoughtfully. “Is it a bad thing?” He asked, sounding genuinely curious. Curious. Not defensive. As if he didn’t really care how Scott was going to answer.

“I… I guess it’s not bad, per se. But it’s noticeable enough that Pike pretty much asked me to find out if you were on drugs.”

Shane stilled opposite him, deliberately placing his fork down, and for the first time since Scott had rescued him he look unsure. “Hayden asked you… So… You wouldn’t have come over if he hadn’t?”

Scott scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “No, why would I have?” That was clearly the wrong answer because Hollander’s expression shut down and an embarrassed flush sprawled across his cheekbones as the Canadian stood up, carefully picking up his food and tipping the near full plate back into one of the containers, placing it in the fridge. “Kid?”

“I’m sorry for taking up your time.” His words were stilted, formal as he gathered his jacket from where he’d hung it neatly over the back of his chair. “I thought… I thought maybe you just wanted to… Hang out. Because we were friends.”

“Hollander-”

“I don’t have many.” The kid looked like he was about to cry and Scott wanted to shoot himself for making him look so disappointed. “Rozanov says I’m bad at knowing when people are just being polite.” He shrugged, jacket on and shoes in place. “I’ll see you in a month.”

Scott sat there. Like a fucking idiot. As Rozanov’s pathetic little Canadian hockey player shuffled to Scott’s front door, leaving him with a sad little smile and a bucket of self-loathing.

He pushed himself to his feet, hurrying after the kid when the sound of the door opening pulled him out of his stupid. “Wait- Hollander!” He called, catching his sleeve halfway out the door. “Fuck- we’re friends, alright. You, and fucking Rozanov, you’re like fucking bedbugs, I’d have to burn down my whole apartment to get rid of the two of you.” He still looked nervous, so Scott pulled out the big guns. “Come on, I’m not drinking all the fucking ginger ale Rozanov has me stockpiling by myself.” He dragged the unprotesting kid back to the counter, shoved a can and the plastic container back in front of him and tucked back into his own food, done with the displays of vulnerability for the night. “So. Are you on drugs?”

Hollander choked on his drink, beating at his chest as he tried to catch his breath. “No!” He forced out, wincing. “I’m not on fucking drugs, fucks sake Hay.” He wiped at his mouth with a napkin and took another drink. “I’m seeing someone.”

Scott’s world stopped spinning. “You’re seeing someone.”

“Yeah.” Hollander nodded into his food. “Lily.”

Lily. Lily. “Wait. I thought Rozanov was Lily.”

Hollander looked like a chipmunk, holding his dinner in one cheek as he gave Scott an aggressively confused look. He swallowed violently. “How do you know that?”

“He’s got pretty distinctive syntax, kid, and who the fuck else would be texting Pike with an exit strategy that involved yours truly?” He wasn’t expecting the look of sheer horror that crossed Hollander’s features. “You okay, kid?”

“Hayden… and Rozanov?”

“Yeah? Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Because I might have…” The kid whispered, face pale and eyes wide in horror. “It’s like introducing Satan to Hades and expecting them to hate each other but they won’t, Scott, it’ll be the most unholy of alliances because they’re both fucking assholes-”

Dramatic bitch. “I think you’re overacting, kid. Pike didn’t seem to know who he was talking to.”

The way Hollander’s nose scritched up angrily was impossibly cute. “It’d better stay that way.” He spat out, stabbing a bean aggressively. “I’ve got enough shit to worry about without Rozanov trying to steal my best friend.” Hollander sounded almost sullen, and the pout, God that pout.

Scott decided it was safer to just look back at his food. “Well I doubt he’ll ever figure it out, Pike’s never seemed one of the most intelligent players.” Shane looked insulted on Pike’s behalf. “Pretty sure you’ve said it yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean you can.”

Scott dodged the grains of undercooked rice Hollander flicked at his face. “Whatever, kid.” Heh. Lily. Ilya. Fucking Rozanov. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re using Rozanov has a beard.”

The look he received told him he was an idiot, he just couldn’t figure why. “Rozanov was right. You’re one step from senility.” Another piece of potato entered Hollander’s mouth. “I’m not going to put my boyfriend’s name in my phone so they can cross reference his dick pics.”

Oh god. “You need to delete those, kid, I’ve seen way too many hacking attacks.”

Shane just shrugged, that same little smirk crossing his face as he turned to his softly buzzing phone. “We’re not stupid, Scott.” His expression morphed into a soft grin, looking utterly besotted.

A large part of Scott was absolutely thrilled for the kid. Clearly something had happened in Vegas that had settled him in a way Scott could never have predicted. He was also incredibly, impossibly jealous and hated himself for it. Because little baby gay Shane Hollander looked so damned happy and now Scott had to force himself to mirror that happiness straight back. He was about to try when he realised that Hollander hadn’t stopped talking, rambling as he pushed his food about his container.

“He’s… Amazing. He’s been amazing. Whenever I start to get in my head he just pulls me straight out like he’s been doing it for years but I… I just worry. One minute we were barely friends and then he just… He told me he was my boyfriend. Just like that. He gave me rules. Told me what he expected. Like it was a contract. And when I got home I spent a full week so fucking scared that that’s what it was. A convenient way for us to get off without worrying about STIs.”

Scott choked as Hollander frowned in his direction. “A legitimate concern, sure.”

Shane just shook his head. “He texts me. Constantly. Good mornings and nights and he asks about my training, my diet, practice, my house, he compliments me.” Scott’s chest constricted in reaction to the utterly smitten look on Hollander’s face. God, the kid had it bad. “It went from nothing to everything in the space of a minute and it hasn’t stopped. I feel like he’s the most important thing in my life and I’d kill anyone who got in the way of me having him.” Wide, naïve eyes looked up at Scott. “Is this… Normal? I don’t know, I was seventeen when I met him, Scott, and he’s been it. I was stupid, and I ignored it, but there’s never been anyone else and I don’t know if I’m just deluding myself into thinking I don’t ever want anyone else.”

It took Scott a few moments to process Hollander’s monologue before he sat back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling for help from whoever the fuck was listening. “Look, kid. I could say a lot of things about that.” He grimaced at the look of terror that crossed Shane’s face. “Don’t do that. Don’t catastrophise. I’m not saying there’s something wrong with your relationship. You say it’s been years. You already know how you fit together, now you’re just learning all those little extra bits. And maybe what you’re experiencing what was there all along. It’s just less hidden now.” He sat forward. “Does he know about Rozanov?”

“Huh?” Hollander had found a straw and was sucking thoughtfully.

Calm now.

Quiet.

“Does your boyfriend, who has apparently been in love with you-”

“I don’t know if he’s in love with me.” Another sip. “At least he hasn’t said anything.”

“Believe me, kid, it sounds like that man has you locked up and he threw away the key. I’m just worried that when he finds out you had a one-night stand with a guy you still eye-fuck on the ice it may throw everything off for you.” Did he use that expression to get a reaction? Yes.

Did he get one?

No. Not even a little blush. Hollander just sat there, calm as anything sipping his ginger ale, the slightest twitch of the side of his mouth betraying his amusement. “He knows.” Shane said softly. “We don’t have any secrets anymore.”

“And what did he say?”

Another sip. “Same thing he says every time I see him.”

“Which is?”

“Get on your knees and suck my cock.”

Scott felt his world rearrange.

And Shane Hollander. Cute, sweet, innocent little Shane Hollander just sat there. In Scott’s kitchen. With his ginger ale. Ginger ale Scott would never have had on hand if Rozanov hadn’t been bugging him about it. Telling Scott Hunter about his sex life. “Oh.”

“Hmm.” Shane bent over at the waist and leaned his elbows on the marble countertop, settling into place with that same enigmatic smile on his lips, as if he was enjoying Scott’s mental breakdown.

Shane Hollander was a little shit.

“You’re an asshole.”

“No, that’s Rozanov.”

“Fine. You’re a little shit.” Hollander dipped his head in agreement. “The two of you fucking deserve each other.” Scott shook his head. “Fuck, kid. I have to know. How the fuck did Rozanov talk you into his bed at All Stars? You’d never given indication-”

“To you.”

Scott’s brain shuddered to a halt. “To me?”

Shane nodded. “I’d never given an indication to you.” Another sip.

“So… You had. To him.” Shane shrugged. “When?” Dark brown eyes crinkled in amusement and his mouth opened- likely to destroy Scott’s brain- when Shane’s phone started to ring. Hollander looked over and smirked. “Do you want me to give you a second?” Scott asked.

Hollander just smiled. Reached forward and accepted the call, finger tapping the speaker button. “You’d better not be jerking off. I think I’ve traumatised Hunter enough.”

“Noooooooooo Hollander, I wanted to fuck with Hunter together!” Scott’s jaw dropped as the familiar cadence of Rozanov’s English filtered through the speaker.

“Let’s avoid using fuck and Hunter in the same sentence, hmm?” Hollander snuggled back into his jacket, closing his eyes happily. “Did you call to tell me exactly how well I played tonight?”

“No. You play like shit. Even Hunter better.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Hmm. Maybe later.” There was the sound of someone yelling in the background, Marlow, from the sound of it. “You have given Hunter present?”

“Isn’t my presence enough of a present?”

“Your presence is curse, Hollander. Give it.”

Shane sighed heavily and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small box. He slid is across to Scott who frowned as he saw the small USB drive. “What the hell is this?”

“Is porn collection!”

HAYDEN

December 2014- Montreal

STOP FUCKING ANSWERING YOU IDIOT

Piiiiiike

Pike

PIKE

Why do you not love me pike

Am wanting to wish you happy crismas and do not answer

You are very mean and I hate you

Shane hates you to

Some of us have families that are more important than their best friend’s bitchy girlfriend

Mean

Am orphan

You make me cry pike

An going to drown in vodka

Shit

Sorry

I didn’t know

Shane still doesn’t tell me anything about you

Is not your business

He does not want you to fall in love with me

Am very sexy

Sexiest thing in world. Is why was able to get shane Hollander to lock me down

I seriously doubt that that’s the reason I know nothing about you

You’re not married are you?

No will only marry shane

But do not tell him

Shhhhhhhh

Have already found best ring. Is very shiny. Very precious

You’re not getting him the one ring are you?

Because that’s pretty fucking weird

He doesn’t even like LOTR- I tried to make him watch the extendeds with me when the twins were born and he said it was boring

You did not have best incentives

Use it as background for sex marathons

I didn’t need to know that

But you say you want to know about me?

Sex is very big part

I don’t want to know that

I want to know how you met, how you fell in love, what you like and dislike, do you like kids, cats, dogs, hockey, do his parents like you, does anyone else know about you

I just want to be a part of his life but he doesn’t want me to be anymore

It sucks, and the only window I have into the most important thing in his life is these texts

I just want to know if he’s happy

I want to know why he thinks I wouldn’t be happy for him

…

You are romantic little fish

And maybe good friend. Sometimes.

I will not tlel you most o f those things, there are reasons, I have bad family that can hurt him. and me.

You are less stupid than I think at first, I think you could figure out and shane is not ready

He also does not trust that you will not tell lady pike, and she has baby brain

So I tell you only that I like kids. And cats but only fluffy ones. Dogs are best. Hockey is also best and Rozanov is sexiest player in league

Gross

Also I am capable of keeping a secret from my wife, she doesn’t know I even know about you

One person knows. He saw, and had to blackmail to keep quiet but he is pathetic so is okay

Is very secret

For long time

Cannot tell you how long

Fuck. Okay

Fine

Just

Please look after him, yeah? You’ve got access to a part of him I don’t

I cant support him if I don’t know what’s happening

Seriously

You are not allowed to be in love with my husband

He’s not your husband

Yet

Am stealing him for new years

You sidetracked me

Yeah- he said he was seeing you

Have fun

CLIFF

December 2014- New York

Cliff Marlow was a jock, through and through. It was his entire personality.

He was also a bit of a slut. He’d formerly ascribed to the title ‘man-whore’ but when Roz had joined the team as a little baby Russian with his baby-fat cheeks and baby broken English he’d taken one look at Cliff’s little black book and given Cliff a delightfully filthy look. “Slut.”

Cliff had worn it like a badge of honour ever since.

They had worn it like a badge of honour.

Ilya Rozanov was a slut of the highest calibre- only the most beautiful, the most talented, the pinnacle of perfection had been good enough for Ilya Rozanov and Cliff had found himself a buddy in all things, more than happy over the years to just ride along on the other man’s coattails, snapping up the high quality beauties Ilya passed on- the red heads, the women dainty enough Cliff could near fit his hands around their waists and his personal favourites, the tall leggy blondes with those piercing blue eyes… They’d shared the occasional trip to Paris, too, grinning across tan, freckled shoulders, receiving a delighted smirk of too white teeth from his Captain as they scored just as well as they did on the ice.

Over the years Cliff had seen more than he wanted to of Roz’s alarmingly proportionate dick, and despite being dumb as bricks when it came to many things, Cliff was aware he’d abandoned zero and sat firmly at 1 on the good old Kinsey years ago.

Okay, maybe a two. On some days.

That being said, he knew exactly how he felt about that particular Russian dick.

Ew.

And it wasn’t like Cliff was shy, he’d looked plenty, cataloguing, he knew what he’d like if he ever actually swayed that way and in hockey dicks out was a way of life… But Roz?

Again. Ew.  

He loved Roz like the brother he’d never had. He’d been his guinea pig when Cliff had started learning to cook after his last girlfriend had left him in the lurch. They’d sat for hours playing COD, throwing snacks and ending up wrestling on the floor. Roz had forced him to watch Lake Placid- of all the films Roz could have loved- more times than he could count, with the nights being rounded out with Independence Day for the hundredth time. That one Cliff understood at least. Aliens and patriotism.

In turn Roz had somewhat domesticated Cliff, sometimes against his will. He’d thrown out every single dingy off-white bath towel Cliff had been using for the last five years. He’d dragged him straight past IKEA and into an actual furniture store when he’d heard the creaking of Cliff’s bed frame. Ilya Rozanov had spent three hours one afternoon completely decimating Cliff’s closet, tossing clothes into rubbish bags and giving him such a filthy look of disgust when Cliff suggesting donating them that Cliff had just sat and watched for the rest of the afternoon, ordering Chinese when Ros finally took a break after informing him they were going shopping the next day.

So yeah. Their relationship was firmly two single guys without close family doing the thing single guys do- latching on so hard they become completely codependent. They were bros. Best of bros. Which was why Cliff picked up on the change the instant Roz stepped into his apartment.

His boy was happy.

He’d felt a stab of guilt then, pushing it down quickly so that grinning man didn’t notice as they’d slammed into each other in a backbreaking hug, Cliff dragging the slightly shorter man into the kitchen.

How had he never noticed that Roz hadn’t been happy? Because this shit? This was on a whole ‘nother level. This was like a sun had lit up inside his friend and Roz just couldn’t keep his happiness contained.

Fuck did it show.

That entire afternoon Roz looked like he was one step from exploding with glee, wriggling excitedly in his seat every time his phone went off and blushing, immediately replying with a toothy grin.

Cliff didn’t say anything. Didn’t point out that Russians weren’t supposed to blush. Just mashed his controller and sipped his beer and wondered what the fuck had happened in Vegas that had changed everything.

It all made sense when Roz removed his hoodie, wearing a singlet and joggers and tucked under a blanket on Cliff’s couch with a bowl of soup.

A fucking bite mark.

Angry and red and new and not the sort of thing Cliff had seen before because Roz was a very ethical slut, he wasn’t the sort to parade around with marks and remind his partners of who he was up to besides them. That being said Cliff wasn’t surprised he liked the biters- though this was less of a nibble and more someone who had seen Roz and decided to stake a violent claim on his bestest of buddies.

And Roz wore it as a badge of fucking hour.

Took his antibiotics without question. Smile on his face.

Cliff knew for a fact that this was a hell of a girl.

So he watched.

He was a good bro. He would be there and ready with celebratory vodka when Roz decided he was ready to tell him about his girl.

Cliff waited.

Six months.

He didn’t expect it to take so long.

He may also be less than patient. For him six weeks was a lifetime.

A lifetime of siting at bars and watching Roz blush at his phone.

Of going to clubs where Roz danced and ditched, barely touching his partners and sure has hell not letting them touch him.

Of joining the rest of the team on benders after wins and watching Roz replace his expensive vodka with water before they left hotel rooms or wherever they were pre-gaming. He watched as Roz had a drink or two then stopped, poking and prodding teammates who’d have previously been left for dead on someone’s couch into beds, under blankets, into taxis and their WAG’s waiting arms.

Cliff just kept on watching. Waiting. Being the best of bros and supporting his bro in his endeavours to capture the heart of what had to be one uptight bitch. Leaning into Roz’s newfound bitter hatred of all things Voyageur that wasn’t Hollander or, to his everlasting confusion, Pike.

Cliff watched and only watched because he was smart sometimes, but this? This was way out of his wheelhouse, as evidenced by his chronic singledom. He’d never experienced it himself, Roz’s near constant happiness. He’d never looked like that before. Besotted. A look Cliff became very familiar with.

Cliff became familiar with a lot of new expressions. Fondness. Adoration.

Incredibly, inappropriately fucking horny.

Cliff found himself going for walks for a good few hours whenever they were rooming together because fuck, Roz. Way to make a man jealous.

So yeah, he wanted to meet Jane, and not just because Roz’ girl was the sort of woman that had had the two of them shopping for ring lights and tripods one afternoon. No. it was also because his Captain was on fucking fire.

Like tonight. 3-2 to Boston in the third period against the bastards from Montreal, Shane Hollander leading the charge against their goalie, Roz hard on his tail and-

No.

Just no.

No.

Cliff had taken way too many hits tonight if he was actually considering what he was considering.

He shook his head and moved the fuck on.

He wasn’t concussed. They’d checked twice. He also wasn’t drunk. Or drugged. With Roz out of action on the pot front Cliff had been depressingly sober for a while now.

So why. Why. Why was he siting here. In a bar. With the rest of the Bears. And Montreal, the fuckers, who had turned up an hour into their celebration, miserable and depressed and just how Marlow liked them.

Why was he sitting here looking at Roz’ phone. Dead. Facedown on the bar like he hadn’t seen it in months.

As his Captain.

His best friend.

Stared at Shane Hollander’s ass from across the room.

And not just stared. Roz looked like he wanted to bite that ass. Bury his face in that ass. Smother himself and die a happy man in that ass.

Not that Cliff didn’t get it. Hollander’s ass was a thing of great beauty, even he understood that. Objectively. Good little Canadian boys with enough muscle to bench press Cliff weren’t really his type. That being said it was the kind of ass that could send a susceptible male to his knees.

But not Roz. Never Roz. Never once had his captain ever given Cliff the slightest inkling that he was into dudes.

But then… This was Hollander. The pinnacle of everything Roz could never have.

The Everest of asses.

Made perfect sense that his bestest buddy would want to climb his rival like a tree if it meant he could conquer the unconquerable. Shove his face in that ass and bite.

Cliff was going down a terrifying rabbit hole and the rabbit’s name was Geoff and Geoff was as obsessed with this shit as Cliff was so he could tell this was all going downhill from here.

He leaned over, elbowing Roz in the side. The man’s gaze did not shift one inch. “Dude. Focus.”

“I am focus.”

“Dude.”

Roz seemed to shake himself out of his ass-induced stupor, scowling at Cliff. “What?”

“Hollander. You look like you want to bite him.”

Again, the blush. “Do not want to bite. Want to rip out throat with teeth.” He gnashed his jaws together dramatically with a click.

Cliff snorted. “Then maybe start looking at his throat before Pike and Boiziau catch you staring at their captain’s ass and start making problems.” Cliff pointed out before he looped his elbow around Roz’s and dragged the stumbling man out the pub into the streets of Montreal. “Let’s get you to bed, buddy. You’re way too tired to be out if your teeth are getting itchy around Hollander.”

Roz laughed, getting his feet under him and smirking at Cliff. “Not to bed, Marlow, to bed.” He threw a glance over his shoulder before unlinking their elbows, stepping away from Cliff and into the- fucking street- right in front of an SUV rumbling slowly through the night towards them, vanishing behind the bulk of the car that slowed to a halt for a moment at the lights before taking off.

With his captain in it.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. Montreal Jane.

He hadn’t expected Roz to come back that night. They weren’t in Montreal often and if he’d been kidnapped by what was undoubtedly a very hot babe he would have ignored curfew too.

That was why Cliff had decided to lay down in the corner beside his bed to roll out his hamstring.

It was why when he’d felt a nap coming on he’d followed where it had beckoned, having fallen asleep in far less savoury places.

It was why he was dazed and confused when the soft click of the door woke him at six in the morning, a sliver of light heralding Roz’s return. He watched from his position on the carpet as Roz tiptoed across the floor, whispering into his phone until he noticed Cliff’s empty bed. Then he laughed. “Marley is also breaking curfew.” He said as he dropped his keys and wallet onto the bedside table, flipping on the lamp.

Cliff couldn’t hear who was on the other end, he just knew that it had to be Roz’s girl, because no one else had him looking that damned stupid. He pushed himself up onto his knees, resting his chin on the top of the mattress as Roz started to putter around his side of the room, picking up pieces of clothing and toiletries as he packed for their early flight, completely oblivious to Cliff’s presence as he rambled into the phone, a curious mixture of English and Russian that had Cliff wondering if the girl on the end was the infamous Svetlana whom Cliff had heard about more than once. But she was back in Boston. Or Russia.

Eventually Roz propped his phone against the lamp base and hit the speaker button, starting to strip down. “You will call tonight? Leave message? Will be on plane when good little Canadian hockey players should be in bed.”

What the fuck. 

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.” The unbearable fondness in Shane Hollander’s voice, Cliff’s own personal sleep paralysis demon, was unmistakeable.

“No, no. I fuck you, Hollander.” Roz replied with a grin that had Hollander laughing on the other end of the line before they both rattled off a string of Russian that Cliff couldn’t understand because holy fuck.

He was in the room with a fucking legend.

Tenzing fucking Norgan waz in da house.

Roz had conquered Everest.

“Sooo… Hollander?”

Rozanov spun, smacked his shin on the side of the bed and went down in a heap of too long limbs and swearing. “What the fuck, Marlow!” He scream whispered, pulling himself onto his knees as Cliff just stared at him, only the top of his head visible over the mattress. “You are always here?”

Cliff shrugged. “Fell asleep stretching.” He cocked his head to the side. “We gonna talk about how you’ve tasted the forbidden dick?”

Roz’s jaw dropped. And stayed there. For a good minute. Cliff thought it was hilarious. Finally, Roz gathered himself enough to talk. “You do not care I am with man?” He forced out, vulnerable, and Cliff immediately shuffled around the side of the bed on his knees, dragging the smaller man into his side, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

As he often did when confronted with physical affection Roz just melted into Cliff’s side, though he imagined that this time it was in relief, from the way he let out a great shuddering breath. “Nah, man, shoulda known. You don’t do anything halfway.” He snorted in amusement. “But Hollander, man? That porcupine?” At Roz’s look he explained. “Small, mousy, lots of spines.”

Ros nodded in understanding. “Yes. Sometimes is dikobraz. Porkipine. Very prickly. But most of time is like small, cuddly kitten who bites. Wants to curl in lap and sleep after very vigorous fucking.”

“TMI, Roz. Don’t need to imagine you and Hollzy going at it. Though I will commend your taste in ass. He has a fantastic- oi!” He rubbed his bicep where Roz had pinched him, hard. “Don’t worry, I don’t want your fuck-buddy.”

Instead of laughing as he’d expected, Roz just shook his head. “No, is not fuck buddy anymore.” A look of pride overtook his angular features. “Second best hockey player in league is my boyfriend.” Cliff felt the little happy wriggle the Russian let out through their point of contact and the sheer absurdity of it had him looking up at the ceiling, sending out a generic plea for help.

“Fuck, Roz… If people find out…”

“We know.” He sounded sad now. “Only one person knows, now two. You must not say to anyone… Shane worries about Voyageurs. They are…”

“Casually cruel on a good day, violently homophobic on a bad day? Like the rest of the league?”

Roz shook his head slowly. “No… I think… I think is worse. Shane is not just scared of team discovering me… He is also worried about them discovering him.” Cliff immediately knew what he was talking about. “Already they say things to him that scare him. Make him think they know. He tries hard not to show, but I am concerned.” He drew a hand through his unruly curls, revealing the slightest indentations of teeth at the tip of his ear.

Shane Hollander. Bitey.

“He’s got friends, though, doesn’t he? Pike? The Frenchish one, Boiziau?” Cliff dragged the second name out of somewhere deep, stored there after one of many Roz Rants about the team of Shane Hollander.

Ilya nodded slowly in acknowledgement but he didn’t look reassured. “They say are friends but Boiziau is saying same as teammates, and Pike is very scared too, already some on team are mean to him if says anything about Shane. But feeds him, so is better than nothing.”

“You know I won’t tell anyone, right? I’d never risk that-”

“Is okay. I know.” He butted his head against Cliff’s shoulder. “You are good man, Cliff Marlow. Good friend. And emotional support dinosaur needs emotional support Bear.” He reached for his phone and a few moments later Roz was sending him a contact.

“Buddy. Is that Scott Hunter’s number?”

“Yes. Needs more friends. But do not tell him about me and Shane. Thinks we had one night stand in All-Stars long time ago and I am beard. Very senile.”

Cliff laughed before shoving Roz to the side, pulling himself up onto his bed. “Fuck man, this sounds like a story.” He flopped back, settling his arms under his head. “Tell me. How did you, premier asshole of the NHL, manage to bag the hottest guy out there.”

Ilya looked fucking delighted as he hopped up onto the end of Cliff’s bed. “I tell you everything.”

DINOSAUR SUPPORT GROUP

HELLO MY COLLECTION OF QUEERS AND HUNTER

YESS MARLEY THAT INCLUDES YOU I SEE HOW YOU LOOK AT MY DICK

Marley: Dude. There are far less traumatic ways to tell them I know. Also I don’t stare at your dick. Except to hate how big it is. We are strictly no homo my dude

Jane: Ilya. What the fuck have you done?

Marley: Don’t blame him, I was kinda sleeping on the floor and heard you guys

Dinosaur: Rozanov did you just fucking out me?

No but you did you

HELLO MY COLLECTION OF QUEERS THAT INCLUDES HUNTER BECAUSE IS STUPID

Dinosaur: Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I’m gonna go jump off my fucking balcony

Shane: There’s a small chance you’d survive

Marley: Yeah, probs better to choose something else

Just wait for meteor

You would probably just break hip and end up in nursing home

Dinosaur: I fucking hate you all. I’m going to bed. Leave me alone

Nooooo Hunter, you cannot go- is group for you! Because you are depressed!

Dinosaur: I’m not fucking depressed I’m fucking terrified because this shit exists now, in text form, in some corner of the internet

Marley: yeah, sure, but who’s actually gonna be looking for it? I mean, Whatsapp security isn’t that bad. I’ve heard

Wow. Marley using big words

Very scary

Marley: Fuck you Roz. Lemme sleep.

You can go to sleep

Marley: YOU ARE FUCKING GIGGLING WHILE YOU TEXT HOLLANDER IN THE BED BESIDE ME SHIT HEAD

Shane: Oh my god I hate this

New years. The last few years most of the guys had gotten together at Roz’s apartment, but when Roz had informed them he was seeing family in Russia over the Christmas period, facilitated by the luckiest of byes in history, they’d scattered like fat little bumblebees in the wind.

Cliff had been torn between sitting on his couch and having a beer, sitting in his bed and having a beer, and sitting in his kitchen, also having a beer, debating dragging himself to see his sisters and their twenty thousand children on New Years after spending much of Christmas in that sticky hell.

To say that he was confused as fuck to have Roz show up on his doorstep, plane tickets to New York of all places in one hand, and a bag of presents in the other was an understatement. “Pack, we are going to annoy captain of Admirals.”

Wasn’t like Cliff had anything better to do.

So he’d packed and they’d caught an early morning flight from Boston to LaGuardia, landing at ten and stepping out into small flurries of snow, Roz taking them straight towards a large international grocery where Cliff found himself laden down with bags of ingredients for whatever feast Roz planned on cooking.

No alcohol was needed.

Apparently Roz had spent the last few months stocking Hunter’s liquor cabinet.

Whilst Cliff still thought that the ‘Hollanov’ situation, as he’d started to call them, was batshit insane, Roz being friends with the stuck up, ancient Scott Hunter was almost just as weird. Cliff hadn’t used the number Ilya had sent him yet outside the truly unhinged group chat but he did pull it out occasionally to make sure he hadn’t gone completely insane and imagined his life. A life where he was in a group chat with Shane Hollander.

Hollzy.

Hockey Jesus.

A cryptid who would message him with the cutest little chirps before games. Who would wake him up in the middle of the night because Rozanov had dropped off mid message and Cliff needed to check he was under the covers.

Shane Hollander, who had sent him a box of cheese as a birthday present. Apparently it was an in joke. Roz was delighted. He bought the wine. Good night.

Still didn’t explain why he was knocking on Scott Hunter’s door at midday on New Years Eve carrying bags of vegetables.

Hunter looked just as confused as he felt. Shirtless. Bleary eyed and kinda miserable looking. “Marlow?”

“Uh-”

“Move.” Roz shoved into Cliff’s back, pushing him into the warm apartment and heading straight towards the kitchen. “Bags are heavy. If break hands I will be very unhappy.” Roz shoved the bags on the counter and started rummaging around the cupboards, pulling out a large pot and multiple pans, already poking at Hunter’s stereo as he ran, connecting his phone to the Bluetooth and humming along to the newest Taylor Swift.

Marlow turned back to Hunter who was watching the insanity with much the same look as Cliff. “Marlow… Why the fuck are you in my apartment?”

“Excellent question.”

Hunter just watched as Roz found the knives. “I’m gonna… Go put on a shirt.” He clapped Cliff on the sounder and headed towards the bedroom, appearing dazed. “What the fuck, Rozanov…” He had his phone in hand and was already placing a call. “Pick up you little shit…” The door shut behind him and Cliff wandered towards Roz who set him to work on peeling potatoes for dumplings, apparently.

Cliff just went along with it. Because he was the best bro. And honestly? This was kinda fun.

Hunter returned soon after, growling into his phone as he sat himself on the opposite side of the counter. “You can’t leave me with these idiots.” He growled into his phone, glaring at Rozanov. Cliff was insulted and Roz threw a piece of carrot as the doorbell rang and all three of them turned.

Roz was grinning. Cliff recognised that grin. “Is your house, Hunter. Should answer door.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Cliff would be worried if there wasn’t an undercurrent of fondness in Hunter’s tone.

Within moments Cliff understood the grin. “Ilya, I swear to fucking God if you forget the beets for your fucking borscht- the main ingredient- again, I will cut off your balls!” A snow-covered Hollander stormed into the kitchen, Hunter following in his wake, throwing bright red beets in a bag in Roz’ direction, uncaring of the knife in his hand.

Roz seemed to take the casual violence in stride, catching the bag, swinging it over his shoulder and pouting in Hollander’s direction. “You try to kill me, Hollander? Too many witnesses.”

“Fuck off, asshole.” Asshole, to rhyme with beloved. Cliff loved them. 

Hollzy and Hunter were banished from the kitchen, relegated to the living area where they put on a rerun of the last Admirals game and sat staring at the TV, taking notes. “Nerds.” He muttered to Roz as they rolled filling into pastry sheets.

“Massive nerds. Is ridiculous. Is holiday!” Roz shouted at the two men, one of whom gave him the finger, the other just poured himself another vodka and curled up under Roz’s present- a massive knitted Bears logo, large enough to cover Hunter’s entire couch and now serving as a blanket for the two men who were steadfastly ignoring it.

The afternoon passed in a similar fashion, Hollzy eventually joining Roz when the complex preparation was done, Cliff joining a snoozing Hunter on the couch for an afternoon nap until they were shaken awake five hours later to the smell of rich Russian stew, dumplings and some sort of alcohol-soaked pudding.

They ate sprawled around the couches, Roz on the floor beside Hollander’s feet. At one point Hunter asked Hollzy where his boyfriend was and Hollander just looked over at the older man and told the truth in the most obnoxious way possible. “He’s busy with friends in New York.”

Hunter nodded.

Hunter was an idiot.

Cliff was so glad he knew because this was hilarious.

They ended up watching some weird direct to DVD film of Hollander’s called Supervolcano. Because watching Yellowstone erupt and wipe out most of America was apparently the Canadian’s idea of fun. Roz thought it was a mixture of horrifying and hilarious.

Hunter still looked like he was about to cry. Cliff didn’t think it was because of all the dead cows. He wondered what Hunter would have been doing tonight if they hadn’t gate crashed his non-existent plans.

Roz insisted on finding a channel showing the ball drop- apparently he’d watched it every year since he’d come to America and he watched as Roz climbed up onto the couch, stuffing himself in between Hollander and Hunter, resting his head on Hollzy’s shoulder.

Happy New Years indeed.

“Oi, Marlow. Marlow!” Cliff groaned softly and lifted his head from the couch cushion, scowling at a panicked-looking Scott Hunter. Not how he wanted to start his year.

“What the fuck, Hunter?” He checked his watch, grimacing. “Eight? You’re waking me up at eight? On a public holiday? When I don’t have to be on a plane?” He let his head drop back onto the cushion. “Fuck you and your mornings.”

Hunter shoved at him. “Fucking wake up. Hollander’s missing.” That had Cliff’s attention. “Rozanov’s still here but I didn’t hear Shane leave, and he’s a polite little shit so I seriously doubt he’d go anywhere without letting us know. Was he drinking after I went to bed?”

Marlow sighed heavily and pushed himself upright into a lazy sprawl against the back of the couch. “Fuck, man. This is Hollzy we’re talking about. Kid lives on ginger ale and those weird chocolate biscuit things with zero calories I’m pretty sure he imports from fucking Ukraine. He’s not getting wasted and jumping off a balcony, if that’s what you’re panicking about.” From the look on Hunter’s face that was exactly what he’d been expecting. “You need to chill, old man.” He pointed to Roz who was buried under at least five of those weighted blankets the man had become obsessed with. “Roz will know.”

“Why the fuck would Rozanov know?”

Clint squinted. Frowned. “You’re not joking.”

Hunter looked confused. So very, very confused. “About what?”

“Fuck me. Roz is right. You’re too fucking old for this shit-”

“Well excuse me for being worried-” Cliff just stood and tugged on Hunter’s arm, leading towards where Roz lay, little more than his hair showing.

Cliff leaned over the gently shook the Russian lump, smiling in amusement when a single blue eye emerged to glare at him. “We’ve lost Hollzy. You know where he went?”

There was a slight shifting of the blankets and Roz shifted in place, enough to yawn straight in Hunter’s face before lifting the blanket over his head, snuggling down further. Cliff let out a huff of laughter before shaking the man more violently. “Come on, Roz, we gotta check all the cupboards for your boring little hockey player.”

“Shut up, Marley.” Roz’ muffled voice floated up from within his cocoon. “I wish to sleep.”

“You can sleep with Hollzy when we find him.” Hunter choked in the background. “Just think, Roz, he might be all cold and alone somewhere outside, lost in big old New York.”

“Hollander is fine. Is sleeping.”

“Did you drug him and put him in the bath?” Cliff couldn’t tell if Hunter was being sarcastic. It was far too early. He also briefly considered checking the bathroom before remembering that if Hollander was in the bath, Roz would have been there too. If only because Hollzy would have dragged him along.

And people thought Roz was the possessive one.

Cliff thought about shaking Roz again but instead decided to follow that train of thought. He squatted down, wincing as his knees clicked, and bent over towards the nest. “Hollzy?” He cooed softly, aiming for the spot right under Roz’ chest. “You in there, buddy?”

Slowly, very slowly, fingers appeared at the edge of the pile of blankets, drawing them back the smallest amount possible and Shane Hollander’s very unimpressed scowl appeared, face down and squished under Roz’s weight.

Fucking creepy.

Cliff reached out and delicately plucked the blankets from Hollander’s fingers, pulling them back into place like a curtain to the Underworld.

So fucking creepy.

“Hunter, I think we should go find breakfast. Anything open here on a public holiday?” Hunter squeaked. Cliff stood. “Yep, let’s go.” He grabbed the man’s arm and dragged him, pyjamas and all, into a coat and boots and out the door into the frigid New York morning, grimacing as he remembered his gloves, lost somewhere within Hunter’s apartment. “I’m thinking pancakes.”

The Google led them through the deserted streets covered in confetti and the remnants of the previous night’s alcohol fuelled celebrations. Cliff himself was feeling great, this being the first New Years he hadn’t spent skirting alcohol abuse. Sure his eyes were watering in the cold air and his fingers were alternating tingly and numb but the day was clear and life was good.

He couldn’t say the same for Hunter who looked like his world had been turned upside down.

Seriously, fuck public holidays and shit being closed.

It wasn’t until he found a busy looking diner in some back alley that looked like a CSI scene that Hunter seemed to come out of his shock. “What the fuck was that?” The man whispered more to himself than Cliff, but Cliff was used to answering whispers.

He grabbed Hunter and shoved him into a booth, handing him a menu. “Lily being Lily and Jane letting her do it?” He asked, not really understanding Hunter’s question. “You’re… you know. And Jane is really you know. And Lily. Kinda you know. What’s the surprise?” He ordered them both coffees as Hunter seemed to digest.

“But Jane has a boyfriend.”

“Uhhhhh, yeah?”

“A boyfriend. Who what, is fine with her having a one-night stand with Lily? And apparently now doesn’t give a shit about them spending new years together? In my apartment? Snuggled on my couch?” the Admiral spat out disbelievingly, taking the bottle of water from the frazzled waitress and tipping it straight down his throat.

Cliff was starting to get where Hunter’s wires were crossing. “Jane has a boyfriend.” He said slowly.

“Yes.” Scott took a long, slow drink of his coffee. “A boyfriend she’s been in love with since she was a kid.”

“You don’t say.”

“Who I’ve never met but apparently loves her, even though she was getting her brains fucked out by the fucking Russian menace in Vegas?”

“Interesting. Where did you say they met?”

Hunter halted in his half-conscious rant, finally looking up at Marlow. “What?”

“Jane’s boyf. Where’d they meet?”

“I… Don’t know? Ottawa I assume?”

“Yeah. Or. Maybe it was at the World Junior Hockey Championships in Saskatchewan, 2008.”

“That… Is very specific.”

Marlow nodded, accepting the plates of pancakes from the waitress, giving her a friendly smile. “Sure is. Jane meets the love of her life on ’08, and six years later Lily is chasing her down a corridor in her pyjamas. What. A.” He upended the syrup bottle. “Coincidink.”

Marlow chewed happily, greatly enjoying the way Hunter’s mind was being blown. The widening of his eyes. The dropping of his jaw. The man looked like he was seeing god. “Oh my god.”

“Yup.”

“Oh my God!” That one was muffled by the tabletop, where Hunter had buried his face.

“Yeah. Fucked with my head when I figured it out too. You know they’ve been fucking the whole time? Thought Lily had a secret girl in Montreal. Should have known she’d go for the forbidden dick.”

“Shut up, Marlow.” Hunter groaned, as if the very words were hurting him.

“Nah. I need a buddy to share this shit with. Pretty sure that’s why I was invited here. Those two are… I swear to God, Hunter, they’re like fucking fire and ice, titans clashing every time they’re in the same city and dealing with their bullshit is a full time job.” He pointed at Hunter with his fork. “Honestly, surprised you didn’t figure it out. Lily said you saw Jane after Vegas.”

Hunter looked like he was about to be sick. “I thought… I thought they hated each other. I thought… Fuck, how the fuck did I miss this?”

Cliff reached over to pat the other man’s arm consolingly. “Same way every single other person in their lives did. They’ve had years to figure out all the possible ways to be together without people noticing, it’s second nature to them now.” He sat back in his seat. “Lily says they took it to a whole other level after Vegas.”

“Vegas” Hunter murmured.

“Yeah. They’ve got work phones, personal phones and I’m pretty sure Lilz has a whole burner phone she uses for talking to Pike. They delete shit all over the place, they keep their apartments for social events but they’ve both moved out of Boston and Montreal proper. They’ve got folders of contingency plans, Jane is a fucking wizard with money and has contacts all over the place- even if this comes out and they’re hit by it they’re solvent for this and multiple additional lifetimes. Pretty sure Vegas triggered something that had them decide fuck it. All in.” He shrugged. “Jane’s been pretty vague about it, so has Lily. I haven’t asked for deets.”

They sat in silent for a while, Cliff slowly digesting his mediocre breakfast and Hunter pushing his food around his place, already on his second coffee. Eventually, he let out a long breath. “I think… I think it may have been me.” He said softly, and to Cliff’s eyes the man looked… Regretful? “I told Jane that Lily would never chose her.” Hunter dipped his head and Cliff thought he saw hints of tears in the man’s eyes. “I… Fuck, I pretty much called her a whore. Warned the kid away from her. Said nothing good ever comes from people like… Lily.”

Cliff winced, thinking back on all the times he’d called Roz the same. Looking back on it, he’d spent years shaming the man for his habits without even realising it, thinking it was a joke. Just like all the other jokes that he’d never realised were hitting his best friend harder than he’d thought. “If I hadn’t seen them together I’d have said the same. She was a bit of a whore.” Hunter let out a watery laugh. “But I’ve seen them together when they’re not arguing and… Fuck, Hunter, if someone looked at me with just a fraction of the love between those two I’d be set for life. I don’t know how it works, but it does.” He threw down a couple of twenties and stood, Hunter leaving his untouched food where it was.

“So what do we do now?” Hunter asked as they wandered back through the slightly busier streets, cleaners out in force to remove the debris from the celebrations the night before.

“Now we go back to bed until Hollander wakes us up with your fucking smoothie machine.”

Chapter End Notes

No smut. So sad.

Next chappie is back to the regular Ilya/Shane but with the addition of Hayden being a bad friend with the best intentions.

Also. No one told me that writing one fanfic was like a gateway drug. Why am I planning the next one?

Chapter 7: Borscht and Boston

Chapter Summary

In which Shane = happy = less willing to deal with your bullshit.
There is borscht.

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for everyone who has been commenting on my lil old story- you're getting me through life right now. You are my only source of pure joy outside money and cats! Bit more switchy POVs here, because I'm very much a train of thought writer and I have no beta to tell me to do otherwise... I'd probs kill them by frustration...

Enjoy!

 SHANE

January 2015- Montreal vs Toronto

Shane hated playing Toronto. He’d always hated playing Toronto. For years he’d been unable to pinpoint why just stepping onto the ice in their home arena had sent an uneasy shiver up and down his spine, but once he’d mentioned it to Scott he’d realised that he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable in the city.

It was the aura of discomfort that had caught both of their attention. The way that their team was just a little… Off. Unbalanced. Not on the ice, no, there Toronto was in fine form game after game. No. It was the way Dallas Kent seemed to reign over his team like a supreme overlord, backed by his lackey in the form of Troy Barrett. The way the rest of the team seemed to slink around them, the uneasy looks as they sat on the bench, not from all of them, but some.

It stunk of toxicity. Shane would know.

He knew from the instant they stepped off the plane from Philadelphia that this wasn’t going to be an easy win. JJ was nursing a sprained ankle, Drapeau had pulled something in their last game and Shane was exhausted, they all were. It had been over a week of away games, the weather had been awful from start to end and there’d not been a single instant when he could have snuck a spare moment to call his damn boyfriend and he hated it. He hated that Hayden could lie on his bed and call Jackie and no one would bat an eyelid. He hated that the rest of the WAGs could turn up to games here and there and no one would sneer, they’d be happy for them. He hated the way his entire team would sit there and laugh and giggle as Shane texted ‘Lily,’ telling him she wasn’t real, that she was a prostitute, that she was married, his ‘girlfriend from Canada,’ every other excuse they could come up with as to why they hadn’t met Shane’s ‘Boston girl.’

He hated it.

He was so tired.

He hated that it got to him so badly. He’d spent years seeing Ilya three or four times a year, months apart, barely a text between for so long and then it was like he was glutting himself on the man, begging for the slightest scrap of attention, clinging to his phone like a drowning man whose salvation was on the other end of the line.

Ilya understood.

Shane had spent an entire week working himself into a panic at the thought of telling the man that he would be near completely unavailable for nine days and at first he’d been secretly disappointed at Ilya’s lack of reaction- at least he thought it had been a secret until Ilya had just given Shane that look, the look that told him he was an idiot. That he was overreacting. That no, Ilya wasn’t looking for an excuse to leave him and never speak to him again.

Ilya had told him that he counted the days between seeing him.

That he fell asleep thinking of him.

That he thought of him on the ice, dreamed of them playing together.

That he didn’t know how they’d survived so long. That one had been late at night and in Russian, the end of a longer late-night conversation over video call, Shane barely visible under the covers, watching as Ilya breathed slowly, drifting off to sleep as they said their goodbyes.

He knew Ilya understood. Didn’t help that he missed him like hockey in summer.

But the incessant dick pics certainly helped.

As did Marlow sending him covert snaps of Ilya starting sadly at his phone, pouting on the bus.

As did Scott whining and sending him screenshots of Ilya’s bitchy messages.

The atmosphere in the hotel was one of misery. Coach Theriault forbid them from leaving their rooms for more than food, threatening any signs of a flu with benching and quarantine and leaving them to their own devices before storming off to his own room. Shane’s teammates paired off and took keys like a well-oiled machine, hauling duffels over shoulders, gear already being ferried from the airport straight to the arena by their support staff.

“Come on, bud, I need one hell of a long shower then I’m gonna need you to help me strap my wrist.” Hayden grabbed their keys and they joined Patrice and JJ in the elevator, Shane leaning against the mirrored wall tiredly, already imagining the good hour or two he was going to have to listen to Hayden getting in a fight with his wife over who loved the other more.

He and Ilya never did that.

It was safer that way. They knew that for a fact after the first time when Shane had ended up winning the stupid competition and his own personal menace had turned up to his house wearing Shane’s jersey.

Had he been completely and utterly unable to form a coherent sentence for the next several hours?

Yes.

Shane hadn’t minded losing the next time. All’s fair and all that.

Plus he looked good in black and gold.

Let none say he wasn’t a strategist.

“Calling Jackie tonight?” He asked as he set his bags down on the bed closest to the window, taking out his toiletry bag and placing it in the small bathroom, checking the state of the towels before replacing one with his own far superior, doing the same with his own shampoo, conditioner, and toilet paper. He turned to find Hayden leaning against the bathroom door watching him fondly as he sat the hotel-provided items to the side. “What? Do you want to use single ply toilet paper?” He asked accusingly, moving back into the bedroom.

Hayden held up his hands in surrender. “I’m saying nothing here, buddy. No complaints on my end. Haven’t had an allergic reaction to hotel stuff for years thanks to you.” He threw himself onto his bed, sliding up against the pillows before propping his phone up against his unpacked bags. “You don’t mind if I call Jackie?”

“No. But please use headphones this time.” Shane never complained. He thought it was sweet, the two of them. Add to that Jackie being pregnant- again- Shane couldn’t begrudge his best friend the disturbance. “Give Jackie my love.” He said as he pulled out his over-ear headphones, not wanting to listen to Hayden screaming at the twins in the background. He lay back, pulling out his kindle and loading the biography he’d gotten halfway through on the plane, adhering to Ilya’s ‘No Hollander, must have hobbies outside hockey’ rule. The book was a hockey biography. About a person. Not the game.

He was aware that he was toeing a thin line hence why he would delete it before he saw Ilya next, the man having absolutely no concept of boundaries when it came to Shane’s devices. Not that he particularly minded. At worst Ilya would frown in that adorable way he did, pouting and pursing his lips, accentuating the cupids bow-

His phone buzzed. He smiled.

“Oh, is that Lily?”

Shane froze. He turned to face Hayden, slowly, the muscles in his neck so tense it felt like he was moving in individual millimetres. “Why?” He asked softly, slowly turning his phone screen down.

Hayden just shrugged and Shane heard the call connect on the other bed as Jade- or Ruby- called out to her father loud enough for him to hear it through the tinny speaker. Hayden was easily distracted and Shane focused on breathing, calming his racing heart as he turned over, staring at the wall as he worked on talking himself down.

He’d been dealing with it for months, his entire team seemingly monitoring his phone usage. He could understand why- he’d never been one to be glued to the thing, it had lived on silent and he’d had a strict schedule of screen time that as captain he’d enforced when it came to practice and game days. Now he honestly couldn’t care less when those texts from his boyfriend, from the group Ilya had happily named- ‘Dinosaur Support Group,’ were all that kept him from cracking some days.

But this was the first time Hayden had actually asked, outright, about ‘Lily.’

They’d both known, even when the secret was just between the two of them that people would eventually ask questions- it had been going on too long for them not to. Sure, they hadn’t expected Marlow to just… Find out, and Hunter had been an inevitability, even if Cliff had had to throw it in the man’s face… But it was expected, it was why Shane didn’t exist in Ilya’s phone and vice versa. It was why they deleted any incriminating photos or downloaded them into password protected folders. It was why their phones were set up with remote wiping. It was why they both had separate burner phones if everything went to shit and a phone was left on a plane or a locker room.

Still, having Hayden just come out and say it instead of insinuating it like the others… Shane took a deep breath, steadying himself. He could handle this.

He turned his phone over and sighed tiredly. His mother. Another modelling job. Some sort of beer. A cool million for brand placement. He typed out a quick assent, already thinking about a silk shirt he’d seen with the most hideously ostentatious leopard print design that he knew Ilya would love, both for the fact that it was stupidly, needlessly expensive and the fact that it was revolting. Ilya said it was the European in him.

Shane thought he was an idiot.

But back to the task at hand. Shane started planning.

Plans within plans within plans he detailed out every possible iteration of the conversation Hayden was sure to want to have, Shane deciding exactly where his hard limits would be in terms of revealing information. He could do this. He wouldn’t even need to call his boyfriend to help him.

He could do this.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth ‘I love you, Jacks,’ Shane dozed off involuntarily, mind whirring but the exhaustion of the last week finally getting to him. When he next woke it was dark and Hayden had wrapped him up with the other side of the quilt he’d been lying on. There was a weird glow behind him and he rolled over to find Hayden still awake, looking at his phone with an adoring smile. “Not long to go. Jacks is ready for the whole thing to be over.”

Shane rubbed his eyes, nodding stupidly. “Yeah, must be hard.” He pulled himself upright. “Did I sleep through dinner?” He must have been tireder than he’d thought.

Hayden nodded. “Yeah, man. But I don’t think any of the guys ended up going down, we’re all pretty beat. Maybe Draps and Comeau? Heard them stomping past at some point. Rest of us are gonna try and catch up on sleep I think, flights have been pretty rubbish lately.” He held up the group chat that Shane kept on silent most days. Hayden usually text him anything important, but he’d never been able to break into the boy’s club that had existed before he’d become captain.

“Yeah… It’s been a while since we’ve been home.” Shane mumbled, reaching down into his bag and pulling out a box of muesli bars. They weren’t part of his diet really, not enough protein, too much sugar but Ilya had gone on an online shopping rampage a few weeks ago and now Shane’s kitchen cupboards were just full of heavy carb snacks that he would hide in Shane’s bags whenever he could.

And Shane had been eating them.

 Ilya had crowed over that revelation for weeks.

Honestly, he felt better. So much better. He didn’t have low grade hunger pangs all the time, he was sleeping better and it took him less time to bounce back after games, even if his nutritionist had been eyeing him weirdly as she checked his carefully doctored records, telling him that clearly the diet was working because he was putting on muscle faster than she’d anticipated.

And so Shane eyed the cranberry filled monstrosity with resignation and shoved it in his mouth, throwing one at his best friend who looked as if Christmas had come early. “Thanks, man.” Hayden sat up, setting his phone down by his side and drawing his hands into his sleeves. “So. We gonna talk?”

“About what?” Shane asked, desperate to avoid the conversation he knew he wasn’t going to escape.

Hayden just gave him a look that said ‘I have two children, if you think you can escape me you are wrong.’ “Come on, buddy. If it was actually nothing you wouldn’t get so worked up when the guys bring her up. I’m your best friend. You can tell me what’s on your mind.”

Shane fiddled with the crinkly plastic of the packaging for a few moments before swallowing down the tasteless mouthful. “She’s… We’re friends.” Hayden let out a disbelieving huff. “We are. I’ve known her for a while and she’s just… Nice. To talk to.”

Hayden’s expression changed to one that Shane had never seen directed at him. His best friend thought he was an idiot. “Shane. If nothing else, have you forgotten that I have her number. I have been threatened with bodily injury on multiple occasions. I send weekly ‘Shane Update Reports’ to a woman who is way too obsessed with how much you’re eating.”

What the fuck?

“Not only that but I have been informed on more than one occasion that if I ever try to hug you in public again I will suffer great indignities at this woman’s social media presence which is just fucking terrifying.” Hayden shuffled closer, taking another museli bar from Shane’s bag. “Buddy, I know relationships aren’t really a thing you do but you don’t look at that highly unpleasant woman’s messages as if she was just ‘nice.’ That message you got tonight? That was nice. That was polite, and appropriate, but dude. I’ve seen you absolutely feral for this chick as in ‘I want to crawl through the phone to touch you’ feral and I’ve gotta say. It’s pretty creepy.”

Creepy.

Creepy.

His best friend thought he was creepy.

“Hey, hey, hey, Shane- no, buddy, that’s not what I meant.” Hayden was suddenly sitting beside him on the bed, arm around his shoulder and shaking him slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… I kind guess that it’s like seeing Mother Theresa giving a blowjob to whatever the mythical version of a female Satan is.” Shane choked on food he couldn’t remember putting in his mouth. “Sorry, bud. It’s just that you’ve never really seemed interested and suddenly you’re smirking at your phone and never letting anyone near it and I’m getting called the 15^th best Voyageur by what seems to be Rozanov’s biggest fan. This is new, for me. Seeing you like this. Maybe I didn’t choose the right word.”

Shane forced out a fake sounding laugh. “Yeah, probably should have thought that one through.”

Hayden gave him a light tap on the back of the head. “Maybe. But I’m serious, man. I think Lily is important to you. Like, really important. And if you really, really don’t want to tell me anything about her I can handle that, I can, even though it sucks, but I wanna be happy for you. I wanna know about her, even if it’s as a vague, nebulous construct and don’t laugh at me. Lily used it first.”

“Phrase of the day.” Shane huffed out with a smile, remembering the digital calendar Ilya had flashed at him a month or so ago, looking so fucking proud.

“Course it is. But seriously, Shane. God forbid something happened and you went down on the ice because I don’t even know if I’m allowed to call and update her. Is she in your list of approved visitors? Am I smuggling her in under the cover of darkness because she’s a Soviet Era spy?”

What?

Shane felt like his heart had stopped. That was what it felt like, the sudden crushing pressure in his chest, like someone had a fist around his organs and was squeezing. “Oh God.” He whispered, as he started to picture it. He imagined it from his side of things, relegated to visitor, the captain of a rival team wanting to make sure his competitor was alright. Just another nameless face on a visitor’s log, behind family, friends and teammates. “I’ll fix it.” He said quickly, already leaning over the bed and reaching for his laptop, quickly finding his old emergency contact forms. “Is something happens they’ll call her.” He murmured as he deleted the ‘1’ next to his mother’s number, shifting her down, pushing his father and Hayden down further until ‘Lily’ sat pride of place, the familiar number in place.

He started to relax, grabbing his phone and typing out a quick message to Ilya.

LILY

I’m updating my emergency contacts. You’re first now.

If your message bank has your voice on it, change it. Now.

You are so bossy, little gremuchaya zmeya.

And slow. Changed months ago. Now message is Sveta, more safe.

Also you have been contact for months

So slow

Lucky you are very cute

Shane broke into a giddy smile and quickly turned off his own message bank service, leaving the generic in place. Just in case. Fuck, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Excuse me for having other things on my mind.

You are only thing on my mind.

“See? That. That look right there. That’s not nice. And that whole panicked paperwork thing sure as hell wasn’t casual. Come on, man, give me a hint. Anything. Jackie’s been bugging me for months to try and get your girl’s number, she wants to add her to the WAGs chat.”

“The… WAG chat. Lily. A WAG.” Shane shook his head slowly. “Hay, I’m only going to say this once. Do not. Ever. Add her to the WAG chat. She’s… Hay, she’s a Boston fan.”

Hayden just gave him that look again. The one that said Shane was an idiot. “Really. I had no idea.” His best friend deadpanned as he continued to tap at his phone. “The obsession with Rozanov’s chirps wasn’t a total give away.”

Shane let out a chuckle. “You’re the one that keeps texting her. She’s like a dog, latches onto any kind of attention she can get.” He watched as a smirk twitched Hayden’s mouth and realised he’d walked into the trap. “Shut up.”

“Always thought you’d be a cat person.”

“I said shut up.”

Coach cancelled one of our practice skates in a few weeks, just before MLK weekend, do you think you’ll be free?

“-Maybe if you give them a photo, or something, they’ll at least believe that she exists and maybe stop-”

Will be flying back to Boston night before- will see if can rebook to Montreal.

Have many plans.

Marley wants to come, he is bored?

“-Otherwise they’ll just assume you’re lying and you’re not gonna be able to avoid coming out after games forever, man, team bonding and all that shit. Most of the guys are over the whole ginger ale thing and-”

I found some great earplugs online I think he’d like ;-)

You are making me horny. Stop. Am in locker room.

Like you’ve never sexted me before a game.

Payback’s a bitch.

You are bitch.

Go away.

Eat a bird.

Bird food, babe, it’s bird food.

Is food inside bird. Eat bird too. Grow muscles.

Fuck off.

“-They’re already planning on going out after the game, Comeau and Patrice have already gotten in contact with Barrett- apparently there’s a great hockey bar not far from the rink-”

I miss you.

I miss you too.

Soon, my little Canadian. Sleep well.

Maybe eat one more bar

Stop talking to Hayden

“Stop texting Lily.”

“Make me.”

He just felt so…

Weak.

He leaned over, settling his forehead against his knees.

It had never gotten to him before. Not in such a real, tangible way. Sure, it had bothered him, but he’d never taken it on board. It had never felt personal.

Now it was.

Now every word and jeer and derisive look directed towards him hit him like Ryan Price from the blindside and sometimes he wished he’d never acknowledged this. That he was still living in his safe little ‘I like women, they’re soft and they smell nice’ closet. It would have been simpler. Safer, for sure.

But between each slur, each barely legal check, each ‘softie,’ each ‘twink,’ each ‘pansy’ he’d remember the last time he’d seen Ilya. Or the last time he’d touched him. The way he’d say ‘okay’ with the little hitch between the two non-existent syllables, the way it sounded more like ‘okey’. The new smile that was only for Shane, all encompassing and reaching all the way to his eyes that widened every time he saw him, as if he couldn’t get enough of him.

It was those thoughts that kept him pushing through moments like this, that ensured his performance didn’t decline. The knowledge that Ilya would be disappointed if it did.

And if he sent Troy Barrett to the bench for the rest of the game with an injured ankle, that was just part of the game.

If he shoulder-checked Dallas Kent so hard he couldn’t catch his breath after he’d accused Hayden of sucking his captain’s dick for his position, well, it was all legal.

They thought he didn’t pay attention to anything but the hockey. But he did. He paid attention to the giant screens that hovered above the rink, showing his expressionless face more often that not. Heard the commentators remarking on the violence. The rage. That he was playing ‘like a machine.’

When he went back out over the boards he gave no quarter to those who harboured such repulsive men. He scored. Again. And again. And again. Until the crowd fell silent every time he had the puck and even Hayden was barely able to keep up with him. Until JJ just stood there and let Shane take the hits, as if sensing his help wouldn’t be received well.

9-0. Complete shut out. Five goals. Four assists. A broken rib for Kent.

The away locker room was quiet for what had been a spectacular win for the Voyageurs. Shane didn’t bother with a post-game speech. He was tired. Disheartened. Around him his teammates were making little remarks, laughing.

“Bet Kent didn’t see this little fairy coming!” Shane flinched as JJ’s fond words broke through his mask of indifference, punctuated by the giant man’s arm around his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

Patrice was already heading towards the shower as he threw an assent over his shoulder, sending the entire team into a cheer at his expense.

He felt dirty.

“Hey, buddy- you don’t look great-”

“Hollander! Corridor. Now.” Theriault’s voice cut through the remnants of Hayden’s concerned words and along with the rest of the stragglers he left Shane alone with their coach, throwing him a concerned look as he grabbed his towel and caddy.

Shane quickly finished unlacing his skates and threw them to the side before hurrying to the door, shivering in his compression garments and shorts as the air of the rink hit him. “Sir?” He couldn’t think of anything he’d done to warrant singling out after playing as he had.

Theriault rubbed a hand over his face, sweeping his hair back where it had fallen around his ears. “Look, Hollander, you played like a fucking beast tonight but something’s clearly up. I don’t know what it is and frankly I don’t give a shit but you’re gonna burn out if you keep it up. Skip the next practice. Go home. See your parents. Ignore your fucking girlfriend for once. Get your head back in the fucking game because next time those refs aren’t gonna be shocked by the stunts you were pulling and they’re gonna pull you up.”

If Theriault had expected Shane to argue he was sorely mistaken. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. Pay for your own damn tickets and get out of here, I expect you ion the ice Monday.”

It was Thursday.

Done.

Shane was on his phone seconds later, booking a flight to Boston without second thought and shucking his gear onto the floor, into his bags, two hours until take-off. Just enough to time to shower. His eyes flickered towards the locker room doors where the customary gaggle of press were filing in and he prayed silently that Theriault had already told them he wasn’t available.

“Oi. Hollander.” Shane spun, quickly pulling his shirt over his head to find Comeau standing less than a foot away, towel wrapped around his waist, leaning against the lockers. “Took that Pike shit from Kent pretty seriously.” He sucked in a breath of air between his teeth, a smug grin on his face. “Bit of a sore spot, eh, kid?”

Shane was used to reining in his expressions. He’d spend years practicing in the mirror, hiding anything that was weak. Too emotional. Now he used all that experience to throw a truly inspired look of disgust in his teammates direction. “Go fuck yourself, Comeau.”

For an instant Gil’s expression was one of surprise, then his customary mocking expression returned. “Bit cranky there, cap.” Comeau brushed against his arm as he moved to his bags. “Piece of advice? Maybe don’t be so friendly with your boy. Can’t blame Kent for getting the wrong idea.” Shane’s nose twitched as a wave of axe body spray hit the air and Comeau leaned in, nice and close as he whispered. “He isn’t the only one noticing shit.”

YUNA

January 2015- Ottawa

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong with her son.

She knew Shane.

She knew everything about him.

From the day he’d been born Yuna Hollander had known who he was.

From the time he first stepped on the ice between his parents.

From the time she was screamed at by an irate parent who refused to invite Shane to her son’s birthday party because he was ‘weird.’

From the time they’d sat as a family in that doctor’s office and refused to believe that there was a single limitation they couldn’t overcome.

From the day her perfect son had stood there, second best to a piece of trash from Russia, overstimulated and miserable.

From the day her son had first bent over in front of Ilya Rosanov.

She had known him.

She had created him.

Shane Hollander was her flesh and blood and her pride and joy and she had spent his entire life ensuring that the world knew what he was capable of.

She had moulded him.

Trained him.

Pointed out his faults and fixed them until he was perfection.

It was her role as a mother.

It was her role as a manager.

It was her purpose in life.

And her purpose in life had just told his teammate to fuck himself.

In front of his coach.

In front of Hayden Pike who looked like his world was coming to an end.

In front of the rest of his team.

In front of the press, who had all fallen silent.

And her son.

Her perfect, wonderful son.

Ignored it all.

Continued to pull off his compression gear.

Ignored JJ slapping at his shoulder.

Turned to face away from the camera, revealing a truly horrendous set of bruises that lined up perfectly from shoulder blade to his waist.  

Her son ignored each and every question shouted at him as he walked into the showers alone.

She watched on the screen as Theriault shook himself out of his shock and pushed the press towards Pike though he wasn’t much better; tripping over his words and eyes widening pathetically as Shane crossed in front of his eyeline only a minute or so later, dripping wet.

For the first time in his life, her son looked like he knew just exactly how good he looked.

She pulled out her phone, wincing as the notifications she had set up filled the screen horrifying quickly- each one more upsetting than the previous.

Outrage.

Confusion.

Disappointment.

 And then at first one.

Another.

Like a wave they came, breaking through the hockey like she’d never seen before.

Thirst.

It was different from the past. Her son was pretty. Sweet. Safe.

The things they were saying now.

This was not the brand she had spent his life creating.

She pulled up her son’s contact.

He always picked up.

Always.

It rang through.

Once.

Twice.

He picked up the third time. “Shane, what the hell was that?” She winced as she heard her own tone but didn’t back down.

“Mom, this isn’t a good time, can we do this later?”

More and more notifications continued to flood in. “No we can’t do this later, what were you thinking? You don’t use that kind of language!”

“Mom, please-”

“No, Shane, you know better! I taught you better! People are talking and we need to start walking this back.” The line was silent, the soft echoes of traffic in the background. “I want an explanation, Shane.”

She heard her son sigh.

Then.

“I shouldn’t need to give one.”

On the other end of the couch her husband looked up sharply from his paper, setting it down on his lap and looking at her, confused. “Excuse me?”

“I shouldn’t need to give an excuse for not putting up with the bullshit that comes out of Comeau’s mouth.”

David shifted closer, the both of them sharing a concerned look. “Shane, what’s going on?”

“Nothing new. You know that.” His tone was short, frustrated. “I’ve told you before, mom, half of my roster is casually racist, the other half casually homophobic and what did you say last time? It’s nothing I haven’t been taught to deal with?” There was the sound of a car door shutting. “I’m tired of just dealing. Thanks, man. Have a good day.” There was a pause as the sound of clothes rustling obscured the background noise. “Are we done here? I need to get on a plane.” 

Yuna leaned towards her phone, David’s hand at the base of her spine the only thing keeping her grounded. “No, we’re not done here, Shane. You don’t get to get out of this. You know you’re held to a higher standard-”

“I’m going through security.”

The call dropped.

She called him back five minutes later.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

And ESPN showed her son, alone, boarding a plane to Boston with a chocolate iced donut held between his teeth.

There was something wrong with her son.

ILYA

January 2015- Boston vs Admirals

Ilya was having an absolutely fantastic game. The best of games. Hunter was on fire and Ilya did it love when he got to beat his geriatric- thank you Shane for the new word- ass.

So yes. Ilya was an in excellent mood. A 3-1 win and getting to dump Hunter on his ass had him near skipping as he pulled Marlow behind him towards the away change-room, phone to his ear as he dialled Hunter’s phone repeatedly. The old man always picked up eventually.

“Roz, ever thought that maybe he doesn’t want to see your ugly mug after we pounded him into the ice?”

“Gross. We do not pound Hunter. We beat him. Pound other things.”

“Also gross.”

“You are gross.” Ilya frowned as he got Hunter’s overly polite voicemail yet again. “Is ignoring me. Why.”

“Because-”

“Be quiet, Marley, not looking for reasonable explanation. Is why you are single.” He frowned at the closed door, behind which he could hear one or two people murmuring. “Bus is still here, Hunter is moping in changing rooms.” He lifted his hand, banging furiously on the wooden door. “Hunteeeeer, why you not answer calls!” He whined loudly, Cliff choking behind him. “If you do not come out soon I will think you are depressed and send Boston doctor!”

They both took a quick step backwards as the door was wrenched open and they came face to face with a furious-looking Carter Vaughan, all 6’4’’ of gangly, fresh from the shower forward. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“Hmm. No.” Ilya pushed past the man who, clearly caught off guard, just gaped in their direction as Cliff gave him a little shrug and followed Ilya into the room. “Huuuunter, where are you?” He sang, peering around the corner to find the older man slumped over his knees in nothing but a towel, staring at his phone like it held the answers to the universe, looking halfway towards dead. “Why do you look like parents dead again?” Vaughan gasped in the background somewhere. Unimportant. “And naked. Do you want to get burns on dick?”

Hunter’s head slowly rose and he turned to Ilya and Cliff, looking supremely confused. “What?”

Ilya started to bounce on his feet in excitement. “I discover- what is pot that cooks very slowly?”

“A… Slow cooker.”

Ilya paused. The he shook his head incredulously. “Fucking Americans. Slow cooker. Why not just call pot. Stupid. I use before game, meat will be-” He gave Hunter a chef’s kiss. “Perfect. Even better than last one.”

Scott just shook his head before dropping back into a slump. “Fuck off, Rozanov. I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit.”

Ilya was not putting up with Hunter’s shit. “You are killer of buzz, Hunter, mopey and depressed and it annoys me. Should be celebrating goal, yes?” He directed that at the homicidal-looking Vaughan. “You play not shitty too.” He turned back to Hunter. “Come. Last time you eat three bowls of my borsct. You have very big day, need to eat more carbs.” He bent over and hauled Hunter to his feet, ignoring his squawk as he ripped off his towel and threw it in Vaughan’s face, pushing Hunter towards his bags. “Underwear, then pants, then shirt. I dress you like baby.” And he proceeded to do just that, poking and prodding until the increasingly comatose Hunter was dressed and coated with shoes on his cute little feet and a beanie with the bears logo over his wet hair, straight from Ilya’s own head.

“You need to be cuddled.” He eyed Vaughan, where the man was still standing behind a bemused Cliff with his bag in hand. “Is Carter asshole?”

“Oi-”

“No.” Hunter murmured, picking up his bag and throwing over his shoulder. “He’s… He’s a good guy.” Scott caught Vaughan’s eye and jerked his head towards the door. “Pretty sure I’m being kidnapped for the night, tell the guys to go ahead.”

Carter’s dark brown eyes widened in shock. “Hell no, I’m not letting you go off with Rozanov-”

“Carter, it’s fine, he-”

“No! I’ll let the others-”

“No, no, Vaughan is very large, and less of asshole than Marlow. He will cuddle you.” Ilya said as he gathered his giant hockey player ducklings and pushed them out of the room. “You tell team you will meet back at hotel in morning, tonight we will eat beets and watch Montreal beat Toronto, da? Good way to spend night. Stay in nice warm guest rooms with fluffy blankets. Much better for depressed little Admirals, hmm?”

He hurried his charges through the underbelly of the arena and out into the freezing cold of Boston winter, the sun long below the horizon and the eerie lights of the carpark throwing creepy shapes over the ground. “Marley, you will drive?”

“Nah, Ubered. Shotgun.”

As if anyone else but Shane could claim shotgun in Ilya’s cars.

He left Hunter to toddle along with Vaughan, Cliff bringing up the rear until they reached his SUV, then they were off. Neither Admiral said anything as they passed through the city, Cliff and Ilya more than happy to fill the silence with replays of the game, slowly and meticulously coaxing Hunter out of his funk with increasingly outlandish claims of brilliance until the man was near yelling at them from the backseat.

Ilya was an excellent friend. Cliff was okay too. Vaughan looked confused.

They pulled slowly into the underground garage and Vaughan looked more than amazed by the number of performance vehicles aligned in rows- yet another reason Ilya had purchased this particular property. His babies did not deserve to sit outside in the snow and heat. He led his little party to the front door and pressed in the code, opened the door and stepped inside, reaching for the light switch.

There was a slight noise to his side and Ilya paused, holding his hand back to the others as he took another step, ears straining to identify the abnormal sound again, an odd shifting of clothing that was entirely out of place in the soft hum of the refrigerator, the click of the wall mounted clock, the wind through the trees outside.

He shifted his weight, taking another step when he smelled… Something. Familiar. Nonspecific. Like a memory his mind couldn’t make sense of.

That was when a body hit him from the side and he went careening back several steps, body tense at the attack until lips crushed against his own and- oh.

Ilya whimpered.

Pathetic.

He didn’t care.

Shane’s bare legs wrapped around his waist desperately and Ilya was immediately aware of how slivers of his own skin pressed against the soft inside of Hollander’s thighs where his shirt had ridden up. Shane was clad in the scratchy polyester of one of Ilya’s own jerseys- the faint smell of sweat and the metallic tang of ice largely eclipsed by Shane’s own deodorant.

He clutched his desperate, needy, whining, perfect, boyfriend to his chest, muttering endearments in Russian as Shane shoved his tongue down his throat and-

The light switched on.

Ilya turned slowly to the three men standing in his entrance hall, one hand up a leg of Shane’s underwear- thank fuck his fussy boy never slept without them-, the other burrowed under the jersey against the skin of his back. “Oops”

So sue him. His pretty Canadian hockey player was very distracting.

Shane’s grip on his waist and neck loosened gradually and Ilya let him slip to the ground, bare feet making soft sounds against the tile. “Oh.” Hollander whispered, beautiful skin turning pale with shock, eyes widening with terror and-

Was Ilya a terrible man for being inordinately pleased that Shane just pressed in closer, strong hands curling into fists around Ilya’s shirt and pulling the both of them slightly away from the three man who were watching them as if they were the most fascinating play they’d ever witnessed. “I didn’t think…” Shane whispered before he just let go and walked away.

Ilya was grateful at least that Shane was walking back to his bedroom as opposed to the door.

He turned back to Vaughan, reducing the situation to the singular problem. “If you tell anyone what you learn here tonight I will snap neck in next game. And after will sue for everything you are worth.” Vaughan, who was clutching at Hunter’s jacket looked just as shocked as Shane had. Nevertheless, he mustered a quick nod. “Good.” Ilya slapped the kitchen light on. “Food in cooker. Vodka in freezer. Have feeling will need both.”

He started to follow his boyfriend when Hunter spoke. “We can leave? Would that be better?”

Ilya considered that for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Will be good for him.” He eyed Carter down from head to foot. “Maybe you need, too.” He gave Hunter a knowing look before heading to the bedroom.

The lights were off and the small lump in the middle of the bed was barely visible in the weak light of the moon filtering through the privacy curtains. Shane always liked to sleep without the blackout curtains when he was waiting for Ilya to call or come home to him. He said it stopped him from sleeping too deeply, ensuring he’d always hear him.

“Shane.” He called softly, crawling onto the bed and peeling back the covers around his boyfriend’s face. Big, teary kitten eyes greeted him and Shane sniffed pathetically as Ilya huffed in amusement, placing a soft kiss against his forehead. “I am sorry, my poor little kotenok, I did not know you would be here.”

Shane shook his head, wriggling slightly closer so that he could tuck his head against Ilya’s collarbone. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you I was coming…”

“You wanted to surprise me?”

He shook his head. “No… I was tired. I fell asleep soon after I got here… Didn’t even think of calling you. I knew you’d come home eventually.”

Ilya’s heard clenched painfully in his chest at Shane calling his house ‘home.’ Not that he thought any different of Shane’s. “Is okay, I am home now.”

“You’re home.” Shane whispered as he reached out from the blankets and unfurled his body, settling his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and drawing him down to continue the kiss from before, clever tongue running along the seam of Ilya’s cool lips and letting out the perfect little gasp of arousal as Ilya gathered him to his chest, arm settling over his waist through the covers of the bed that Ilya suddenly hated, begrudging their closeness to his perfect boyfriend.

Hollander let out a soft moan as Ilya rolled himself on top of him, settling between his spread legs, pressing down against his chest and- “They are still in kitchen.” He pulled back from the kiss, leaning his weight on the smaller man, pressing him into the mattress as he used both hands to trace freckles invisible in the darkness but that he knew by heart. “Do you want them to leave?”

He watched as Hollander’s intrinsic politeness won out, marvelling at the expressions of distaste and irritation he was privileged to watch pass over those pretty features, still amazed after all these months that he got to see them. He had never counted himself among the lucky, very little had come to him by luck… But this. The cosmic lottery must have taken pity on him because this was by far the greatest gift he’d ever received. “No… It’s fine. I think I was just surprised. I… I don’t think I like people seeing me- us, like that. I’m still getting used to the fact that I get to touch you at all, I don’t like having to pull back when we’re together.”

Ilya felt gut-punched. So perfect.

Ilya leaned over and pressed a kiss against that cute nose. “No, my Shane, is… How you say- one ring. Is-”

“Dragotsennyy.” Shane whispered. “It’s precious.”

He hummed happily when Ilya placed a thorough kiss against the side of his neck, already hating that they would have to leave the safety of their bed and entertain. “Yes. You are precious.” He intoned softly as he pushed himself upright, humming in confusion when Shane grabbed his hand, pulling it under the covers, down across his chest, his firm stomach, and then under the waistband of his underwear to settle it on that perfect ass, round and firm and biteable. Ilya pushed himself closer, unashamedly pressing his fingers into his crease and-

Ilya went still.

He pressed gently, the pads of his fingers meeting firm silicone and traces of lube. Shane leaned up against him and Ilya shivered as the flat base of the plug shifted. “If I have to entertain when all I can think about is your cock, then you have to do it knowing you could have fucked me on the counter if you’d thrown them out.”

Oh. His Shane was not impressed by the interruption to his plans.

Ilya was so happy.

“Sometimes you scare me, Hollander. Is like you are in my brain, picking out all the things I want.” He placed a quick kiss on those pouty lips and pulled Shane out of the bed, Shane ignoring his carefully unpacked bag and stealing a pair of Ilya’s joggers and fluffy bright pink socks- a gag gift from Marlow that were Ilya’s warmest pair.

He knew he was never seeing them again.

There were many things in their nebulous shared wardrobe now.

He headed down the corridor, Shane one step behind him, careful as always to let Hollander decide what level of touching he was comfortable with. They stepped into the soft light of the kitchen, Ilya smirking as he found Scott hunched over the slow cooker, slowly blowing on a spoonful of the bright red soup. The smell of spices permeated the air and Cliff had already recovered a bottle of wine from the rack. His best friend had also laid out a can of ginger ale, complete with a metal straw.

He jumped in surprise when Shane’s fingers interlaced with his own, the smaller man leaning against this side, inhaling deeply as if he was about to step onto the ice into battle. “Um… Hey, guys.” He said in that soft, kind Canadian accent as he led Ilya into the kitchen, stopping in front of the counter. “Sorry about that. I… Obviously didn’t realise Ilya was going to have company.”

“No biggy. I’ve seen Roz in far worse positions than that. And far more naked.” Cliff shot back with a grin and Ilya threw him a reprimanding glare. Marley just took it in stride. “Come on, Roz, the kid’s seen the internet. You were a man-whore, he’s not naïve.”

“Is difference between internet and having thrown in face.” Ilya pointed out as Shane pulled himself up onto a stool, manhandling Ilya in between his knees and leaning against his back.

“It’s okay.” Shane leaned slightly forward, leaning his chin on his shoulder. “We weren’t really together then, it’s not like he was cheating on me.” He pointed out, and if it weren’t for his warm fingers slipping under the hem of Ilya’s sweater he may have felt guilty, though Hollander had pointed out repeatedly that Ilya hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Didn’t stop him from feeling horrible for hurting the man who’d decided Ilya was worth keeping for no other reason than he wanted him.

A novel concept to someone who had never been wanted when he could provide nothing but himself- Sasha had wanted the excitement of a forbidden relationship, Sveta had wanted an escape, his family the money his body could provide… Shane just wanted simple things. Cuddles and kissed and orgasms.

Was it near insanity that Ilya had gone from holding the man at arm’s length for years to wanting to lock him up inside his ribcage and never let him leave within the space of- if he was being honest with himself- a ten second panicked mashing of elevator buttons? Sure. But Ilya had never claimed to be sane. And he was happy. Constantly terrified for his life and that of his lover but that was something that he could push to the back of his mind easily every time Shane looked at him like he was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

Ilya was drawn from his musings by Carter clearing his throat disgustingly as he accepted the bowl of borscht Hunter handed him. “Um… Can I just ask. What the fuck.” He waved a hand vaguely in Ilya’s direction and Shane’s arms constricted against his waist, as if prepared to yank him away if things turned south. “Like seriously. I’m sitting in Ilya Rozanov’s kitchen with my captain and Shane Hollander is cuddling the Demon of Boston.”

Shane snorted into his back and Ilya grinned at the confused man. “Ah. Hunter did not tell you? Too tired? Past bedtime?”

“Fuck off Rozanov, or I’m lacing yours with maple syrup.” Gross. “I didn’t know what you’d want to tell him. It’s none of my business.”

“Pretty sure it became everyone’s business when Hollander attacked Roz the instant he walked through the door like a rabid koala.” Marlow murmured as he shoved a potato into his mouth, giving Shane a wink, earning him a slap over the back of the head from Hunter. “Not like it isn’t true.”

Shane shrugged behind him. “We hardly get to see each other, when I’m with him I want to touch him. Besides.” Ilya wished he could see the wonderfully wicked look on Shane’s face that matched his words. “You’re lucky. Usually I’m on my knees with his dick in my mouth inside five seconds of seeing him. You should be grateful I shook things up.”

Carter looked horrified. Cliff started to laugh. Scott groaned and shook his head, messing with the ladle. Ilya was so fucking proud of his boyfriend.

His boyfriend.

Who was touching him and squeezing him in front of people. People who didn’t look at them like they were doing something wrong. He’d never let himself admit that this was something he wanted with Hollander, but now that he had it he wasn’t willing to let it go.

HAYDEN

RELUCTANTLY ACQUIRED ALLY

Are you fucking kidding me?

Shane’s fucking all over the news and you’re still not picking up the fucking phone?

I have no idea where he is and he’s not picking up

No ones telling me where hes gone

Im fraking out here

Please tell me hes with you bfore I fucking lose it and murder fucking comeu

Lily

Please

Why are you staring at future husbands ass in locker room Pike

He is not yours

Only mine

Go away

Shane is sleeping

Fuck you

Seriously

Fuck you

Tell your piece of shit boyfriend that next time he decides to fuck off without telling me he shouldn’t expect me to drag his body out of a fucking ditch

He can die in a snowbank on the side of the road for all I care

And I won’t

BECAUSE I WON’T FUCKING KNOW WHERE HE IS

Fuck you both

Seriously

I don’t fucking deserve this

You sound cranky

Eat a candy

Make another baby

?

Pike

Pike

Piiiike?

Where have you gone?

Where is my fish?

Is only fun if you are here

…

…

…

Oh

You are angry

Pike?

Am sorry.

Little fish?

Please come back

SHANE

His eyes were itchy and no matter how many times he rubbed at them it just kept on getting worse, like there was sand on his fingers. He turned his face into Ilya’s shoulder where he sat slumped against him on the couch, the Russian tapping at his phone with a concerned look on his face, talking to Marlow about something Shane had long lost interest in, fingers massaging Shane’s thigh gently.

He shifted.

The plug pressed long and deep against his prostate and he choked back a whine by biting down hard on the material of Ilya’s sweater, moving his hips slightly to alleviate the pressure.

He was done with this shit.

He near threw himself to his feet, glaring at the three men on the couch opposite them. “Spare bedrooms are down the hall. Earplugs are in the draws. Towels in the bathroom. Good night.” He turned on his heels and left the loungeroom without further ado, limping slightly and smirking when the frantic slip-slide of Ilya’s socked feet against the floorboards followed quickly, laughter the perfect soundtrack as the large Russian ran headfirst into a door frame.

 The instant the bedroom door shut behind them Shane threw himself at the taller man, left leg wrapping high around his hips, the other dragging along the floor behind them as he arched his pelvis against Rozanov’s rapidly hardening cock, groaning as Ilya’s talented fingers ripped off his jersey and flung it onto the floor, blunt fingers raking up his spine before moving to Shane’s waistband.

Already the room seemed warmer than when he’d fallen asleep earlier and they were panting heavily into each other’s mouths, the kisses forceful and near violent as Ilya nipped at his lips with sharp canines, his tongue soft and slick against his own, darting against the top of his mouth and causing him to shudder at the sensation. “Bed. Please.” He groaned out as Ilya pushed his joggers down, carrying him over to the bed and collapsing on top of him, whispering little Russian endearments as he sucked what had to be a truly horrendous hickey just under the line of his compression shirt.

The man was perfect.

Shane cried out as Ilya’s clever fingers made their way back to the plug, pushing, and grinding the silicone toy deeper and deeper until he was a panting, whimpering, keening mess, begging for the agony to come to an end. “God, Rozanov, fuck me- please, please fuck me I need it I’ve needed it for weeks, please please God-” The high-pitched sound he made echoed through the room and Ilya chuckled above him, bending over to suck at his nipples, causing Shane to arch up against him.

“Careful, Hollander, we have guests.”

Oh God.

Shane felt the flush like a wave of heat over his entire body and he shuddered involuntarily as Rozanov shifted sides, gnawing on his pec as he dropped his hand to pet gently at Shane’s cock, red and angry where it stood to mast against his heaving belly. “Hmm… Maybe they use plugs. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they like to listen to you, my boring little hockey player.”

Shane bit down on his lower lip, desperately trying to keep himself quiet even as the heat in his pelvis ramped up until he was so close to coming that he was shoving Ilya’s hand away and scrunching his eyes together, legs flailing as he tried to get himself under control. “Oh. Oh, you like this idea, huh, Hollander? That they want to hear you scream.”

“Fuck, Rozanov!” Shane grunted out as Ilya twisted the plug again, this time driving it straight up into his prostate and Shane was gone. Done. He wailed to the ceiling as he came, body locking up and flinching back from the sudden loss of the plug as Ilya ripped it out, shoving one of Shane’s legs over his shoulder and straddling the other, pulling that perfect cock out of his underwear and entering with a single swift thrust, Shane’s hips bucking with overstimulation as Ilya moved within him, mounting an attack at the clip of a metronome running at 119 bpm, merciless.

Shane writhed beneath him, making the pathetic sounds of the wounded, fingers scrabbling at Ilya’s pecs, leaving little red lines behind them as his body tried to decide what the fuck it wanted because Shane sure as hell had no idea. “So beautiful, my Shane, you come for them, yes?”

Shane moaned. “God, please stop, I can’t-”

“Okay.”

He stopped.

Shane, for just a few seconds, contemplated biting off his dick.

Above him Rozanov must have seen his expression because he chuckled darkly, turning his head to lay a kiss on the inside of Shane’s calf. “Oh, you did not want to stop? Why say stop?” He started a slow, gentle undulation of his hips, just avoiding Shane’s sweet spot to the degree that it had him pissed off. “You know colours, yes? What is green, Hollander.”

Shane struggled to get his fucked-out brain to function, trying to parse both the question and answer. “I don’t get it.” He whispered as Ilya ran a sweat-slick palm across the sensitive head of his cock, causing him to moan loudly.

“Is traffic sign, Hollander, very simple. What is green.”

Oh. “Go.”

“Yellow.”

“Pause.”

“Red.”

“St- oh God. Stop!”

“Hmmm. Very good, Hollander. Now. You listen.” Ilya bent over, the soft cotton of his shirt rubbing deliciously against Shane’s sensitive nipples, cock sinking in deeper, Shane’s leg ending up somewhere near his head, his hamstrings screaming for release. “I am going to fuck you until you come again. And then I will keep going.” He rubbed his nose against the edge of Shane’s ear. “I will keep going until you scream for me, Hollander, until you are nothing but pile of sweat, and sex, and come and you can’t come anymore.” He finished with a whisper, a promise. “And then. Only when you tell me to stop, will I stop. Hm?” He pushed himself upright and Shane groaned at the sensation. “You understand Hollander?”

“Yes- God, yes, please-”

“Colour, Hollander.”

“Green!”

“Very good boy.” Ilya started to move again, long and deep thrusts that had his balls slapping against Shane’s ass, the bedframe slamming against the wall, feet digging into the mattress to gather force, sweat dripping down onto Shane’s naked body, running over onto the already filthy blanket Shane had laid down. “The next time you come, will be to thought of Hunter coming to your screams.”

Shane’s world went white.

He was coming.

He wasn’t even hard and his entire body was on fire and his cock was oozing against his hip, little pulses in keeping with Ilya’s thrusts as the Russian laughed happily at the sight of Shane’s body betraying him at the thought of his teenage fantasy getting off to him.  

“Oh Hollander… You are glorious, magnificent, perfection.” Ilya murmured into his skin, banishing any thoughts of embarrassment. “And all mine. No one will see what I see, hm? Just mine?”

It took Shane a few moments of heavy gasping to realise that Ilya was talking to him. “Yes, God, yes, only yours-” He forced his muscles to function, leaning up to catch Ilya’s lips with his own, pressing his tongue into his mouth, relishing the way Ilya responded with equal fervour. “Always yours.”

Rozanov shuddered at the words, leaning back slightly to pull off his shirt, giving Shane’s eyes access to the perfectly sculpted torso, the biteable pecs, dark nipples pebbled with arousal. He moaned as he set to work marking it up, leaving little teeth marks and love bites in haphazard clusters, desperate to claim in a way his words still couldn’t.

His.

Only his. “Make me come again.”

“So needy, Hollander.”

“You love me needy.”

“Hmm. Yes. I do. Beg me, Hollander. Beg me to make you come again.”

As if it was any hardship.

ILYA

Ilya hummed softly to himself as he trod on bare feet toward the kitchen, hair a mess, scratch marks stinging and on show as he followed the scent of coffee that had woken him far too early in the morning.

He turned the corner to find Hunter hunched over his fancy European coffee pot, staring at it as if he expected it to commit murder. “You are alright?” Hunter flinched and spun around, clutching at his chest like an old lady. “Sorry, did not mean to give heart attack.” Ilya grinned happily as he leaned over, enjoying greatly the way that Hunter avoided looking at his battle scars.

His kitten had been particularly voracious last night. Many new kinks had been added to Ilya’s mental notes. One day, he would make a paper copy.

Frame it above the fireplace.

“Is there a reason you’re not wearing a shirt, Rozanov?” Hunter sounded grumpy, and there were massive bags under his eyes that told Ilya he’d gotten a less than satisfactory sleep. If possible, his grin widened further with the knowledge.

“Is still bleeding, nail marks.” He pointed to a particularly deep gouge over his deltoid. “Was very good sex. You would not know that, hmm?” He reached over Hunter, pulling out several mugs in anticipation of the stampede. “Did you get off to sound of us fucking?”

For an instant it was like a blue screen of death behind Hunter’s eyes, and then, for the first time, Ilya was fortunate enough to see Scott Hunter blush. The older man quickly turned away, busying himself with milk and sugar but Ilya was on the hunt. “Oh Hunter, you are so cute!” He giggled softly. “Is okay, was very hot. I do not blame you for coming to sound of Hollander’s moans. Are the best moans in all of world.” He leaned in against Hunter’s shoulder, grinning up at him. “If makes you feel better, he came to thought of you listening.”

“Oh my fucking god, Rozanov. You’re a fucking menace.” Scott slammed down the milk carton and retreated out of the kitchen.

“Nooooo was fun, where are you going?!” Ilya wined after the man, following him back towards the spare rooms.

“To take a cold fucking shower, you asshole!”

Unable to help himself Ilya cacked towards the ceiling, just having the best morning. He woke up with his perfect little Canadian all curled in a ball against his chest, there wasn’t a single message on his phone, and he got to fuck with poor celibate Hunter. “Think of me!”

They needed to get him laid.

And if in the meantime Ilya could keep his hand busy, well, his boyfriend liked the idea of being watched. Observed. He couldn’t imagine a world in which Shane would ever actually want to act on it, and Ilya knew himself well enough that he would likely gouge out the eyes of anyone who was fortunate enough to see Shane in any sort of sexual situation. Come to think of it, his needly little hockey player would probably straight up commit murder, now that Ilya had promised not to sleep with other people.

The slope from hate sex to committed monogamy hadn’t been slippery in Ilya’s case, it had been non-existent. Teleportation.

He stopped by his bedroom to retrieve his Hollander but found the sheets empty- disappointing. It wasn’t until he was about to round the corner that he paused, having heard a truly odd question. “What that all real?”

He could hear the trepidation in Shane’s voice, poor innocent Canadian. “Was what real?”

Cliff’s tone was only somewhat questioning, the rest… Concerned. “That… All the…”

“Yelling, screaming, banging, moaning, shrieking.” Ah. Vaughan had joined.

“Yeah, that.” Noooooo Ilya was likely missing a truly beautiful blush. “Is butt sex actually that good?”

He listened to the cute little choking noises Shane was making as he half-inhaled his own saliva. “Oh my god. This is a fucking nightmare. I’m back in Toronto, I fell asleep on the plane and this is a fucking nightmare.” He couldn’t help himself, peeking around the corner, careful to stay out of their view. His poor Hollander had collapsed against the counter and Carter was patting at his shoulder consolingly.

Cliff leaned forwards, resting his elbows just a few inches away from his boyfriend. “Come on, Hollzy. Those noises weren’t fucking normal. Half of them didn’t even sound human. You gotta tell me. Is it really that good or are you just padding Roz’s ego?”

Ex-fucking-cuse me.

Shane seemed just as insulted on Ilya’s behalf. “Fuck off, Marlow. His ego’s big enough without me padding it. And why do you care?”

“Because I love sex. Sex is the best. And I like to think I’m pretty good at it, no complaints launched. But I’ve never made a woman sound like Roz made you sound last night-”

“That’s pretty fucking sad-”

Cliff groaned and Carter chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “Come on, Hollzy, work with me here. Is butt sex that good. Like earth shattering, take a chunk out of Roz’s shoulder good.”

Shane sat there for a few moments, seemingly in thought, which was long enough for Hunter to appear beside Ilya, wrapped in an Admirals hoodie, hair dripping down his neck. He pressed his fingers to his lips and pointed to the three conspirators. Thankfully Hunter seemed to get the message and settled against the wall to watch. “I guess… I don’t know.” Rude. “I mean, yes, sex with Rozanov is… Yeah. But I don’t really have anything to compare it to. I’m gay, so sex with women was always… Kinda horrible. Honestly. I didn’t come half the time and touching them was… It was awful. I know that now.” Ilya caught Hunter’s gaze, wincing at Hollander’s admission.

“And I don’t really get you guys either, I’m not… I don’t really like the idea of being on top, so I can’t really give you Ilya’s perspective of it all.” He rotated his upper body, looking over his shoulder to catch Ilya’s sheepish grin. “You can come out now, asshole.” He turned back to Cliff and Carter, giving Ilya the cold shoulder.

They settled themselves at the counter and Shane allowed himself to be pulled into Ilya’s side. Hunter sat opposite them “Wait. Are you saying you’ve never topped before?” Hunter asked softly, and not for the first time Ilya was profoundly grateful of the addition of Hunter to their little band of idiots. He asked the questions Ilya just never really thought of.

When Shane shook his head all three of his guests gave Ilya the filthiest of looks. Ilya was about to defend himself when Shane interceded. “It’s not Ilya’s fault, he’s… Offered. He does all the time but I…” Shane groaned. “I can’t believe I’m telling you people this.” He glared at Ilya. “This is all your fault.” Ilya hummed happily in assent. “I just… I don’t get it. When I think about-” Ooh that blush- “When I think about being inside…” Ilya wrapped his arm around Shane’s waist when his boyfriend gave an involuntary shiver and placed his mug heavily on the counter. “I don’t get anything out of it. It feels wrong. It feels… Like it did with them. The women. I just… I don’t want it. I honestly don’t know if I’d even be able to get hard anymore…”

Cliff cleared his throat. “But the butt sex.”

Shane gave him a disgusted glare. “Fine. You want to hear about Rozanov fucking me? Well-”

Cliff reared back, waving his hands frantically in front of himself. “Oh fuck no, Roz is my bro! We are the broiest of bros!” Ilya snorted in amusement. “I’ve seen more than enough of Roz fucking people, I’m over it, I’m done, no more. I’ll leave imagining that to Hunter.” That earned him a slap over the back of the head from Carter. Good man. “Seriously. Happy to listen to your stories about any other man you’ve been dicked down by. Just not Roz.” He settled back in his chair and waited. Watching.

Shane just settled further into Ilya’s side and sipped slowly at his coffee.

Waiting.

Watching.

“Well?”

“You didn’t want to hear about Rozanov.”

“But… No.” Cliff eyed Ilya suspiciously. “Hollzy… Please tell me this fucker isn’t your one and only. Surely there were some nice little boys in Montreal for you to play with before you settled down with the biggest bastard in all of Boston.”

Ilya couldn’t help the feeling of smugness that bloomed in his chest. “Hollander has excellent taste, Marley.”

That earned him an elbow in the side. “Pretty sure it was Stockholm syndrome.” Ilya had heard Shane use the term in reference to their relationship enough that he didn’t need to ask for a translation. “And I’m sure that there were nice boys in Montreal. Ottawa. But my fucked-up brain saw Rozanov and decided- ‘yep, this one.’ And after that I never really… Looked. For anyone else.” He dipped his head down as if he felt he needed to hide, and Ilya felt his chest twinge in sympathy.

“No, Shane, do not look sad for this.” He grimaced as he wiped away the single tear that had escaped. “Never be ashamed for what you want, Hollander. You do not have to want different.”

Shane let out a watery laugh, resting his forehead against Ilya’s chest. “I think you’re about the only person who thinks that. I think I’m gonna spend the rest of my life justifying you.”

“Fuck, Roz.” They both startled, Ilya having completely forgotten the other three men who were staring at them as if they were some magical unicorn. “Your dick must be magic.”

That time it was Hunter who hit Cliff over the back of the head. “Stop being an ass.” The older man grunted as he leaned forward over the bench. “Though I agree. You two are like a fucking fairy tale of epic proportions. Bet the sex was great from the beginning too.” He may have said it sarcastically, but Shane’s little smile and Ilya’s grin had his expression falling. “No. Sex is never great the first time.”

There as silence. Then- “What kind of sex have you been having?” Both Carter and Marlow said at the same time.

Scott looked ready to throw down. “Oh, because you two idiots lasted more than five seconds and made your poor girlfriends come.” That had both of them sheepishly grinning, but they all turned back to Shane who was fiddling with the tip of the cord hanging from his hoodie, looking pensive. “Hollander?”

“It’s… No joke, but anal isn’t easy.” He said softly, directing the comment at Cliff and Carter. “It’s not really spontaneous. You have to plan. Be prepared. You can’t just switch it up whenever you want to so there’s always kinda a calculated air about it.” He shrugged. “Ilya may think he’s seducing me the second we get behind closed doors but half the time I’m already lubed up these days, and the rest I’d planned on getting railed a good 24 hours before.”

Ilya choked.

Cliff gaped.

Carter looked fascinated.

Scott curled into a ball and looked close to crying.

“And it wasn’t easy, in the beginning. It’s kinda like what I imagine it’s like for women, so much of sex for them is mental, being in the mood, trusting their partner not to hurt them and everything. It takes work, to relax. To make it feel good.” He looked over at Hunter, who’d dragged his head from his hands. “But it was. Great. We’d known each other for almost two years by the time we could make our schedules line up. I’d spent months thinking about it, it was all I could think about by the end and it was…” He shrugged and Ilya bent forward, kissing lightly at the back of his neck where that perfect flush met his hair. “Ilya made sure of it. Hands free and everything.”

“Was a very good trick.” Ilya whispered as he flicked his tongue over the nape of Shane’s neck.

“Aaaaaaaw.” Now Cliff looked like he was about to cry. “He’s your lobster.”

“What the fuck, Marlow?” Ilya spat out through a wave of confusion. “What is crustacean having to do with me being excellent at sex?”

Shane chuckled in his arms. “It’s a Friends reference, you haven’t seen it yet. It’s on the list.”

“Do not care.” Ilya leaned over the nuzzled his nose into the junction of Shane’s shoulder and neck, inhaling the slight smell of soap.  “What does it mean?” He could tell that Hollander was somewhat embarrassed form the way he tensed just a little, but not so much that Ilya felt he had to pull back. “Marley?”

“Mean’s you’re his person, Roz. That you guys are perfect together.”

Ilya cocked his head to one side. “Of course. But why is lobster involved?”

Scott shook his head in frustration. “Just ignore these idiots, Rozanov. You two just keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll all come to your secret wedding. We can have a double when I find some poor guy willing to put up with me.”

Vaughan froze and Scott seemed to realise what he’d said as every bit of colour vanished from his skin and he went very, very still.

If it had been Ilya he’d have spun it. He was good at spinning things. At making up excuses. Hunter wasn’t. Hunter was tired. And lonely. And Ilya imagined that he’d been hiding for so long that he didn’t even know how to lie about his sexuality anymore, having always avoided the subject until he and Shane had torpedoed that whole thing.

Hunter looked ready to bolt, face flushed with shame and locked on Vaughan’s expression of surprise.

He would have made it if his Hollander, his perfect, wonderful boyfriend hadn’t come around the counter and shoved his face into Hunter’s neck, seeming to envelop the taller, broader man in a secure hug, pinning Hunter’s arms to his side. It was only moments before Carter was wrapped around Hunter’s back and Marlow just wrapped the three of then up against his chest, squeezing them softly.

And Ilya. Ilya worried.

He worried about what would have happened to him and Hollander if Scott hadn’t seen them.

He worried about how he would have coped if he’d had to keep the best decision in his life, the best thing in his life such a secret that it came to eat at him.

He worried about Scott Hunter, alone in that fancy apartment in New York that looked like Shane’s old one- cold and cruel and so very lonely.

“Does it hurt you?” He asked softly. 

Hunter sniffed somewhere in the middle of the puppy pile, voice muffled against Carter’s chest. “I’m fine, Rozanov. I was fine and I am fine.”

“Like Shane was fine. And I was fine. Just because pain is not bruises does not mean is not hurting you, Hunter. But if seeing us is bad for you, we will stop. Be less… Us.”

Scott wriggled himself around until he could face Ilya and he noted that Vaughan had looped an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, keeping him close. “Don’t you fucking dare, Rozanov. I’ve spent years hiding this shit, and I fucking hate it. Every instant of it. So be fucking sappy in front of me. I can take it.” He choked out a miserable laugh, sounding slightly hysterical. “God, if you two could manage this fucked up situation for years until I stumbled into it, maybe I’ve got a chance.”

Shane smiled softly, moving back to Ilya’s side. “If you’re holding out until you retire you’ve only got a few months until June.”

“Fuck you, Hollander.”

Ilya was so fucking in love.

Oops.

Oh well.

Ilya accepted his fate with grace regardless of the outcome and took Hollander’s seat, pulling the man back against his chest. “Do not worry, Hunter. One day we will find you a cute little man like Hollander to make you smoothies. I hope is better than Shane’s. Taste like grass.”

Chapter End Notes

Scott needs more friends to make sure he doesn't jump off a balcony.

Next chappie brings Hayden into the mix as we look at his POV and motivations, Ros loves his teammates and Scott is jealous bitch.

Why is there so many months until Jan 2017...

Chapter 8: No, Scott. We're Not All As Miserable As You.

Chapter Summary

For Tyra_Kaelar, who reminded me of the original plan for this chapter :-)

Chapter Notes

CARTER

Ilya Rozanov barging into their locker room- traumatic.

Ilya Rozanov forcefully stripping his best friend whilst Marlow held him back- possibly the most terrifying thing he’d ever experienced in his life.

Ilya Rozanov proceeding to dress his captain all the while talking about soup and drying his hair like you would an unruly child? And Scott just letting him do it? Carter was beginning to understand that he was missing a large part of the picture.

Ilya Rozanov driving them to his house in the suburbs for dinner? A once in a lifetime opportunity for digging up dirt Carter wasn’t going to pass up, and it wasn’t as if he was going to let Scott go alone, not after the game they’d had. Usually Scott would have spent the least amount of time possible at dinner and faked a headache before locking himself away in their room to watch replays of the game whilst Carter spent a good hour or two trying to pull him from his funk.

Ilya Rozanov being slammed up against a window with Shane Hollander’s tongue down his throat?

Carter was having the best fucking day ever.

No joke. A Stanley Cup would have nothing on how absolutely fucking awesome this was.

Because he wasn’t stupid.

Scott was, like, uber gay. First twenty rows of a Gaga concert gay. Should be in rainbow spandex gay. Hummed Les Misérables under his breath when he thought no one was listening gay.

He was also so deep in the closet that God himself couldn’t have dragged him out. Carter had watched for years as the man he’d come to call his best friend had stood on the outside of every social event, had avoided any and every attempt to set him up, take him out, get him laid with that same little self-depreciating grin that everyone took for shyness and discomfort on his bearded face.

Carter had suspected for a while that the man was somewhere on the ace spectrum- Carter’s old roommate had been.

Then Shane Hollander had gone and done a Calvin Klein campaign.

No man stared at a poster of Shane Hollander for that long and with that kinda stupid dazed look that men got when looking at the truly hot, unless they were seriously considering getting their dick out.

So yeah. He’d figured it out and in his own way he’d tried to protect and support the older man. He’d started to divert attention after Scott’s second or third refusal of the night, he’d joked around when one of the guys pulled up a photo of their cousins’ dog’s best friend who was apparently a big hockey fan. He’d sacrificed quiet nights with the team to divert unwanted female attention more than once, the perfect anti-wingman.

And that was why, though he felt kinda bad for poor Hollander who looked like he was about to pass out, the second thought he’d had was fucking finally.

His best friend had gay buddies who apparently had more power than God.

And Marlow.

Who assured him that he wasn’t gay.

At least not completely.

Maybe 10%. Sometimes.

Man was a moron.

Not that he could say much. He knew f`ull well that straight men weren’t that interested in the actual specific mechanics of anal. Well, some were. Carter didn’t discriminate. But Marlow was, like, specifically interested. Weirdly specifically interested. And Carter’s gaydar hadn’t steered his wrong when he bothered to put it to use. Except maybe with Rozanov. That was a massive mindfuck.

Still, the whole night had been a rousing success- minus the quite frankly obscene noises Shane Hollander, Hockey’s Golden Boy, made whilst being railed into the bed by his supposed rival. The morning had gone even better, though he would have preferred Scott come out to him in a less accidental manner.

Their flight had been delayed by snow and they were stuck in Boston until the next morning, Rozanov more than happy to put them up instead of sending them back to what he called a truly subpar hotel. He’d shoved them towards the living room with coffee as he pulled up the latest Montreal game against Toronto and left them to themselves as he coaxed Hollander into an exhausted nap.

“How the fuck do people not pick up on this?” He whispered to Scott who was tucked into a mountain of throw pillows- Hollander’s- and a large, weighted blanket- Rozanov’s. The man still looked a little pasty, his toes dug under Carter’s thighs. Together they looked over to the opposite side of the large sectional where Rozanov was bent forward at the waist, scribbling furiously into a notebook as Hollander snored softly in his lap, head buried into the Russian’s stomach. Marlow had ended up on the floor at some point, stretching a stiff hamstring and had dozed off on Rozanov’s feet. “I mean… In retrospect that shit isn’t subtle.”

Scott just shrugged. “We’ve been fed the rivalry story from day one- we were told that the lingering gazes and taunts on the ice were aggression.” He huffed softly. “Who the fuck would have thought it was all foreplay.”

“Gross.” Carter took a sip of his coffee. “They’re sickening.”

“They’re idiots. They were idiots before I knew they were actually together and they’re even worse now. They’re running a gauntlet that’s going to end with their careers in the toilet. And for what? A year or two together before it burns out?”

Carter noted the way Rozanov’s shoulders stiffened and his pen stilled, despite the action still playing out on the screen- hat trick to Hollzy. “Pessimist.”

“Realist. How the fuck are they going to maintain any sort of relationship when they barely see each other? Rozanov doesn’t have the temperament or the patience and Hollander’s going to realise-”

“Stop.” Carter said softly, reaching under the blanket to grasp at Scott’s ankle. “Look, I get that you’ve been living like this for years and probably know more than I do about it but you can’t just say those sorts of things about their relationship because of your own opinions of it.” He slid down a little against his own cushions as Rozanov paused the game. “I don’t think you’re giving them enough credit, especially Hollander.”

“What do you mean?” Rozanov asked softly from a few metres away, hand carding gently through Hollander’s hair, the smaller man snuffling in his sleep.

Carter shrugged. “Ask anyone, ask Hollander, and they’ll tell you that hockey is first. It’s always first, for him. And yet he didn’t find a nice PT who was happy for a discrete dalliance. Didn’t meet some big, brawny daddy in a club. Didn’t follow the internet’s weirdo wishes and fuck Pike. He’s hot, Rozanov. He’s hot, and rich, and nice, so fucking nice and he could have any little gay guy he wanted if he just wanted to get laid. But he didn’t just go for any guy.”

He sat forward, realising now just how much Rozanov seemed to need to hear this. “Shane Hollander. Nineteen-year-old Shane Hollander decided he was going to ride the dick of the one and only person who could completely destroy his career if he had the inclination. And when he figured out you weren’t a terrible lay he spent the next four years chasing you down until you gave in to those big brown bottom eyes.” He leaned back, fiddling with Scott’s socked toes. “And you’re just as bad.

“Russia’s a shit storm, man, and Marlow says you’re bi- you’re Ilya fucking Rozanov-” Scott grunted in irritation. “Shut up, man. You’re Ilya Rozanov and you could have pretty much anyone who’s vaguely interested in sex and men. But you did it too. You stuck your dick in the most dangerous place possible and you just kept on doing it. If that’s not some love at first sight shit, I don’t know what is.”

Rozanov sat there in silence for a good few minutes, slowly turning back to the screen and pressing play.  They watched Hollander score yet another goal then slam Dallas Kent into the boards, Rozanov letting out a happy little groan whilst muttering something in Russian, making another note. “Is too fast…” He scribbled once again. “Weak backhand…”

“Kent’s backhand is fine.” Scott interjected.

Rozanov just shook his head, leaning his notebook on Hollander’s shoulder as he jotted down indecipherable Cyrillic. “No… Hollander. Has weak backhand. Is only weakness. And right ankle is sore.” He squinted at the paper. “Maybe less strong on play with Comeau, doesn’t trust.”

“Are you… Are you trying to figure out ways to beat your boyfriend?” Carter asked softly.

Rozanov looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Of course. Only thing better than fucking Hollander is beating him. Makes him very angry, sex is also angry.” Another scribble. “But is hard to beat. Do not tell him, but I think he is best in league.” He threw a glare in their direction. “Will know if you tell.”

Carter held up his hands in defeat. “My lips are sealed, man. About everything.”

“I know. If you say anything, will tell whole league you are gay for Hunter. Destroy you both” He flopped back against the couch, causing Hollander to grumble unhappily as his pillow shifted. “Prosti menya, moya Lyubov. Go back to sleep. Dream of nice things.” He looked up at the TV screen, a closeup of Hollander’s face, expressionless, teeth bared as Kent was hauled off the ice. “And when I play Toronto, I will break them for you.”

Carter shivered as Hollander scored again. Fuck was he glad he wasn’t ever going to stand between those two. He turned to Scott who just gave him a worried look.

So fucking glad.

ILYA

February 2015- Boston vs Toronto

Shane was going to be so proud of him. Two broken ribs and a fractured jaw.

Both completely and utterly legal. Not an instant in the penalty box the entire game.

He blew a kiss out into the audience, Boston fans as always screaming for blood, his team rallying around him as Barrett spat a tooth out onto the ice, red staining the snow.

Ilya Rozanov was having a wonderful game.

Chapter End Notes

And now back to our regular programing.

Chapter 9: Okay Fine. We'll Fix You.

Chapter Summary

In which Scott Hunter is sad.
Ilya is sadder sometimes.
Carter wants to die.
Marlow is having the time of his freaking life.

Chapter Notes

First thing I’ll say is- sorry for those who noticed I’d started misspelling Rozanov. I’ve re-uploaded all the chapters with better spelling  Thanks Itskeeper!

Secondly- I’m gonna mess around with their backstories a little. Nothing to change the overall story, but I’m too lazy to sit there and make sure I line up little interactions here and there, so if that’s not yo cuppa tea, feel free to, well, skip the whole story I guess. Gotta get Marlow laid before 2020.

Thirdly- I’m apparently moving up the timeline by two years cause we collectively have no patience. So.

Fourthly- chapter length will do as it does- I just go with the vibes.

Also. Again, to the commenters, I love your little ideas, and suggestions, and what you want, and I shall take, and feed the algorithm of my brain, and present to you the roster:

Carter- the lone brain cell

Scott- depressed AF

Marlow- Himbo central

Ilya- down BAD

Shane- down WORSE

Hayden- susceptible to wifey pressure

Kip- so fucking Horny

HAYDEN

Montreal- April 2010

Hayden Pike remembered the first time he saw Shane Hollander on the ice in real life. He’d been nineteen, fresh off a holiday to Barcelona and sore as all fuck, staring at all of the other terrified rookies when this baby faced half-Japanese kid had floated onto the ice and started messing around with the pucks. Hayden had never seen anything like him, coming from a way too-white area of Canada, and unlike JJ beside him, he’d not spent hours staring at footage of the man who gazed across the ice with dark brown eyes, calm and composed and completely at home unlike the rest of them.

Shane Hollander. The number two draft pick.

He’d stuck out his hand, ready to be ignored- Hayden wasn’t anything special, the kinda player teams tended to toss around once they’d trained them up a little, trading here and there until they had a contingent of workhorses, as Hayden liked to think of himself. Steady, competent, all the nice safe words. Not like Hollander.

The kid had burst onto the scene at the age of sixteen, completely blowing the nearest competition out of the water, making it so that there wasn’t really time nor a place for the rest of the rookies that year to be considered, unless you counted Rozanov. The third pick? Hayden didn’t even remember his name.

To his surprise Shane had taken his hand and given him a shy smile, introducing himself. And Hayden? Hayden thought he was just the sweetest little thing he’d ever seen.

He’d never experienced cuteness aggression before but he’d the overwhelming urge to grab his baby-fat cheeks and squeeze, maybe sniff at that bouncy hair which just looked like it smelled amazing.

He really should have slept more the night before.

Montreal- July 2010

Hayden stared down at the magazine on the counter, trying his very best not to giggle as Shane bent over the blender, face bright red with embarrassment. “Oh buddy… This is…” He held up the cover. “This is hilarious.” He burst out laughing, unable to help it.

Of all the photos Shane had shown him, they’d chosen the one where the two of them had been hysterically giggling at each other for the full spread, leaving the more dramatic face-off for the cover. It was a thing of great beauty. “Man, how the hell did you get through all that without punching the guy?”

Shane shrugged sheepishly. “I kinda just ignored him.” He said softly, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie, both of them wrapped carefully in thick sewing thread by Hayden himself for a second round of chewing. “He was kind of an asshole, wasn’t hard.”

“Yeah, man, doesn’t surprise me. Don’t know why the hell a brand like CCM would want him. Have you heard about the chick in New York? All over the papers.”

Shane hummed lowly, turning away from Hayden. He immediately felt like an asshole. He’d figured out pretty quickly that Shane wasn’t super keen on talking about his personal life, let alone sex, not that either of them was having much of it. Hayden figured it came from his dad. He’d met David Hollander when he’d helped Hayden move into Shane’s Montreal apartment, Shane having offered his spare bedroom once he’d realised Hayden was still living with his parents.

It’d felt weird at first, to even consider the offer given they’d known each other for all of 24 hours, but once he’d seen Shane’s contract he’d taken full advantage of his new friend’s kindness. Holy shit that was a lot of zeroes. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s fine. Just not used to it.” He said shakily, taking a sip of the green kale-infused monstrosity. “I was thinking-”

“Hey, a few of the guys were thinking of going out tonight.” Hayden said quickly, trying to move past the awkwardness. “Little bar Grace says is pretty sweet with the team. Get you out of your shell a bit, let you loosen up around the other guys.” He’d seen Shane struggle to really connect to anyone but him over the last month- as if Shane had latched on like a baby bird and decided one friend was enough. “First game’s coming up, it’ll be good to be more comfortable with the guys we’re playing with.” Hayden said ‘we’, but he was more than aware he was going to be warming a bench for the next few months unless someone fucked up. He was okay with it.

“I’m not really-”

“Dude.” He reached over, grabbing at Shane’s sleeve. “I know you don’t really do the whole socialising thing but it’s a team sport. We gotta at least get you learning their names.” Hayden almost caved when those big round eyes looked up at him through wet lashes. “Dude. You gotta stop doing that. You know I’ll cave.”

That earned him an irritated huff. Little shit was way too used to getting his way. “Fine. One hour.”

“And one conversation for more than five minutes that isn’t with me.”

“…Okay.”

September 2010- Montreal

Hollander and Rozanov. They were nineteen and the press was making it sound like the fight of the century. He’d watched Shane become twitchier with each day they drew closer to the game and he could tell that his roommate was getting hit by it. Hard. As in refuse to turn on the TV or even look at a social medial site. He’d expressed his concern to Yuna and David via their group chat- dedicated solely to the care and feeding of Shane Hollander- and Shane had been whisked away by his parents to lunch as Hayden had gone through his pre-game routines, finally having been given a spot on the 3^rd line whereas Shane was sitting pretty on the second- not to anyone’s surprise.

That’s why he was more than a little worried when the coaches on both sides gave in to the masses and shifted the lines, sending out Hollander and Rozanov, 24 and 81, to the centre.

It was a bloodbath from there.

He’d watched games with the Bears- they all had, hours and hours of footage in preparation.

They weren’t prepared at all.

Oh, they won. 1-0. But it wasn’t hockey. It was an hour-long game of keep away between the two rookies who seemed content to ignore anyone on the ice aside from each other, Rozanov’s massive frame crushing Shane’s smaller one against the boards, throwing Russian in his face, causing Shane’s jaw to clench each time they came together.

And Shane. His newly discovered best friend. Hayden wasn’t the only one sitting on the edge of his seat, watching as their rookie centre skated faster than all of the vets, ducking and weaving as if he was a figure skater, using his slighter form to his advantage as he forced himself through the Bear’s defence and scored to the deafening cheers of their home crowd.

He’d stopped then, as their team dragged him into a massive group hug, staring across the arena at Rozanov who spat on the ice, the massive Russian glaring straight back.

Maybe the press wasn’t so wrong.

January 2011- Montreal

Hayden sat on their couch, watching the show before the All-Stars game started, popcorn on his lap, giggling happily as Shane completely and utterly destroyed Rozanov’s record, swaying side to side as the camera followed his friend back to the bench, he and Rozanov tossing barbs back and forth until Shane started to ignore the asshole, speaking to Scott freaking Hunter instead.

Hayden had greeted his jetlagged roommate with a bro-hug as the exhausted man dropped his bags in the hallway, leaning against the wall, looking like he’d spent the entire last few days awake. “You all good, man?”

Shane seemed to snap himself out of whatever mood he’d been in because he directed a frankly blinding smile in Hayden’s direction before he tottered off unsteadily towards the kitchen, phone in hand.

Phone in hand.

Shane Hollander never had his phone in his hand. He was unfailingly polite, always dedicating his entire attention to Hayden when they were at home, to his conversation partners when he was out. His phone lived in his pocket, in his bag until he was alone or the interaction was over.

Oooooh what had happened in Nashville.

“Hey buddy?” Hayden asked knowingly. “Whatcha got there?”

Shane raised an eyebrow in questioning as he started to pull out ingredients for his disgusting omelettes. The phone sat beside him, screen unlocked, and Hayden caught a glimpse of a message chain. “Lily, eh? Have a fun weekend?”

The blush told him more than Shane’s stuttered excuses.

Oh, this was gonna be good.

February 2011- Montreal

It wasn’t good. Not really. Hayden hadn’t been the only one noticing Shane’s new phone habits. Turned out when you pretty much isolated yourself from your team’s social circles you became the sort of person people watched- Hayden had warned him so he didn’t really feel that bad when a few of the other rookies, and then the vets started to gently rib his friend, poking and prodding and trying to steal the now perpetually locked phone.

It wasn’t until he saw Shane after one of their games, sitting near completely curled up in his stall staring at the blank screen, shielding it protectively with his body, that he realised it may have gone a bit too far. “Hey, you okay there?”

It earned him a half-hearted nod and a hum in acknowledgement as the screen lit up, previews disabled, not even the name visible anymore. Hayden immediately felt like a dick. He sat himself down on the bench opposite Shane and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, man, I’ll try and get the others to back off a bit.”

“it’s fine.” That was not Shane’s ‘fine’ tone. That was his ‘I am not fine at all but I’m going to pretend I am because I don’t want to rock the boat’ tone. “I’ll just leave it off at work”

What the fuck.

“Buddy… You do realise that you shouldn’t need to do that, right? If they’re making you feel uncomfortable, you can just tell them.”

“I have.” That was news to Hayden. He didn’t think Shane had it in him. “They just laughed. Said it was a rite of passage. ‘There’s no secrets in the locker room.’ Then they told me about their mistresses.” He knocked his head back against the wall of his cubby with a thunk. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

Hayden couldn’t help but think that maybe it was.

He was even more worried when Shane didn’t come home that night until three in the morning.

Three in the morning.

Shane Holander had never once in all the months of knowing him come home so late. And dishevelled. Hair a mess and jacket crinkled and shirt gaping a little around his neck.

Hayden almost had a heart attack at the thought of someone attacking his buddy.

Then he saw it.

The hickey.

Heart attack number two.

Shane said a quick goodnight, clearly trying to keep a smile off his face as he passed Hayden quickly to his bedroom, the smell of cigarette smoke just barely present around him.

And Hayden? He said nothing. He just curled himself up in a little ball in his shower and squealed silently, so fucking excited for his friend. And Lily. God, he hoped it was Lily.

March 2011- Montreal

Turns out that asking your teammates to stop harassing your best friend means you want to suck his cock.

Noted.

April 2011- Montreal

Turns out when you shove your teammate into a locker because he’d ‘jokingly’ threatened to sexually assault your best friend in the shower you get shoved onto the ground with enough force to bruise bones.

Also noted.

He didn’t tell Shane.

May 2011- Toronto

Hayden hadn’t really noticed it before, it had just never really clicked. He always roomed with Shane. He’d never minded it. He was fine with it. He preferred it. Shane was quiet, and polite, always carried snacks that he never ate, he was soft, and squishy, and he let Hayden fall asleep on his shoulder half way through movies.

It wasn’t until he’d actually paid attention instead of hanging at the back of the pack with Shane whilst keys were handed out that apparently rooming with him was supposed to be a punishment.

That some of the vets said things to the younger guys, things that had Hayden wanting to throw down for the first time off the ice.

If he’d asked Theriault to make them permanent roommates after that, it was between him and God.

Shane didn’t need to know.

June 2011- Tampa

The first time Hayden told Gagnon to go fuck himself was not long after he’d met Jackie.

September 2011- Montreal

The second time was just after the Two Towers memorial was opened.

And it wasn’t just Gagnon.

It was a hard time for them all.

December 2013- Montreal

He couldn’t parse the look on Shane’s face as he stared at the burning Rozanov effigy, shifting uncomfortably.

The look when that text came through? That one Hayden recognised.

Horror.

Panic.

And then… Oh God. Shane Hollander was horny. Now. In their locker room. Before their game with Boston where Ryan Price was going to flatten his tiny friend.

Hayden wished he was anywhere but standing next to his friend trying not to read message after message coming through on the glowing screen, each one sending Shane a darker shade of pink.

This was how Hayden Pike died. From second hand embarrassment.

Jackie had thrown him out of the house a full hour before he’d been supposed to meet Shane for breakfast so he’d spent a good half an hour starting at closed shop windows before he settled at the café they’d agreed on- the one that served the most awful vegan wannabe garbage that Shane forced himself to eat.

Because who the hell eats bird food willingly?! And it’s not like Hayden was unhealthy- he wasn’t! He probably weighed the exact same as Shane and didn’t starve himself half the time. Jackie had taken it upon herself to start developing a menu specifically for his best friend to entice him away from the steamed chicken, rice and bland vegetables Hayden had watched him eat until he’d moved in with his wonderful wife.

God, he loved his wife. He was now the wife guy.

“Hey, Hayden.”

Hayden looked up and choked on air.

He was wearing the clothes he’d left the arena in. Shane Hollander hadn’t even gone home before meeting Hayden for breakfast. “Hey buddy… Good night?”

“Um… Yeah? Same as always?” Even Shane’s confused look couldn’t detract from the fact that his best friend looked… Content. No. Content wasn’t a strong enough word. Shane looked as if he’d transcended the mortal state and was currently inhabiting Nirvana, not a single stress line or worry ridden frown in sight, body loose and relaxed, rugged up in his favourite blue hoodie and swaying slightly in his seat, and small smile tugging at his lips.

Wow. “Lily?”

“Huh?” Shane looked up from his phone, dazed.

Wow. There really wasn’t anything going on in that brain today.

“Was that Lily?”

“Oh… No. It was my mom.” Lie. “Brand deal.” Nope. “I’ll call her later.” No, you won’t.

Hayden tamped down the compulsion to push, to know. He forced down the little nagging bit of hurt, that his best friend didn’t trust him with this… Whatever it was. Jacks had given him a good smack the last time he’d bought it up- thoughtfully pointing out that Hayden didn’t actually know if this Lily was even Shane’s girlfriend, and she had a point. Shane hated going out, hated the puck bunnies that followed him around like flies, hated the way the guys talked about the women they were seeing. Hayden knew a lot of it was Shane’s intrinsic respect for women, driven into him from birth by the formidable Yuna, but over the years he’d figured that Shane was sitting somewhere on the undiagnosed autism spectrum, and he’d started to compensate accordingly, reading the books and asking the people and making his house with Jackie as Shane-friendly as possible, terrified of alienating the odd little creature that had latched onto him and stood beside him at his wedding.

And so he waited. Watched as Shane grinned down at his phone before placing it in his pocket, turning his full, formidable attention on Hayden.

He could wait.

He owed Shane that much.

June 2014- Montreal

Hayden may have been wrong about being able to wait.

He stared down at the message thread with his best friend the morning after and had the horrifying realisation that his friend was being held hostage by a nut job.

A nut job who now had his number.

But clearly that wasn’t the most important thing here even if he was about to have a heart attack.

Something had happened in Vegas at the awards that had nothing to do with trophies. At all.

Lily had texted him.

Lily had texted him. FROM SHANE’S PHONE.

Because his best friend was having a panic attack.

And Lily. Lily. Had talked him out of it.

Part of him wanted to worship the ground the woman walked on.

The rest of him still wanted to cut a bitch. But he wouldn’t. For his best friend he wouldn’t.

For Shane this was big. Like, really big. Big enough that even Jackie had noticed, distracted as she was by the twins.

That was why they were both standing at the bench, watching as Shane freaking glowed, all rosy and incandescently happy as he laid on his back on the rug, lifting Ruby- Jade, fuck-, up above his head, laughing delightedly as she gurgled around her pacifier, drooling on the oversized black t-shirt he was wearing.

“Lily?” Jackie whispered, pressing up against his side and looping their arms together.

“Yeah… I think so.”

“Try and get her number. We always need more WAGs.”

Hayden smiled. Shane had a G.

August 2014- Montreal

FUCKING NIGHTMARE FUEL

Pike

Pike

Pike

Pike

Pike

Can you leave me the fuck alone?

No.

Pike.

What the fuck is this?

Screenshot995.jpg

Shit. I’ve been looking for that.

Is not answering question

What is it?

It’s Jackie’s

My wife’s

I know who lady Pike is

Why is weird pink sparkly sex toy in Shane’s house Pike

TS NOT A SEX TOY!

It’s for neck massages!

Wait. Are you in Montreal?

Many gold stars to worst Voyageur

Did not lose all brain cells through dick

Fuck you

Why are you going through Shane’s apartment without him

I wonder.

Maybe.

Is because.

HE IS WITH YOU PIKE!

AM NOT SUXKING HIS DOCK BECAUSE WORSE VOYAGEUR IS ASSHOLE!!!!

WHO DOES NOT LET HIM COME HOME TO ME!

Oh.

He looked up to where Shane had smooshed himself into the corner of the booth beside JJ, head down squinting at his phone. Another point towards the guy really needing glasses.

He immediately felt like an ass. After their win against Toronto he’d near dragged Shane out with the team to celebrate despite his stronger than usual protestations. It had been one of the rookies who’d finally won their stoic captain over, weaponizing his cute little pout and puppy dog eyes. Kid had looked at Shane like he was a God to be worshipped.

Now he felt like a dick.

Shit. Sorry. I didn’t even think of that.

What a surprise.

pike.

Not using brain

Why the fuck does he even like you? Can you not. Just for once. Stop being a complete bitch?

Maybe he likes me like his.

Maybe you do too.

You are just as boring as him

I bring spice to life

You bring violence

Yes

Also this

Shane’s life would be meh without his glorious lily

Now you are blessed with lily too

Should be singing compliments

Praises

Those too

No.

The saying

You are making fun of my English, pike? Did not know you are xenophobic too

What the fuck

I’m not xenophobic

I don’t even know what race you are!

Am best Race

Canadian?

…

…

Gross                          

January 2015- Montreal

NO.

piiiiike

pike

Pike

Fish.

Fishy

Here fishy fish fish

piiiiike

I swear to god  if we ever meet in person I will end you

I will wrap my hands around your throat and throttle you then chop up your body into tiny little pieces

Then I’ll melt it down in lye

And scoop you into ice cube trays

And throw you cube by cube to fish

:-(

What do you want?

Nothing. Will go away.,

Lily.

Lily

Lily.

Lily:

I’m sorry.

It’s been a shit day.

I know.

What do you mean you know?

Shane tells me was very bad game.

Oh.

Yeah. It was pretty shit.

Did you need something?

Shane says you go home before he sees you.

Third trimester.

You are pregnant?

I’m did not know this

Oh. I guess he didn’t tell you.

Yeah. Jacks hasn’t been doing great.

It’s been a while since Shane visited

Pretty sure that’s your fault

)))))))

Is all mine.

Hayden stared down at his phone, at three in the morning on a Tuesday, the three words sending a sharp pain through his chest. Yeah. He was.

He was so fucking tired.

I know.

You win.

I always win Pike.

Am the best.

Yeah. I guess you are.

….

Fifteenth best player.

Only fourteenth most stupid

Hayden turned his phone off. In the morning there wasn’t a single message.

That afternoon Arthur Pike was born a month premature, growth in the 3^rd centile and Hayden didn’t know if he could do this.

February 2015- Montreal vs New York Away Game

They’d lost and Hayden honestly didn’t even know if he’d played, let alone who won.

He knew he was sore- he was always sore these days.

He knew his eyes were itchy, and dry, and red no matter how many drops Shane forced him to take.

He knew he was tired… So, so tired, the kind of tired that you go straight around to insomnia and…

Shane had gone out again. Hayden hadn’t even had a chance to ask if they could stay in tonight, his best friend running out of the room with a grin on his face as Hayden tried his best to choke out more than a word or two, his brain scrambled and hurting and he couldn’t remember the last time they’d just hung out together.

He stared down at his phone, missing the way Jackie used to text him after a game. It’d been a while since that had happened.

She was busy.

With his baby.

With Arthur.

He knew that.

He wanted to go home.

March 2015- Montreal vs Boston Away Game

Shane didn’t even come back to the room this time. Just left straight after the game, giving Hayden a perfunctory wave before hurrying into a large black uber.

THIEF

Piiiiiiiike

Pike

Why are you ignoring me little fish? I see you see my messages

I want picture of baby

Shane says is very cute baby

Piiiiike

Please

I want to see the baby

April 2015- Montreal vs Florida Away Game

He was getting there. Slowly. He was adapting, but to be fair he’d been distracted. A new baby, the twins in the terrible twos turning threes, Jackie’s recently diagnosed post-partum depression, he was run ragged and stressed and Shane could, overall, look after himself.

He’d shown that all too well recently.

That was why Hayden didn’t notice until he was near too late.

His best friend was pulling away.

And he didn’t know why.

Okay maybe he did.

And maybe it was kinda his fault but to be fair it had been almost a year since whatever happened in Vegas had resolutely stayed in Vegas, Shane not uttering a word about why he’d suddenly turned a new leaf, opened a new chapter, become less of a stick in the mud to the degree that he actually came out with the team every now and again. Joked with the new rookies. Smiled once in a blue moon.

Didn’t say a single thing when he’d look over to see Hayden’s chat with Lily open and more active than their own.

The problem with that was that the team took it to mean Shane’s personal life was fair game once now Hayden had stopped having the energy to police them.

They’d developed ‘Guess the Lily.’

Hayden hated it.

Hated the bets that passed back and forth behind Shane’s back, hated the accusations, the theories ranging all the way from affairs to male prostitutes, as if they couldn’t imagine their captain having a normal, run of the mill relationship, like there was something wrong with him. It had to be tawdry and dirty and Hayden hated it.

He’d tried to compensate.

Fuck had he tried to compensate but he was so. Tired. He’d corner Drapeau after games, physically holding the giant goalie back when he tried to follow Shane into the showers, a mocking glint to his eyes.

He’d thrown a puck at Andropov’s face when he’d made a gesture behind Shane’s back.

He’d smacked JJ over the back of the head, far harder than was friendly the last time the word ‘faggot’ had passed his lips.

It wasn’t enough.

He was just one man.

So he’d tried it another way. He’d tried to show he was a good friend. A supportive friend. Nonjudgemental even though Lily was a pain in his ass the majority of the time, demanding picture after picture of Hayden’s baby, sending little mocking parcels of Bears merchandise just the right size every week or so. He’d asked if Shane wanted to bring her over for dinner when she was in town because she travelled for work. He’d once gathered up the courage, the day after Arthur had first smiled at him, gummy and rheumy and with a full belly- finally- to ask if he could give her number to Jacks, to add her to the WAG chat. Jackie had worn him down after weeks of begging, his wonderful wife just as tired as he was, desperately needing something, anything but their own lives to focus on.

Shane had pretended not to hear.

Like he thought Hayden was a moron.

It wasn’t the first time Shane had done that. He never used to. He used to let Hayden talk. Ask him to come over to watch a movie. Have a beer on the back deck.

Now he cut Hayden off at the pass, as if he didn’t want to make up an excuse to get out of whatever Hayden wanted to do.

He’d given up after that.

He didn’t know what else he could do.

He couldn’t even keep his son safe, what fucking use was he?

“Oi Hollander, sure that Lily of yours isn’t a ‘Liam?’” Comeau’s yell across the locker room yanked Hayden back from semiconsciousness and his eyes flickered tiredly to Shane, whose shoulders had stiffened under his padding. “Or you just bending over for a pegging, eh?”

In the past he would have put himself right there, right in front of his best friend.

He honestly didn’t know if his legs would hold him up anymore.

He had a baby.

A sick baby.

He couldn’t miss any more games.

He couldn’t get hurt like last time.

He leaned over and let his head rest against the wall of his stall, unable to look at Shane’s disappointed expression.

It was directed at him a lot these days.

Shane didn’t bounce back from the bullshit like he used to.

After that day Hayden was just like everyone else.

No more fond smiles.

No more letting Hayden pat him on the back.

Nothing.

It kinda sucked. A little bit. That he wasn’t worth anything now that he couldn’t get in the way anymore.

He tried, sometimes. But when every little bit of his energy went to just keeping himself upright and moving and on the first line and functioning just enough that Theriault only threatened to bench him once every other day there was only so much he could do.

Now Hayden could barely even protect himself, and Shane?

Maybe he’d never needed it in the first place.

Maybe Hayden had isolated himself from the majority of his team for nothing. 

Shane had always been polite. Non-confrontational. Amiable. Willing to let bygones be bygones. Never one to stir the proverbial pot. Hayden thought it was one of the reasons Shane had been named captain so early in his career, the fact that everyone got along with him and he got along with everyone.

Not anymore.

It was like a switch had been flipped and since the beginning of the season Shane had started to change. Little snaps here and there at a sexist or racist remark. A little chirp, reminding Patrice of his pregnant girlfriend. A slightly too firm tap on a rookie’s back when a joke went too far.

Most of the time it was taken well. Most of the time. But there were always going to be malcontents.

Patrice and Comeau, a few of the other vets had never been… They’d always harboured some resentment towards the rookie that had slotted so easily into their team and taken charge. They hated it when Shane started to call them on their bullshit, the snide comments, the borderline illegal hits on the ice. 

It wasn’t until he saw Shane flinch, fucking flinch when JJ, one of Shane’s closest friends brushed past him that Hayden realised that there was a very real problem.

He watched the way Comeau would check Shane against the boards with just enough force to rattle him, spitting something in his ear as he skated away. It was the way Patrice would let goals go in practice in front of Coach. How Couillard’s stick would hit just that bit harder against Shane’s skates, sending him off balance.

The worst part was that Shane knew. He knew, and he put up with it. Because he could fight against the words, but on the ice? On the ice the casual violence was part of the game, there was no way to differentiate accidental from deliberate and Hayden’s teammates were deliberate. They were playing the long game. They knew that Shane was too valuable to damage, but they could make sure he knew his meddling wasn’t welcome.

So yeah.

Without even realising Hayden had lost his best friend.

It was only a week later, staring down at his phone, looking at the last time he’d text Lily, that he realised the only other friend he’d thought he’d had wasn’t a friend at all.

He closed the chat.

Sat down on the cold, hard bed of their shared hotel room as Shane breathed softly in the darkness, and cried.

Silently.

He was getting good at that.

It was the buzzing that woke him. Incessant, his phone lighting up continually.

He rubbed his eyes, checking to see that Shane was still asleep. The still lump under the covers told him yes, as did the empty case of earplugs on the bedside table.

He sat up, eyes widening in fear as he saw the thirty-two messages from Jackie, the three missed calls. He threw himself out of his bed and fled to the balcony, already dialling as he shut the door behind him. His phone rang once before she picked up. “Jacks, what-”

“Did you read them?” His beautiful wife sounded hysterical, like she’d been crying. “Did you see the screenshots?”

“What, no-”

“Oh God, Hay- I fucked up, I’m so sorry!” Hayden pulled the phone from his ear, still able to hear Jackie’s sobs on the other end of the line as he scrolled through the unread messages to the top.

WAAAAAAAGS

Hi Lily!

Shaylee: Hi!

Alice: Oh my God, we’ve heard so much about you from the guys!

Lily: what is this

Oh my God, sorry, this is Jackie Pike, Hayden’s wife! Welcome to the Montreal WAGs 

Lily: how did you get number

Hayden!

 We’ve been wanting to talk to you for ages!

Jocelyn: This is so great! You’re Shane’s first WAG!

Lily: No. Am deleting number

Lily has left the chat.

Oh God.

Alice: What a bitch.

“Oh God.” Hayden whispered, sitting heavily on the rickety chair, the cold air doing nothing to stop the panicked sweat breaking out all over his body. “Oh fuck. Jacks, what- did you- did you go through my fucking phone?”! He wheezed out, staring at the screen as if it could solve the mystery. “Jackie, please tell me-”

“Hayden, I’m so sorry-”

“I gotta go.” He hung up. He hung up on his wife.

‘Ra-ra-Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine…’

Hayden turned back towards the room, watching in horror as Shane woke from a dead sleep, throwing himself across the bed in a near panic and grabbing at his phone.

He always slept with a do not disturb.

Hayden used to be the singular exception.

Apparently there was another.

Shane ripped out one ear plug and answered the call, chest heaving, eyes fluttering in the faint light of his phone.

Hayden couldn’t hear what he was saying but he knew the exact moment Shane realised what had happened.

He expected puppy dog eyes. He expected tears. He expected Shane to demand explanations. Hurt.

Instead Shane’s eyes narrowed in anger, lips curling into a sneer. He hung up, leaning across the bed and picking up the hotel phone. A minute later he gathered his toothbrush from the bathroom, grabbed his duffle, slipped his socked feet into sliders and left the room, dropping the key on the table inside the door.

He didn’t look at Hayden once.

He didn’t say a single word.

Hayden’s knees hit the ground.

Hard.

SCOTT

April 2015- Admirals vs Boston

The goal alarm went off.

Again.

And again.

Scott was exhausted. He’d been exhausted since the third period started. He’d been exhausted before the game started. He’d been exhausted since Shane had called at three in the morning, hysterical, after his best friend gave Rozanov’s burner number to his fucking wife. After every plan the two men had put in place it had been the man closest to Hollander who’d finally betrayed them.

It had turned into a full-on team video call, Scott on his couch, Rozanov already in New York in a hotel downtown with Marlow, the two men cuddled up in the same queen bed, Carter half-conscious in his kitchen so as to not wake his highflying lawyer girlfriend. It wasn’t until two hours later that Hollander collapsed into an exhausted sleep in the suite he’d hurriedly booked to get away from Pike, leaving the rest of them emotionally wrung out.

Kid didn’t deserve this shit. Not even Rozanov deserved this shit, the Russian curled up in a comatose ball against Marlow’s chest, the burner a smouldering wreck on the balcony, the sim snapped in half and burned. It had surprised Scott, how strong Rozanov’s reaction had been to his ‘little fish’s betrayal.’

That they’d all been up together was likely the only reason that the Admirals weren’t losing even worse. Not even Rozanov and Marlow could function at their best after the night they’d had and their teammates all seemed to realise that something was off in the first lines, neither side going as hard as they could have.

Scott was secretly thankful. He could admit that it had been a while since he’d last played to his best, the constant pressure and fear finally getting to him now that he had the opportunity to see what he could have had THE WHOLE TIME. Because despite the distance and the homophobia inherent in the NHL those two little menaces were making it work. Right in front of him. Under everyone’s noses. They were video chatting at two o’clock in the morning about their fucking problems and their friends, who knew about them, were helping.

Scott was helping.

Scott was aware now and that made it a thousand times worse. He’d seen Hollander drag his half-conscious form across Rozanov’s disgustingly plush rug and completely cover the larger man’s bulk with his own, sinking into him like there was no place he’d rather be. He’d seen Rozanov cater to every single one of Hollander’s whims- shift this way, stop smoking, get rid of that beer it makes you smell weird, don’t touch my toothbrush, don’t kiss me you haven’t brushed your teeth on and on and on and Rozanov would just smile and hop to it. Shane Hollander walked Ilya Rozanov on a leash and the Russian Bear seemed to be just fine with it.

It Scott had tried harder, would it have been different for him? If he’d stayed with that first physio in Barcelona, with any of the countless offers in bars and clubs and gyms over the years was there a possibility that he may have found something like they had? Had his overwhelming, crippling fear of being discovered, having his career torpedoed before its time prevented him from experiencing any degree of happiness?

Why the fuck was he one bad call from a mental breakdown five minutes from the end of a fucking game?

“What is matter, Hunter, need nap?” Rozanov chirped happily as he sped past, back from his latest goal. “You look sad! You need hug?” Marlow cacked as he followed his captain back to their side of the ice and Scott shook his head angrily, forcing himself to get his head back in the game.

He knew they weren’t going to win- three goals in four minutes just wasn’t going to happen but letting Boston score again was unthinkable.

He skated back to centre, settling into the face-off against the Russian menace he’d seen sobbing into Marlow’s shirt half a day ago. “Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Hmm, is always more fun when you are there!” The grinning man chirped back, ignoring the reprimand from the ref just before the puck dropped, Scott winning the face-off and passing straight to Carter who took off down the ice, Hunter stuck behind Rozanov’s bulk, shoving past the man. “Naaaaw, little Hunter is too slow to keep up? Knees too sore?”

Scott lashed out, smacking his stick against Rozanov’s pads. “Play the fucking game, you prick.”

“Yes, I have very big prick. Many women tell me so-”

“Rozanov-”

“Oh no.” Buzz. “We score again. Distracted, Hunter?”

Scott didn’t even think.

He just lunged.

Rozanov’s head snapped back, blood splattering down the front of his jersey and onto Scott’s knuckles, the larger man stumbling backwards in surprise and smacking into the boards, stick dropping to the ground.

An instant later Scott was sliding across the ice on his back, St. Simons ploughing into him at full force, shoulder low, straight into Scott’s already fragile ribs.

His ears were ringing, his helmet a few feet from his head, the ice bright in his eyes as he came back to his senses, gasping in a pained breath as he watched Marlow set Rozanov’s nose, the Russian crying out in pain as yet another bend was left in the cartilage.

Scott was a piece of shit.

He lay there for a few minutes as both teams vaulted off their benches, a massive brawl on centre ice as Carter skated to his side, hauling him upright.

He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on his friend’s face, shaking off the gentle touch and removing himself from the ice. He was done.

The locker room was an odd mixture of jubilant- their captain had made Ilya Rozanov bleed- and complete devastation. Though that part may have been from Scott only. His teammates patted his bare shoulders one by one as they headed out to commiserate their 4-0 loss to the Bears, leaving him to his characteristic post-game silence except for Carter who collapsed in his towel on the bench opposite, cleaning out his ears with the edge of a face-washer. “You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?”

Scott huffed in irritation. “It’s fucking Rozanov, Vaughan, it’s the same as always-”

“Bullshit. You have never gone after Rozanov, not like that. You’re like Hollander but older. You don’t just go and punch players for what was, for Rozanov, a tame as hell game. Sorry to tell you this but you’re the problem here, Scott, and I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Scott just shook his head and stood, pulling on a pair of joggers and a hoodie, not even bothering with a shower- he was sure his uber driver would have smelled far worse coming out of this stadium. “I’m going home.”

Carter snorted in amusement. “Don’t doubt it. See you in a few.”

Scott opened the door to the locker room and grimaced at the sound of fans still in the arena, the press still making menaces of themselves. His media manager had long since given up forcing Scott into the press room after losses- ‘Too fucking depressing, Hunter, not the greatest optics.’ That had been a real slap in the face.

He hurried down the darkened service corridors to the player parking lot’s pick-up zone- if three bays and a bench could be called that, given that they lived in New York, who the hell had a car?

A few moments later Carter joined him, bumping against his side and Scott forced himself to put up with the casual affection the other man had started throwing in his direction. He hated it. And also didn’t hate it.

He hated that he wanted it at all.

Fucking Hollanov. And fuck Marlow for putting that stupid name in their vocabulary.

His car pulled up and he patted Carter on the shoulder before pulling the back passenger side door open- no need to force his stink upon the poor man- and sat down just as the opposite door opened and Cliff Marlow squeezed himself into the middle seat as Rozanov handed the driver a quite frankly alarming amount of money for the inconvenience and squeezed in beside them, Carter taking the front seat. “What the fuck-”

Rozanov’s finger appeared between his eyes. “No. You have already made me angry today, you will be quiet.” Rozanov did indeed look pretty damn pissed off, smooshing himself against the window with an ice pack held against his face. Scott’s aim must have been off because the beginnings of a perfect shiner were starting to develop over his right eye.

Scott refused to speak to any of the other occupants of the car the entire half an hour home through post-game traffic. He was tired. He was sore. He was sweaty and gross and he was so fucking sad.

He was always sad these days.

The uber dropped them off with a private message through the app to Scott.

Do I need to call the cops?

Scott had just laughed miserably. “I wish I could get rid of them that easily.” He shut the door and trudged into his building, followed by his babysitters.

Probably wasn’t the worst idea given the sheer amount of vodka currently lying around his apartment.

“I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t break anything.”

 He left his teammate to watch over the idiot duo, spending a good half an hour drowning himself in near scalding water, head against the tiles as the heat worked much of the tension from his shoulders. Eventually he ran out of excuses and trudged into the living room, flopping back onto the couch and watching as the three men divvied up whatever pathetic leftovers still remained in his fridge- nope. They’d already ordered takeout.

God he was a shit host.

He turned away from the three men, content to sit there and stare out the windows over the city, not even slightly hungry after that shitstorm of a game. One of seven. Seven. He was already so damned tired.

Something shifted to his side and he turned to get a face full of blanket, Rozanov tucking him in like a child and handing him a glass of water. “Drink. Skin is all sad.” The Russian said with a smirk, attractive face marred by bruising and the swelling over his nose coming up beautifully.

Scott obliged as Rozanov pushed him forward, stuffing a few pillows behind his back, which was nice. “I don’t need you to mother me.” He said tiredly, handing back the glass and accepting the burrito, chewing mechanically, eating because he knew he had to, not because he wanted to. “And I’m not going to apologise.”

“Did not expect you to.” Rozanov squeezed out between a mouth full of rice and beans. “You are sad and depressed, Hunter, miserable lonely little old man in big rich apartment. I am also sad and depressed-”

“Bullshit, Rozanov, you and your perfect life- ”

“Hunter. Life is not perfect, as you say. My father has a mind that is rotting and may say wrong thing about why he hates me without thinking. I have Russian passport only and if we are discovered I could be deported to country that will put me in jail. Shane is stuck in city five hours away with friend who tries to out us and team that scare him every day and I cannot protect him. Man I want to have children with, Hunter, and I cannot even tell world he is mine.

“World does not only hate you, Hunter, does not even hate you as much as you hate yourself. I would know.” Rozanov sat on the low table in front of him, refusing to let Scott look away. “My mind is also not good, Hunter. Many bad thoughts, terrible thoughts, for many years. Is not gone now, but is better, with Shane.”

“Does he know?” Scott whispered, staring into those obnoxious blue eyes.

Rozanov nodded. “We do not only fuck, Hunter, not even I can fuck that much. We talk. He tells me of little Pikes and tiger mother, I tell him of wanting to walk in front of car every now and then.” Rozanov shrugged and a small, self-depreciating smile graced his European features. “Some times have been very bad, Hunter, probably will be bad in future. But Shane makes it better. So do you.” Scott’s jaw dropped in shock. “Do not be so surprised, old man. Was very alone for many years, lied to many people, was not good. Having people to talk to is better. You need to talk more. Cannot hold all hurt inside or will explode.” He made a soft explosion noise, mimicking the event with his hands. “If you do not want to talk to me, your emotional support Russian with latent suicidal tendencies, Vaughan is good man. Will listen to demented ramblings.”

Scott would have kicked him except the blanket was very warm and very heavy. Maybe Hollander was onto something there. In the kitchen Marlow and Carter had fallen silent, sitting side by side as they watched Scott being emotionally interrogated.

Fuck it.

“I hate you.”

“I know- I hate you too.”

“No… Rozanov, I hate what you represent. I hate that you’re so fucking happy even though clearly your life sucks even more than mine, I’ll take dead parents over abusive ones any day. I just… Fuck. Did I waste seven fucking years, almost a decade, feeling sorry for myself when-”

“No.” Rozanov near threw himself off the table and onto Scott’s lap, smothering him in an all-encompassing hug. “No. You did not waste anything.” He pulled back so that Scott could see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. “We are not normal, Shane and me. We are… Shane says there was one in million chance that stars aligned. That one wrong word would mean we are not together. We are… Statistics, outside?”

“Outlier?” Marlow called.

“Yes. We are outlier. Hunter, I found one of tiny number of gay hockey players, and if he was not bravest man I have ever met I would not have known. For men like us, is too dangerous to say yes to just any man. We cannot trust. Too many try to make money off us. NHL is cruel to us, and is so, so hard. You are surviving, Hunter, already this is very good thing.”

Scott stared up at the insane man sitting on his lap and tried to speak but instead he just collapsed against Rozanov’s chest, choking on a sob that became a muffled, tear stained wail against Rozanov’s shirt, clutching the man’s arms where they stayed around Scott’s neck, holding him together.

He didn’t register it when Carter and Marlow joined them, but the smell of rich hot chocolate- from deep within his misery stash- pulled him out of his slump, the handful of tissues welcome.

Rozanov’s shirt was toast.

He let himself be coaxed into swallowing the whole mug of the sweet concoction- because of course there was vodka- and then Rozanov was manhandling him across all of their laps, putting on the latest Montreal playoff game and falling into silence.

Scott slept.

CARTER

They’d left a far calmer but fairly sleepy Scott sprawled across the haphazard nest of pillows and quilts- the entire contents of Scott’s linen cupboard- that morning before Carter had ferried the two Boston players across town to their hotel, checking them out and dumping their shit in Scott’s spare room which was far less exciting than the couch apparently. Neither had seemed inclined to leave Scott alone after the outburst last night and weirdly enough not a single one of their teammates had objected to Carter absconding with them before their practice skate that morning, and the second playoff game the next night. Apparently Scott was far more well liked in Boston than he’d thought, because the Bear’s coach had just sighed and tucked back into his cereal.

Or maybe it was just that he had no idea how to say no to three enormous hockey players, one of whom looked ready to bite something.

“Carter.” His stride hitched in surprise, coming to a halt when he realised Rozanov was no longer following him, half a mile into his usual circuit.

“What?”

“My sense of spider is tingling.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Carter turned to the Russian menace whose gaze was locked on a smoothie shop across the street. “I’m not Hollander, I don’t have his ability to figure out what the fuck you’re getting at.”

Rozanov just ignored him, looking both ways before crossing the road, weaving between the parked cars.

Straw + Berry.

“Why are we going into a smoothie shop? Thought Russians drank vodka for breakfast.”

“Only on bad days…” Rozanov murmured as he pushed open the door, stepping inside.

A wave of cool air hit them and Carter shivered in his thin t-shirt, sweat congealing grossly on his skin. “Dude, what are we doing here? I don’t want a smoothie.”

Rozanov just pointed and suddenly they were sharing the same braincell.

A short man was seated on the stool at the counter, cap on backwards, dead asleep. He was slumped over the wooden surface, head pillowed on a stack of handtowels. From the position he was in it was difficult to see his body but his shoulders were massive, deltoids well defined under the short sleeves of his t-shirt, short black hair showed under the hideous cap and a strong nose was just visible.

Rozanov hummed, striding silently over to the counter and leaning down, resting his elbows on the slightly sticky surface if his nose crinkling in distaste was anything to go off and steepling his fingers in thought.

“Um… Hi?” Carter turned to the slight, dark-skinned woman who had appeared from the back room. “Can I help you… Fuck.” Carter liked her. “Kip!” She hissed, elbowing her companion who sat bolt upright in surprise, almost tumbling off the chair, catching himself on the counter.

For a few moments nobody moved. And then Rozanov smiled.

Carter did not like that look one bit.

“Little smoothie man…” Rozanov looked down at the askew name tag. “Kip. Are you gay?”

‘Kip’s’ jaw dropped. His friend slapped a hand over her mouth. “Are you… Ilya Rozanov?”

Carter wanted to die.

Rozanov just waved off the question. “Do not know who this is. Answer question.”

Expressive dark brown eyes widened in shock as he stared at Carter’s own bisexual chaos gremlin. “…Yes?”

Rozanov frowned. “Is not question. You are unsure? Because that is not useful.” Oh God. Oh God. Scott was going to kill them- Rozanov for getting them into this situation and Carter for letting him talk. “Spider tingle is telling me you are gay. Too hot to be straight. I have very gay friend, also very hot, I think he would like you to fuck him.”

“Kill me now.” Carter whispered, and opposite him the woman mouthed a frantic ‘Take me with you!’ As they watched a flustered Kip try to compute Ilya Rozanov. He didn’t blame him, he couldn’t compute the idiot and he had spent more than one night online with the man, listening to him shout in Russian as they played COD. “God, I beg you.”

“I… yes, I’m gay. But I’m not really looking-”

“I do not care. I will send him here soon. Will be very funny.”

“Funny.” Carter murmured in shock.

“Yes! Funny! Dinosaur with little smoothie man.” He turned back to Kip, smiling widely. “Good! Is plan!” He turned to the woman. “If smoothie boy does not like him or disappears after date you can call police. I am Cliff Marlow. And this is Shane Hollander.” He pointed to Carter.

“Umm… You do know this is New York, right?” Carter muttered under his breath as poor Kip just looked between them both, trying to figure out if he was getting Punk’d.

Carter felt like he was.

Rozanov happily grabbed Kip’s phone by his elbow and held it out. “You unlock, I give you number. You can call if he annoys you.”

“I… I don’t know what’s happening here.”

Rozanov just scoffed. “Is cute meeting.”

“A… Meet cute?”

“Yes! That!” Roz quickly typed out his number then sent the phone back across the counter. “Now-”

“You fucking bastards!” Oh good. Tweedledum had arrived. “Who the fuck runs that fast on a full stomach?!” Marlow was wheezing, red faced and miserable as he collapsed in the chair opposite the counter. “Never, ever, doing this… Huh.” Marlow took in Carter, standing there, looking horrified. The woman. Looking like she wanted popcorn. Kip, so very confused.

And Ilya Rozanov, gesturing violently with both arms towards the man.

Marlow’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, sweat dripping on the floor, loose muscle tee revealing his entire chest. The woman smirked. Kip looked. Definitely gay. “Yeah… I think that could work.”

“What the fuck is this?” Kip whined out and Carter felt for the guy. He really did.

“Look, I’m sorry man, these two are fucking idiots.” He shoved a grumbling Rozanov away from the counter. “Delete his number and ignore them. I’ll take whatever tastes the least like blueberries, Rozanov will have something with maple syrup and Marlow likes lychees. Weirdo.”

“Ain’t anything wrong with lychees.” Marlow slumped back in his chair, still struggling for breath.

“Carter is boring.” Rozanov settled next to Marlow, pausing to take a picture of the still stunned Kip, likely sending it to his menace of a boyfriend.

Carter wanted to die.

Chapter End Notes

Sooooooo Hayden is an idiot. But a well meaning one. Shane is NOT IMPRESSED and his boys are even less so. Will get better. Eventually.

Kip was supposed to wait until 2017.

Kip is not waiting.

Is why I have half of the next chapter already written. Persistent lil twinkie.

Chapter 10: Shane Hollander Is Done With Your Shit

Chapter Summary

In which Shane Hollander is done with this shit.
Hayden is a whiny bitch who doesn't get it.
JJ is a bad friend.
Kip is still confused.
Scott wants to murder.

Chapter Notes

Hello again my peeps! Is time to continue onwards.

Now that Kip has arrived I'm going to have to reread Game Changers- just got the paper copy and I'm gonna annotate the hell out of it. Le sigh.

Timeline continues to be a rough guess, as is my knowledge of how hockey works.

For anyone worried about Montreal- who are a warning all of their own- don't worry. Only happiness and improved mental resilience in this story.

For anyone who was triggered by last chapter's mention of suicidal ideation- that's as bad as it's getting, and only Scott and Ilya get to joke about that shit. Everyone else takes it very seriously.

So many fandom pages and wiki articles have been searched...

Enjoy! And thank you for all the comments- I reads them all!

SHANE

May 2015- Admirals vs Montreal

Game two.

Two of seven.

The last series before the Stanley Cup finals.

The Admirals- after having sent Boston and his rather irate boyfriend with a bruised rib and broken nose home- were the final team left in the Eastern Conference before Shane had his first chance at the cup.

It was also their first overnight away game since he’d walked out on his best friend in Florida. And the last time he’d spoken to him.

Not that Hayden hadn’t tried. The morning after he’d waited for Shane in the lobby, clutching his bag and looking pale and wan, eyes sunken with massive dark circles. He’d been the last one aside from JJ waiting, the bus largely loaded and Shane just walked straight past, not even catching his eye. He’d heard JJ ask what the fuck was going on but hadn’t waited to hear the answer, sitting down beside Miikta who was on the phone and chatting happily in Russian to his girlfriend, discussing their succulent collection, for some reason. 

Miikta had fallen silent after a few moments and Shane had turned to find him staring at him as if seeing God. “You… You okay, Hollander?” The goalie asked, his accent far less pronounced than Ilya’s, having lived in America since he was a child. “Something wrong with Pike?”

“No.” Shane had said simply, before pulling out his headphones and his kindle. “He’s fine.”

“Um… Sure.”

 Once they were home the voicemails started- Shane would stare at them, each longer than the last.

He deleted them without listening. Each and every one.

The texts were just as numerous, coming through thick and constant, following the same trend until he blocked both Hayden and Jackie, who had been trying to contact him just as much as her husband.

He missed them. He missed the Sunday dinners he’d skipped. He missed the twins falling asleep on his chest whilst they watched a movie. He missed sitting on the back porch with Hayden as the other man sipped his IPA, a can of Shane’s favourite ginger ale in his hand, talking about everything and nothing whilst Shane sat and listened, interjecting if he felt it necessary.

He missed it all.

They’d also betrayed him in the worst way possible.

In the past he would have put it behind him. He would have let it go. God, before Vegas he wouldn’t have even reacted, he’d have just… Accepted. He’d have accepted anything from Hayden because Shane wasn’t stupid. Despite what Ilya might have said he wasn’t easy to live with and people he called friends were few and far between. Or they had been, at least. So he would have accepted the breach of trust. He would have accepted the fact that his best friend didn’t respect his privacy. He’d have accepted anything if it meant he got to keep one of his only two friends.

Except now he had his perfect boyfriend cursing Hayden out over video chat whenever Shane mentioned his name.

Now Scott was texting daily, checking in and making sure Shane hadn’t called out a hit without asking him first, offering to drive Hayden into the boards during their next game.

Carter hadn’t asked- he’d just done it during their home game, giving a subtle wink as he skated into the penalty box.

Cliff sent him porn links.

According to Ilya that was just a thing he did. That Shane could ignore them.

He ignored the first few.

The next six he took notes. And sent Cliff an internet ordered dildo. Because the man was an idiot. And sent links involving actual produce. He needed to talk to Scott.

So they were at a stalemate. Hayden had gone from apologetic to a weird, half delirious sort of panicked when Shane refused to even give him the opportunity to explain, earn his forgiveness and Shane? Shane wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. Any of it. He had a Cup to win and a boyfriend to convince to come to his cottage this year. Last year had been a bust- he’d still been sorting out his house and had barely spent any time in Ottawa that summer, dividing his time between Montreal and Boston whenever he and Ilya could make time.

This year would be different.

Shane was pulled from his planning as the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, jolting him in his seat. The seatbelt sign flicked off as they were taxied to the gate and he started to gather his things, bumping his elbow against JJ who was still snoring away in the middle seat, Hayden on the other side.

He’d felt sorry for JJ the first few days. The French-Canadian had been confused as anything since the first morning, unable to get either Shane or Hayden to explain the reason for their temporary falling out. He’d ended up becoming the middle man- relaying messaged that couldn’t be sent over the team’s chat, making sure everyone knew where everyone should be and generally just trying to be a good friend.

To Hayden.

Because Hayden was visible. And verbal. And willing to if not reveal anything, then hint. Obfuscate. Blame.

Shane didn’t say anything.

So of course it was Shane’s fault.

Even if Hayden denied it, blaming himself to JJ’s face. No, Shane Hollander, lovely, kind and sweet and patient little Shane Hollander who was never unpleasant to anyone was being mean to his best friend, wasn’t letting him apologise.

Shane fucking hated them both.

And the rest of the team? Oh, the rest of the team was having an absolute party with Shane’s misery.

The Great Breakup of 2015.

The end of the ‘Shayden’ Era.

It went on and on, Comeau and Patrice telling them to fuck and make up, JJ whining that he was tired of being in the middle of the drama, Miitka and their singular Russian speaking rookie hypothesising reasons for the conflict, each one worse than the next, cruder and more humiliating. Shane was so fucking sick and so very tired of being blamed for the change in the team dynamics, so tired of Theriault telling him get his shit together when he wasn’t the fucking problem. He hadn’t changed. He still skated as he had, passed as he had, scored as he had. Why couldn’t the rest of them just leave him alone?

He switched his phone off airplane mode and grimaced as six calls came in- one after the other, all exactly thirty minutes apart.

And a single message from ‘Lily.’

If you do not win, will not come to Montreal! Cliff says good incentive.

Well. His boyfriend was stuck in Boston until tonight, his entire team hosting a séance in Marlow’s backyard to pray for the downfall of the Voyageurs to the might of the Admirals. Shane would be insulted if Ilya hadn’t shown him the small, crocheted effigy of Scott Hunter on his bedside table stuck with pins. Apparently their goalie was crafty on flights.

He really did have the best boyfriend. An unhinged one, yes. But his.

He noted that the next call was due and put his headphones back in as he followed the rest of the team into the terminal. “I’m pretty sure you calling me this close to a game could be classed as harassment. Or emotional assault.”

“Fuck off, Hollander. You guys just landed?” Hunter sounded winded, likely post his frankly insane morning run- not even Shane was that insane the morning before a game. 

“Yeah, picking up gear then heading over to the hotel.” He waited patiently by the baggage carousel, slightly off to the side from the rest of his team. “Gonna try and get a nap in.” He pulled his gear over his shoulder and headed towards the bus bays. “Did Lily ask you to call?”

“Believe it or not, kid, I like talking to you just fine without your menace of a Russian guard dog putting me up to it.”

“Oh, that Hollzy?” Shane smiled at Carter’s voice in the background. “Say hey from me, and we’re gonna beat them into the ice!”

Shane laughed softly as he took a seat at the front of the bus, sitting his duffel pointedly on the seat beside him. He really wasn’t in the mood today. “Keep dreaming. If it wasn’t Lily, then why the six calls?”

“Oh. I was going to see if you wanted to stay at my place instead of the hotel. I know it’s your first time away with Pike, you’ve got set rooms, right?”

Shane winced, not particularly happy to be reminded of his situation. “Yeah, but Coach has us on lockdown. I’ll just deal, we’re flying out first thing in the morning, so it won’t matter if I don’t sleep well.”

“Hollander-”

“It’s nice of you to ask, though. I’ll be fine. See you tonight.” He grimaced at how terse that sounded but Hunter just hummed in understanding before hanging up, leaving Shane to stare out the window whilst the rest of the team boarded, the gentle hum of voices getting drowned out by the music from his phone and the revving of the engines as they headed into the city.

He managed to get to the room before Hayden and set his duffel on the bed beside the bathroom and adjacent the door. He didn’t unpack except for his earplugs and sleeping mask. His phone he placed in his hoodie pocket. He was drawing the curtains for his customary pre-away-game nap when Hayden slunk into the room, cap still on, shoulders up around his ears as if he expected Shane to start yelling at him.

It sent a sharp pain through his chest, the thought that his friend, who he’d thought knew him better than anyone, barely knew him at all.

He shook his head, pulling back the covers of the bed, removing his hoodie and pulling the soft silicone earplugs out of their case, long since past the point of embarrassment when it came to getting actual sleep during the day. He left it to the rookies to rawdog sleep.

“Shane-”

“Can this wait?” He interjected before Hayden could continue, looking at his best friend for the first time since that night. “We have a game in a few hours and I want-”

“No.” Hayden cut him off aggressively, throwing his bag on the ground, the violence of the action causing Shane to flinch in surprise, earplugs tumbling onto the quilt. “No, this can’t wait, Shane, this is fucking the whole team-”

That had Shane bristling in frustration. “The whole team? I’m not the one that made this a whole team issue, I haven’t treated you any differently, it’s you who-”

“What. The. Fuck. You haven’t treated me differently?! You’ve barely spoken to me off the ice if you could avoid it!” Hayden shouted and Shane hoped that the walls here were better than Nashville. “Everyone’s noticed!”

“Because you haven’t shut up about it!” Shane couldn’t help but yell back, heartrate starting to pick up as the stress of the whole thing finally started to get to him, just before the most important game of the season so far. “You haven’t left me alone! You could have just shut up and let me think and instead I haven’t had a moment where you’re not trying to talk to me! Of course they’d notice!”

Hayden threw his cap onto the bed, running his hands through his hair in stress. “Of course I haven’t shut up about it, I’ve been trying to apologise! To explain! And you’ve just been running away every damn time! Damn it, Shane, I get that you don’t do emotions like the rest of us but that doesn’t mean you get to treat me like shit for one fucking mistake!”

Don’t do emotions.

Shane didn’t do emotions.

Shane’s jaw clenched. He pushed back the quilt and stood up, his mouth curling into a rictus of rage as he smacked his palm into Hayden’s chest, sending him back a few steps in his shock. “One fucking mistake? Rozanov’s right, Pike, you really are a fucking idiot.” 

Hayden looked like he’d been slapped in the face.

“You knew. You knew I was keeping her a secret for a reason and what did you do? You fucked us over. You fucked me over, Hayden. I thought I could trust you. After a year of being treated as fucking less by my team, my friends, the people I’m supposed to rely on I thought I could at least feel safe with you.” He hissed out, forcing himself into Hayden’s space. “I thought you had my back, Hayden. I thought you’d wait until I felt ready. Instead we’re here. And I can’t even fucking look at you because I feel so fucking stupid for thinking you saw me as anything else than another one of your kids, unable to make a decision for myself so you had to push it.” He turned on his heel, ignoring the tears collecting in Hayden’s eyes. “Go call your wife, Hayden. Me and my lack of emotions are going to sleep.”

He was done.

Shane channelled the emotions he apparently didn’t have into a concentrated dose of rage and the Admirals felt it. He had no patience for the games his teammates apparently thought were appropriate in the fucking play-offs, running himself ragged to cover for their obvious deficits.

Theriault saw it too. The older man looked Shane in the eye when he came off the ice barely able to breathe after a seven minute shift and checked in every 30 seconds until Shane nodded in return, going back over the boards.

His team eventually pulled themselves together and they were 2-0 at the beginning of the third period though Theriault wasn’t happy- and for once Shane wasn’t the one being yelled at. “Fucking Hollander is the only one pulling his weight here, and he’s lugging all your dead corpses along with him!” Probably the nicest thing Coach had said about him in months. “Get it the hell together!”

There was a sharp rap and Shane whipped his head to the side to see Scott tapping at the glass with his stick, a concerned look on his face. Shane just shook his head and went back to retaping his stick, taking a deep breath before he went over the boards, back to the centre of the ice.

He bent down.

Shane was so tired.

3-1.

He should have been able to stop that goal. He would have, if his own fucking teammate hadn’t tripped him into the boards in front of the Admiral’s bench just in time for Scott to grab the puck and put one past Miitka, ending the game.

He’d dropped his stick and it lay on the ice between his skates, his gloves gripped the worn wood as he clenched his eyes shut, steeling himself against the humiliation as his teammates passed him, snickering.

He pushed himself back, retrieving his stick and moving to centre ice for the formalities, sniffing away the urge to tear up.

Good game.

Good game.

Good pass.

Good game.

Next time.

“Bit clumsy there, Hollander.” Carter said with a laugh as he shook Shane’s hand and Shane flinched, causing the taller man to pause, Scott bumping gently into his back.

“Whatever.”

“Leave the poor kid alone.” Hunter said with a laugh, bumping Shane on the shoulder fondly.

“Fuck you, Hunter.”

“Careful, Hollander, you’re starting to sound like him.” Scott murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. A joke between friends.

Shane froze in the middle of the ice, Hunter’s hand still in his. He blinked furiously, already feeling the telltale prickling in his eyes and he gasped around the tightness in his chest, the fear, the-

“Shit, kid.” Hunter’s sweaty hand grasped the back of his head and dragged him face forward into the larger man’s chest. He saw Carter grab the back of Scott’s jersey out of the corner of his eye, towing them both back to the Admiral’s bench. Their backup goalie, Tommy Andersson looked close to stroking out as Scott manhandled him onto the bench in the middle of the players of the losing team, Carter pressing into his other side. “I know, kid. I know.”

Shane just bent over his own knees, trying to make himself smaller, to avoid the looks of disdain he knew were coming from his own team, just a few feet away on the other side of the glass. “Get yourself together and then we’re getting you out of here.”

“Hollander! What the fuck are you doing?!” Theriault’s dulcet tones had Shane flinching in his seat, automatically sitting bolt upright and turning to the furious man, eyes near bulging out of his head. “Get your ass back over here or I swear-”

“If you want him to respect your orders, maybe you should stop your players disrespecting the singular reason you just won that game.”

Shane wasn’t the only person shocked at the man coming to his defence. Coach Harv Murdock, an imposing 6’2’’ of All American Aggression stood with his arms crossed over his still impressive chest, popping a piece of purple chewing gum, dark skin contrasting against Theriault’s sickly looking sheen. “We all saw that winger shove him into the boards.” He turned his back on the Voyageurs’ bench. “Clean your house, Theriault, we don’t want to win like that.”

Shane’s coach scoffed angrily and stomped away and Shane could only hope he’d take the words on board.

He hoped. But he wasn’t hopeful.

“Get the kid out of here, Hunter, before he gets tears on my bench. I’m too old for this shit.” Shane felt a hand around his elbow and soon he was being shoved towards the away team’s dressing room, both Carter and Scott watching him carefully as he told them he’d be fine. That he’d just grab his things and be out in a second.

The instant he stepped into the room silence fell and he knew it wouldn’t be a second. From the way Scott settled his shoulder against the cinderblocks opposite the door he sensed the same.

The door closed behind him and Shane eyed his team. The men he’d spent six years with. The men he’d once trusted to back his plays. To protect him. And aside from Hayden and JJ each one of them just turned away, and JJ was more interested in his skates than the incoming conflict.

Shane felt so fucking alone.

Comeau let out an aggressive click from the side of his mouth as he eyed the door. “What’s your boyfriend doing out there, Hollander? Ready for a rendezvous?”

“Nah, lookit them- both’d be bottoms. Ain’t no way Hollzy here could keep it up long enough to dick Hunter down, you seen the size of him?” Patrice said slyly, as if it was funny.

Shane’s jaw dropped in shock.

“What the fuck, guys!” Hayden shouted, standing from where he’d been half stripped out of his gear. “In what world is it okay to speak to him like that! This is your captain, who scored two fucking goals and won us the game tonight! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Maybe if the little faggot acted like a captain once in a while instead of bending over for you, Pike-”

“Oh fuck you, Gagnon-”

Shane stiffened as he picked up on the Russian from the side, Miitka laughing to himself as he ripped the tape from his stick. “This, kid, is the slow and steady downfall of the great-”

“Go fuck yourself, Miitka.” Shane spat out in furious Russian, completely and utterly done with the night. “This fucking team can go and fuck yourselves.” He threw down his stick and began to shuck his gear straight into his bag, not caring about his usual ritual of cleaning off the ice and sweat.

There was a stunned silence, punctuated only by Shane’s angrily throwing gear into his stall. He was incredibly glad he’d bought everything from the hotel. He would sacrifice a wet toothbrush and a towel.

“You… Speak Russian.” The rookie said softly, shamefaced. “Since when?”

Shane paused. Lied. Because they deserved it. “Since I realised multiple members of this team spoke it. I learned because you’re my team. You’re my friends.” He chuckled meanly. “Because I thought it would be nice to be able to speak to you in your own language. I thought it would be helpful.” He forced out as he shoved his hoodie over his compression gear, throwing his suit bag over his arm. “Tell coach I’m flying back later.”

He turned to the door when it opened, almost hitting him. Theriault and Marcel stepped into the locker room and it looked like Coach had sucked on a lemon. He took in Shane, pissed and about to flee, and then cast his gaze over the rest of the team. “This shit stops now.”

Both men stepped into the room, forcing Shane to take a step to the side. “I’m not joking. This shit- the way you’ve been treating Hollander. It stops now. I don’t give half a shit about what you think about the kid, I don’t care if you hate his guts but it’s going to stop. Now.”

“It’s already all-over social media- a trip by his own teammate that ended up in a goal against us? We’re spinning it as an accident, but it can’t happen again.” Marcel said firmly, tapping away at his phone.

Theriault nodded. “Add to that the fact that this fucking team abandoned their captain on the ice to be taken care of by the fucking opposing team? That I had their fucking coach reprimanding me?! For not reigning you fuckwits in?!” Shane pressed back into the lockers behind him as Theriault started screaming at his team, shocked at the somewhat show of support. “I expect fucking better from you all.” Theriault waited until he had grudging assents from each of his players before nodding. “We’re going to win this. And then we’re going to win the cup. Hollander can’t do it alone. And that’s what he’s doing right now. None of you is indispensable at this point except him so fucking watch it. I will bench you if I see shit like that on the ice again.” He turned and left with Marcel, and Shane just followed.

Carter was waiting outside with Scott, both men dressed but unshowered and they wordlessly ushered Shane out of the arena and into an Uber, Shane’s bag in Carter’s hand, Scott’s arm around his shoulders. His phone started buzzing again. He’d noticed it during Theriault’s speech but had ignored it.

He knew it was Ilya.

He wasn’t ready to talk to him.

It wasn’t until the car pulled away that Scott asked if he was going to answer as he and Carter bracketed him between their larger frames, shepherding him into the building. Shane just shook his head silently. Scott reached over and took his phone from his hand, accepting the call. “Hey. No, yeah, we’ve got him. It was a fucking mess.” Scott shifted the phone to his shoulder, taking out his keys. “I think he’ll be okay- we snapped him out of it pretty quickly. And from all the screaming I think Theriault reamed out the team for their bullshit. Yeah. It’s a testament to your boy’s talent that Montreal didn’t just collapse and die tonight.”

“I don’t know what the fuck they’re thinking.” Carter said loudly as he steered Shane straight towards the guest bathroom, Scott following. “What team just decides to fucking implode this close to the cup?”

Scott hummed in agreement as he left the room, coming back a few moments later with several towels. “Yeah, we’ll get him settled then see if he’s up to calling you. I think he’s just… He looks tired.”

Shane didn’t even care that they were talking about him as if he weren’t there. He was tired. And drained. And kinda wishing he really did lack emotions like Hayden had said. It would have made tonight far easier.

They left him alone and he slowly stripped and showered, the warmth of the water beating back the dissociation and he stepped out of the bathroom carrying his bag, fresh and clean. Carter had left in the meantime, his girlfriend waiting at home but Scott handed him a diet-approved sandwich and sat him down on the couch to eat.

He was safe and asleep before he took the first bite.

KIP

June 2015- New York

“I still reckon it’ll happen, it hasn’t been that long.” Maria said as she cleaned out the blender, throwing Kip a sly look. “I mean- come on. Are you telling me you don’t want Ilya fucking Rozanov to send some sexy Russian your way?”

“Bitch please, can you imagine the sort of friends Rozanov has? They’re probably in the mafia or don’t even speak English. Or just plain old stupid. And I have standards. Some.” Kip hit the blender’s button, sending a mixture of ice and fruit whirring around the quiet of the shop. It was far too early for the morning rush to come around and wasn’t as if their absent owner ever cared if they sampled the goods. This time, it was strawberry lychee- Cliff Marlow was onto something there.

“That or it’s some disgustingly hot hockey player- Oh. Imagine it. Shane. Hollander.” They groaned in sync, Kip immediately picturing the wet t-shirt ad for ginger ale he’d seen not long ago. “I bet he’d be so sweet in bed.”

“I seriously doubt Rozanov wanted to set a random smoothie guy up with his archrival. Plus, can you imagine it? Dating someone who’s involved in one of the most homophobic sports in the world? I’d be jumping straight back into the closet for the next decade if I wanted anything more than a quick roll in the hay.” He poured his breakfast and shoved a straw through the hole, sipping happily. “Though…” He grinned wickedly over at Maria. “Scott Hunter.”

“Oh gurl!”

“Would jump in closet and bolt the door shut as long as he let me lick those abs-”

“I know!” Marie shrieked, throwing her hands up in the air. “Did you see that fucking Tom Ford ad! It was more skin than shirt and- Oh.” Her eyes widened and Kip turned to the front of the store.

“Oh my god.” He whispered, as he watched the epitome of male perfection drag yet another epitome of male perfection- a taller one- into his shop.

Kip squeaked.

Marie straight up sat down and started fanning herself with a menu.

Shane Hollander looked up at the menu board, sweat dripping off his hair and onto his shirt, the soaked compression garment clinging to his defined abs, shorts tight and hemline high enough that Kip could see every bulging quad.

Freckles.

Shane Hollander had freckles.

Oh God.

“Oh my God.”

“Um… Hi?”

Kip turned very, very slowly. He peeled his eyes away from Hollander despite the fact that his gaze was probably safer there, with the cute little straight man.

But before him stood Scott Hunter.

And the man deserved to be worshipped.

Preferably on Kip’s knees.

“Oh my God.” He needed to think of more words.

Fortunately Hollander seemed engrossed in the menu, sitting at the counter to peruse the options and ignoring Kip’s idiocy.

Hunter did not. Instead he locked eyes- perfect, rich, dark brown eyes- with Kip and smiled. A giant, wide, perfectly arranged white teeth smile that caused the skin around his eyes to crinkle, the skin at his cheeks to go rosy. “Um. Hi?” Oh thank God, Kip wasn’t the only socially inept idiot here. Not that he usually was. But oh God. “What’s good?”

What’s good.

What did Kip sell again?

Luckily Maria seemed to realise that his brain had turned to mush and took over, pushing him over until he was directly opposite Scott freaking Hunter and pointing to the menu. “We can get you anything you want here. Anything.” She elbowed Kip in the side. “Anything at all.” She said, and Kip winced as he heard her trying to hide her laughter. He averted his eyes from the glory that was Scott Hunter for a second and caught Hollander’s eyes.

Holy fuck.

He felt like he was staring at an all-knowing deity.

Because Shane Hollander. Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Currently three up in the playoffs. Was slowly looking between Scott Hunter. And Kip. And smirking. Knowingly. Then he went back to his menu and Kip was so confused.

“Um… Okay? Do you have any recommendations?”

Kip gave himself whiplash he answered so fast. “Blue Moon Over Brooklyn!” He shouted out. And hated himself. “Um. It’s my favourite.” He finished with a nervous smile, pointing up to the giant menu above his head. “If you like blueberries.” Kip. You are a moron.

Scott Hunter just smiled at him. “Sounds good.” You sound good. “I’ll have one of those. Hollander?”

Hollander sat down the menu. “Can I make a custom?”

“Um… Sure?” Kip shifted over to the computer. “Shoot.”

By the end of it all three of them looked vaguely nauseous.

Shane Hollander was a monster. A hot monster. But a monster that Kip had no interest in any longer.

Marie sorted out Hollander’s kale and spinach monstrosity whilst he measured out ingredients for Hunter’s smoothie, throwing quick glances back at the man who was one second deep in conversation with his fellow captain and the next watching Kip, seeming perfectly happy to just stand there. In his exercise gear. Sculpted chest just there. In front of Kip’s eyes.  

The world was cruel.

Kip felt like a complete and utter loser. “Um… I think it’s better with banana? If you’re interested?”

Scott went to answer but Hollander got there first. “He likes bananas.” He said softly, taking a swig of the nuclear waste Maria had just handed him. “Favourite fruit.”

And Scott Hunter.

Scott Hunter blushed.

Kip was a little bit in love. For this man he would spend the rest of eternity in the closet.

Oh God Kip was pathetic. The most pathetic.

Fantasising a shared closet with Scott freaking Hunter of all people. He needed to get laid. Find a nice gay guy and rail him into the nearest wall.

Hunter would be strong enough to hold him up-

“That’ll be $8.75.” He forced out between mental breakdowns, sliding the ATM machine across the counter for Hunter to tap his card, eyes widening at the frankly monumental tip. “Um, I think you made a mistake-”

“Nah.” Scott grinned as he showed Kip the black card. “Hollander’s paying.” He flipped the card to the other captain who just smiled that same content smile he always seemed to show to the press, accepting the card with those hockey player reflexes and slipping it into his pocket.

Hunter picked up his smoothie and walked away with a little wave which Kip returned, sad to see him go. And also not. That ass. That was America’s ass right there. And he’d seen Rozanov from the same angle.

Hollander however paused at the door and a different kind of smile graced his features, one that had Kip feeling… Not worried. Disturbed, to a degree. It was also scarily familiar. “See you, smoothie boy.” And he held up his phone.

To a picture.

Of Kip. A very hungover Kip.

Smoothie boy.

Smoothie boy.

Hollander’s wave turned into a subtle brush of his fingers over his lips as he exited the shop.

“Oh my God.”

“Gurl.”

“Oh my God.”

“Gurl!” Maria shrieked, jumping up and down in her glee. Honestly? Kip would have joined her if he wasn’t frozen where he stood, trying to come to terms with the fact that Ilya Rozanov. Captain of the Bears.

Had sent Shane Hollander. Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. His nemesis.

To orchestrate a meet cute.

For Kip. Lowly smoothie-boy and gym junkie, college graduate with no prospects. And Scott Hunter. Who was self-explanatory.

“This is either the best day of my life or the worst.” He whispered, terrified. Because what if this wasn’t a dream? What if there was even the tiniest chance that Scott Hunter was Rozanov’s hot gay friend. What if Hunter came back? What if he asked?

“Are you overthinking this?” Maria pressed herself against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “Because I think you shouldn’t.”

Kip shook himself out of it. “Yeah… I guess so. Probably just a joke- Ow!” He rubbed his head where Maria had slapped him. “What the hell was that for?”

His friend just sighed, shaking her head. “Babe. I meant that you should just go for it. Ride that cowboy. Fuck that seriously repressed little hockey player. Become queen WAG of the Admirals.” She leaned in closer. “Fuck Scott Hunter, Kip. Do it for every straight woman who ever thought she stood a chance. Do it for me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably. But seriously. What’s the problem?”

“Um, maybe that he didn’t show a single bit of interest-”

“Bullshit.”

“That I would actually be shoving myself back in the closet if I didn’t want to out him-”

“True.”

“That I’d never be able to be seen with him in public, that our relationship would be a series of one-night stands and I don’t want that?”

“Or he wins the Stanley Cup and makes out with you centre ice?”

“Now you’re being delusional.”

Maria laughed. “Bitch please. You’re already picking out which of his jerseys you want to wear to the next game.”

No he wasn’t.

He already had Vaughan’s.

Fuck. He needed to think.

SHANE

They’d won.

They’d won.

They were a single series from the Cup and his boyfriend was in mother. Fucking. Russia.

Russia.

Shane should be getting dicked down in celebration of his quite frankly amazing last game and instead he’s sitting here. In his bed. Alone. In the dark.

Boyfriendless.

“When did I become so spoiled?” He called into the darkness of his bedroom, and surprise, surprise! No one answered. He hated this. He hated that he’d gotten to used to Ilya just being… There. Available. All the time. That not having him was now… Unsettling. “You survived years of barely seeing him, you can survive a few more weeks.”

Because it was going to be weeks.

Almost a month.

Which hadn’t been the fucking plan!

Shane groaned in frustration. Horny frustration. Adrenalin fuelled horny frustration. His mind was full of sex and he was half-hard and he was stuck here, in his warm, comfortable house whilst his boyfriend was stuck hours away in a country he could be arrested in. He flopped back against his mountain of pillows, groaning into Ilya’s in irritation.

This sucked.

Inwardly he cursed the game for being so fucking good, his team pulling their fingers out of their asses and just doing what he told them.

He cursed Ilya for not being here.

He cursed Alexei Rozanov for calling Ilya whilst he’d been with Shane in Montreal- where he should still be- and dragging him back to Russia.

He cursed Ilya’s dying father- which he was allowed to do because he hated the man, dying or not.

Ilya refused to hate him.

That was okay. Shane was more than happy to do it for him.

They were good like that. Between the two of them they could hate a lot of people.

And so the next morning his miserable, reluctant boyfriend had repacked his bags and set off for the airport, looking as if it was the last place he wanted to be going. He’d landed and gone straight to his father’s apartment and found a neglected old man and spent the next days desperately trying to sort out the thousands of problems that had cropped up in his absence, all the while being blamed for everything by his piece of shit brother.

They’d barely had time to talk. Between the eight hour or so time difference, Shane’s practices, spending time with his parents, Ilya’s myriad of social engagements, appointments, family dinners it was a call here and there and mountains of quick one- or two-word text messages letting the other know they were okay, and alive.

Shane missed him so damn much. He missed the way his bed was always warm, so warm he didn’t need socks to sleep. He missed the smell of coffee in the morning- not that he drank it, but what it represented. The shirtless mountain of a main sitting at his counter, separating whites from yolks, adding frozen berries to Shane’s smoothies, frying up low-fat turkey bacon with a fond smile.

He missed the way he didn’t need to do anything but press himself against Ilya’s back to have the man turning off the hob, putting the bacon in the fridge and dropping to his knees, Shane’s cock in his mouth and Ilya’s fingers in his ass until he was gasping and his legs couldn’t hold him up anymore.

God, he missed the sex.

‘Ra-ra-Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine…’

Shane threw himself across the bed, ripping his phone from the charger and picking up the call.

He was an idiot.

“Hey.” He said softly, an involuntary smile causing his dry lips to ache as his boyfriend’s face appeared on his screen. “I missed you.”

Ilya’s soft voice filtered through the distance, accent deeper than usual after spending so much time around native speakers. “I have missed you too, my cute little freckled Canadian. There are no freckles in Russia, I hate this.”

Shane’s smile dropped from his face as he took in his boyfriend. “Ilya… Are you okay? You look terrible.”

Ilya huffed in amusement. “Here I am, calling boyfriend in middle of night to congratulate on win and beautiful goal, and instead he tells me I am ugly. You are cruel, Hollander.” He could tell Ilya wasn’t serious, there was far too much fondness in his tone but Shane stood by it. He looked so tired.

“You know you’re hot, Rozanov, even when you look like you’re about to drop dead. Which you do. You’re way too pale for zombie to look good.”

Ilya threw up his hands as the camera spun, eventually righting itself to show- oh. Shirtless Ilya. Shirtless and wet and straight from the shower, curls flat and dripping down his neck and- his boyfriend was talking. “Now you are saying I look like death. Hollander, you flatter me badly.”

“Then stop looking like you’re one missed sleep from falling into a coma.” He sat up, putting on his glasses to see the screen easier, smirking in Ilya’s eyes widened and he drew the phone closer to his face, reaching out to touch the screen. “Seriously. I’ve missed you. When are you coming home?”

Ilya’s mouth twitched and it was like a massive weight had dropped onto his shoulders, causing him to slump over into the bedding. “I do not know. My father, he is more stubborn than even me. Refuses to go into home of nurses. Insists will stay at home. Says he is fine. But is not.

“Cannot remember medications- has very high blood pressure and could have stroke alone. No one to find him. Apartment was dusty, and food everywhere, rotting in fridge, nothing to eat. Alexei says he comes to clean, uses money I sent to hire nurse to care, but is lying. I worry will die and no one will know until I threaten my brother. Is… Is hopeless, Hollander. I can do nothing.”

“Oh Ilya…” Shane forced back tears at his boyfriend’s plight. “I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do-”

“You are already doing it, my Shane, you are light at end of very shitty day and I do not know what I would do without you. I do not know if I could survive this without you. So many years I accepted what they told me as truth. Broken. Useless. Lazy. Faggot. I thought maybe was true. Parts of it. No, do not cry, my Shane, too many tears already.”

Shane huffed out a laugh, wiping at his cheeks. “Fuck you, Rozanov.”

Ilya groaned, flopping over onto his back, chest heaving out a sigh. “I wish, Hollander, all I think about at night are your perfect lips around my cock, how tight and hot your ass is, the sounds you make, Hollander, the sounds! They haunt me.” He rolled back onto his side. “And those slutty little glasses, you drive me insane! Why do you wear when I cannot touch you.”

“You could.” Shane said with a shrug. “Somewhat.” He trailed his hand down over his t-shirt, cupping at the front of his joggers where his cock was already hardening, rubbing softly and closing his eyes against the sensations. “If you wanted.”

His boyfriend blushed.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in days. “Oh Hollander… Every man would wish he was me if they knew how perfect you are.” He said softly, worshipfully. “Take off your clothes, Shane.”

He shuddered, a near pavlovian response to the particular way Ilya said his name. He grabbed a pillow, setting it at a diagonal with his phone propped against it, well versed in exactly which angles made him look the best- he was Shane fucking Hollander, he wasn’t going to have mediocre phone sex.

His shirt ended up thrown onto the ground and he rose up onto his knees, pushing his joggers down until they rested around his thighs, restraining them. His cock was fully hard now, sensitive against the warm air of the bedroom and Shane looked over into the camera, grinning at the look of naked desperation that met him, Ilya’s hand already wrapped around his impressive erection, as it should be. “I had an interesting morning, did you know?” He said slowly, drawing his hand down his neck, pushing back his hair, making sure his glasses were steady on his nose.

“You did?” Ilya’s voice was strained, eyes locked on his. “Will you tell me now?”

Shane gasped as his thumb brushed over his nipple, peaked with arousal, then the other. He let his head drop back, knowing that Ilya loved the sight of his neck bared, all for him. The perfect place to bite. Not that he ever did. But one day. One day Shane would walk into his locker room covered in love bites and he wouldn’t care one whit. “Hmm… I think I will. I think I deserve a reward.” He traced his fingers along his ribs, a feather light touch, teasing himself as much as the younger man. “I visited a certain smoothie shop.”

Ilya chuckled as he bucked his hips into his hand, biting down on his lip. “You did?”

“Mhm. Smoothie boy.” He opened his eyes, humour in his voice. “It was us but a hundred times worse.” Ilya laughed uproarishly on the other end of the line and Shane felt his heart jump in his chest at the sound. “I live in a constant state of second-hand embarrassment but it was awful, Ilya. Scott started hyperventilating the instant we got out the door.” 

“And smoothie boy?”

“Looked like he was about to start drooling.”

“That is-” Ilya’s breath hitched and Shane groaned as he watched his boyfriend cup his balls, rolling them in his giant palm, legs wide so that Shane could see everything, the way his thighs shivered, his abs contracting, his hand working over his cock, red and angry in the warm light. Perfection embodied. Shane’s. “Hollander, stop talking about Hunter when I am trying to come.”

Shane snickered as he ran his nails up his thighs under Ilya’s watchful gaze, the fingers of one hand dancing over the head of his cock, already dripping precome down his shaft, swiping up the mess and using it to ease the movement. His other hand, almost on its own came to rest over his right pec, digging into the muscle and squeezing.

“I have never told you how much I love that.” Ilya’s words sent a shiver up his spine and Shane’s eyes fell closed, losing himself in the moment as he imagined Ilya’s hands instead of his own, his boyfriend pressed close to his back. “I love that you are mine. That you are only mine. That you touch your cock like I have taught you- you move your fingers the same way I do.” Shane gasped. “The way you touch those magnificent tits- is how I touched you that first night. Always the right. Then the left.”

Shane’s hand gathered speed, the lube in his bedside table forgotten as another bead of precome eased his way, stripping violently at his cock, the sound obscene in the quiet of his house, only rivalled by the sheer eroticism of Ilya’s movements thousands of miles away. “The way you suck my cock exactly the way I suck yours- always needing to learn the best.” Ilya made a choking sound and Shane forced open his eyes in time to see his back arch off the bed, legs splayed akimbo as ropes of come landed on his chest, his pillows, his chin. Ilya turned to look at him, his finger swiping at the mess, bringing it to his perfect lips. “Every meaningful sexual experience you have ever had, Shane Hollander. Is mine.”

“Ilya!” Shane gasped as he collapsed forward onto one hand, his other catching the mess of his release as he came, shuddering, broken, wishing so much that he wasn’t alone.

Soon.

There was nothing but their harsh breathing for a good minute. If Ilya was home he would have eased Shane upright, laid him back and slowly stretched out his aching legs, fetched a towel, cleaned him up.

Offered him a snack.

Kissed his forehead goodnight.

Curled up behind him.

Shane was so fucking spoiled.

“God, I wish you were here, Ilya.” He uttered softly before he forced himself into sitting, groaning in pain as blood rushed back to his feet, grabbing a Boston jersey from Ilya’s side of the closet and heading into the bathroom to wash his hands.

“I wish I was.” He heard from the bedroom. “Hmm…. Hunter is calling on the skype.”

Shane threw the washer in the bathroom sink and returned to his bed, burrowing under the quilts. “Leave me on in the background? I want to fall asleep with you tonight.”

“Of course, my Shane.”

SCOTT

Scott stared at his laptop. And he stared at the ceiling. And then he stared at his laptop again. He sighed. And then he did something he had never wanted to in his entire life.

He video called Ilya Rozanov.

“Why you call me, Hunter? Finally decided to ask for help with shitty hockey playing?”

“Why the fuck are you naked?” Was the first thing that came out his mouth and he winced. “Sorry.”

“Is okay. Close eyes” And with that Rozanov stood, and Scott was hit with a full-frontal view before it was covered by a pair of underwear. “You did not close eyes.”

“Fuck you Rozanov. I deserve a fucking distraction after the day I’ve had. Your boyfriend is a fucking menace.”

Rozanov chuckled as he crawled back into bed. “No need to be cranky, dinosaur. What do you want if not tips to win cup? Eh, either way my Shane will still beat you.”

Scott took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he effectively lost all self-respect. “I need to know how you went from chirping out hotel room numbers in public to having hockey’s golden boy Shane Hollander staring at you as if you invented ice hockey.”

There was silence for a moment then- “What the fuck! I do not!”

Scott groaned as Shane Hollander’s voice- clearly on a call- came through his speakers. “I hate my life.” He flopped back onto his bed, staring out the window. “You really do, Hollander. You’ve got fucking ‘heart eyes’ every time he’s in the same city. The same thought.” Hollander mumbled something in Russian that had Rozanov grinning. “So how did you do it, Rozanov. How did you. Biggest asshole in the entire league. Get Shane Hollander. The league’s most beloved sleep paralysis demon. To sleep with you.”

It started as a strange wheezing noise, but it developed into all out roaring laughter and Scott watched as Rozanov went crashing out of his bed, landing heavily on the floor. “Fucking moron.”

“You’re not helping your case there, Hollander.”

“What case? Marlow’s shown me pictures complete with little cartoon hearts. I’m fucked.”

“At least you’re self-aware.” Scott acknowledged, watching as Rozanov crawled back off the floor, waiting out the Russian’s mirth because to be honest he understood it, even if he didn’t like it. Yes. He, Scott Hunter. ONLY THREE YEARS OLDER than the little shits on the other end of the call, was asking Ilya Rozanov for advice on his love life. Whilst his boyfriend listened.

He regretted every choice that had led him to this point.

Or he would have.

If he’d ever been given a choice. Which he hadn’t.

If he had he’d likely be bottom deep in a bottle of cheap scotch instead of nursing a single glass of expensive Russian vodka, covered in a weighted blanket and engaging in voluntarily humiliation.

It took Rozanov a few minutes to get himself under control and by that point Scott was seriously debating hanging up but really. Couldn’t get worse than this. “Are you done?”

Rozanov cackled. “For now. But am sure will find something else to laugh at. So. Tell me, Hunter, why have you come to Ilya, your fairy gaymother.” Another chuckle.

Scott huffed irritatedly. “Damn it, Rozanov, do you think this is fucking easy for me? You’re literally the only person I can talk to about this and simultaneously the last person I want to. Can you just shut up and listen.”

“I am zipped, Hunter. Proceed.”

“I met someone.” He’d meant to keep it bare bones. He’d meant to leave it at that. “I think he’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen Hollander naked.”

“Everyone has seen Hollander naked. Is nothing special.”

“Ilya!”

“Is true, moy lyubov, you are very shameless in showers. Makes me jealous I have never been on same team. Would likely get hard-”

“Rozanov! I swear to God if you ever want see me naked again-”

“Can you two please shut up!” Scott shouted, and really. Why was he always the adult? No wonder everyone believed the rivalry bullshit. “Can I get on with the damned story?”

Rozanov settled cross legged and leaned forward. “Proceed.”

And so Scott did. He talked about Kip’s smile. How cute he was all flustered. The way his shirt had pulled against his biceps. The way he licked his lips when Scott had leant closer to the counter. Hollander and fucking bananas which had Rozanov looking all glazed eyes and vaguely horny. How proud he was of himself for not making a complete and utter fool of himself. Rozanov seemed to be treating the entire situation like a bedtime story.

“And then you had a panic attack in the alley next door.”

“Fucking hell, Hollander!” Scott may have forgotten he was listening. “Do you have to tell this asshole everything?!”

“To be fair I already told him.”

“Is true. He tells me everything. Makes me happy in miserable wet Russian summer.”

“Whatever.” Scott finished. “So what the hell am I supposed to do when I’m so deep in the fucking closet I can see Narnia? I don’t even know if he’s interested. Or gay for that matter.”

“He’s gay.”

“He’s gay.”

“No offence, you two don’t have the best gaydars-”

“Bullshit, Hunter. I have best gaydar. I find Hollander, and you, and Marley and Carter and short little smoothie man-”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” In the background Hollander started laughing. “What do you mean you… Rozanov. Please tell me you didn’t scout me out a fucking boyfriend?!”

The giant Russian just shrugged in that smug way of his. “This is bad thing?” He asked. “I do not think so. Marley liked him. Carter I do not know, was muttering about dying. Shane thought was cute.”

Oh God. “Oh my God, Rozanov, does Kip know? That you were planning this?”

“Of course. Told him was looking for boyfriend for hot gay friend! Is fine. No names. If you do not want cute smoothie boy will not be problem.”

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

“No, I fuck Hollander.”

Scott leaned over, forcing back the… He didn’t even know what he was feeling, just that it made him feel close to another panic attack, and he hadn’t had one of those in a while. “I can’t believe you… Do I even get a choice in this?”

“Of course you do. You don’t have to ever walk into that place again, it’s not your regular route and New York is huge. Kip will probably just assume Ilya was fucking with him. Wouldn’t be the most unlikely of situations.”

“Fuck you, Hollander.”

“I’m taken.”

Scott watched Rozanov shift on the other end of the call, burrowing further under yet another of his weighted blankets. “Hunter, you have very cute, sweet, gay little smoothie boy who you want to fuck. Who clearly wants to fuck you. But you cannot muster up balls to stick tongue down throat. I see.” He hummed thoughtfully. “I do not know how to help.”

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know how to help? You’re the one who set me up and Kip and Hollander are basically the same person! We’re the same person! Why the fuck can’t you help me?”

“We are not the same person!” Hollander shouted, and Scott rolled his eyes.

Rozanov chuckled that damned smug chuckle again. “Oh no, Hunter. He is right. You too are caught in the Hollander Effect.” He giggled softly. “No, no. You see, deep down, problem is that your cute little smoothie boy is nice boy. Good boy. Sweet and sexy and likes vanilla ice cream.” Rozanov leaned into the screen and a near feral grin broke out on his face. “You think Hollander is same because he wants you to think that. But Shane Hollander is even bigger asshole than me.”

Scott snorted in amusement. “Bullshit.”

“Oh no.” Rozanov shook his head seriously. “I am asshole on outside. Shane is asshole on inside. Hides it. Uses it for own pleasure.” That grin returned. “Like Vegas.”

Scott had a horrible feeling he was going to regret asking. “What about Vegas.”

Rozanov settled back on his couch. “You remember when you were pouring sad story about alcoholism and bad hockey, whining about sad man being alone and gay, da?”

Scott clenched his teeth, realizing that Hollander had told Rozanov about what he had thought was a very personal conversation. “He told you.”

“Was there. Hollander was all nice and warm and cuddled and giggling when he pretended to be sad. Pretended that 1221 was beginning. Angry that you call me mean things.” He smirked knowingly. “He likes secrets. Is tricky. Sneaky. Reveals for greatest effect years later. Like when he invites you to wedding.” He suddenly leaned in, causing Scott to rear back instinctively. “But I will tell you truth, Hunter, and you will see that what worked on Hollander will not work for your Kip. Because you said Shane sounds like me? Oh no.” The grin was terrifyingly smug. “I learn English from him.”

Which meant that Shane Hollander was responsible for the biggest menace on the ice.

Fuck that little shit.

“You can’t be serious. Hollander!” He called through the screen. “Please tell me this is bullshit.”

There was a suspiciously long silence. “… No comment.”

Scott closed his eyes and prayed for salvation as Rozanov chortled into his glass. “The two of you are awful. You deserve each other.”

Rozanov nodded. “Of course. Shane deserves best, and I am best!”

“Shut up, Ilya.”

“Shut up both of you.” Unable to hold back his interest, Scott nodded. “Alright. Tell me.”

Rozanov smiled, sitting back and picking up a glass by his bed. “Okey. Begins in Saskatchewan, 2008.”

“2008-”

“Shh, Hunter. Is my story. I am smoking in cold, snow, and tiny little kitten with cute freckles tells me I am amazing, and to go smoke in snowbank. I tell him to go fuck himself.” Scott groaned. “No! Is true!  I was baby, and other baby want to shake hands. Seventeen.” Rozanov looked into the distance like he was reliving a fond memory. “Then tiny little hockey player beats me and I want to fuck him instead.

“So I make plan. Is very good plan. Full of smaller plans. And other plans to side. I lie out giant map of all ways I must dirty golden boy of Canada. And then we meet at draft and I win. Which is bad for plan, because cranky Hollander is not sexy.” The expression on Rozanov’s face indicated he no longer believed that. “I am annoyed, and so I go to gym in middle of night. Find Hollander punishing himself on running thing. Is annoying. And so I beat him again.” Of course he had.

“And then what. He yells at you, you yell at him, end up fucking on the floor?”

Rozanov’s eyebrow itched up in irritation. “Is my story, Hunter, shoosh.” Scott mimed locking his lips. “No. Floor of gym is gross, Hollander would never fuck on gym floor unless in own house. No. End up sitting across, not touching. And I am thinking, like you, of all ways to seduce pretty little thing without him screaming I assault him. Which would be very much bad. And so to think, I take a drink. And he is watching me.” Rozanov’s expression turned downright filthy. “Does your boy watch you like he wants to rip off your clothes and fuck you there on the smoothie counter?”

His mouth dropped open in shock. “Uh… No?”

“Eh, kinda?” Hollander interjected. “Except maybe it was more he wanted to worship at your altar. Or marry you.”

Rozanov nodded knowingly. “You see? Would not work on your Kip. Hollander has ‘fuck me’ eyes. Marlow teaches me this. Is begging me to fuck him. He watches my throat, my lips, my cock, and then he runs away to jerk off to me.”

“I fucking doubt it.”

“I wish it wasn’t true.”

“Yes, he tells me this later.” Scott hated how blasé Rozanov sounded as he described a scenario Scott would have paid a year’s salary to be in. Not with Hollander, per se, but to have a man be so unashamedly into him, to not have to work so fucking hard for what so many other people took for granted. Rozanov continued whilst Scott battled his inner misery. “I tear up plans. No need for plans. In one year we do ad for CCM. He did not punch me on ice, so I follow him into shower-”

“Pretty sure that could be argued as sexual assault, Rozanov.”

“-And I think will do conversation. No big matter. And then Hollander licks pretty pink lips whilst staring at my cock and getting hard. So I grab my cock-”

“Please dear god stop.”

“That was what Hollander said. And then he gives me room number and sucks my brain out through my dick. I do not think jerking off in front of him would work for your Kip. Not hygienic in smoothie place, hm?”

“I want to die.”

“Of old age, da? In a year or so?”

Scott shoved his head in his hands. “Fuck, Hollander. I kinda wanna salute you for somehow being both the most closeted naïve little shit in existence and simultaneously being such a shameless slut that you locked down the perfect man at the age of seventeen.”

“Thanks… I guess?”

He looked up at Rozanov who was beaming. Fucking beaming. “What.”

“You think I am perfect.”

“I think you’re fucking annoying, Rozanov, and have no idea what Hollander sees in you.”

“He thinks I am delight. Also loves my giant cock.”

“Ilya!”

Chapter End Notes

And next time on our non-scheduled broadcast we have:

Hayden becoming self-aware.
Ilya's family being THE WORST.

THE COTTAGE. Because I have no chill. Murder kittens. Phone calls with people NOT Hayden.

It's all moving fast from here.

I sees you then :-)

Chapter 11: Collectively, They Have No Chill

Chapter Summary

In which:
Hayden starts to grow the fuck up.
Ilya has a no good very bad day and runs a lot.
The dinosaur support club has a collective panic attack.
Kip... Still confused. But now also horny.

Chapter Notes

Hello my peeps! It is the end of my extended long weekend and I will have no time to write for a while, so enjoy!

To those of you pointing out my failures as a Russian translator, continuity person, misspeller of names- I salute you and will fix as much as possible.

Note 1: From now on it's likely I'm just gonna use italics for Russian which apparently has male and female things like de french. I am too tired for this. So italics.

Note 2: I'll probs keep on doing minor edits as I catch my own mistakes too! I will save them for update days and do all at once.

Thank you for your amazing comments that keep me from crippling exam induced misery!

Onwards!

HAYDEN

June 2015- Montreal

Ruby was screaming.

She hadn’t stopped screaming for the last thirty minutes.

Because Jade wanted to play with her Barbie.

Usually Hayden would have put himself in the middle of it. He’d have consoled here. Patted a head there. Negotiated. Fixed. He always fixed.

“Hayden, can you please deal with them?” Jackie asked softly, walking past the couch where he sat, carrying a load of washing in her arms. “They’ve been going for hours.”

“Not hours.” Hayden muttered before he forced himself to his feet, walking forward to the two girls. He bent down and snatched the toy out from their hands. “Neither of you deserve this until you can agree to share.” He stood up, throwing the toy on top of the fridge in full view of his two children. “Find something else to play with.”

Sunday. It was Sunday. He was here. At home. Alone.

Usually Shane would have already taken the girls out to the local park. He and Jackie would have taken advantage of the time alone. They’d be sitting out the back eating lunch.

He and Jackie had barely spoken since Florida. They sure as hell hadn’t had sex.

He’d barely been able to look at her. He loved her. But he couldn’t look at her.

He hated himself for it. He hated that he blamed her. He hated that she’d gone against everything she’d known about Shane, about himself, without second thought. Just trampled over years of friendship, love and trust, leaving Hayden behind to pick up the pieces.  

He should have locked his fucking phone.

And now Shane was alone and hurting because of his stupidity.

He hated that Jackie tried to justify it. That she was just trying to support him. That it justified her trampling over the only boundary Shane had ever put in place.

That Hayden should never have held such a secret from her, like Shane’s life was just another thing they shared.

Hayden honestly didn’t know if they’d ever be able to come back from this.

He didn’t know if Shane wanted to.

Hayden had watched as his best friend was slammed into the boards by his own team’s doing. He’d watched as Hunter and Vaughan had led his captain off the ice, comforting him like Hayden had wished he could.

“Hayden?” He shrugged Jackie’s hand off and walked outside.

ILYA

June 2015- Moscow

He stood in front of the TV in his apartment, the HDMI cable from his laptop streaming the final game of the series onto the screen.

Tears ran down his face and he sobbed into his hands as Shane lifted the cup, so fucking proud of his boyfriend.

So angry that he wasn’t there.

So angry that Hunter, and Vaughan, and Marley had all been shown on the screens wearing Hollander jerseys, cheering for him. Down on the ice, drawing him into a group hug that had the commentators screaming about sportsmanship whilst his own team stood to the side in their own celebrations, Pike awkwardly between the two groups hands twitching, looking like a lost little fish.

Angry because even if he’d been there, he would have had to hold back.

Maybe it was better this way.

He was torn from his complicated mood as his phone buzzed. Again. And again. And again. He’d turned the ringer off days ago once his brother had gotten it into his head that Ilya would be willing to fund the upkeep on his father’s apartment, instead of selling to fund the institution Ilya had recommended.

He checked the messages.

DINOSAUR SUPPORT GROUP

Marley: The bastards didn’t say a single fucking word to him, Roz.

Three goals.

A fucking hat trick in the cup final and aside from Pike they barely stuck around long enough to get the pictures.

He needs to get the fuck out of this team.

Vaughan: I don’t tend to agree with anything out of Marlow’s mouth. But I’m agreeing.

Dinosaur: How long is left on his contract?

Ilya moaned miserably, collapsing onto his bed. His boyfriend was alone with enemies and there was nothing he could do, only hope that his friends would keep him safe.

Is too long. Unless rest of contract is waived will be in Montreal for years.

You will stay with him tonight? Make sure they do not hurt him?

Marley: You got it brother. Hollzy’s not keen to stay out long, Pike’s looking like a little bitch and a few of the other ones are shifty as fuck.

Vaughan: How the fuck is he able to deal with this toxic shit, Roz? He’s like, the nicest guy in the whole league, why the hell are they such dicks to him? What did he do to trigger this?

Hollander does not like racists.

Or homophobes.

His team has many.

Did not used to say anything, too scared, but now is less scared.

Wants to be better. Team does not like this.

Dinosaur: Doesn’t help that he’s not got the stereotypical hockey player attitude.

Anyone who doesn’t want to throw down on the ice is immediately put in the category of gay-adjacent.

You are using many large words, Hunter. Simple.

Dinosaur: They think he’s gay, Rozanov. Because he gives a shit.

Hunter wasn’t wrong. His Shane cared too much about people who did not deserve his care. His team who, whilst they played to his orders, fled the locker room before he’d come back from press. His team that no longer invited him to lunches and dinners and holiday celebrations. Who did the bare minimum to ensure Shane continued to function.

He hated them.

Again, his phone went off. Except this time it was a call. His father. “Papa. Are you alright?”

“Where are you Ilyushka, you are late for our dinner.”

“I was watching-”

“You are lazy, my son. I expect you here within the hour. Alexei and his wife will be here soon and I expect your presence. Do not disappoint me.” The call dropped and Ilya had to force his fingers to relax, to not throw his phone at the wall and book a flight home.

He changed out of his pyjamas, donning his characteristic black, pulling on the leather jacket he’d stollen from Shane’s closet the night before he’d left. It still smelled of his cologne and Ilya had taken to stroking the soft fabric each time he left the house, wearing the slightly too small jacket, shirts he’d pilfered, sleeping in the Canada Juniors jersey that Shane had given him voluntarily. His boyfriend liked to see him in it. Just it.

The car ride over was silent, the taxi driver fixed on the road ahead, nothing like the friendly chatting he’d grown used to in Boston.

Stepping into his father’s apartment he felt the weight of the situation fall on his shoulders. Every little bit of the happiness he had felt at Shane’s victory fell silent in his head and he shut away his emotions, donning the cloak of apathy that had served him well for years in his father’s home. He inhaled deeply, the smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol causing him to wince.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cigarette.

The last time he’d been blackout drunk.

“Ilyushka.” His father’s hand landed on his shoulder and he turned slowly.

His father had once stood taller than he, shoulders broader, eyes bright blue. He had been larger than life and Ilya had spent years in fear of his temper, inevitably triggered at each disappointment.

He didn’t know if it was simply time that had reduced the man in his eyes or his illness but either way as Ilya stood in front of him he felt no lingering respect. Just pity. “Papa. You are well?”

“Why would I not be?” Spindly fingers tightened around his arm and pulled him steadily into the dining room. “You are late. Already your brother is here. We have much to discuss.” Ilya didn’t doubt that it would be the same discussion as the night before. And the night before that. “I have invited some of my old colleagues also, from the offices.”

A wave of fear overtook Ilya’s entire body and he paused. His father turned back to look at him, sallow cheeks pulling in as his lips pursed. “Papa. Do you think that this is a good idea? These are family matters.”

“You have made it more than that, Ilyushka, with your stubbornness. You refuse to help our family and I require assistance in making you see that your duties here are being neglected.” His father swayed slightly as he turned to left, heading towards the old dining room. When last Ilya had seen it, it had been littered with papers and the refuse of his father’s wandering mind, his desperate attempts to bring himself back to a time he remembered.

Now the lamps were lit around the edge of the room, bathing the entire space in sepia tones. It was still dark enough that it was possible to ignore the tattered fabric of the curtains, the fading of the carpet, the scratches on the table. It had been years since his father had entertained and it was clear in the way the candlelight glinted on the tarnished silver, the mismatched plates, the plastic serving dishes here and there holding the rich catered food.

His father sat at the head of the table and Ilya recognised several ministers of state, former military commanders, high ranking police operatives standing around the edges of the room. His brother sat to his father’s right hand, Ilya’s niece absent, her mother a shadow of herself at Alexei’s side. He offered her a slight smile that she did not return, turning away. Polina was nowhere to be seen.

Ilya steeled himself, taking in the possible exits- the door to the kitchen which led straight to the fire escape. The windows, leading to a large balcony that connected with the empty apartment next door. And the front door. Currently clear.

Ilya didn’t speak, instead taking his customary seat halfway down the table to the left. Removed. Safe.

His father’s lip curled up into a sneer. “Already you separate yourself from your family. Why do you sit so far away?”

Ilya flinched. Around the room all eyes turned to fall on him. “Papa, this is the seat you have always preferred me to take.” He said gently, smile wavering. “You see? Already it is set for me.” He held up the placard with his name on it. His father’s gaze faltered for a moment and the look of confusion flickered into being.

This would not end well.

He didn’t remove Shane’s jacket.

He didn’t tuck in his chair.

His phone was recording.

“Yes. I remember.” His father said, picking up his glass. “You do not need to remind me, Ilya.” He turned away to whisper in Alexei’s ear.

Ilya sat still as the table slowly filled with men who could easily send him to jail should his father lapse. Should he forget that a deviant son was something to hate in private, not in public. Should he forget that others would look upon Grigori Rozanov unfavourably if Ilya should come to light.

He pushed his hands between his thighs to still their trembling, keeping his eyes respectfully averted towards the ground, speaking only when spoken to and answering with the fewest possible words. It was hockey, mainly. Why his team had failed to secure the cup. His father’s disappointment. Why was he not returning to play in Russia as his father wished him to.

Was he ashamed of his country?

Was he ashamed of his father?

He answered them all. Yes. Sir. No. Sir. I am deeply ashamed of my actions on the ice. I earn far too much money to return to Russia.

I love my father.

I love and respect my elder brother.

No, I am not seeing anyone.

Please, show me a picture your daughter. Yes, she is very beautiful. Will make a lovely wife one day.

Peace remained until the second course was bought out. Perhaps the words Alexei whispered in their father’s ears was the cause. Perhaps it was that Ilya had not yet misspoke, perhaps it was his father’s own hatred that triggered the outburst, as Ilya spoke of his life in Boston. “Boston this and Boston that! America! My son refuses to think of his roots, refuses to support his family! He earns millions every year and wastes it all on partying and women! It is a disgrace! After all that we have sacrificed to see him succeed!” His father shouted, banging his fork on the table, causing the glasses to rattle. He pointed his steak knife in Ilya’s direction, causing him to shrink back in his seat, behind Alexei’s own superior. “Did I tell you! He wishes to sell this apartment from under me! His own father!”

Ilya cringed. “Papa, perhaps we should speak in private?” He asked carefully, pushing away his untouched plate. “I know that you do not wish to burden our esteemed colleagues-”

“You will not shame me!” His father threw his knife and Ilya exclaimed in fear, almost tripping over his chair as he threw himself back, the knife just missing as it flew past his head, embedding in the wall behind him. Around him Grigori’s dinner guests started to shift away, eyes widening in shock as his father rounded the table more swiftly than Ilya had seen him move in years. “You seek to see me institutionalised! Believe that I cannot think for myself! You would abandon me for your whores in America, abandon your family!” His hand shot out and grabbed tight around Ilya’s throat, pushing him back against the wall, his head smacking against the wooden panelling. “Little fa-”

“Papa!” Ilya shouted, and the volume seemed to snap his father out of his state of anger.

Until it didn’t.

He hadn’t expected it.

He didn’t know to dodge.

It was fear that moved him, causing him to shift at the last moment, the knife shearing across his cheek instead of into it, causing him to cry out in distress as blood ran in rivulets down his cheek, into his shirt, soaking down his chest.

He shoved his father back involuntarily, the man stumbling back into Alexei who caught him, his brother’s expression one of fury.

Ilya bought his hand up to his cheek, hissing as his fingers felt raw flesh, staring wildly around the room, concentrating on those who had been closest to him.

Their expressions said it all.

They had heard.

Ilya ran.

He didn’t wait for a taxi. It was a ten-minute run at a dead sprint to his apartment and Ilya was fast when he needed to be.

It wasn’t overly late and he drew more than a few expressions of alarm as he ran across roads and parks, gasping for breath, Shane’s jacket in his sweaty hand, unwilling to damage it with the blood still running down his face.

He didn’t stop until the door was locked securely behind him.

He didn’t stop until he had his wallet, phone, charger, laptop and all of Shane’s clothes in his carry-on.

He swallowed heavily around the all-encompassing fear trying to force its way up his throat. He peeked through the curtain. No lights. No sirens. Not yet. 

He had to leave the apartment.

He’d taken everything that mattered back to Boston last year.

He strode through the front door, striding past the doorman. “He is leaving now, Minister. Would you like me to ask him to wait?”

Ilya ran.

He called the first number he saw.

“Roz? Didn’t expect you to call-”

“When is next flight out of Russia?!” He gasped out as he flagged down a taxi two miles from the apartment.

“What? Rozanov-”

“Find me the next fucking flight, Marlow!” He pulled his phone down from his ear, trying to get past the byzantine firewalls, his reception was already terrible in this area of town, his hands barely functional. “I need to leave Moscow tonight.”

To his credit Marlow didn’t ask. He just did. Ilya could hear celebrations in the background, music that fell silent as Cliff stepped outside. He left his best friend to work, knowing there was nothing he could do to hurry him further than his clear panic did.

“There’s one in an hour. Roz, you’re scaring me. Do I need to get Hollzy?”

“No!” Ilya shouted, startling the driver who threw a very Russian scowl under over his shoulder. “Book it. Any seat I do not care. I will text you passport. I will get there.”

“Roz-”

“Now, Marlow. I will text when on plane. Do not tell Hollander. He will only panic. He deserves to celebrate win.”

“He won’t be the only one, Roz. What the fuck’s happening over there?”

“I will text. Stay with Shane.” He terminated the call.

Ilya winced as he bumped his cheek against the phone, a fresh pulse of blood dropping off his chin. He had nothing to staunch it with. He’d left everything behind he didn’t absolutely need and his driver seemed content to leave him to bleed.

It would stop eventually.

It always did.

He half expected the police to be waiting but the airport was silent aside from the usual hum of late-night passengers catching the last flight. He checked the boards, comparing them to the ticket Marlow had sent, pulling Shane’s hoodie over his head, masking the increasing mess down his chest.

He hurried to his gate, his lack of luggage for once a boon as he was ushered through, his passport photo opening doors that might have otherwise been long closed.

The first-class seat was private, a partition dividing him from the next empty seat. Peering around as he stowed his bag in the overhead compartment he noted that he was the only first-class passenger and that suited him just fine.

He waved away the steward who nonetheless returned a few moments later with a concerned frown, carrying a warm towel, and a small first aid kit.

Ilya stared at the collection of items. Looked up at the older, grey-haired man. Took them.

And promptly burst into tears.

Between an hour of hacking, terror filled sobs and the nice old man placing a neat row of butterfly strips along his cheek Ilya forgot to text Marlow.

It was only then that he was told that the Wi-Fi was down.

And so he waited.

It wasn’t until they landed in Dubai that Ilya’s phone switched off airplane mode and all hell broke loose. “Traitor.” Ilya murmured in Russian as thirty-two voicemails came through, each and every one becoming more and more heartbreakingly panicked as Shane slowly lost all reason, the final voicemail little more than hysterical sobs.

Ilya Rozanov had never hated himself more than he did at that moment.

Still, he didn’t hesitate to place the video call and an instant later Hunter’s haggard features filled his screen. “Gross. Is too early for old man.” The hoarseness of his voice- the first time he’d spoken since he’d run from his father’s home- had Hunter pausing in what was likely to be a rant of epic proportions.

“Fuck, Rozanov, are you okay?” He said softly, and Ilya watched as the scenery changed to Shane’s kitchen. “We’ve been fucking terrified all night, what the hell happened?”

Ilya shrugged, wincing as the stiff fabric of his shirt pulled on his skin. “I walked into door.” He forced out, accompanying the lie with a wobbly smile that had Hunter looking like he was about to cry. “Is okay. I am out. I will never return to Russia again.” His voice hitched at the end and he rubbed at his eyes, itchy and red from lack of sleep and intermittently sobbing into a pillow the entire flight. Thinking of his mother’s grave that he would never see again. His niece, who would grow up with only her father’s bastardised stories of her uncle.

His father. Who had betrayed him in the worse way possible. “Is Shane alright?”

“No, he’s not fucking alright. None of us are fucking alright. Do you have any idea what that did to us? We… God damn it, Ilya, we thought you were dead!” Scott whisper shouted, biting at his lip as tears started to fall from his eyes. “You absolute bastard, you were supposed to let Marlow know-”

“Had breakdown. Bad one.”  Ilya interrupted him, wanting him to know. “By time was able to think was too late, could not send. I am sorry. Did not mean to hurt you all.”

Hunter just shook his head. “It’s fine… Just don’t do it again. Pretty sure by the end Hollander was picturing your plane in pieces in some eastern European backwater.”

“Where is he? I want… I want to see him. If he will let me.”

“Pretty sure he’ll let you do whatever the fuck you want with him, Rozanov, as long as you’re on your way home.” The phone was picked up again and Hunter walked past the empty guest rooms, up the stairs into the master where a singular lump existed in the middle of the massive bed. Scott pulled down a corner of the quilt to reveal Shane curled up against Marlow’s chest, Vaughan pressed against his back, all three men looking completely exhausted. “We slept in shifts, to make sure we didn’t miss you calling.” Hunter murmured as he bent over, shaking Shane’s shoulder. “Hollander. Wake up.”

Ilya let out a sob as those perfect eyes fluttered open, fighting against his eyelashes that must have dried shut in the night. His freckles were standing out against his pale skin and Ilya would never forgive himself. “Oh Shane.” He whispered, and it must have come through the speaker because Hollander was sitting bolt upright, snatching his phone from Hunter’s grip, eyes wild and panicked.

“Ilya?” He gasped out before breaking into heartbroken wails, the phone dropping and someone scrabbling to retrieve it as Cliff’s voice hovered in the background. Ilya watched as his boyfriend was crushed into Marley’s chest, the giant forward curling his boyfriend into a tiny ball in his lap, rocking him softly.

“Well, that could have gone worse.” Carter appeared in the edge of the frame, pressing up against Marlow’s side, rubbing at his eyes. “You had us worried, Rozanov. You owe all of us, especially Hollander, one hell of an explanation.”

Ilya watched as his boyfriend turned to mush in Cliff’s grip, slumping down until he was more liquid than man. “Demented father called me faggot in front of high-ranking members of government, tried to stab me, then I run from Russia. Is not long story.”

It really wasn’t.

It wasn’t even a good one.

“You… You were stabbed?” Cliff whispered in shock. Beside him Carter’s eyes were bulging out of his head and Hunter’s hand was trembling.

And Shane.

His poor Shane.

He had never heard such a broken sound. As if someone had ripped out Ilya’s heart in front of him. Ilya never wanted to hear it again. “Oh Hollander, I am so sorry. I never wanted this to happen to you. I didn’t want you to know until I was home. I wanted to be with you when I told you.” He said softly, slipping into Russian when his sleep deprived brain couldn’t manage English.

Shane’s entire body uncoiled like a snake, throwing himself at the phone, tearstained face fully visible. “Fuck you, you piece of shit!” He yelled, loud enough that Ilya winced against his headphones, decreasing the phone volume. Because of course his perfect Shane could scream in Russian. “You told to lie! I am not fuck friend, Ilya, I am boyfriend! And you did not call me! I would never give shit about cup when man I am in love with is dying in middle of Moscow!” He wiped his hand violently across his face, sleeve catching most of the mess. He sobbed into the fabric of what Ilya realised was one of his own sweaters, soft and worn and warm. “Do you think I survive losing you? I would have died, Ilya. And no one would know why.” He finished with a distraught whisper, fingers caressing the screen.

Ilya surreptitiously wiped the tears from his own eyes, ignoring the strange looks he was getting in the passenger lounge, even tucked into the corner as he was. “Every thought I had was of returning to you, Shane Hollander. I would have dragged myself back to your side. I would never leave you, my love, if there was a chance.”

In the background there was a massive sniffle and Shane shifted the phone to show Marlow’s watery smile. “I didn’t understand a word of that, but I think it was beautiful.”

Ilya laughed at his best friend’s antics. “I believe that Hollander just confessed his love to me whilst threatening to kill himself if I die first.”

That earned him a round of laughter, but Shane’s expression didn’t change. Ilya didn’t ever want it to change. “I love you, Shane Hollander.”

“You’d fucking better. Get your ass back to Canada you asshole.”

“Yes, my captain.”

It was Marlow who picked him up at Montreal airport.

They drove for exactly one minute before stopping by a café and a moment later Shane was ensconced safely in his lap, seatbelt wrapping around the two of them as his beloved boyfriend proceeded to have a panic attack the entire three hours it took Marlow to drive them to the cottage, Shane unwilling to risk Ilya escaping his grasp and therefore seeking to isolate them both until his controlling little hockey player could make sense of the world again.

At first Ilya tried to talk Shane out of it as he had in Vegas but he quickly realised that there was no calming him and all he could do was try to hold his boyfriend through it, stroking his back, his hair, wiping away the sporadic bursts of tears, crushing him to his chest until his arms were aching, his legs numb.

Around him their friends just rode in silence. Carter had a book out that he was barely looking at, feeding Marlow chips. Hunter sat in the middle seat beside Ilya, supporting half of Shane’s body weight once Ilya started to fidget in something akin to pain. Cliff was stiff and silent in the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the road aside from the occasional glimpse in the rearview mirror. Soft classical music played over Shane’s rapid but manageable breaths.

When the cottage first came into view the only thing Ilya noticed was that it was not a fucking cottage. A cottage was small. Quaint. Roses in the garden and a trickling brook.

This was a mini mansion on a lake. 

Once he was out of the car and Shane was in his arms he noticed near nothing else until they were in the giant, double headed shower and Shane was scrubbing the blood from his torso which led to Shane sobbing helplessly against his chest and they ended up collapsed together on the tiled floor as the hot water beat down against them, unwilling and unable to move until Scott came to retrieve them, worried about the lack of yelling.

That led to three grown men carrying two naked grown men out of the bathroom, stuffing them into clothes and tucking them into bed in the late afternoon, electronic blinds sliding down and covering them in the safety of darkness.

The sound of movement, the smell of something cooking on the other side of the bedroom door was enough to send ‘safe’ signals to Ilya’s misfiring brain and he started to relax after almost an entire day of fevered travelling. Beside him Shane was pressed up so close against his chest that his befuddled brain honestly couldn’t figure out where his own limbs were attached and the comforting smell of his hair had him slipping into the sleep of the truly exhausted.

HAYDEN

Shane didn’t need him anymore.

He slammed straight into Cliff Marlow’s broad back as he went to hug Shane the instant he could force his way through the crowd to his side, Marlow throwing a look of abject disgust over his shoulder as Hayden stumbled backwards, already fucked ankle twisting under his weight, collapsing against the boards as Shane was enveloped into a hug by Hunter.

He called out to him, following the little group until Hunter told him to fuck off, leaving him standing at centre ice, tired and hurt and alone, Jackie and the girls still in the stands.

His best friend was done with him.

He stared down at the ice, scuffed and scarred and rubbed at his eyes with filthy, sweat stained hands before turning and skating back to the tunnel.

He needed this to be over.

He needed to not see Shane surrounded by his new friends. Better friends. Rich and famous and kind and draped all over him, Shane reacting to their ribbing and physical contact with a readiness and enthusiasm he’d never shown with Hayden.

He needed to not see Shane accepting the bowl of chips Marlow handed him, the full-strength beer Vaughan placed in his hand, the sticky date pudding Hunter fed him spoon by spoon of as the night progressed, the three giant men forming an impenetrable wall around him.

He caught his best friend at the door to the bathroom. He hadn’t been trying.

“Sha-”

He’d never seen him look like that. Like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world other than in this sticky, stinking corridor with Hayden Pike. “Can you just let me enjoy this?” Hayden flinched back against the wall as Shane pushed past him, not letting him get a single word out.

He washed the beer off his hands.

Called a cab.

Went home.

Picked up Arthur from his bassinet and hugged his son as he cried.

He didn’t know if he could do this.

SHANE

June 2015- The Cottage

The first thing Shane did when he woke was slowly and meticulously pull his brain back into working order.

The second thing he did was take stock.

Cottage. He didn’t drive himself. Therefore it was real.

Darkness. He hadn’t lowered the blinds. Therefore it was real.

No socks on his feet. He only did that when Ilya was with him. Therefore it was real.

Large Russian octopus who was bleeding through his butterfly strips. He never dreamed of Ilya injured. Never. Therefore it was real.

It was that last one that sent a wave of relief through his body and he reached up to prod at the apple of Ilya’s cheek, feeling the soft give of uninjured flesh.

I love you, Shane Hollander.

He couldn’t help the grin that slowly broke out on his face, his eyes watering in happiness as he pushed his face into Ilya’s shirt, inhaling soap and a hint of sweat, inevitable when they’d spent hours trapped under blankets and near glued together.

I love you, Shane Hollander.

Shane didn’t think he’d ever been so terrified when Marlow had raced back into the club, pushing past Shane’s irate teammates in his rush to reach where Scott and Carter had been sitting on either side of him, trying their best to distract him from the fact that his teammates hadn’t said a single word to him all night.

He had just won them the Cup and they refused to talk to him.

His first Cup. For a team that hated him.

He’d been onto his second glass of water when Marlow appeared, panic written across his face and they’d been moving, and the way that Marlow looked at him?

Ilya.

Something was wrong with Ilya.

 What had happened next was a massive blur of irritation, then anger, then crying, and screaming and then… Silence. It he never regained those memories he’d be a happy man.

I love you, Shane Hollander.

He was happy now. He was so. Fucking. Happy. His boyfriend was broken, battered and bruised, bleeding in more ways than one, holding onto his composure for dear life and one step from joining Shane in yet another panic attack.

But he was here.

Safe.

In Shane’s bed.

With Shane.

At the Cottage. As he should have been from the beginning.

He shifted slightly as the door opened a sliver and Carter poked his head in, smiling when he saw at least one of them was awake. “Hey. We’ve been checking every few hours to see if you’d moved. Congrats. You win.”

“I don’t know if I’d call this a win.” Shane murmured as Ilya shifted against him, stretching out his long limbs as he woke, working through a whole-body shudder-fest. “Hey.”

Ilya bent down and laid a fond kiss on his nose. “Good morning, my little crustacean.”

“Good morning to you.” Shane caught those perfect lips in a soft kiss before nuzzling against the soft, warm skin of his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have not eaten in two days. How long did we sleep?”

“A good eighteen hours straight.” Carter said from the doorway. “I came to see if you were up to lunch. Scott and Marlow have spent most of the morning getting you guys set for the next few weeks so there’s plenty of food. We didn’t feel right fucking off before we were sure you were okay.”

Ilya nodded, his curls rubbing against Shane’s neck. “I wish to eat horse.” He started to wriggle out from under the cocoon of blankets, pulling Shane along by the waist.

He was perfectly content to go.

The day was overcast and Shane was irrationally irritated with the weather- he’d always wanted Ilya’s first experience of the cottage to be on a bright, sunny day where the windows threw rainbows across the floor, the trees were bright verdant green, a gentle breeze moved across the back porch.

Instead it looked like it was going to storm.

Perhaps that was not a terrible thing. It certainly fit his mood.

Marlow threw himself off the couch and glommed onto Ilya the moment he saw him, not talking, just lifting the man bodily off the ground in an all-encompassing, relieved embrace, pulling Shane along by Ilya’s hand. Soon they were all seated on the couch and silent, chewing on stacked sandwiches- Shane didn’t even bother to ask if that was real bacon. He hoped it was real bacon. Ilya deserved real bacon.

“Your brother called this morning.” Scott suddenly said, holding up Ilya’s phone. “We thought of waking you, but… Marlow answered, we thought it would be best. To find out what happened after. If we needed to do anything with… Russia. We’re sorry if we overstepped.”

Shane’s hiccup turned into a sob and he sat his sandwich down, turning into Ilya’s shoulder. “Fuck you people and giving me fucking standards.” His voice was muffled but at least Carter understood because he laughed into his food. “Fuck that Pike guy.”

“No. We do not fuck Pikes. Too much risk of babies. Only you will have my babies.” Scott choked. Carter sighed. Marlow was struggling to breathe.

“Pretty sure that’s not how it works, Rozanov.”

“Is ok. Am patient. Will keep trying.” He wriggled his shoulder. “Eat, Hollander. Too small.” He looked up to Scott. “What did Alexei want?”

“Said you’d won. Your father’s actions backfired on him and he was deemed a risk to himself by too many people. Alexei is going to sell his apartment and place him in a nursing home.” Ilya let out a relieved sound, eyes closing as he nodded to himself. “He also said that they didn’t hear it. ‘What you were worried about.’ They were so intent on making sure your father didn’t choke you to death they weren’t paying much attention to what he was saying. But…”

“What?” Shane asked, already worried. “But what?”

“He said you should never return to Russia. That your father could no longer be trusted to keep your secret. I’m sorry, man.”

To Shane’s surprise Ilya just shrugged. “Is okay. There is nothing left in Russia worth me leaving my Shane.”

“Aaaaaw.”

“Fuck off, Marley. Get out of cottage, want to sleep then fuck my boyfriend.”

Hunter stood. “We are now overstaying our welcome. Everyone out.”

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for the three men to pile back into Ilya’s SUV back to Montreal, leaving them with Shane’s car which Scott had retrieved that morning, as well as a frankly ridiculous number of groceries. “Do they expect us to get snowed in?” Shane asked as he and Ilya- well, really just Shane- worked to put away the bags and bags of fresh produce, staples and far too much chocolate to be safely consumed.

Ilya had abandoned him after he’d discovered the jar of vegemite. To Shane’s horror the man had scooped out an entire tablespoon and was happily licking it like a cat as he wandered around the cottage, exploring Shane’s home.

He looked so fucking content. Shane settled at the counter with a glass of orange juice, watching his boyfriend potter around, poking and prodding and shifting, wrapped contentedly in Shane’s Canada fleece against the sudden chill the light rain had bought in.

“Everything is awesome.” The love of his life murmured to himself. “Windows? Awesome to fuck against. Big beds? Awesome for snuggling.” He opened one of the draws of the coffee table. “Ah, excellent. Good vodka.” He crossed to the windows, squinting as the rain started to thunder down, thundering against the roof. “Lake to skate on in winter.”

“In summer I like to sit out on the porch and light the fire.” Ilya turned back to him. A nasty bruise was spreading out from the cut, dark purple and angry but it was nothing compared to the stark imprint of Grigori Rozanov’s hand wrapped around his neck.

Shane usually loved Ilya’s bruises. He often caused them. When he didn’t he would kiss them, lick them, bite them, worry them with his teeth until they were a reminder of them, not those who hurt his boyfriend.

Shane couldn’t bring himself to touch Ilya’s neck.

It felt… Wrong. Dirty.

The thought of pressing his lips against such a stark reminder of Ilya’s fragile mortality was straight up nauseating and he knew his perfect boyfriend understood from the way he’d go to rub at it and stop, an unsettled look crossing those stunning features.

 When it was gone Shane would leave another bite mark. Permanent. Like the last one. It had taken him months to come to terms with leaving a permanent mark on his boyfriend, but this time.

This time it would mean something far different. A claim.

Ilya hadn’t minded, with the last one. It had been an accident.

But this was permanent now.

Well, in Shane’s mind it had been permanent for a while now- it had been months since he’d even considered living without Ilya Rozanov chirping in his ear each morning.

He smiled over at his boyfriend, elbow deep in Shane’s suitcase searching for something to put on his feet.

I love you, Shane Hollander.

Now Shane had blanket permission to warn off every puck bunny who came anywhere near his disgustingly hot boyfriend. Maybe a tattoo… He was sure Ilya would be amenable… He seemed the sort of man who’d enjoy having Shane’s name tattooed over his ass…

One day.

“Hollander?” He was pulled from his daydream to find Ilya standing in front of him, holding a pair of underwear. “These are mine. You also steal underwear?”

Shane smirked in his direction. “Are you saying you don’t?”

“I am saying freak for freak, Hollander.” He pulled down the waistband of his adidas joggers, revealing a pair of white Calvin Kleins. Ilya Rozanov didn’t do white. “Now. Take off your clothes. Get on knees in front of fancy fireplace on soft Alpaca rug and I will fuck you until you moan like whore. Da?”

“Da.”

CARTER

July 2015- New York

Carter didn’t want to be here. At all.

In fact, he could think of about a thousand places he would rather be.

Siberia in winter was one of them.

Between the net and Ilya Rozanov was another.

Anywhere near Hollander and Rozanov after a particularly violent game. For either of them. They made Bets. Provisos. Agreements. It was horrifying. Not the gay thing, no. But the sheer number of times Rozanov had told them. In detail. The sounds Hollander made. How far his legs could bend. The sounds. Again.

Was like seeing your kid on a stripper pole.

So yes. Carter didn’t want to be here. But when Scott had asked him to come on his run he hadn’t thought twice. When Scott had turned him off his regular route and towards a certain smoothie shop. Well. Carter had thoughts about this.

Scott was his best friend. That was a fact of life. He spent more time with Scott Hunter then with his girlfriend- something she was starting to notice. Another fact of life was that Scott had no game. Zero. In retrospect Carter had spent years watching Scott Hunter try and fail to flirt. It looked something like an awkward teenager trying to ask a girl out to prom. Even if the recipient was clearly gay. Clearly. Scott just… It’s like he forgot how to talk. Forgot he was smokin’ hot and earned more in a year than a lot would earn in a decade.

Carter supposed the lack of self-esteem factored in their heavily. Rozanov had been surprisingly insightful when he’d bought that up on the way home from meeting Kip for the first time, comparing Scott to Hollander’s inability to believe that he actually warranted caring about if it didn’t pertain to hockey which was… It had hit hard, and he’d never been more grateful to have walked into Shane Hollander glomming onto his rival.

So Carter walked into the smoothie shop, both happy and downright miserable that the little smoothie boy Kip was present, as well as his stunning sidekick Maria. He took a deep breath. Fucking showtime. “Morning.”

Kip, who’d been gawping at Scott- particularly at his chest area which… God, what a fucking pigeon- snapped to attention, remembering that other people existed. “Oh. Carter. Hi.” He smiled nervously, eyes darting between the blender in his hand, Scott’s chest and Carter.

He decided to give the poor kid a break. “Yeah, I’ll get that lychee thing you made for Marlow last time- man’s still raving about it.”

That seemed to snap Kip out of it because he seemed mildly disgusted. “Really? It wasn’t that good.”

Carter just shrugged. “Pretty sure he saw God. Or maybe it was just the sugar hitting his non-existent neurons.” In the background Maria choked on her laughter, breaking the sexually charged tension. “Either way lychee me up, my man. Scott?” He elbowed his best friend in the ribs. His best friend who looked about to vomit. A disaster. His best friend was a fucking disaster. “Dude, get it together. It’s a smoothie, not a zombie apocalypse. I have faith in you.”

“Fuck you, Vaughan.” Scott mustered up the will to order some blueberry monstrosity. With extra banana.

A disaster.

Smoothie boy puttered around, taking way more time than required to measure out his ingredients, sneaking peeks at Scott- who was doing the exact same thing and how the hell Scott was managing to be so awkward over what was definitely a sure thing Carter didn’t know. “I’m… Um, sorry about the playoffs. You guys played really well. We watched at my friend’s apartment.” The kid slipped, sending a scoopful of ice onto the counter. “Shit, sorry- too late to get tickets.”

Carter called the group chat. If he had to sit through this so did the others. He immediately muted the idiot brigade.

Scott nodded, awkwardly leaning against the counter. Man did countless modelling gigs and now couldn’t muster up the ability to stand up straight. “Montreal were on fire this year, we didn’t have much of a chance against them.”

“Yeah, Hollander played like a demon- I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast. No wonder he’s the second-best player in the league.” Kip handed over some blue concoction that had Carter gagging internally with a ‘fuck me please’ smile.

Scott laughed self-depreciatingly. Carter was horrified. How was he not getting this.  “Ah. Another Rozanov fan.”

“Not, not really.” That. That there was a flirty smile. That was a fucking hip thrust.  One hundred percent. 

Carter prayed. Prayed that his best friend would pick up what smoothie boy was putting down.

He did not.

Carter could only imagine the carnage on the muted group chat.

“There were a hell of a lot of good players out there this year, it was a hard series all round.”

Scott hunter, ladies and gentlemen. Complete and utter dumbass.

“Um… yeah. A few.” Oh no. Abort. Smoothie boy was about to talk himself out of this. Because his friend. Was an idiot. “Well, hopefully we see you next season? You guys usually scatter far and wide after the finals, right?”

Scott. Why are you looking like a kicked puppy? This is your fucking fault.

Carter took a deep breath. It was time. He was going to channel his inner Hollanov.

He unpressed the mute button.

Immediately a gale of hysterical laughter ran through the shop and Kip, Scott and Maria all turned to the phone. Rozanov was cackling with glee, Hollander was demanding to know if he’d been that bad and Marlow. Marlow sounded like a braying donkey.

Carter turned to Kip. “I’m so sorry, my best friend is a moron. What time do you get off work?”

“Um… five?”

“Excellent.” Carter grabbed a pen and started scribbling on the back of a menu. “When you’re done, Scott would like you to come here at seven. Left penthouse suite. Code 5978. He makes a mean chicken parma if you’re into that.” He stood, sliding the menu over and grabbing the back of Scott’s t-shirt. “And to be very clear, since you’re both idiots. If you accept. Yes. This is a date.”

The phone in his hands rang with cheers, one congratulations, and Carter just sighed, already tugging a stunned Scott backwards behind him. “All of you. Pathetic.”

“Tell the little smoothie boy to call me!” Roz shouted, and Carter sighed.

“You’re not on mute, you fuckwit. Tell him yourself.”

Hollander was already apologising, Marlow sounded close to wetting himself and Carter just sighed. Again. What the hell else was he supposed to do.

“Call me, little smoothie boy! Hunter is orphan, must threaten you for him!”

“Oh my god.” Kip whimpered. Carter would have been worried except the kid looked like he was about to start crying. In happiness. Damn Rozanov and his hunches, this could actually work.

Scott didn’t even mange a goodbye wave, just a weird gurgling noise. “You’re fucking welcome you human disaster.” Carter growled as he dragged Hunter back in the direction of his apartment. “Stop struggling. You’re gonna go home and do whatever it is you lot do to get ready for a date. Maybe clean up all the vodka bottles.” The last Carter had seen Scott had put tasteless food dye in twenty of so of them, using them as light diffusers. Rozanov had been both horrified and delighted.

“Oh my God he’s going to think I’m an alcoholic.”

“Don’t really think he’d care, Scott. Dude looked ravenous.”

“He didn’t-”

“Shut up, Hunter, trim up that beard. You’ve got a boy to seduce.”

KIP

July 2015- New York

Kip was kinda… unsure of this. Not unsure of if he wanted to go- his teeth were clean, he was wearing his sluttiest jeans, his shirt was only just buttoned over his chest and his hair was soft and shiny. If there as even the slightest chance he was going he was going… But.

He’d left it to the last minute, a few seconds before he was about to walk out the door and to the train, to call the dreaded number. He pressed dial.

It rang. Twice.

“What?” Asked an aggressively Russian voice. 

“Um… This is Kip?”

“IT IS KIP! It is Hunters little smoothie boy!” Kip flinched in surprise as the call cut out. A few seconds later a FaceTime call popped up and Kip took a deep, steadying breath before accepting.

Shane Hollander’s face appeared. Kip choked. Loudly.

“Are you ok, kid?” His father shouted from the kitchen, sounding concerned.

“No, fine, just- surprised!” Kip shouted back before he ducked back into his room, locking the door before he finally looked at the screen again. It looked like the phone had been dropped because all Kip could see was the ceiling. What he could hear, however, he was beginning to understand would earn a journalist awards.

“Will you fucking- I swear to god, Rozanov, if you scare that kid away-” Kip was older than them both!

“I will not scare him! Okay, maybe only a little. But. Have to!”

“No, you don’t have to, you can just explain-”

“Uh, guys?”

Silence. “Oops.”

Hollander once again appeared and the phone was sat in a low table opposite a comfortable looking couch. In the background were a vaguely familiar set of panelled walls and windows. “Oh, is that the cottage? Wow. I saw that documentary, the place looked beautiful.”

Hollanders face lit up in a proud smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty-”

“Quiet, Hollander.” Rozanov hand appeared out of nowhere and shoved the smaller man to the side, sending him careening on the floor with a surprised ‘oof’. “Yes, cottage is nice, is fucking mansion. Canadians. Now, smoothie boy.”

“Kip.”

“Yes, smoothie boy-”

“No, my name is Kip. Well not really. It’s Christopher. Grady.”

The top of Hollanders head appeared on the screen, the man having settled in the floor in between Rozanov’s legs. “He knows- we looked you up. NYU, right?” Someone was going to order a hit on him. Goodbye dad. “He has a thing about nicknames. Ignore him.”

“No, ignore boring hockey player, I must threaten you!”

“Ilya, I swear to god I’ll dump you at the airport right now-”

“You will not. I am delight.”

“He’s really not. Look-”

“What are your intentions with our Hunter?”

Suddenly the mood turned serious. Kip could understand why. He’d spent the last two hours hurtling through the underbelly of the NHL and its homophobia and it was… horrifying. He understood how much the two men in front of him were risking, just sitting as close as they were- Hollander’s shoulder resting against the inside of Rozanov’s thigh. “Look, I can’t understand it all. I’m not there. I don’t play like you guys do… But I think I understand some of it. I get the risk you were all talking. So does Maria.”

“We know. Carter got her number after they met you both.” Hollander said. 

“Would have thrown random gay at you if you turned out to be dick.” Rozanov leaned back and ran a hand through his riotous curls- they looked like he’d been running his hands through them for hours.

“Oh, well… Thanks for doing a background check on me? Before asking me out for your… friend?”

“Hunter is not friend, is dinosaur.” Rozanov flinched as the back of Hollander’s hand slapped dangerously high on this thigh. “Fine. Is blubbering baby we have decided to look after.”

“Ignore the idiot. Yes. Scott is a friend. A friend who’s been alone for a long time, Kip. He’s so affection starved that he lets Ilya hug him. From what Carter knows he’s been single his entire career and that’s why we need you to be really, really upfront with what you want from him. To the point of bluntness. We’re taking a risk on you, hoping that you’re capable of keeping a secret but… Please don’t lead him on.”

“You are allowed to change mind.” Rozanov interjected quietly. “To fuck is easy. Simple. To date a man in hockey is… Hard. You must trust very few people. Even family can hurt by accident.” Hollander’s hand reached up to grab Rozanov’s, their fingers entwining right in front of Kip’s eyes. History in the making.

So sue him. A good half of the articles he’d read mentioned the two men in front of him. This was like the epitome of an enemies to lovers and he was there for it.

How was this his life right now?

“We know you’re out.” Hollander interrupted his musings quietly. “But he can’t be. Not now, at least. The league is…”

“Is dangerous, Christopher Grady.”

“Aren’t there rules-”

“Rules and regulations mean nothing when you’re in a locker room with nineteen other men you can’t trust and there are no cameras.” Hollander spat out, looking away from the camera. “You’re right, you can’t understand it unless you’re in it, but not everyone is as tolerant or supportive as your friends. The vast majority aren’t and some are straight up one beer or a bad skate from committing a hate crime.” He sounded… Distraught by the end and Kip found himself realising that that this was a whole other world he just didn’t comprehend. It opened up possibilities but also closed a whole lot. There would be no walking through his favourite art galleries hand in hand. No romantic candlelit dinners outside secure apartments. No casual days in the park, double dates where people could see them… Would he even be allowed into the hospital room if something happened?

From their expressions, he imagined they’d gone through exactly the same thought process as he had. “Are you… are you okay?”

Hollander shrugged sadly. "Not really. But it could be worse. Turns out my team just doesn’t really like me when I’m not wallowing in self-loathing.”

“Hollander with spine is Hollander shaped problem. Puts up with far less shit than usual.”

“Yeah…” Kip thought back to the Montreal vs Admirals game he’d watched after he’d first met the hockey players. “They tripped you. In the play-offs.”

“Yeah… Some teams are tolerant. Others aren’t. Even when there’s nothing confirmed. But it helps. Having people to talk to. Before Ilya I had no one and now I have actual friends that give a shit.”

“And that’s what you’re trying to do here. Give a shit.”

Hollander nodded. “Every time he looks at us it’s like he’s one step from convincing himself he’s going to spend the rest of his life miserable and alone. Even if all you ever have is a friends-with-benefits type thing at least he’s going to have a chance to look at what his life might be after hockey.”

Kip nodded slowly, slumping down against his door to the floor. “And if… if he wanted more?”

Rozanov snickered into his hand. “Little smoothie boy- let me make clear. Scott Hunter is sponge of desperation. Will never tell you this but if you are not dick he will lesbian Uhaul you. You should take bag with important things because will ask you to move in tonight.”

“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.” Kip looked at Hollander who had progressed to sitting down on the couch, legs over Rozanov’s. The guy seemed to be the voice of reason between the two but he also looked… Guilty?

“Look. Scott called Ilya after he met you and it was a fucking mess. Like, worse than me, mess. And I was really-”

“Desperate and in love at first sight.”

“Must you put it like that?”

“Yes. You were pathetic, Hollander. Needy. Very unattractive.”

Hollander rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s an imbecile.”

“I do not know word but I know tone. I am not im-bee-cile, I am delight.”

From the look on Hollanders face, Kip figured he knew that. “Anyway. What I’m trying to get out is that Scott’s probably going to throw himself at you from an emotional point of view. He liked you before he even knew about Ilya’s plan so it’s not like this is a blind date.”

“Should you really be telling me this? Isn’t a betrayal of trust?”

“Pretty sure he expects this. And yes, we need to tell you this because we recognise that there is a significant power differential here, even if you want to ignore it. We want you to know you have the choice to walk away tonight. To walk away now. Scott will be fine, you’re not on his regular running route anyway.” Hollander finished with a kind smile. Kip could see why he was number one hottest year after year. At least 40%… 30% was that personality. The earnestness.

Rozanov blew an obnoxious raspberry. “You say this like little smoothie boy is not imagining fucking Hunter on big giant bed right now.”

Kip’s jaw dropped and he hated the fact that he was blushing from head to toe right now. “Um… I don’t really think that’s how it’ll go down.”

“Why? You do not like to top?” Rozanov gave him a disparaging look. “Disappointing. Hollander, I have failed. Abort. We must find someone willing to fuck old dinosaur.”

Kip threw himself to his feet. “No! I do. Like to top. It’s great. But… why the fuck am I telling you people this?!”

“Because there are no secrets in dinosaur support group.”

“I wish he was lying but there’s really  no filter here. We share. A lot. If you stick around you’ll get used to it. I think between the five of us there’s about four group chats, and one is dedicated to Pornhub links.” Hollander sounded long-suffering but Kip noticed he made of effort to claim he wasn’t a part of each and every one of those chats.

“Fine.” Kip forced out. “Look. It’s just… It’s Scott Hunter, okay? He’s like, a foot taller than I am, heavy enough to crush me by accident and has the kind of muscles a bodybuilder would envy. I’m pretty sure he’s got no interest in being dicked down by me.”

“I need to leave.” Rozanov stood and vanished.

Hollander just dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my god I hate him.”

“Pretty sure you don’t.”

“Pretty sure I really, really do. He’s probably calling Marlow right now and laughing about this.” He gave Kip a wan smile. “I’m really good at hating him.” He threw his head back and collapsed into the couch. “Look, Kip. If you’re down for it? Trust me that he’s down for it.”

“Why do I feel like I’m some period drama heroine being set up by her scheming relatives to marry a rich aristocrat?”

“Because you are. Sort of. Does it bother you?”

“Hollander-”

“Shane.”

“… Shane. I’m having dinner with the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life tonight. No matter if I end up kidnapped or murdered, if I get laid I’m counting it as a win.”

“We wouldn’t murder you.” Hollander fiddled with the string of his hoodie, putting one of the hard ends in his mouth, not really paying attention to the phone anymore. “Ilya’s Russian. He has connections. But he won’t hurt you.”

Kip stiffened, like a rabbit sensing danger he couldn’t quite define.

“Ruin you a little, maybe.” With a flicker of a menacing grin Hollander reached forward and the call cut off.

“Oh my god.”

A few minutes later, once Kip’s heart rate was something akin to normal, multiple texts came through from a series of unknown numbers.

DINOSAUR SUPPORT GROUP WITHOUT DINOSAUR

Fuck the sad out of him, smoothie boy!- Marlow

I’m so sorry- Vaughan

Rozanov: Is hot when murderous, yes?

Enjoy your night!- Shane

“This is going to be the best night of my life. Or the worst.”

“I’m. Oh. Wow.”

Scott looked down at his grey joggers and plain white t-shirt, long, narrow feet in Nike slides. “Shit. I kinda didn’t think you’d actually come. I can go change.” He said nervously.

“No!” Kip held his hands up and continued standing awkwardly in the corridor. “You look fine. Great. It’s just. I spent the whole ride over here reading articles about how great you are and seeing you standing there made me realise that I’m on a date. With Scott Hunter. Which is a hell of a head fuck.” He slapped his hand over his mouth. “Sorry.” Scott Hunter. Stupidly hot Scott Hunter. Just looked at him. And Kip didn’t think he’d ever seen a man so delighted to hear him ramble. “Wow. Why the fuck did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“Because you were manhandled into the situation by a Russian nightmare, his black cat dickmatised boyfriend, his dumbass best friend and Carter. Who I think just thought it was safer to go along with it all?”

Kip smiled fondly. “Yeah, your friends are kinda… weird.” Kip stepped into the apartment.

“My friends are idiots who could have outed me to a closet homophobe. Weird is the nicest thing I have to say about them.”

“Well to be fair- I kinda thought it was a joke until Hollander threatened me if I was so much as mean to you. A really mean joke, but I wouldn’t have told anyone either way…”

Scott went still. “Hollander… Threatened you. Not Rozanov.”

“Um, yeah? It’s. It’s not like I’m actually going to do something that makes them- are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay-” He was already pulling out his phone.

“Hey, you don’t need to-” The look on Scott’s face said that he really, really did.

Kip was a little bit in love.

And so fucking horny.

He floated happily after Scott, eyes wide as they moved into the living room, toeing off his shoes and digging his toes into the beautiful gold and black rug in front of the large leather sectional.

Scott continued to mutter in the background as Kip walked around the room, reading the labels on the trophies, the medals in the frames on the walls, running his fingers over the obscenely expensive vodka bottles lined up along the windowsill- Kyle would kill just to sample one of them.

“Finally. Have you no fucking shame, Hollander? You don’t get to threaten him-”

“Scott. I’m dating Ilya Rozanov. In what universe do I have- stop that- shame?”

SHANE

“Fucking- no. Ilya, no.” He hit the mute button and smacked his boyfriend on the top of his head like a misbehaving dog. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop-”

Bright blue eyes, wide and innocent- bullshit they were innocent- looked up at him from the floor where Ilya Rozanov knelt between Shane’s open thighs. “Hmmm. I don’t think is what you want.” He purred fondly, his voice still just that side of hoarse after several days of sucking cock like the true champion he was.

“I’m not hard.” He gasped as Ilya verified just that, sliding his hand up Shane’s thigh, under the Rozanov jersey which happened to be the only thing he was wearing.

“I know. Is miracle. Like seeing end of rainbow. Shane Hollander, not hard when my mouth is this close to dick.” He bit gently at the inside of Shane’s knee. “I make you deal, hm? If you get hard-”

“I won’t get hard.” Shane was entirely convinced of this.

He was three orgasms into Ilya’s all-day fuck-fest and he was not getting hard for at least another few hours.

Ilya grinned like he’d won and Shane had an awful, awful feeling. “Remember your colours, Holl. An. Der. Da?”

Shane thought about it.

For a good portion of a second.

Then he smirked.

He hit the mute button.

“Hey guys, sorry. Rozanov was being an absolute cunt. You were yelling at me- um, oh my God what the fuck.” He hit the mute button.

SCOTT

Scott was a proud gay man.

Very proud.

Very gay.

Very single. Which meant so much porn.

So he recognised, all too well, the sounds of someone getting fingered to within an inch of their life.

He recognised those sounds whilst standing in the middle of his living room with his date. Κip. His first date. And they were-

Kip pressed into his side, staring at the blank screen of his phone. Small mercies it wasn’t a video call. “Are they…?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Fucking hell- did you coat them in fucking crack, Rozanov?!”

“Should we tell Hollander he’s not muted?”

“I… Guess?” Scott’s eyes widened as the pace of Rozanov’s movements increased, the slick sound of lube against skin growing louder.

“That is enthusiastic.”

“Oh fuck, fuck- Ilya, yes, oh God your mouth!”

A dark chuckle resonated through the speaker and Scott felt his knees go week. Kip reached up to grab at his wrist, eyes wide, pupils blown as they met Scott’s.

They both looked back to the blank screen.

“Pull my hair, Hollander. Fuck my face. Beg me to let you come.”

“Oh God I can’t- Ilya- I oh fuck, I’m so fucking sore I can’t- not again. Ah!” Hollander cried out, high pitched and desperate and Rozanov let out a choking noise and Scott was just imagining the scene, Hollander’s hand gripping tight into those messy curls, forced onto Hollander’s impressive cock- because yes, Scott had looked. What self-respecting queer man wouldn’t?

“Oh my God am I the worst person for finding that hot?” Kip whispered straight into Scott’s ear and Scott let out an embarrassing choked noise.

“Fuck these idiots- if you want privacy don’t fuck when you’re on the phone.” He unmuted his own phone. “Hollander, you’re not on mute.”

There was silence as Rozanov stilled. “Oh my God.”

For a moment Scott forgot who he was on a call with. Then there was a distinctly Russian chuckle.

“Ilya, fucking, don’t-” There was the sound of a struggle, muffled laughter and then someone fell off a couch and hit the ground, the phone apparently sliding along the ground. “God damn it you asshole, let me- fuck! Oh God, Ilya- please, they’re- Ilya!”

Another Russian chuckle. Then a hoarse voice. “Remember your colours, Hollander.”

Scott waited.

Hollander said nothing.

Zip, zero, zilch.

Ilya Rozanov let out dark little chuckle. “New kink unlocked.” He muttered.

Scott and Kip looked at each other. Then the phone. And proceeded to do the right thing.

Nothing.

“Oh fuUCK!” Hollander screamed and Rozanov proceeded to give the loudest, sloppiest, filthiest blowjob Scott had ever heard, violent, messy, there was the sound of slapping, Hollander’s moans and keens rising in pitch and volume and the things he was saying, asking for, Rozanov’s fingers, his tongue, his throat-

Rozanov was going to town.

“Is Rozanov playing some weird version of sex bingo?” Kip asked and Scott remembered he wasn’t muted when Rozanov let out a delighted laugh, Hollander a humiliated moan as he came, screaming Rozanov’s name.

And then it was over.

There was the sound of two bodies collapsing onto floorboards.

And then Hollander started laughing. Hysterically. Rozanov right there with him but sounding far more delighted.

“You two are a walking fucking disaster.” Scott forced out between deep, calming breaths, reaching down to adjust himself in his pants. He very much regretted forgoing underwear post shower.

“I know!”  Hollander yelled between fits of laughter.

“Hope you enjoyed the show!” Scott could picture the delighted grin on Rozanov’s face.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Rozanov.”

“No, Hollander. I am delight.” One of them disconnected the call.

Beside him Kip shifted somewhat awkwardly, running his hands over the legs of his jeans. “Ok. So. That happened.”

Scott had spent so much time around Hollanov and Marlow that that wasn’t even the weirdest thing he’d heard. Or seen. But Kip? This was… “Oh my god I am so, so sorry. I should have hung up.”

“Why?” Scott watched as Kip ran his tongue over bitten lips, unable to miss the way Kip’s hand was resting too close to his crotch to be accidental.

Scott tried to shake himself out of the sex stupor the call had clearly put him in. “Um, so. Dinner? Or…” He winced at his sheer awkwardness. Maybe he was the disaster.

“Or. I choose or. I want to know what your abs taste like.”

Perhaps not.

Chapter End Notes

And for our next chappie because I couldn't fit it in this one:

Murder kitten is murderous.
Dinosaur club unite in Ottawa.
Hayden gets yelled at.
And Kip... Less confused. But also why does he need a suit?

Chapter 12: Only Happiness in This Cottage

Chapter Summary

In which:
Ilya Rosanov eats a bug.
Shane Hollander decides boyfriends are for the lame.
Kip accidentally gives Scott a heart attack.
Ilya's dick pics bring people together.

Chapter Notes

Hello my wonderful peeps! We’re getting up there in terms of words and I don’t really have the kinda social media that lets you interact with me, so I wanted to hit up some of the questions and concerns I’ve seen more than once in your WONDERFUL COMMENTS. Most of these issues would have been addressed in future chapters, but as you may have guessed I don’t like waiting for things...

First thing is- this is a whole lotta crack. Is it unrealistic? Well, yeah. Romance novels usually are.

Second thing- will Hayden ever redeem himself?
Short answer- yes.
Long answer- it’s a lot more complex than that and it will take time but I’m a fan of emotionally mature, complex Pike as opposed to- many babies, loves wife, average hockey player. I like depth in my Pikes. He will get there. And hopefully you will love him.

Third thing- did the dinosaur support club essentially do the same thing as Pikes?
Short answer- no. Not in my world. You will see why.
Long answer- this is an AU. This is a what if. This is a-
-What would Skip become if they weren’t terrified of the world and miserable when they weren’t boning because of Scott’s insecurity?
-What would Kip do if Ilya annoyed him into taking $50,000 for his student loans because ’American student loans are stupid, little smoothie boy.’ If you do not take I will pay.
-Who would Shane have become if he wasn’t completely and utterly alone and what lengths will he go to protect those he cares about aaaand
-AUTISM, bitches. What if Shane does things. And says things. Things that in his head make sense because he understands them in a certain way. But other people don’t. What if he has friends that kinda just get it? And humour him? And EDUCATE GENTLY BECAUSE WE DO NOT JUDGE THE MENTAL HEALTH IN THE DINOSAUR SUPPORT CLUB.
-Ilya has the best gaydar in the universe and coupled with the fact that he’s a genius just does things without thinking and trusts things will work out.
-What if Marlow’s glass closet is giant and he doesn’t even realise he’s in one? Because who DIDN’T see that coming. Queer for everyone here.
-What if Carter was straight. And met a nice lady. Pretty lady. I don't know who Gloria is.

Fourth THING- when is Shane getting the fuck out of Montreal?
Short answer- Not any time soon. But that’s ok. Because baby has spine now. And emotional support blow jobs.
Long answer that’s not really long- I waits for the Centaurs. I waits for Hayes. And Haas. And Bood. And Troy. And planes. But sooner and I have already written that scene. Made me giggle. You may have it one day.

 

Now on to story :-)

KIP

July 2015- New York

Kip stared up at textured ceiling of Scott’s bedroom, fingers running through the soft hairs of the arm that was securely around his waist, Scott’s body half on top of his as the man tickled at Kip’s ribs, silent and sated. “Okay. I have to tell you something.”

“That sounds ominous.” Scott’s voice was slightly hoarse and the memories that invoked sent shivers up Kip’s spine. He felt the smug smile against his shoulder.

“I don’t think it is? It’s just that… When I called Rozanov before coming here they… Told me things. About you. Things that if my friends told anyone without my permission I wouldn’t really be… Friends with them. Anymore. So I don’t really know what to do here.”

“Ah.” Scott rolled back onto his side and Kip’s eyes were immediately bought back to those perfect pecs, right in front of him. Focus. Eyes on face. Face that looked… Worried. Shit. “Yeah, I guess a shovel talk’s not-”

“It wasn’t really a shovel talk. Well, it was. At the end. But I kinda felt like they were…” He cleared his throat nervously because there was a very real chance he was about to get shown the door. “Warning me away? Or at least telling me things about you that might make most people… Uncomfortable?”

“Oh.” And why did Scott Hunter, he who possessed magic hands and magic dick look… Relieved? “Yeah, I’m not surprised. They don’t really have what polite company would call limits. The problem is that they’re a mixture of incredibly intelligent, cripplingly paranoid, unfailingly loyal… Idiots. But that’s mainly Marlow. I don’t know how Rozanov puts up with him.”

“Carter’s the intelligent one?” Kip asked with a smile, giving in and running his hand through the perfect amount of chest hair in front of him.

“Carter is loyal. As much as I hate to say it Ilya Rozanov is disgustingly intelligent- and incredibly perceptive with a gaydar that could function as a NASA class satellite. He knew exactly what he was walking into. And Hollander? The kid has at least three lawyers on retainers and plans within plans within plans that account for every single eventuality then contingencies that involve bundling us all up in a private plane and fleeing to Japan. I’m pretty sure he talked to my financial guy because I’m now investing in ginger ale and seeing disturbingly good returns on the real estate I didn’t know I owned.”

Scott propped himself up on his elbow, head in hand, looking down at him seriously. “So am I surprised that they went behind my back and told you my deepest darkest secrets that they somehow found out? No. Do I think that they actually took a second to think how it would affect me? I do. Because sure. We could have waited until I was fucking you to discuss my occasionally crippling loneliness, but now I don’t have to and you’re here despite it.”

Kip nodded slowly. “Yeah. I am. You lot are really weird.”

“Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it and I am so fucking glad I can tell you this because Carter’s become desensitised and I feel like I’m the only sane one left. I’m pretty sure Hollander’s got anxiety coming out of his ears- really well controlled through sheer force of will and years of Rozanov-involving coping methods, sure, but definitely non-medicated severe anxiety that he can’t tell anyone about because the NHL is a piece of shit and we won’t even get into the real well managed autism.”

Kip struggled to pull his jaw up off the bed. If his friends… What was wrong with these people? He as a complete stranger! “You… You people have no boundaries.”

Scott shrugged. “Trauma bonding. Rozanov was almost arrested and jailed in Russia not long after I met you, Hollander’s best friend almost outed them because he and his wife thought it would be fun, not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure his entire team actively hates him, Carter’s a serial monogamist who freaks out every time the word marriage comes up and runs to the hills, and Marlow… Pretty sure his closet is glass. And enormous. And he doesn’t know he’s in it. And if they didn’t tell you I’m prone to bouts of misery induced alcoholism and so terrified of being alone that I’m close to buying Rozanov one of those fancy cars he loves so much and that Hollander wants him to sell you sure as hell do now.”

“You’re buying a car… Why?”

A grin overtook Scott’s features and Kip fucking swooned it was so pretty. He let out a pathetic little whine. “To be honest I kinda wanted to kidnap you the moment I saw you, so…I mean, you’re still in my bed, so in my world view everything’s… Fine? Which I know is weird.”

“Really weird. Like, millionaire squad abducts college graduate and threatens him-”

“To be fair-”

“Not done. You’re also telling me things a complete stranger should never know about incredibly famous people. Which personally I think is a really bad idea.”

Scott seemed to take that in. He nodded. Wrapped Kip back in his arms. Yawned. “No one would believe you.” He forced out through his wide-open mouth before settling his head on top of Kip’s. “Rozanov and Hollander fucking? They’d never be that stupid. Scott Hunter? Gay? Hell no, have you seen how hard he hits on the ice? Autistic? No, he’s focused.” He let out a huff of laugher, ruffling Kip’s short curls. “We’ve been at this a while. If they didn’t want you to know you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“And the threatening?”

“I doubt Hollander actually has concrete plans for that… I mean, it’s Hollander. His idea of threatening innocent people is more along the lines of a strongly worded reprimand- a ‘keep your kid in line or I’ll be very unhappy.’

“Really? Because he sounded pretty serious.”

“Shane Hollander is physically incapable of violence unless it’s on the ice or involves Ilya Rozanov. And even then I’m pretty sure it’s mainly sexual.”

“So what you’re saying is that I have been inducted into a house of horrors.”

“You could see it that way, but I think there’s worse things in life than having friends like them. You may not have seen it then, but it wasn’t just me they were trying to protect. Sleeping with an NHL player isn’t easy- all of my previous hookups have been near completely anonymous and never more than a night. Even if more was an option I doubt they would have wanted it because this is hard, Kip. Not just for our partners but for us. Hollander and Rozanov are straight up insane for even contemplating being in a relationship but there’s no stopping them… They’re paving the way for the rest of us, believe it or not.

“And they’re not completely stupid- they’re aware that this whole situation from the outside is pretty fucked up, and it’s why they made it very clear you could leave. It’s not like they would have come after you.”

“You’re not worried I felt obliged-”

“Did you?”

Kip thought about the best way to answer the question without sounding like a complete and utter idiot. “Look. You’re really, really hot. Just ask Maria. I was willing to choose you over Hollander. Shane Hollander. Number one sexiest man in the NHL. I felt the opposite of obliged.” He looked out the window for a moment before turning back, gathering his thoughts. “Still… I don’t know, Scott… This is all… Weird. I know I’ve said it way too many times already and Elena is probably going to tell me I’m an idiot for agreeing to any part of this situation but…”

“But you’ve been Hollanov’d.”

“What the fuck is a Hollanov?”

“Marlow. Hollander slash Rozanov. Like Brangelina.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. But seriously. We were all fairly normal before we found out about them. I honestly think my IQ has dropped about twenty points, I got added to a good six group chats, one of which is entirely porn recommendations that even Hollander posts in, he calls me in the middle of the night asking me to explain why his mother looked at him weird the other day, Rozanov just turns up on my doorstep with takeout and weighted blankets- don’t look at me like that, they’re fucking great. I think he imports then from somewhere.”

“You like it.”

“A year ago not a single person knew I was gay. I hadn’t gotten laid in years. I spent holidays alone. I sure as hell wouldn’t have been in the stands watching Montreal win the cup.” He fell off into a pensive silence and Kip let him, unable to figure out how to continue a conversation that had completely shifted his world view.

He’d known that there would be things he didn’t understand about Scott’s world- it was a given. Even the sheer difference in their socioeconomic statuses would have been enough to make most sane non-gold diggers in his position run for the hills… But if Kip was honest, that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he’d been hoping that Hollander and Rozanov had been over-exaggerating. The difficulties.

Was he stupid even considering this?

Was he stupid for considering considering? It’d been hours. Hours. And here he was lying in bed wondering if he wanted to be added to a group chat that gave porn recommendations.

Because whilst he sure hadn’t made it explicit, Scott wasn’t telling all this to someone he wanted a one-night stand with.

Did Kip want more?

This was too much.

There was a soft, recurring chirp of a cicada from the floor beside the bed and Kip frowned before remembering his alarm. “Let me grab that.” He leaned over onto the floor, pulling the phone from his discarded pants and winced. “Shit, last train in twenty minutes.”

He’d set it before he’d left home.

He’d set it to give himself a way out.

Did he want a way out?

Did Scott even want him to stay? Was he completely misreading the situation and he was the only one wanting more?

He pushed himself up and out of Scott’s strong grip, leaning over the edge of the bed to reach for his underwear. “Um… I guess I should get going?” He presented it as a question even though-

Fuck.

He didn’t want to go.

Guess he’d answered his own question. He’d skipped straight past ‘considering’ and ended up in ‘already mentally committed to taking whatever Scott Hunter was willing to give.’

“Oh.” Kip wasn’t stupid, he sure as hell wasn’t deaf and he’d clearly spent far too long having his life-altering revelation. He turned back to find Scott looking at him with a carefully neutral expression on his handsome features, hand still reaching out over where Kip had laid. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you- the trains around here tend to run weird times this time of night, I’ll call you a car.”

His voice, previously filled with a myriad of emotions, most of them happy was... Kip wanted to say tired. Resigned. He watched as Scott rolled over, pushing the blankets back from his naked form and grabbing a robe off the back of the bedroom door, draping it over his shoulders as he headed back towards the living room. “Sorry- not the greatest date you’ve ever had, I bet. Didn’t even feed you.”

“Wait-” He didn’t wait.

Kip frowned worriedly as he quickly followed Scott into the kitchen area in nothing but his underwear, watching as the older man quickly packed several containers of breaded chicken, pre-cooked pasta and a sauce that even cooled smelled amazing.  “You made dinner?” He asked softly, as Scott packed the reuseable containers into a cloth bag. “Thought you said you didn’t think I’d come?”

Scott just shrugged, not turning around as he placed the bag on the bench. “Can’t a guy hope?” He replied sheepishly, pulling his phone from the robe then hesitating. “If… If you don’t want me to know your address I have cash, too. You can order the car. You don’t have to tell me where you live.” Finally he turned and gave Kip an exhausted little grimace masquerading as a smile.

Kip suddenly realised that Hollander and Rozanov had been very, very wrong. He didn’t think Scott would have been okay if he hadn’t come. At all.

He reached out and took Scott’s phone, placing it on the bench as he stepped forward, untying the front of the robe and pressing himself against the taller man’s frame, arms wrapping around his waist. “I don’t mind. You can order me a cab in the morning.”

Scott stiffened against him in what Kip assumed was surprise. “You… You don’t need to stay.” He paused, and Kip felt the man’s hands fluttering over his back, as if unsure if he was allowed to touch. “I’m sorry, I’m not really great at this. I know this is a lot and you shouldn’t feel like you need-”

“I was warned.” Kip shifted back a little so that he could look up at those disgustingly beautiful eyes, smiling sheepishly. “I think you may have been too distracted by my bumbling charm to notice, but I dropped a bag at your front door.”

Oh.

There was that look again. Like Kip was the best thing Scott Hunter had ever seen. “When do you need to head to work?”

“Um… Not for another two days?”

“Stay?”

Kip’s jaw dropped in shock. “Oh my God you are going to lesbian U-Haul me.”

“What the fuck-”

SHANE

August 2015- The Cottage

Shane Hollander was having what he liked to call a perfect day.

There’d been a few. He’d lived a good life. The day he was chosen for the prospect Cup team. Other days that didn’t involve Ilya Rozanov.

Many other days.

Shane paused, halfway through chopping up a cucumber, the rest of the salad ingredients lined up neatly beside him. Surely there were other days.

He refused to believe that every single positive moment of his life since he was seventeen was reliant on the existence of an asshole Russian who was currently lying face down in the grass outside, shirtless and perfect and relaxed in the shade as the soft murmuring of insects lulled him into sleep. Ilya had lived in Boston for most of his time in the States, grass wasn’t the most common occurrence in the city and even Ilya’s house was more cement and glass than nature.

Ilya loved the Cottage.

After he’d recovered from his ‘Russian Adventure’, as his boyfriend liked to unironically call it, Ilya had relaxed. He’d turned off his phone after sending a single message to Svetlana and conversed with their friends solely through Shane’s phone. He’d not turned on the TV once. The radio was silent. His boyfriend had completely immersed himself in the Cottage and its surrounds, stealing Shane’s swimming trunks and spending hours each day in the lake, chasing fish and bugs and retrieving countless small shiny stones that he’d present to Shane like a proud crow, lining them up on the picnic blanket in a neat row where Shane reclined with a book in the shade.

Shane fucking loved his boyfriend.

Shane also loved additions to his preexisting collection of shiny rocks.

He even loved it when Ilya had slung him over his shoulder and thrown him off the dock into the water, laughing all the while until he was laid out on the sun-warmed wood, breathless and gasping and praying that his distant neighbours weren’t listening particularly hard for bird calls.

He had supposed, as Ilya lay contentedly between his legs, throat fluttering around his cock, that some of the noises he’d been making could have sounded like bird calls.

Ilya, for some odd reason, also loved grass. Not just grass, leaves, too. He’d stop and stare at every different flower he found when they were walking around the lake. He’d take pictures on Shane’s phone, loving the ones with bees. He spent hours each day near comatose in the grass, rolling around like a large dog, ending up with little itchy bites on his skin that Shane would patiently rub ointments into each night, accepting the discomfort with minimal complaining.

Above all, Shane had realised that Ilya loved him.

In retrospect Ilya had loved him for a very long time. He’d just decided to start showing it.

Ilya refused to get up in the morning if Shane was still asleep. After the first time Shane had woken in a panic to find him missing, racing through the cottage until he found his boyfriend reclined on the patio furniture, he’d insisted that it was no trouble for him to remain in bed. He’d started to leave a book beside the bed to keep himself busy, letting Shane curl around him happily until he felt like facing the day.

Ilya adhered to his diet but not only that, he made it… Bearable? He didn’t just complain about how tasteless it was, how the texture was terrible like Shane’s teammates used to, he spent hours with Shane’s laptop researching more palatable options, ordering daily grocery deliveries with Shane’s credit card, standing beside Shane, poking and prodding him around the kitchen as they learned to cook together.

Ilya had donated half of Shane’s clothes.

More than half of his towels and blankets.

Most of his pillowcases.

All of his socks.

Because apparently he winced. A lot. And so his wonderful, perfect, disgustingly hot boyfriend had rolled up his Alpaca Rug, laid it out in the shade and dumped Shane on top of it whilst he cleared out the Cottage of everything Shane apparently hated to touch.

He spent hours online spending frankly obscene amounts of money on replacing everything he’d donated, brands that Shane had never seen before, all in colours he knew he’d like, patterns that were soothing to his eyes.

Except underwear.

One of every colour of the rainbow.

Shane loved them.

He loved his boyfriend.

Ilya also left him alone, which he loved the most.

Shane was an open book, in some ways. He knew that. When he was happy he was happy. When he was embarrassed he turned red like a tomato. When he was sad every single micro expression screamed his misery.

His mother hovered, trying to fix things and sending him spiralling into a maelstrom of guilt for taking up her time.

His father was even more awkward than Shane and would sit far too close and be far too kind, murmuring softly about this and that until his brain was so full of nonsense thoughts that it took him days to sort himself out.

JJ got annoyed. He tried to hide it. But the little twitch beside his eye. The soft huff as he would walk away. How he’d groan as Shane cancelled a little plan because the thought of leaving his house and interacting with people was unbearable gave him away.

Hayden had just ignored it. Wilfully. Just kept on treating Shane as normal. And sometimes that was exactly what he needed. Of all of his family and friends, Hayden had gotten it right most often- even if it was by blunt force.

He missed his best friend.

He started cutting again.

Ilya. Ilya could tell Shane’s mood from a single glance. After all, Shane was his favourite subject.

Ilya would kiss the top of his head and ask what he wanted.

And then he’d do it.

If Shane wanted to be held tightly in silence, he’d pop on a podcast and do it. For hours. Just let Shane reorder his thoughts in his boyfriend’s lap.

If Shane wanted to be left alone Ilya would leave him with a bottle of water, a blanket and a box of shacks- carefully curated and all German- and go for a run. A swim. A nap. He’d leave the vicinity so that Shane couldn’t hear him and leave him in blessed silence.

If Shane wanted to be distracted, he’d read to him, always in Russian, always from one of his favourite fantasy novels. He loved the Lord of the Rings. Shane understood most of what he was saying, but the effort of trying to translate on the go was enough to snap him out of most of his funks. Ilya also loved video games, needlessly violent ones with loud explosions and lots of yelling. One might think Shane’s overstimulated brain might shirk at the thought of that much noise but as always, his brain seemed to find anything Ilya Rozanov did soothing and he’d happily lay for hours with his ear against the man’s belly, enraptured by the sounds of laughter and yelling that caused it to shift under his ear.

If Shane wanted to be fucked until he couldn’t think? Well, that was Ilya’s favourite type of anxious Shane to deal with.

Maybe it wasn’t so terrible that all of his perfect days but one involved the perfect man who’d shifted onto his back and was smiling lazily at the soft, fluffy clouds that raced across the sky.

The man who Shane had almost lost to Russia.

Shane refused to lose him.

He continued to cut, the rhythmic movements of the knife against the wooden cutting board soothing. Tomato. Lettuce, wet. Olives. Not his favourite.

He checked the recipe, blindly following the instructions for the burgers Ilya had requested. Lean turkey mince. Eggs. No yolk. Maybe one. Fuck it, with all the fucking they were doing extra protein wasn’t the worst decision.

Outside the sun was starting to hit the horizon and Ilya’s eyes opened the instant Shane stepped onto the patio, firing up the grill.

He watched him silently, eyes intent on Shane’s every movement and he felt his cheeks warm, eyes locked on the sizzling meat, a smile slowly forcing its way onto his face as he threw what he thought were subtle looks in Ilya’s direction, only to be caught each and every time.

Shane refused to lose him.

 Ilya pressed a kiss against the back of his neck, wrapping long arms around Shane’s waist. “Why are you making so many?”

“You say that like you don’t eat like a pig.” Shane murmured as he stared down at the eight patties. “Six are yours.”

Ilya hummed, nuzzling under the collar of his shirt. “If I eat all, will be too fat to fuck you tonight.” He pointed out as Shane flipped the burgers, reaching over to toast the buns. “You do not want this.”

“Cute that you think we’ll be having sex tonight.” Burger on Bun. Cheese. Tomato. Lettuce. Sauce. Bun. “I can barely walk, and tomorrow you wanted to go trail hiking. Unless-”

“I chose other option. All day sex marathon.”

“We did that yesterday. And the day before that.” He turned, handing Ilya the plate of four finished burgers, the rest already placed in a plastic container to cool before the fridge.

“You say like is bad time, Hollander.” They sat down at the patio table, touching all the way from shoulder to toes. “Have spent years of very little sex. Must catch up.”

Shan couldn’t really refute that. Not was he complaining. “Your coach is going to kill you if you decondition.”

“And your coach will not?”

“I won’t decondition.” Shane threw a smirk in his direction before turning to his food.

They ate in silence sipping Ilya’s favourite IPA and eventually Shane lit the brazier, flames sending little pops of embers into the air. The insects chirped and buzzed in the late summer warmth and moths darted in and out of the heat, occasionally flying too close and catching alight, falling into the flames. It was peaceful, and soon Shane’s eyes were sliding shut. He slumped down in his seat, resting his head against the soft blanket covering the cushions, Ilya stretching out across his lap, curls tangling around Shane’s fingers, soft with the use of the products Shane had found online.

A loon’s mating call echoed across the lake and Shane choked in shock as Ilya sat bolt upright, eyes wide with fear as he stared around in panic. “A fucking wolf! That was a fucking wolf! Why the fuck is there a wolf?” He pressed himself closer to Shane’s side, grasping at his hand.

And Shane.

Shane.

Who loved this man beyond reason.

Who would burn down the world to keep him safe.

Laughed. Loudly. And openly. “It’s a loon!” He forced out between trying to breathe, giggling against Ilya’s side.

“You are a fucking loon! That was wolf!”

Shane chuckled, placing a fingertip on Ilya’s chin and turning him to face him. “Ilya. It’s a bird. Like a duck.”

Ilya looked at him like he was an idiot. “Hollander. I realise many orgasms sends your brain useless but birds do not make this sound.” His aristocratic nose was wrinkled in distaste, mouth curled into a cute scowl and Shane just wanted to grab the embers from the fire and smash them into his own eyes because he couldn’t bear to look at his wonderfully cranky face.

He stood, pulling Ilya with him and walked past the fire, down towards the lake through the long grasses, years of walking through similar grasses as a child at his parent’s cottage making him confident.

And his perfect boyfriend followed him. No hesitation. Towards the wolves.

They stopped at the edge of the lake, water lapping against the soles of their sliders. Shane lifted his hands to his mouth, forming a tunnel and imitating the previous call, embellishing with a seemingly inhuman trill.

Ilya stilled.

A few hundred metres to the left the loon returned the call, a hauntingly beautiful, soft, slow call.

Shane dropped his hands and turned to the taller man, smiling softly. Serenely. “It was a mating call.” He said softly, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist and resting his chin on his chest, watching as he looked out over the water towards where slight shadows were gliding silently across the horizon, the calls continuing to drop in volume as the birds retreated.

“What did you say?” Ilya asked, fingers kneading at the back of Shane’s shirt.

“Get the fuck off my lawn.”

Ilya tipped his head back and led out a single, booming guffaw before burying his face in Shane’s hair, his smile obvious. “Very protective, my Shane.”

“Can’t let that bird steal you. Who knows- he may have been your type.”

“No, my type is short, boring Canadian hockey players with shitty backhand.”

“My backhand is just fine, Rozanov.”

“But everything else is much better, so seems shittier. Maybe would be number one best player if were not so bad.” He said it far too fondly for Shane to bother getting his hackles up- it was getting harder by the day, if he was honest with himself. He was sure that once the real world started to slip back in they’d fall into the old, comfortable routines of the chirping and the annoyances and the poking and prodding for weaknesses… But for now, he was happy.

Shane refused to lose him.

And so he made a decision.

He stepped back.

Ilyas blue eyes were shining in the moonlight, long neck arched back as he inhaled the fresh, grass-scented air, love bites clustered under his right ear, the remnants of teeth right over his Adam’s apple. To Shane he had never looked more breathtaking.

“Ilya…”

His boyfriend hummed, turned, and his eyes locked on Shane’s face, darting between his lips, his freckles, and settling on his eyes.

“If you were anyone else I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Ilya frowned. “Hesitate to what?”

“I would have been on one knee the instant you stepped off the plane from Russia.”

Shane waited in silence, waited for Ilya to realise the significance of his words. He could see it, in the minute shifting of muscles, the microexpressions as Ilya filtered the sentence through English, Russian, back into English. He knew he’d understood when tears flooded his eyes.

He knew he’d understood. He just wasn’t prepared for the look of absolute devastation “No, no, I’m sorry, why are you-”

“You are cruel man, Shane Hollander, to tempt me with what we cannot have.” Ilya sounded like the words were tearing his throat to ribbons, hoarse and distraught. 

Shane didn’t even wipe away the tears streaming down his own cheeks, dripping onto his shirt, messy and raw and emotional. “I’m tired of living in agony alone.”

“It has always been agony for me.”

Ilya usually lay facing away in his sleep- it had taken some time after his return from Russia for Shane to be comfortable allowing any separation, clutching tight as if his unconscious mind was afraid the other may be torn away.

They both slept better separate. Ilya overheated easily and Shane tended to end up towards one side of the bed, dragging his boyfriend with him until he was unable to sprawl as he preferred- whoever thought love was defined by clinging in bed had never slept with a hockey player who skated in his sleep.

Tonight it had taken hours for Ilya to fall asleep, the constant leak of tears down both of their faces leaving them miserable and exhausted as they were forced to come to terms with the trajectory of their relationship.

With the fact that everyone they knew would live with their partners, be married, have children before they were even able to acknowledge their relationship in public.

With the fact that Shane would have to wait years to give Ilya the ring he’d ordered the first time Ilya had first choked on a bug whilst laughing at Shane.

He’d ordered it from Jens Hansen. He thought Ilya would appreciate it.

Ilya had eventually slipped into unconsciousness, hand resting on Shane’s chest over his heart, face buried into the pillow, breaths congested.

Shane couldn’t sleep.

That was fine.

He was busy.

His laptop glowed faintly in front of him, thin, dense lines of text flashing in front of his eyes. He didn’t understand half of it. He would have asked Ilya hours ago but whilst his boyfriend was improving his English in terms of reading, if Shane, a native speaker couldn’t understand this, he didn’t have much hope Ilya could scramble through it. Shane was well aware that his brain was wired for hockey and very little else- he was second to none on the ice.

His boyfriend?

Ilya Rozanov was smart. Not just smart, sometimes Shane actually wondered at his IQ because he seemed to know everything. Shane’s mind was a steel trap for anything related to hockey but Ilya took it one step further. He was pretty sure his boyfriend was a genius and he hated that he couldn’t parade him in front of the fuckwits who insisted he was a meat-headed wall of muscle.

It certainly helped that Shane was Ilya’s favourite topic.

Not even Ilya could understand this, though- half in English, the other half in French, all dense legalese Shane should really get a lawyer to look at.

An immigration lawyer.

Because whilst Ilya was safe, here, in Canada right now, they flew over the border far too often and a Russian passport? Too risky.

An American passport? No. Just no. Shane had standards, he was not spending the rest of his life with an American.

They were retiring in Ottawa.

The plan had to be perfect. Foolproof. Shane Hollander did not like risks, especially not those pertaining to the blonde in the bed beside him, creamy skin all on show with the constellation of moles along his spine and ribs, hair fluffy and clean and smelling like Shane. The soft movement of his breaths had Shane’s eyes watering and he shut the laptop, throwing the room into darkness but for the weak light of the moon shining through the open windows. He plastered himself over Ilya’s back, wriggling until their legs were entwined and his hand rested, contorted, against Ilya’s soft belly.

He’d almost lost this and he wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.

Shane refused.

Ilya had refused point blank to leave the bed. He was comfortable, and warm, and the birds were chirping outside the windows and he was halfway through The Name of The Wind and he was not. Leaving. The. Bed. Until at least midday. “And what will you do if I’m not back?” Shane asked as he lay on his belly between Ilya’s spread thighs, nipping at the tense skin with his teeth, his lips, hands firm on his iliac spines, keeping him pinned to the mattress. He leaned forward, running his tongue up his length, eyes closing as the taste of him registered, kissing the tip as another drop of precome dripped onto that wonderfully taut six-pack.

Ilya’s hand tightened in his hair, the other stroking lazily at his cock when Shane shifted back down. “I think- ah- I will snoop. Is very good word. I will- oh yes Hollander- I will open all cupboards. Pull out all little secret things boring hockey players collect. I think have not explored under- FUCK!”

Shane chucked around Ilya’s length, taking him down to the back of his throat and swallowing. Again.

And again.

And again.

Until his boyfriend a puddle of lax muscles under his hands, cock soft against his hip, tongue in Shane’s mouth as he stroked his cock, Shane whimpering, glad to be distracted by- and to distract- the man below him.

Eventually Shane forced himself to get up, leaving his boyfriend behind with a quick kiss before he got distracted yet again and set the GPS for a lawyer’s office in Ottawa.

Mary Stein. Immigration. Excellent reviews.

Shane had a plan. He liked plans. The original plan had been American citizenship- not Shane’s favourite but Ilya hadn’t minded the idea. He was well on the way to permanent residency after living in Boston for so many years…

The problem was his father. Each day Ilya came closer to this father’s mind faltering and revealing what he shouldn’t. They had no plans to come out until after retirement but if Grigori Rozanov fucked that up America was the last place Shane wanted his boyfriend to be stuck if given an option.

So another plan was required. Each day the Russian passport that allowed him to cross borders became more like a leash and it worried Shane. It worried Ilya, given the way he had been pouring over dense documents in Russian that Shane couldn’t yet translate, all stamped with official government seals.

The offices were in a nondescript building in the centre of the city, on the seventh floor. On the corner. He was early so he picked up a coffee, his sunglasses and cap- a Boston Bears one that Ilya had gifted him as a joke- causing people more often than not to look away.

Ottawa was a terrible team, but they had fucking standards here.

Shane himself felt a little dirty.

The receptionist led him into a pleasantly beige office with instructions to wait and wait Shane did, for the ten minutes until his appointment began and then he had a heart attack.

Vegas 2014.

Clearly the encounter had been memorable because the middle-aged woman who had once sat in the seat beside him on a plane back to Montreal stood in the door, staring at him in surprise which soon morphed into a kindly smile. “Mr. Hollander.”

“Um… Ms. Stein?” He was one wrong word from a panic attack but he was going to keep it. The fuck. Together. He counted to ten slowly, then back in Russian, then once again except it was Ilya’s voice in his head singing ‘Do Rei Me.’

“Yes… But given I’ve seen someone’s genitals I believe you can call me Mary.” Brown eyes watched him carefully as she made her way around the desk, looking sharp in red Louboutins, a black suit, black hair carefully styled into a sedate bun.

Her nails were long, French tip, and Shane focused on them as she settled in her seat, fingers interlocking on the surface of the desk. “I’m really sorry about that, it was completely inappropriate-”

“Perhaps, but I was nosy.” She leaned over the desk on her elbows, pearly white teeth showing through her genial smile. “I know your lawyer, Mr. Hollander, you’re like most hockey players, interested in contracts and investments. So why are you here, in my office, in Ottawa when you live in Montreal, asking about immigration law? As far as I’m aware your entire family is Canadian.”

“We are… And it’s not really for me.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, settling them in his lap, concentrating more on not picking at his nails than the conversation. “I have… A friend. He has a family member who’s… Sick. Who talks.” Her expression became one of sympathy. “He’s Russian.” He could see the instant she connected the dots. “He got out. Last time. But he’s not a dual citizen. And he lives in America.”

“And you are looking into American citizenship?” She snorted in amusement as Shane gave what he hoped was a ‘are you fucking kidding me’ glare. “I see. So not American.”

“No.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I refuse to marry an American.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as Shane realised what he’d just said.

To a complete stranger.

In a public office.

Fuck it. “I need to know the quickest way he could obtain Canadian citizenship if it all went to shit.”

“Asylum.”

“Would require them knowing why. This isn’t an option, nor is it currently an emergency as long as he’s not forced to leave the country or extradited out.”

Silence.

“So time isn’t a factor.”

“It may become one. He needs to travel across borders for work and he’ll go stir crazy if he can’t, though money isn’t a problem.”

“I can’t imagine it would be.” She sat back, steepling her fingers under her chin and Shane waited. “Mr. Hollander… You’re not stupid, despite the general opinion of hockey players and their cousin the concussion. I am also incredibly expensive so how about we cut to the chase. If your parter isn’t willing to claim asylum, American citizenship despite living there, and is willing to risk the possible years of awaiting Canadian-”

“Yes.”

“Then the actual question you should ask is how likely is the Canadian government to refuse emergency asylum to a Canadian national’s husband, if that husband is already applying for citizenship the slow way.”

Yes.

Yes.

Because Shane Hollander was going to marry the asshole currently snooping through the boxes under his bed.

He was going to marry him.

Because if it was the choice between Ilya Rozanov and hockey, he’d choose his future fucking husband over the ice every. Single. Time.

Hell, he was rich enough they could build their own fucking rink, zombie apocalypse be damned.

Mary nodded, clearly reading his expression. “Alright. Then your second question is how likely someone is to find out about your marriage.”

“Yes. The press-”

“The press look for what they think exists, Mr. Hollander, and your personal life very much does not. You are not a part of contentious practices, no woman is coming to claim your love-child, you are refreshingly scandal-free and have built a career upon the principle of being unproblematic and dare I say near aromantic.”

Shane nodded. “I looked it up- unless they have a legitimate reason to obtain the paperwork it should be completely confidential.”

“Yes. That being said paperwork changes hands, and hands are not NDA’d. You would need to minimise the risk. As few hands as possible, through the correct channels. Paperwork still needs to be filed but we can do it safely.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis and Shane shook his head slightly as his vision shook, clenching his eyes shut.

He could have this.

If he wanted it. He could have it.

It was possible.

It was permanent.

“Mr. Hollander.” Shane’s head snapped up to the touch on the back of his wrist, Mary on her heels beside him, looking concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Um, sorry about that.” He shrugged, unable to stop the stupid grin. He must have looked insane. “Sorry. I’m just… I think I’m getting married. I…” He hated the fact that he was starting to cry but he couldn’t make himself stop, and he accepted the box of tissues as Mary moved back to her desk. “I didn’t think I’d get that.”

“Well I’m sure if you’d tried you could have found a lovely young man or woman who’s far less problematic-”

“I really couldn’t.” He said with a shrug. “It’s Rozanov or nothing, I guess.”

There was a massive clattering as Mary slipped, missing her chair and ending up on the floor. Shane scrambled to help her and instead found himself being dragged onto the ground beside her.

Her face was pale.

She looked horrified.

“But...” She whimpered. Whimpered. “He’s such an asshole.” She whispered. “The biggest asshole in the world. He’s really just the worst you’re joking, aren’t you?” She grasped his hands, hard, eyes pleading. “Please tell me you’re joking. The sheer amount of chaos this would cause if it got out-”

He just smiled. “I think he’s kinda perfect.”

She looked vaguely nauseous. “Truly? Rozanov? Perfect?” She shook her head in disbelief. “This is truly the end of times. If your team knew-”

“My team doesn’t get to decide who I marry.” He said firmly, sounding far more confident than he felt.

She looked as if he’d just ruined her entire month. “This is the worst day of my life.” She grumbled, allowing him to help her to her feet, dusting off her pants. “Boston Bears. The Captain of the fucking Boston Bears. Marrying Ottowa’s first son. Absolute fucking nightmare.” Ah. Not a hockey fan. A hockey fan. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“I wish I thought most people would react like that.”

That had her halting in her rant and she gave a sympathetic grimace. “I suppose I could have taken it far worse. I’m guessing no one knows?”

Shane gave a sheepish shrug as he sat back down. “It’ll be small. If we do it. I’ll need to find someone willing to-”

“I know a pair who officiated a lot of the early marriages when the legislation went through. One works in government, he can get your paperwork sorted.” Shane felt his heart start to calm- huh. He hadn’t even realised it had been racing until he tasted the sour adrenaline at the back of his tongue. “When do you want to do this?”

A year ago. “When are they available?”

A resolute nod. “Give me a second.” She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts.

Shane was excited.

Shane, like a fifteen-year-old girl was miles away at the cottage picturing under which tree he was going to get married. He was picturing the way in which the light at dusk- because of course it would be dusk- would play against Ilya’s cheekbones. The way his cheeks would form into rosy apples as he smiled down at Shane, how his voice would sound as-

“Dad? Hi. I have a couple, an adorably gay one that wants to get married tomorrow. Can you guys make it?” Mary sat the phone down in between them and Shane frowned, noting it was on speaker.

“That’s a little last minute?” The man’s voice was soft, French accented, quiet and kind, reminiscent of Shane’s own father.

David Hollander. Yuna. His parents.

He’d never imagined being able to get married. He’d never pictured his father standing beside him at the venue his mother would have forced upon him for ‘optics.’

He’d never imagined them with him.

He didn’t want them with him.

He was an awful son.

His parents were going to miss the most important day of his life and he… He didn’t care.

He loved them.

But he didn’t want them there.

He didn’t want the questions. The accusations.

‘Did he force you into this?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘There are other men, better men.’

‘I don’t think you’re thinking about the repercussions this will have you your career.’

No.

He didn’t want them to make it all about them. About the breach of trust. His mother would cry. He knew she would. She’d cry because she’d feel guilty. Like he hadn’t felt safe with her. Like she hadn’t let him be himself.

His father would sit there looking like a kicked puppy, morose in his acceptance, always supportive as his wife aired the grievances he felt in ways he couldn’t.

This was going to be the happiest day of his life.

So he was going to be selfish.

So fucking selfish.

And he didn’t care. His soon to be fiancé and very rapidly husband- his phone buzzed. Two notifications. One a postal notification. The other- “Shit.”

ASSHOLE

You have package Hollander.

What do you buy that is from New Zealand?’

DO NOT OPEN THAT FUCKING PACKAGE ROZANOV

I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL DRIVE YOU BACK TO BOSTON!

No you won’t.

I am delight 

Is light.

Expensive- boring hockey player got insurance.

Fragile.

Fine. Open it. Ruin the surprise.

Is for me?

Okay. I leave.

‘Hurry up and come home. Want to fuck you in grass.

I see little bubbles- will put blanket down first.

Shane looked up to find his newest lawyer looking down at him with an amused look. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Late. Six? You can all stay for dinner after?”

“Sweetie, why does that man sound like my favourite hockey player, Shane Hollander?”

“Um… Hi?”

“Mary Stein you take me off speaker right now or there will be no wedding-” The call cut off and Mary placed the phone to her ear as she pushed a folder of papers towards Shane. He flipped it open. Smiled. Accepted the pen. Started to write.

The papers sat near completely filled out on the car seat next to him the entire way home. He barely remembered putting his signature on the documents, just that it was done and there was black ink smudged against the side of his hand, his shirt, where he’d clutched the pen so hard it had snapped.

He felt numb.

Like every part of his body was about to jump out of its skin.

Like sensation was pressing against each and every nerve until he reached a new level of feeling.

His head was reeling and all he could think about was the colour apricot.

He probably shouldn’t have been driving in that state but it wasn’t like he was going to drag Ilya out of the house to retrieve him just because he was so ecstatic that he couldn’t make his body function.

He was getting married.

He’d never even considered it as a possibility. He’d never particularly wanted to. When his friends… Friend. Teammates. Had spoken about it, it had sounded awful.

Why did the majority of men genuinely seem to hate their wives? Whilst his parents had always seemed to genuinely care about each other, they were very much the minority in Shane’s experience, and it hadn’t exactly inclined him to go out and find a wife.

The old ball and chain.

The nagging voice in their phones stopping them from going out and partying.

The bitch that withheld sex for reasons unknown.

The whore that made them do chores when all they wanted to do was relax and play video games.

The mothers of their fucking children asking for nothing more than their husbands to be faithful, supportive and loving.

In Shane’s mind, the barest of human decency.

In Ilya’s actions, nothing more than the role he played daily without thought, treating Shane as if he was the most perfect thing in his life. A true partner.

Perhaps most men just hated women- or maybe that was just the Voyageurs. Minus Hayden- no matter how bad a friend Hayden was Shane would never call him a bad husband.

So marriage. Not a delightful prospect in Shane’s limited experience.

But here he was. Driving five above the speed limit to get back to his soon to be fiancé five minutes earlier.

Five minutes wasn’t that much in the grand scheme of things.

He lifted his foot off the accelerator. An hour. He had an hour to plan the most perfect proposal anyone had ever experienced.

He could do it.

ILYA

Ilya Rozanov was having the best fucking day.

The absolute best day.

This morning he’d woken up to his cock being sucked.

Best day.

He’d then spent the morning tucked up in Shane’s needlessly enormous bed, ensconced in fine cotton and goose feathers.

Also best day.

Shifting to the couch with his coke and favourite sandwich ingredients whilst his boyfriend left him to fend for himself, giving him free range of Shane’s cottage?

Very much best day.

And now Shane’s car was pulling up into the drive, which meant the best day just became better. Ilya’s life was always better when he had his angry kitten in front of him.

The car door opened almost violently, as if Shane had shoved it open with all of his weight and Ilya stilled where he stood just a few steps from the front door, watching his boyfriend through the windows.

Shane rounded the car and Ilya felt his heart stutter in his chest at the look of anger? No. Fear? Maybe a little. Hatred? Ilya didn’t think he’d done anything to warrant being hated today, and this sure as hell didn’t look like a joke.

His boyfriend almost ran up the stairs, wrenching open the door, panting.

Was Ilya about to die?

“Marry me!” Shane shouted, shoving a pile of papers into Ilya’s chest. “You’re going to marry me. Now.”

Ilya frowned in confusion. And then looked down. Fancy looking papers. A bit worse for wear. Inky. “What?”

Shane scowled in his direction, pale as a ghost and shivering, arms coming to wrap around himself. “I think I was pretty clear. I want you to marry me. Now.”

Ilya started to shuffle through the papers. “Why you ask me to marry you when looking like want to murder everyone from here to Boston?” He asked softly, seeing Shane’s signatures already in place. He was getting married. He looked up at his fiancé, cocking his head to the side and putting on his most irritating smile.

“What? I don’t look like I want to murder anyone-”

“You look like angry kitten, ready to tear eyes out. I am scared-”

“Fuck you, Rozanov, I’m not a fucking-”

“Very angry kitten, sharp claws. Not sure I want to marry such violent person.” He walked towards Shane who looked about ready to pass out. “Why you ask like this? Very un. Ro. Man. Tic. I think. Is not very good proposal.”

“Oh fuck off, since when have you been romantic-”

“Lies! I am very romantic! I buy you pretty things, call you nice names, fuck you so well-”

“You jerked off in a shower in front of me! And ghosted me for six months! You don’t have a romantic bone in your body!”

“Bones are too strong for romance.” He leaned forward, pecking a kiss on Shane’s red little nose. “Heart is squishy. Did not even get nice ring-” He stumbled forward as Shane vanished to the side, hurrying to the kitchen. “What the fuck? Hollander?”

He hurried after him, watching as Shane dove for the small box sitting on the kitchen bench, right next to Ilya’s coffee and the remnants of his breakfast. He’d spent a good twenty minutes staring and shaking and debating opening it, even though he knew Shane would murder him.

His fiancé- because in what world would Ilya say no once he was properly asked- tore at the tape with his bare hands, biting at it with his teeth like a rabid dog when his short nails failed, tearing into the box until-

That was a ring box.

That was a box that Ilya had in his bedside draw in Boston.

And now Shane had one.

His fiancé was perfect.

Shane turned with the small, circular wooden box cradled in his hands, biting his lip, eyes teary as if he were scared. As if he actually thought Ilya would ever say no to him, as if Ilya had not spent nights lying awake imagining this day, though he’d expected to be the one doing the asking.

This was better.

This was the best day of his life.

“Ilya.”

“Yes.”

“Will you marry me?” His voice wavered at the end and he thrust the box in Ilya’s direction, his opposite arm wrapped around his stomach, fingers clenched around his shirt, looking as if he was about to drop the box and run.

Ilya approached his boring little hockey player, careful not to startle. He reached out and placed a firm grasp around Shane’s wrist first to steady him, pulling him in ever so slowly until his side was resting against Ilya’s chest, slipping his arm around his waist and forcing his fingers to release. He pressed a kiss into his sweaty hair, feeling the heat radiating off his body. So terrified.

“If you had been any other man, Shane Hollander, would have married you in Vegas. Crumpled suits, a ring won at casino. Scott Hunter as witness.” Shane laughed wetly at his side. “Would have not given choice. Would have paraded in front of entire NHL- ‘Look at pretty thing I have. All Mine.’” He turned Shane in his arms, kissing his forehead. “Would have put pictures everywhere. Would have rubbed in faces that very best hockey player wanted to marry me.”

Shane let out a little hiccup and the ring was bouncing on the ground, the wooden case split at the joint, Shane’s arms gripping around the back of his neck and Ilya bent slightly, looping his arms around his thighs and picking him up, Shane’s legs wrapping around his hips as if they belonged there.

Too fucking right they belonged there.

Since the day he’d first opened them to let Ilya touch him they’d belonged there.

Since the day he’d shook Ilya’s hand twice in a gross parking lot in bumfuck Canada they’d belonged there.

Everything Shane Hollander had ever been and ever would be now belonged to Ilya fucking Rozanov and he wasn’t going to fuck this up.

He spun, setting his fiancé on the marble countertop, hands coming up to envelop the smaller man’s face in his grip, slotting their mouths together in a mess of smiles and teeth and tongues, Shane’s heels on the small of his back pulling him in closer, both of them as hard as rock.

Ilya had zero patience.

He reached down and grabbed the back of Hollander’s shorts, yanking them down unceremoniously, bringing Shane’s ass over the edge of the bench with the movement, causing him to fall backwards, head hanging over the opposite edge. “Fuck yes, Ilya-”

“Am going to fuck you until you scream my name, Hollander.” Ilya grit out through his teeth as he pushed his own shorts and underwear around his thighs, not even bothering with his shirt as he pushed Shane’s legs, bound by this clothes, up around his head.

Shane laughed under him, happy and content and amused, handing Ilya the bottle of lube sitting in the fruit bowl. “I always scream your name.”

Ilya chuckled as he slicked himself up, spread Shane’s cheeks and pressed inside, groaning as the tight, hot walls enveloped his cock, having fucked his perfect fiancé so often over the last weeks that all it took was Shane to relax for a moment and he was sinking to depth, Shane already pushing back against him, hands locked behind his knees.

Perfect.

It was fast, and brutal, and Shane was screaming his name in seconds instead of minutes, shoulders pressed into the cool stone, back arching, cock dribbling so much pearly white fluid what Ilya reached up and swiped it onto his fingers, using it to ease the way when the lube dried around Shane’s rim.

It was filthy, and wonderful, and they were sweating so much Shane was constantly having to scrabble for purchase and Ilya’s feet had started to slip against the floor, almost sending him to the ground.

But they persevered.

They persevered until Shane’s voice was hoarse, devolving into little hitches of his breath, breathy moans and nails ripping at Ilya’s back.

They persevered until Ilya’s arms gave out and he collapsed against Shane’s front, pressing against the smaller man’s cock and sending them both catapulting straight into orgasm, clutching at each other so tight that neither could breathe until it was over, Ilya’s head aching with a pressure headache, the room spinning around and around and around and-

“Oh my God. How the fuck do you keep on getting better?” Shane forced out breathily, reaching a hand up to wipe at the sweat dripping down Ilya’s chin onto Shane’s chest.

And people wondered why he had an ego when Canada’s golden boy said things like that.

“I have most excellent partner.” He said with a smile, forcing himself upright as his cock slipped free, his cum dripping down the side of the bench and onto the floor.

Absolute. Best. Fucking. Day.

Ilya Rozanov was engaged. Engaged. He was engaged to Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander who had bought him the One Ring. 10 carat solid gold. Inscribed.

Shane had retrieved the broken box as they’d limped together into the bedroom, placing the ring on Ilya’s finger as they’d taken a slow, lazy, blowjob filled shower, Ilya using his fingers to coax his spend from his fiancé- couldn’t have him all messy, could we?

They’d wrapped each other up in hideous tartan bath robes- hideous but perhaps Ilya’s favourite purchase yet for the way that Shane just seemed to melt into his- and he’d set Shane on the couch with his reams of paperwork whilst he retrieved them a snack.

Nothing could ruin this day.

Not even stupid Canadian wolf birds that would not shut up, probably complaining about the rain.

Not even the fact that it hadn’t stopped raining since that morning.

Not even the fact that his boyfriend- fiancé- best day ever- was sitting on the couch looking at a picture album with a sad little look on his face.

Okay. Maybe that was a problem.

He threw himself down next to his fiancé. Still the best. “You are boring Canadian hockey player, not sad one. Why you are looking like I kill your cat instead of ecstatic you get to spend rest of life with me.”

“I don’t have a cat. And that was already the plan.” Shane replied softly, distractedly, running gentle fingers over one of the pictures. “He was supposed to be here.” He whispered, and Ilya leaned over, settling his chin on Shane’s shoulder. “That was the plan. I was his best man. He was supposed to be mine.”

“Thought that only best friends were supposed to be best men.” Ilya said sullenly, flicking Shane’s finger where it sat on Pike’s face. “This is not good friend.”

“No… He’s not. But I thought he was.”

“Have higher standards now. Only third to fifth best hockey players now. And smoothie boy.”

Shane looked a bit taken aback. “Wait, you think we should ask Kip to come?”

“Of course! Hunter would not ask me to wedding without you. So smoothie boy must come.”

“Ilya. Kip has been with Scott for weeks. And now we’re inviting him to our super-secret last-minute wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because in twenty years do you want Hunter to look all sad and alone in photos? No. You want his boy to be there.”

Shane was now looking at him as if he was an idiot. That was a very common look. “Explain.”

Ilya sighed and then slumped back against the couch, bringing Shane with him, curling his muscular form up against his chest into a tiny little ball. So cute. “What do I need to explain?”

“How do you know Scott’s going to marry the guy he’s just met.”

“I do not.”

“You just said-”

“I did not say he will marry him. No, I say that Kip makes Hunter happy, and you want happy photos. No sad photos on wedding day.” Shane went to reach for the album and Ilya lashed out his foot, sending the heavy book falling to the ground. “No. No Pikes to make you sad. Only nice friends.”

Shane didn’t say anything, just sighed softly and tucked his head under Ilya’s chin, perfectly content in his arms. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

Best. Fucking. Decade. He tried very hard to sound calm. “Then we will call friends today. Will take time for flights.” Soft hair tickled against his neck as Shane nodded. “I think Hunter will stand beside you, if you ask.” He proposed softly, though deep down he knew that Shane didn’t want that. “What do you want to do, moy lyubov?” A small sniffle echoed through the room and Ilya felt his chest constrict. He hated to see Shane distressed. He needed to fix this.

There was a clicking noise and the fridge started to hum in the background. Outside the rain continued to hit steadily against the roof, dripping down the large window panes in rivulets. The day had been lazy and quiet and maybe it was time. “Shane, do you want him to be here?” He did his best to keep any of the judgement he felt out of his tone, knowing that this was already going to be a difficult enough conversation without his opinions being a factor.

It took Shane a good five minutes to reply and Ilya was more than happy to let him have the time. “Is it stupid?” He whispered against Ilya’s chest, tightening his arms around his waist. “He just… I was so angry, Ilya. He tried to talk to me and I told him to go away and I haven’t heard from him since and I just… I needed time. I wanted to figure out how I felt, I just wanted him to stop pushing and he just left.”

Ilya had seen the messages.

In the five minutes it took him to wipe the burner and destroy the sim thirty-two messages had come through. He’d left them unopened, far too angry to even consider giving them the time of day as Shane had a breakdown over the phone.

Shane’s phone had looked much the same in the beginning. Message after message from Pike, Lady Pike- though those were far fewer.

And then nothing.

The night of the cup there was one last message.

HAYDEN

Okay. I get it.

I’ll stop.

I’m sorry.

Then nothing. Not single message or call after what looked like years of steady contact, his fiancé and Pike sending more messages in a month than he and Marley did in a year. Good mornings. Plans for runs. Random questions about types of flooring. Beers. Three AM existential crises about otters and their rocks. So many pictures of Pike’s kids.

The singular reason he hadn’t blocked the man on Shane’s behalf was the fact that Shane had been the one that had stopped replying first. In the last month before their falling out Shane’s replies had grown shorter and less frequent whilst Pike’s had taken on an air of mild hysteria, something he’d noticed in his own messages with the man.

So yes. Perhaps Ilya was being… Cautious.

He doubted he needed to be but.

Never hurt.

“He left, my Shane, but you have maybe not been the best of friends either.” Shane’s head whipped up, expression one of insult. “You know this, yes? You have been very busy with excellent boyfriend, were not paying much attention to the little fish, made him very jealous.” He booped his snoot. “Maybe made him not so smart.”

“Ilya… Are you actually defending Hayden Pike?” His tone was incredulous, expression one of genuine disbelief. “You hate him!”

“If hated him would not have always answered questions about you, hmm?” He drew his fiancé in closer. “He was trying to be good friend, Shane, but was also very scared of team too. You are Shane Hollander, yes? Best in team, second best in league, team cannot win without you. Pike is just Pike, boring and bad at hockey but was trying very hard to make team less shit for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Oh no.

Ilya cocked his head to the side, watching Shane’s expression carefully. “You do not know what he does for you?”

Shane shook his head slowly in the negative.

Oh no.

Ilya groaned softly, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “Shane. Love of my life. I think we have to invite Hayden Pike to wedding.” He groaned as Shane huffed into his hair. “I think maybe you should let him talk to you, yes?”

“But why?” Shane asked softly, hands carding through Ilya’s curls. “What he did-”

“Have feeling that maybe we were wrong, moy lyubov.” He knew Shane’s look of horror was mirrored on his own face. “I do not know Pike this well, but I think that maybe should have read messages before I broke phone.”

Shane turned slightly, slipping into his lap, legs spread along the length of the couch. It had taken Ilya an embarrassingly long time to realise that his little Canadian was very different. Sometimes Shane’s mind worked at the speed of light- it was like there wasn’t a delay at all. But other times. Other times his fiancé would sit in silence for hours, ruminating upon a problem or working his way through a scenario in a way Ilya just couldn’t understand. Not that it really mattered. All Shane needed during these times was quiet, calm and more often than not a giant Russian pillow. He’d press his ear to Ilya’s chest like he was doing now, using the steady rhythm as a metronome for his thoughts.

Ilya thought it was beautiful.

“I… I don’t know if he’d even pick up my calls anymore.” He whispered against Ilya’s shirt.

“I think that is a very silly thing to think, kotenok. He will pick up phone.” Ilya placed a soft kiss against Shane’s hair. “I will get others from airport, no? You will give me home of Pike, and I will ask. Then if says no, will maybe hurt less.”

Shane nodded.

Ilya was on a mother fucking quest.

But first.

CLIFF

Cliff was tired.

He’d had a long, boring night.

A long, boring night in which he’d spent a good three hours at a club trying to hook up and failed. Epically. Over and over again.

Not because of lack of options. No. But because he looked at every woman and pictured marrying her.

Pictured their kids together.

Wondered how they’d confess their love.

He was infected. He wanted a relationship.

Fucking Hollanov. Fucking Skip. Fucking Carter.

Marlow wanted a cute girlfriend to snuggle. Marlow wanted his very own Hollander. Or Roz. He’d never minded a snarky bitch.

His existential crisis had led to a sleepless night and now he was sitting in his pyjamas watching Roz jump on Hollander’s couch in a dressing gown whilst his long-suffering boyfriend sipped his ginger ale contentedly through a straw, bouncing along.

“Marley!” Roz collapsed onto his knees, peering happily into the camera. “I am taken man!” He shouted enthusiastically, waving his hands around on the screen, looking vaguely manic.

“Um… Hate to tell you this buddy, but you’ve been taken for a while.”

Roz huffed in frustration. “No, himbo, I am taken!” And he thrust something shiny in Cliff’s face.

The One Ring.

The One Ring was in Cliff’s face.

The One Ring was on Roz’s finger.

Cliff shot to his feet, “No.”

“Yes!”

“Fucking no, Roz!”

“YES!”

“Fuck yes!” Cliff screamed, likely waking his neighbours.

“FUCK YES!”

“You’re getting married!”

“I am getting married!”

“To the hottest hockey player in the league!”

“To the best hockey player in the league!”

Cliff collapsed onto his couch and started bouncing as Roz went off on a monologue, detailing Hollander’s perfect proposal, and perfect ring, and perfect freckles.

And Cliff sat. And listened. And fucking cried because this was amazing. His best friend was getting married to the best guy and- “You will watch, yes? Need witness! And you will be best man! Will invite Carter and Scott and little smoothie boy!”

Cliff was best man.

This was the best day of his life.

“Wait. The smoothie boy?”

“The smoothie boy! Do you know the smoothie boy?!”

“Who lives on Drury Lane!”

CARTER

The house was quiet. It’d been years since he’d last come home and found it empty.

Liz was gone.

He wished he could say he was surprised. He wished he could say he’d tried to stop her.

He wished he could say he particularly cared but they’d been falling apart for the last few months, her more interested in work than spending time with him on the rare occasions he was at home, and he spending as much time as possible away from said home to avoid the silence, to the degree that he was spending more time in Scott’s guest room than he was in his own bed.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck.

He could have lived several lifetimes without knowing what Scott Hunter looked like bent over his couch being reamed to high heaven when he went to get a glass of water.

In the olden days he would have run, eyes covered, screaming apologies.

This time he took a tasteful waist-up shot and sent it to the group before saluting Kip and heading back to sleep.

The little shit had just winked.

Carter fully approved of the smoothie boy.

So now he sat alone. In his empty apartment. Looking at the dusty spaces where her books used to sit, the empty cupboards, no sheets on his bed and fuck he was pathetic. He needed to call Rozanov for linen recommendations. He fucking loved the shit at the cottage.

He looked around.

He was going to Scott’s.

Kip could keep it in his pants for a few hours. And he had great earphones now.

They all did.

‘Ra ra Rasputin-’ Fucker.

“Carter!”

“Why do you sound drunk?”

“I am drunk! Drunk on love! Book flight, I am getting-”

“We are, asshole!”

“We are getting married! You will come to cottage and will stand with Hunter and smoothie boy! Will make photos symmetrical! Shane says must wear pretty suit. Not black.”

What the ever-loving fuck. “Rozanov, is this a joke? Because it’s a pretty shitty one.” He heard a scuffle then Hollander’s voice came over the speaker.

“Unfortunately I’ve experienced temporary insanity and have decided to legally settle. Tomorrow at six.”

“Noooooo not settle- I am above weight!”

“I swear to God, Rozanov-”

SCOTT

“Yesyesyesyes fuck, right there!” Scott groaned as Kip’s cock brushed over his prostate, shifting his leg, widening his hips and sinking closer to the bed, face buried into the pillows as Kip pressed down on his lower back, sending him into an exaggerated arch that had his nipples brushing the covers. “Oh God- yesyes, faster!” He yelled, Kip groaning into his hair, teeth teasing at the side of his neck.

‘Ra Ra Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine-’ “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

Behind him Kip started to giggle, which sent all manner of interesting sensations through his body.

Scott decided to ignore it, grabbing Kip’s hand and wrapping it around his cock. “I swear to God if you stop-”

“In what world am I going to stop?” He replied breathily, bracing his feet on the rucked up sheets and finding his rhythm again- ‘Ra Ra Rasputin, Russia’s-’ “Is he going to stop?” Kip asked with a giggle as he reached over Scott’s body- oh fuck that was a hell of an angle- and grabbed the phone off the nightstand, Rozanov’s name stark on the screen. “Want me to answer?”

“Can you fuck me at the same time?” Scott bit back without thinking and winced as Kip stilled. “Shit, sorry- forget I said that.”

The phone dropped beside his head and his eyes widened. “Hello Hunter.”

Ilya Rozanov had a sixth sense. He had to. Because that was his ‘I know what you’re doing right now’ voice.

He gasped as Kip’s hands settled back on his hips and he gave a leisurely thrust, shifting Scott’s entire body towards the phone. “Rozanov. What the fuck do you want?” He forced out between clenched teeth as he watched Kip smirk in the mirror hanging from his wardrobe door. God he was hot. Those arms.

“Have called bad time, Hunter?”

“Oh fuck off, you know you’ve called at a bad time, what is it?”

Rozanov chortled down the line and Scott heard a very Hollander coded sigh in the background. “You have little smoothie boy? Good. You will get on plane to Ottawa in morning. You will witness wedding.”

They both stilled. Scott pushed himself up on his knees, pressing back into Kip’s lap, the man’s arms settling around his waist. “I swear to God, Rozanov, if you’re fucking with me-”

“Why you all say this! Is not so surprising that Hollander wants to lock me down!”

“Becau- because you’re a moron, Rozanov.” Scott gasped as Kip’s fingers whispered along the head of his cock, causing him to tighten involuntarily around his length.

Amazing.

“Personally, I think he’s a delight.”

Chapter End Notes

Next Chappie!

Hayden Pike is very afraid.
Many terrible suits are worn.
Freak4freak Hollanov.
Kip decides being confused is boring and just dives right in to the crazy.
Cat.

And I need to read the book again to draft more chapters...

Chapter 13: Hayden. No.

Chapter Summary

In which I had planned a wedding of hilarity and fluff. Instead in this chapter you will get:
1. No sex.
2. A taste of Svetlana
3. Kip having zero patience
4. Hayden saying fuck a lot

Chapter Notes

Well hello my peeps. I have returned.

And why, you ask, it is at the nth hour?

Because these motherfucking characters are in my head and will not cooperate with my plans and so I’ve rewritten this chapter about 20 times.

SVETLANA

Ilyushka was missing.

He was never missing.

From the time they’d met it had never been more than a few days between his replies and now?

Now Svetlana was looking down at her phone for the thousandth time, scowling as the little blue tick refused to appear. Message after message left delivered, never read. His phone was lost or dead or on do not disturb and there was no one she could contact to find him.

For not the first time since he’d fled Russia Svetlana cursed herself for refusing his teammates’ contacts, years of seeking to avoid the dirty little hockey player fingers she’d assumed would be nothing but a nuisance coming to bite her in the ass.

Shame on her for assuming the worst of them.

Then again, she’d also assumed that he would never treat her like every other woman to pass through his life, fleeting and pathetic and disposable, so maybe she should be reevaluating her life choices.

Or maybe not.

She was Svetlana Vetrova.

She was not to be ignored. Especially not by Ilya fucking Rozanov.  

She sighed frustratedly, pushing her unrestrained hair back from her face as she hauled her suitcase from the baggage carousel. Beside her some middle-aged fatty with a kid in each hand asked if she needed help.

As if she would let the snot covered hands touch her luggage. American idiots.

The handle on her luggage clicked satisfyingly into place and she stalked through the airport, the heels of her boots clicking along the linoleum in the quiet of the morning, Ilya’s number ringing through again and again and again, her own voice echoing through the tiny speaker as she hit his message bank. 

She was annoyed.

More than annoyed she was worried.

Ilyushka had fled Russia like the dogs of war were on his heels to the murmurs of more than one prominent official, if her father’s contacts were to be believed. Whilst Ilya was not so popular in Russia as a hockey player he was still known and for several weeks pictures of a bleeding and terrified Ilya Rozanov had been appearing in Russian media as he hurried through SVO wearing a hoodie that was very clearly not his.

She’d received a single message not a day after he’d left the country and nothing since.

ILYUSHKA

I am home with Jane. I am okay. Will call when I am better

Fuck you, Rozanov.

If the Russian would not come to Svetlana, she would hunt the bastard down herself. She would have done so immediately if her father had not required her presence in Russia to soothe the ruffled feathers around her Ilyushka’s departure, to assist him in removing Rozanov senior from his home. Every second she’d been forced to delay her departure had been like a knife through her chest and each night she’d trawled through the news, looking for any sign of him, at home or in Moscow.

Nothing.

But he would not escape her wrath for much longer. 

The taxi rank was bustling and she rolled her eyes at the inefficiency of American transport, pushing her way to the front of the line, very few willing to object to a woman who looked like she was going important places in a hurry. Her father had taught her that one.

A taxi pulled up in front of her, disgorging a harried man in exercise gear, a cap and dark sunglasses, tanned skin covered in rough black stubble, a well-worn duffle over his shoulder.

Cliff Marlow.

Cliff Marlow carrying a suit and a bag from the little Russian grocery store just around the corner from Ilya’s apartment.

Cliff Marlow heading towards the Ottawa gate. 

Her eyes narrowed.

She shut the taxi door.

She turned to the main desk.

ILYA

He’d turned his phone on for the first time since he’d returned from Russia and gazed in horror as he was inundated with texts, calls, hundreds of them. He immediately handed it to Shane, letting his fiancé delete everything indiscriminately. Not today. He would fix everything tomorrow. He was busy. 

The iPhone was handed back to him ten minutes later with a neat list of tasks in the notes app and Ilya was sent on his way with one of Shane’s less disgusting smoothies, a kiss that lasted a good twenty minutes and ended in Ilya needing to change his pants, and instructions to avoid any and all trouble whilst picking up their friends from the airport.

Sometimes Ilya wasn’t sure if his husb- fiancé, really knew him at all.

He always found trouble.

He hummed his way from the cabin to Ottawa, 1989 booming through the speakers of Shane’s SUV, windows down and the wind running through his hair, unable to concentrate on anything but the fact that he was getting married today.

Married.

Today Shane Hollander would tell their friends that he was going to keep Ilya for the rest of his life. Today he would be irrevocably claimed by the man he’d loved for years now. Today they would sign a simple piece of paper that would bind them for life because whilst Shane did sometimes selectively ignore Ilya’s finer talents, his fiancé was not stupid- he knew divorce would not be an option.

Which meant that finally.

Finally.

Shane Hollander was his.

“All mine.” Ilya murmured as the city came into view, the airport visible in the distance. “My own. My precious.” He giggled happily to himself, twining the ring on his finger absently.

The perfect choice by his perfect husband. To be. To be. No one would think a movie prop to be a symbol of their commitment. He could wear it whenever he wanted.

He never wanted to take it off again.

He parked deep within the basement levels of the long-term parking structure in a corner by the back next to a loud air-conditioning unit that blew hot, humid air in his face. He was early- no matter how many times he drove through Ottawa he’d never once managed to figure out the traffic, but better early than late.

Plus he was distracted. Project Hail Mary. He liked the little alien.

It was a good half an hour until he heard several voices coming towards the car and his eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. He smiled.

It was the little smoothie boy who appeared first, dressed all nice and cozy in a pair of Hunter’s joggers which were far too long and what looked like one of Carter’s hoodies, stretched around his impressive chest. He was smiling around a far more appetising smoothie than Ilya’s own and towing a carry on, a suit bag over his shoulder. 

Yes. He was very happy as to how the little smoothie boy was working out.

Hunter was next and like the old man he was he was dressed to the nines in the most cliched disguise Ilya had ever seen- near all black, forwards cap, dark sunglasses and an actual mask.

Ilya was friends with an idiot.

Vaughan was the only sane one, in Ilya’s mind, except now he was doubting it because the man was wearing a Hollander Montreal jersey.

In Ottawa.

God, was he the sane one? Disgusting. He rejected the notion entirely.

He let out a low whistle from where he stood in the open driver’s side door, causing all three men to turn in his direction.

For a moment none of them moved and then Hunter and Vaughan were running and Ilya found himself engulfed in what was perhaps the most violent hug he’d ever experienced.

Oh.

He liked this.

He had friends. Real, actual friends and they were happy for him.

He couldn’t hold back the delighted laughter as he returned their embrace, jumping a little in his excitement. “You have come!” He exclaimed, placing giant, sloppy kisses on both of their cheeks. “You are here to see me get married!” His voice cracked at the end but he didn’t care. He was getting fucking married today!

“Um… Hi?”

“Little smoothie boy!” Ilya exclaimed, reaching around Hunter and snagging a sleeve, pulling Kip into the hug between Carter and Scott, squishing them all to his front. “Thought you would maybe be too scared to come!”

Kip’s face fell into a nervous smile as Ilya released them all. “Well to be honest I didn’t think I was actually invited at first, but Scott said it would be fine?” He asked, trailing off awkwardly.

Ilya just scoffed, grabbing at their bags and opening the boot. “I want nice pictures to put on fireplace. If Hunter is all cranky thinking about you in New York, will make shitty photos.” He slammed the boot. “You will make Hunter smile, look less ugly.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

“Nonono Hunter. I am one man man now. Married.”

“He’s still got time to run.” Hunter said with a grin as he pulled smoothie boy into his side, the smaller man fitting under his arm perfectly, cute little dimples on show as he smiled up at Hunter, eyes crinkling in happiness.

So cute. Ilya really was the best friend. “Shane will not run. Have spent too much time chasing each other. Time to stop.” Carter let out a happy sigh in the background. “I have snacks, while we wait for Marley”

They settled themselves on the low retaining wall that divided the parking structure from a utilities room, Scott standing between Kip’s legs as Ilya distributed the breakfast wraps he’d obtained on the drive there, buttering them up whilst they waited because.

After all.

Ilya was on a quest.

As evidenced by the address already queued in the GPS.

It wasn’t too long a wait until the last of their party rounded the corner and Ilya threw himself off the wall and into his best friends arms much the way Hollander often threw himself at Ilya, giggling like an excited schoolboy as Cliff spun him around in circles, the giant man bearing his weight easily as he carried him back to the car.

Ilya was so fucking happy.

Fuck you, crippling depression his therapist insisted he had. Not today.

“I’m getting married today!” He yelled into the near empty parking structure, honestly not caring if anyone heard.

“Yeah, you are!” Cliff replied as he set him back in his feet, accepting the wrap Carter handed him, tearing it open with his teeth. “Fuck, I’m starving. Food on the plane was shitty and it was way too early to be having breakfast on the way to the airport.”

“So sorry that last minute wedding got in way of beauty sleep, Marlow. Can go home if you want.” Ilya said sarcastically as he started to shoo them all into the SUV, carefully arranging the suit bags on the back seat beside Vaughan who looked this close to falling asleep against the window.

Cliff took pride of place in the front seat. “Fuck no, man- didn’t think this day would ever come, no way in hell I’m missing this! Gonna take so many fucking photos and one day you’re gonna let me upload each and every sappy shot of you crying onto the web and the entire world will know just how whipped you are.”

Ilya frowned as he looked over his shoulder, throwing the SUV into reverse. “This does not sound good, whipped- fuck!”

He slammed on the brakes as a woman stepped out in front of the reversing SUV and he stared, horrified, as she shifted her weight, put one hand on her hip and crooked her finger. “I am going to die. Tell Hollander would have spent rest of life annoying him.” He muttered.

“Oh my God the bitch followed me!” Cliff whimpered as Ilya opened the door, slipping out of the car and stopping in front of Svetlana Vetrova, dressed head to foot in designer, looking distinctly unimpressed.

Silence.

“Ilyushka.”

Fuck. She was not happy. “Sveta.”

He yelped as her hand lashed out, punching his arm. “No, you do not get to ‘Sveta’ me, Ilya Rozanov!” And then to his surprise she threw herself forward into his startled arms, enveloping him in a hug that was just south to the border of desperate, slipping into familiar Russian. “You made me so worried and when I couldn’t leave Moscow to find you…” He yelped as she pinched at his waist. “You are never allowed to do that to me again!” She yelled, wiping at the tears that had escaped her eyes, smudging her eyeliner.

Ilya immediately hated himself. “I am sorry, Sveta… I was not thinking. It was… I was so scared. If I hadn’t been able to get out-”

“I know. I forced it all out of Alexei. I think that even he was surprised at what happened-”

“I do not wish to speak of him. Of them.” Ilya shook his head. “Not today. They have no place here. Not now. And maybe not ever again.”

Svetlana’s eyes widened in confusion, then slowly understanding. “You won’t go back. You have truly left Russia.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes.” He said firmly, slipping back into English. “There is nothing left for me now but my mother’s grave, and perhaps it is time to leave that too.” A throat cleared behind him, and they both turned to see Cliff leaning out of the window with Ilya’s phone in his hand.

“Sorry to break up the fun but your phone’s blowing up, Roz- might wanna answer that.” He chuckled at the look of adoration Ilya wasn’t unable to keep off his face as he hurried over, taking his phone to find a long stream of messages coming through, offering the most wonderful of insights into his husb- fiancé- fuck it. His husband’s tortured little mind.

He was already married in his soul.

TOMATO

I swear to God, Rozanov, if you’re smoking right now I’m going to divorce you on principle.

Can you divorce someone before you’re even married?

Fuck.

We’re getting married.

My face hurts I can’t stop smiling like an idiot.

This is what you do to me- I can’t even fucking eat because I keep drooling all over the place.

Should I wear the black suit or the navy?

I’ve also got a maroon one- is it maroon? I’m not sure if you’d call it that maybe it’s more red?

Should we have gotten flowers? Will no flowers make the photos look boring?

Should we have gotten a photographer? I know you said Marlow has a camera but I don’t want to make him do all the work…

You are idiot, my Shane.

You refuse to kiss if smoking- your kisses are my favourite things.

Except for your ass. Is very nice ass.

And freckles. Maybe they are favourite.

You will wear red suit- I will wear navy. Will look nice together at night.

Flowers make you sneeze. Do not want snot on suit.

Marley will murder if you take away job- will also get very drunk if no task given. Is good for him. Bored very quickly at parties.

His thumbs paused over the keypad and he looked up at Svetlana who stood in front of him with her head cocked, large suitcase by her side. For so long she had been all that he’d had, and so many times over the last year he’d wanted to tell her everything, to have that simple, uncompromising, unwavering support she’d always shown him. Maybe if she hadn’t reacted to ‘Jane’ like she had he would have… He looked back down to his phone.

I have friends but… Sveta followed Marlow from Boston.

Do I send her back?’

You said she didn’t like ‘Jane’

Do you think she’ll be okay with us?

I think is smart enough that would not say too much if was not

You want her here, don’t you?

She is very good friend, like Marly but better dressed

Does she have the lback dress she wore in that picture you showed me? With the gold jewellery?

Ilya Rozanov sobbed.

Loudly.

Pathetically.

He couldn’t stop.

A moment later Cliff was grabbing his phone, scrolling rapidly. “Aaaaaaw. You two are so fucking cute.” He grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “Pull yourself together, Roz- can’t have you looking like shit in the photos.”

Svetlana stepped forward, looking concerned. “Are you alright? It is your Jane, correct? Has she said something to you? Is something wrong?”

Ilya let out a pathetic little laugh as he accepted the handkerchief Kip thrust at him, the three New Yorkers having abandoned all pretence of given them privacy, half hanging out the windows.

He was just.

So.

Damned.

Happy.

He loved his husband.

“Yes it is my Jane. But no. Nothing is wrong. Everything is very right.” He snuffed disgustingly, shoving the handkerchief into his pocket and grabbing Svetlana’s hand, ignoring her disgusted nose twitch. “My Jane wants to meet you. Wants you to come with us today.”

Sveta’s expression morphed into one of pleasure, then became unsure. “Are you sure? Does she know who I am?”

Ilya nodded, understanding her question. “Yes. My Jane has seen many pictures. Knows that you are very beautiful woman who has sucked my cock many times.” That earned him a slap over the side of his head. “Knows that you have stayed in my house, and my bed. Knows that you cook me pelmeni and that you love hockey as much as they do.” He stepped closer, cupping her cheek with his hand and rubbing his thumb over her cheek. “Knows that I love you. And that you love me.”

“And she is not jealous?”

Ilya shook his head. “No. Because he has seen pictures and knows that he is even more beautiful. Because he has spent years learning how to suck my cock just the way I like it. Because his home is my home and his borscht is without compare. He knows that I would burn world down to be with him.”

“Oh Ilyushka. You are in love.”

Ilya returned her teary smile. “Very much. He is best thing and also worst thing that has every happened in my life and today I am going to marry him.”

He watched as Sveta’s eyes widened in surprise then consternation as her thoughts reordered. “You… You are getting married. To Jane.” She said softly, eyes raking over the three hockey players and one smoothie boy who stood behind Ilya. “They know this man who made you so sad.”

Hunter snorted inelegantly. “Sad. Sure.”

Svetlana shook her head firmly. “No. I saw Ilyushka after Vegas last year. Jane was not good for him then and he has not told me of her since then.” She eyed the four men carefully. “And now I think I know why.” She turned back to Ilya. “Your Jane is a hockey player, da?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. He is. And you are wrong. He makes me happiest have ever been, Sveta, and I want you to be a part of us.” He cocked his head towards the idiots. “Even if as collective is very dumb.”

He ignored the outrage behind him and watched Sveta’s expression morph into something he didn’t recognise. “You are sure. About him. He has made you hide, and lie to me-”

“No. Never. Have not lied to you.” He spat out quickly, grabbing at her long, thin fingers. “No, Sveta, is not why I did not tell you, you are…” He struggled for the words. “You are family, yes? Last of it. You are most important. If you had… If you had hated him. Like others do. Hated him for me. Was scared you would have made me choose.” He sniffed. “Because will always choose him and did not want to lose you.”

“Oh Ilyushka.” She exhaled as she pulled him into a fierce hug, crushing him to her chest. “I would never have made you choose, even if you were marrying Shane Hollander himself I would have supported you.” She giggled in his arms. “May have tried to steal him from you though.”

“Good thing Hollzy’s super gay then, eh?” Mayley interjected, grabbing the back of Ilya’s sweater and starting to pull him backwards towards the car. “Come on, shit to do and I refuse to be the one responsible for making us late.”

In his arms Svetlana had gone very still. “Hollander. Is gay.”

Ilya’s grin had the men behind him groaning. “Is very gay.”

“You are marrying Shane Hollander.”

“Oh no- he is marrying me.”

“O, Bozhe.”

“God has nothing to do with this. Maybe Satan.” Hunter mumbled as Ilya started to poke and prod Svetlana into the back seat of the SUV with Carter who looked at her as if she was the scariest thing he’d ever seen, going so far as to shove himself into the furthest corner of his seat.

“Aaw, Hunter, you are learning Russian for me!” Ilya called out happily as he slid into the front seat, messages from Shane continuing to pour through.

“How the fuck else am I supposed to chirp back?”

“Ah. You are dedicated. Like Hollander.” His perfect, perfect husband.

Quest.

He had a quest.

He couldn’t be distracted by soft hair and adoring smiles and ‘genetic’ and kisses that made his stomach turn up in knots and how perfect he was because he understood. Understood that Ilya wanted his last friend from Russia with him.

He would get the Pike.

His Shane would not be alone, even if Ilya wanted to mount Pike’s head on his mantlepiece.

Ilya would not fail.

The house was… Boring. And not in the good way. No. Pike’s house was big. White. Grey roof tiles. Boring columns out the front, just like the ten on either side, all up and down the boring street and it was just… Not boring, maybe. Shane was boring. With his lists and diets and the way he still folded his clothes before sex unless Ilya threw them so far away his horny little husband got distracted by Ilya’s cock, dropping to his knees just as easily as he did the first time.

Ilya was a very lucky man.

But back to Pike.

Pike’s house was as blah as the man that lived inside it.

Hopefully the man was home.

As if the Hockey gods were listening to Ilya’s prayers the front door opened and Jackie Pike stepped out the front door with two small girls, Pike exiting soon after carrying a third child in a carrier, bundling his many children into the car and waving them away.

Time to catch a fishie. “You will all wait here.”

Marley snorted.

Scott gave him the Elrond approved eyebrow of doom, as if Ilya was a child who required minding.

Kip got out of the car the instant the front door closed, looking like a man on a mission.

Carter followed him.

Sveta looked at him like he was an idiot.

Little smoothie boy was already knocking on the door.

He was going to fit in just fine.

The crazy was strong in that one.

They hurried up the front path as a group, reaching the front door just as it opened, Hayden Pike looking supremely confused and then angry as soon as he spotted Ilya in the crowd. “What the fuck- Rozanov, why the hell are you at my hou-”

“Hello Pike!” Ilya called out in what he thought was a non-threatening tone but clearly Pike didn’t take it that way because his eyes widened in fear, taking in the group behind him and recoiled, attempting to slam the door shut which would have succeeded if smoothie boy hadn’t slammed his shoulder into the wood, Pike crying out as he was bounced backwards by the force.

Ilya really liked that smoothie boy.

He ushered the others inside past him, stepping over Pike who was sprawled on the floor, clutching his reddened face and gaping like the fish he was, yelping in distress as Marlow and Carter took one arm each, yanking him to his feet and frog-marching him to the large sectional in front of the TV. They shoved Pike down in the middle and Ilya sat himself down on the large coffee table opposite, the rest of his friends settling around Pike.

Except for smoothie boy. Kip sat himself down next to Ilya, accepting the bag of peas from Scott who had apparently devolved to raiding freezers.

Ilya really was having the best time.

And he hadn’t even had to hit anyone. His husband would be so proud.

Pike in the meantime seemed to have gotten over his shock and was now heading towards apoplectic rage if his expression and rapidly reddening face was any indicator. His eyes were darting around the couch as he drew back, like he wanted to protect himself from further harm. “If you’re looking for Shane he’s not here.” He spat out sullenly, wincing as the movement tugged on the bruise.

Ilya cocked his head to the side. “Why you think we are here for Hollander?” He asked, genuinely curious.

“Why the fuck else would you be here? We don’t have a fucking beef, Rozanov-” Beside him Kip let out an amused chuckle that Pike immediately locked in on. “Who the fuck are you? And why the fuck did you hit me?”

Little smoothie boy, champion of depressed hockey players just smiled, all dimples and angelic features. “Pretty sure I hit the door.” He handed Pike the bag of peas. “Would you rather I have left it to Scott or Rozanov?”

Pike’s jaw was somewhere down with the dust and Barbies. “What the fuck are you talking about? And that didn’t explain who you are!”

“Oh!” Kip chirped happily. “I’m Scott’s boyfriend!”

As one every head in the room swivelled to Hunter who was just returning from the kitchen carrying a six-pack of beer and a glass of water. Ilya waited for fear, betrayal, but wasn’t really surprised when all Hunter did was look completely and utterly besotted, as if his smoothie boy was the best thing he’d ever seen.

Ilya was very familiar with that expression. He’d woken up to it every morning since he’d returned from Russia.

So lucky.  He grinned and did a little happy wriggle in place. He loved his husband so much.

“Is it too early to ask you to marry me?” Hunter asked as he handed Kip one of the beers and settled on the adjacent couch, Kip happily moving over to settle in hip lap. If Ilya wasn’t happily married- to be married- whatever- he would steal that precious little smoothie boy.

Ilya clearly had excellent taste.

Maybe Shane would like to watch one day.

“What the fuck is happening here?” Pike whispered and IIya was pulled back to the quest at hand, sliding forward slightly on the table, his movement causing Pike’s eyes to lock on his. The man looked terrified.

That didn’t made Ilya feel as good as he thought it would.

Ugh. He was feeling sorry for Pike.

Ilya rested his elbows on knees and steepled his fingers, resting his chin gently on their apex. “Hayden Pike.” He said softly, and the lingering shifting around them fell silent. “I have bone to pick with you.

“You see, I am very smart. Very… Perceptive. I see many things. Unlike Hollander can read people very well. And I do not like to be proved wrong, especially when it is Hollander who gets to gloat.” Pike’s throat shifted as he swallowed heavily and Ilya handed over the glass of water Hunter had left beside him. “You proved me wrong, Pike. I said you were good friend. But you are not good friend-”

“You have no fucking idea- no fucking right-” Pike interjected, pushing himself forward until he was standing, looming over Ilya.

Hah.

Little fishie trying to loom.

Ilya didn’t need to stand to loom. He was Ilya fucking Rozanov and he was defending his husband and he could loom from right where he was.

So he just shrugged calmly, perfectly content to crane his neck back, looking up at Pike’s aggravated expression. “I have right, Pike. When Hollander calls me crying in middle of night because best friend has hurt him, I have right. When I watch game against Detroit and you ignore him at end and he cries after, I have right. When against Buffalo you miss pass because do not want to look at him and you lose and team blames him, I have right. When he wins you nice, shiny cup and you do not even congratulate, I have right.” He stood and Pike stumbled back, knees hitting the couch, falling back onto his ass, eyes locked on Ilya as if he was some sort of prey animal. “Everything that concerns Hollander is my right, Pike. You have hurt him. And you keep hurting him. We are here to make that stop.”

For a few moments Pike seemed to be struggling internally but he eventually spoke, soft and regretful. “I tried-”

“You did not try hard enough-”

“How the fuck could I have fucking tried harder!” In an instant Pike was on his feet, shoving a palm into Ilya’s chest, the movement surprising him enough that he fell back into the table. “She’s my fucking wife! I can’t fucking lock her out of my fucking phone and don’t fucking tell me I didn’t try! I didn’t fucking ignore him in Detroit I was fucking half concussed! And don’t fucking talk to me about the cup because I’m half fucking Marlow’s size and he made it very fucking clear I wasn’t welcome!” Ilya watched as Pike swayed on his feet, his eyes going… Fuzzy, for a moment before he forced himself to focus, going quiet. “Did he tell you that? That I didn’t try?”

He sounded like he was about to cry.

Ilya found himself taken aback and he did. Not. Like. That.

“It’s not just the game that’s the problem, Pike.” Scott said from his spot under Kip, one hand sitting comfortably on the man’s thigh. “And I think you know it. Even before you fucked up, you’re the fucking A, how have you let your team treat him like they have? Do you actually think Hollander would let a slight against Jackie go? That he’d let the team get away with calling you even a fraction of what they call him?” Pike’s face turned ashen, and then lost all expression.

Ilya had a bad feeling about this.

“When was the last time you actually defended him, Pike, actively defended him. Not a few pathetic words after the fact. Stood in front of him and prevented him from hurting.”

Ilya expected anger. He expected Pike to explode. To defend himself.

He knew he could.

He knew more than the others. Knew Pike had tried his best.

Knew Pike hated his team just as much as Shane did.

That’s why it was so terrifying when Pike just… Collapsed. Not physically, just… He recognised that look. Shane and Pike had spent so many years together that they shared it.

Pike had given up.

He didn’t even look up. Just sat back down, calm and quiet and stared at his feet. “Okay.” He murmured softly, running a hand through his limp hair, so different from the pictures on Shane’s mantlepiece. “Okay. You win.” The others seemed to be catching on to the fact that something was really, very wrong with Hayden Pike.

Marley shot him a concerned look over Pike’s shoulder and Ilya nodded slightly before leaning forward. “Pike-”

“How nice it must be, to be universally loved with an unproblematic team, Hunter.” He turned to Ilya. “And you, the biggest asshole in the league who doesn’t give a shit about what people think of him. It’s fine for you. If everyone hates you. It’s your brand.

“But Shane? Shane’s had to fucking work for it. He’s spent years cultivating his reputation as a good man. He’s spent years learning to talk to people so that they’re comfortable around him, years making sure everyone likes him, being the sort of Captain that people can come to no matter the problem. He’s been safe, then fucking something happened and he’s got a giant target on his back and there’s nothing I can do-”

“You could have not given wife number!” Ilya shouted, finally getting to the crux of the matter, unable to hold back his anger. “He told you. For years. That did not want people to know. But you did anyway. Why?” Pike’s jaw dropped in shock, as if he hadn’t expected them to know about ‘Lily.’ “I do not understand, Pike. I told Hollander that you were good friend. You keep lists of things that hurt him. You put little baby Pikes in lap to stop panic attacks. You feed him bird food. But I think now you are not friend. You are mother. Treat him like child, not friend. Think you know better.”

“I… Is that what he told you?” The look of complete and utter devastation on Pike’s handsome face had Ilya’s chest clenching uncomfortably and he fought down the complete and all encompassing urge to bundle the man up and shove him under a heavy blanket. “That I told her? That I gave it to her?” The man let out a hiccup before laughing, a horrible, self-depreciating laugh. “God, is that what he thinks of me? After half a decade of friendship he thinks that of me?!” He buried his face in his hands and Ilya watched as Shane’s best friend completely fell apart.

He flicked his gaze to Hunter- nominally the wisest of them given his ancient status but the man looked more terrified than Ilya felt and he realised that he.

Ilya Rozanov.

Emotional constipate.

Was going to have to be the adult.

He missed his fucking husband.

Who would likely have been worse off given Shane’s less than stellar emotional stability when it came to Pike.

He slid forward on the table and reached out, placing his hand on the top of Pike’s head. “Now Pike. No crying. Will make you look all shitty for pictures.” Pike’s reply was something akin to the sound of a half-blocked sink finally unsticking. “That is not helpful, little-” He cut himself off, wincing. “Come, Hollander is getting married today-”

“What?!” Pike wheezed out, hands dropping, sitting up straight, bright blue eyes widening in shock. “No he’s not- he’s not fucking…” He trailed off, looking a mixture of pensive and angry. “Lily. He’s marrying Lily.” He looked up at Ilya. “He’s fucking eloping with a woman none of us have ever met-”

Ilya held up a hand to stop the no doubt self-righteous rant that was about to ensue. “Shoosh.” He placed a finger on Pike’s lips, startling him into silence. “You are cranky, and tired, and look like death and probably hungry.” He removed his finger, and assuming that Pike and Hollander shared the same off switch, booped his snoot.

Success. Very good little fish.

Pike settled back into the cushions, looking dazed and confused. Such a cute little fish.

“I think you are both… What is word for saving boat, Marley?”

“Salvageable, idiot.”

“Da. Salvageable. I think you and Hollander need to talk. Both of you, I think, are very dumb because you didn’t give Lady Pike Lily’s number, did you?” Slowly, very slowly, Hayden Pike shook his head. “Very good. I will lock you in closet together, yes?”

Pike nodded, again very slowly. He rotated his jaw. “Why is Scott Hunter on my couch?”

“Is back up best man if I have to kill you. Up up.” He grabbed Pike’s arms and hauled him upright, grunting when the man stumbled, most of his weight ending up against his side. “You need to eat more, Pike.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“You are very mean. Naughty little fish.”

He bit the inside of his mouth as Pike’s eyes widened then narrowed suspiciously. “You know Lily.”

Marley snorted in the background as Ilya started to drag Pike towards what he assumed was the bedrooms, pulling him up the stairs with an arm around his disturbingly thin waist given how far they were from playoffs. Shane had put on a delightful layer of fat over the last few weeks but he could feel Pike’s ribs through his thin t-shirt. “Yes Pike, I know Lily.” He pushed open the door to the master, based on the proximity to the room with the bunkbed and shoved Pike down onto the end of the bed.

Pike’s watery eyes followed him and to Ilya, it looked like the smaller man’s heart was breaking behind the tears. “You know her. You know her and I don’t. Why?” He whispered.

And Ilya.

Ilya just shrugged.

“Because Lily is not her, Pike.” He said simply. “Because he is safe, with friends. They both are. Because he was scared you would look at him differently if you knew. Because if ‘Lily’ had been dragged out of closet would have pulled your best friend too and you have seen how League treats us.”

He knew he was taking a risk here. He knew that there was a chance- no matter how small- that everything he thought he knew about Pike was wrong. That tomorrow they’d wake up and be splashed over the internet, cheap cannon fodder in the off-season.

It was why he’d asked Shane’s permission to out them both before they’d slept last night. His husband had thought about it the entire time he was brushing his teeth, eventually nodding.

Pike looked like Ilya had hit him with a frying pan. “Shane’s… Gay?” He asked slowly, watching as Ilya started to rifle through a disturbingly barren and fashionless closet.

“Very gay. Super gay. Allergic to women.” Ilya stated matter of factly, Sveta laughing as she followed them into the room, the rest of Dinosaur Support Group trooping after her. “Thinks they are evil and smell terrible.” Pike looked like his world was being turned upside down and inside out. “Is this problem, Pike?” Ilya allowed a sliver of menace to enter his tone, an excellent idea as Pike was soon shaking his head vehemently.

“No, of course fucking not, Rozanov- what kind of person-”

“Homophobic one.” Ilya shrugged. “Did not think you were but had to be sure.” Boop. “Good job, are not shit head.”

“I’d never be shitty about this, Rozanov. Never.” Good. He looked serious. “God, I can’t even imagine what he’s been thinking… What-” He looked up. “He told you?”

Ilya nodded happily. “Tells me many things. Gossip together about Hunter’s abs.”

Hunter snorted. “You do not.”

Ilya turned to him. “You are dinosaur, Hunter, but very hot. Little smoothie boy agrees. Would have fucked you if he did not want to.”

Hunter looked shocked.

Then horrified.

Then at least a bit turned on.

What a missed opportunity. He turned back to Pike. “I like both. Hunter is also super gay. Smoothie boy is normal gay.”

“Straight.” Marlow and Carter called out from the back of the room, raising their hands as if in kindergarten.

Ilya nodded. “Carter and Marlow are straight but tingly.”

“Oi-”

“Shoosh!” He reached out with his socked toe, poking at Pike’s knee. “So you know now. Hollander is having secret gay elopement with sexy husband Lily. You are invited because you are not shit head. Others do not know that you protect him, try to keep safe from team that hates. You are very small and useless, yes, like sand from beach that gets stuck in toes and makes floor of Porsche gross but still good at protecting Shane from fans who spread rumours. You are both very good at making self-small, like tiny kitten, all alone. Maybe can do better with friends.” He smiled, a cruel, cruel smile. “If not, will steal him for Boston. Nicer winters. Less boring.”

HAYDEN

Scott Hunter was in his bedroom. Scott Hunter was in his closet. His fucking boyfriend, an art history major from New York was sitting on his bed, on Jackie’s side, sipping on a can of Shane’s ginger ale as Hunter pulled shirt after shirt after suit from his modest collection, shaking his head at each one as if judging Hayden’s fashion choices.

He wished this was the strangest scene in his house right now.

He left the clearly in love and gay Scott Hunter to his boyfriend and Hayden’s wardrobe and traversed the stairs back to the living room where the singular woman in the group was lounging with a glass of Hayden’s expensive scotch, Rozanov’s head in her lap, her hand in his hair as they had what looked like was a very serious conversation in Russian.

He jumped in surprise as Marlow appeared beside his elbow, handing him a bag of frozen corn. “It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Svetlana was in Russia when Roz got out-”

“Got out?”

Marlow hummed. “Yeah. His dad’s got late-stage dementia from what Roz’s said. Said some things that the government isn’t too fond of when he was there beginning of summer… He’s going to try and get Canadian residency, his passport’s a problem.”

Hayden frowned, looking up at the taller man. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Roz won’t. And here at the Dinosaur Support Group we tend to let people avoid their own difficult conversations. Which is why I’ll say this. You’re going to see things today, Pike. And you can’t tell anyone about them.”

“Jackie-”

“Your wife could have destroyed Hollander’s career, Pike, so forgive me if I don’t trust her ability to keep a secret. To be honest, I don’t even trust yours.” Hayden couldn’t really refute that and just took the corn, hissing as the freezing cold condensation hit his skin. “Maybe face away from the camera with that side.”

“Camera… I can’t believe he’s getting fucking married. Who the fuck just up and decides to get married without telling anyone.” He muttered more to himself than anyone in particular, picturing Shane and some random dude walking down an aisle surrounded by pink flowers.

Bullshit. Yuna wouldn’t allow anything that tacky. “Where are Yuna and David? How do they feel about all this?”

Marlow shrugged but Hayden noticed that Rozanov had paused in his conversation, turning to face them. “This is it, Pikey. Everyone in on the secret. I don’t know what’s going on with Hollander’s parents but as far as I know he hasn’t told them anything.”

Red flags.

Red flags everywhere.

“Who the fuck is Lily that Shane’s so ashamed of him he can’t even tell his parents!” He yelled, high pitched and pathetic, panicking because- was his best friend in an abusive relationship? Was he being forced into this? Was it a visa situation? Did Hayden need to call Yuna and JJ and David and mount a rescue?

He was distracted from his panic by Rozanov prowling through his living room like a giant jungle cat, all loose limbs and a terrifying confidence that Hayden could never hope to emulate. “Stop panicking. Is complicated.” He brushed past Hayden into the kitchen, gathering up the used bottles and throwing them into the recycling.

Ilya Rozanov. Captain of the Boston Bears. Was in his kitchen. Tidying.

“But… You don’t just get fucking engaged and married a few months later. Shane doesn’t do that. The guy refuses to get McDonalds because he can’t guarantee the quality of the oil and you expect me to believe he’s getting married. To a man that apparently his parents, who he loves, have never even met!” Hayden felt his legs start to give out and Marlow chuckled as he near picked him up and shoved him onto one of the stools by the bench. He was hyperventilating. This was…

“Who the fuck is this guy?!” He whispered to himself. This man who had appeared on Shane’s phone screen for years, who’d texted him from a hotel room in Vegas whilst his best friend was having a panic attack of epic proportions, who’d seemingly turned Shane’s life upside down and completely displaced Hayden from his side.

Who’d called him little fish.

Little fish.

Who’d been nice to him.

Who had given him updates on Shane when his best friend stopped replying to his messages.

Who had asked about Arthur more than Shane had. 

Who clearly understood that since Vegas Shane wasn’t safe in Montreal. That before 2014 he’d been as content as he could be as an autistic man in a less than progressive team and that had changed.

Before Vegas Shane never used to listen to the chirps in the locker room, never used to care, he’d just keep his head down and work and wince.

God, he used to wince so often.

Before Vegas Shane would have just taken it. Comeau’s snide remarks about his captaincy. The way Drapeau and Miity would let in goals during training just to spite him, the way that the rookies, following the larger, louder personalities would check him just a little bit harder than Hayden, trip him more often, leave bruises.  

Before Vegas Shane would have come to him about it.

But.

Hayden had thought his best friend was straight. He’d known it like he’d known himself. He’d watched women flit around Shane for years, laughed at his awkwardness, secretly glad that there wasn’t anything to come between them, to stop Shane’s Sunday afternoon visits, to stop the way that he’d sometimes fall asleep on Hayden’s shoulder, warm and soft and content, fingers finally stilling.

It had all been a lie of epic proportions. Their entire friendship. Start to finish.

Oh he didn’t give a shit that Shane was gay, but… Had he said something that told Shane he couldn’t confide in Hayden? He wasn’t homophobic- he knew that for a fact, as strongly as he knew he loved his children- so what had it been? “Maybe I’m just a piece of shit.” He whispered as Rozanov passed by, placing a cup of tea in front of him. “Has he always thought that of me? That I’d… That I’d hate him for this?” He looked up at the glacial blue eyes of Ilya Rozanov and hoped that he wouldn’t be found wanting yet again.

His nose twitched as Rozanov poked it, again, as if Hayden was a misbehaving kitten. “Both of you. Very stupid. Stop thinking, little fish, does not work with tiny brain.”

Yes. Hayden was very stupid.

He was also sleep deprived and cold and tired and yes, hungry.

He also wasn’t a complete moron, despite what people thought about him.

So he’d tolerate the fact that he was surrounded by enemy players who had invaded his house and his kitchen and his bed and were currently deciding on a suit for him to wear to his best friend’s wedding.

He’d tolerate the fact that a man he’d once respected, Scott fucking Hunter, was parading his cute little boyfriend around Hayden’s house, the shorter apparently stuck to his back as the hockey player held up a pink, floral print shirt to Rozanov’s nod.

He’d tolerate the fact that he should have been at the cottage with his best friend yelling at caterers and florists and he wasn’t. The Yuna should have been managing the whole situation like a pro and David should have been happily sitting under a tree with the New Yorker but they weren’t.

He’d tolerate the fact that his best friend was at the Cottage alone. Likely stressing about alcoholic wine brands and if the catering would follow his diet and if his suit as fitting properly his hair lying just the way he liked it his…

Thank fuck Jackie was at the park with the kids.

“Not the blue one. I am in blue. The green one.”

The green one. A dark moss green that he’d bought because Shane told him he found it relaxing. Hunter was stuffing a tie into the pocket of his joggers. “We ready to go?” The captain of the Admirals asked and as one the invaders started to move, cleaning and shifting and settling and his loungeroom looked tidier than when they’d turned up.

Hunter turned to face him. “Text your wife, tell her-”

“Go fuck yourself, Hunter.” Hayden said, pushing past the man and his fucking boyfriend as headed to the front door, ripping his suit bag from the man’s stunned hands. “Seriously. Just don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Pike-”

He ignored him, sending a quick text to Jackie that she’d likely ignore until the last possible moment, which was less painful than her just ignoring his call like she had been recently.

He climbed into the very back seat of the large SUV which he recognised as Shane’s and reached under the seat, pulling out the blanket he knew his best friend kept there for emergencies, spreading it out over his lap as he steadfastly ignored the weird look Rozanov was giving him, disturbingly perceptive gaze roaming between Hayden and Hunter who’d settled into the middle row.

So yeah. Hayden was a moron.

But even a moron knew that if his best friend had to marry someone, it’d better as fuck be someone worthy of his little hockey worshipping ass.

In retrospect it was always going to be Ilya fucking Rozanov.

He’d never been to the cottage. Shane had finished it in 2014 and Hayden had never been there. Even before their falling out Shane had never indicated that he’d had any interest in inviting members of the team to Ottawa and how had he not noticed it? They never went to Shane’s apartment anymore even though it was the closest to the arena, not since long before Theriault had put his foot down with the team. It had been months since his teammates had shown any interest in Shane’s life outside hockey unless they were mocking him about Lily and Hayden- Hayden had thought that he had. Shown interest. He’d thought he was a good friend. But he’d never even asked to come here. Hayden had missed months of summer, pre-season, years, and Hayden had never asked. Just dragged his autistic, overstimulated best friend into the chaos of his own home because it was convenient for him.

Maybe he was a piece of shit.

The highway blurred outside, what he thought was a Lord of the Rings soundtrack playing softly through the stereo and he laid his head against the window, the woman in the seat beside him throwing glances every now and again, her very Slavic expression giving nothing away. “Ilyushka tells me you are the fifteenth best hockey player in Montreal.” She said softly, dark eyes boring straight into his soul. Her accent was softer than Rozanov’s, her English better. “I’ve always wondered why a player like Hollander decided to be friends with you.”

Hayden winced then shrugged. “I think I was just the first person who said hello.” He said miserably, turning back to the countryside. “Pretty sure I was just convenient.”

In the row in front of them Carter turned around- Hayden was still in shock that Shane had managed to get the C and A of the Admirals to turn up to his secret wedding. “That’s not what Hollzy said.” He wriggled a little, Kip shifting further into Hunter’s space. He felt sorry for the little guy, being stuck between two mountains of muscle. “Hollzy pretty much went through your entire friendship that night, says you were the only one that didn’t look like a dick.”

“High praise for me.”

“I dunno- for all his inability to figure out what the fuck people are feeling, Hollander seems to have a pretty good feel on vibes.” Vibes.

“That’s why I’m here.” Kip’s dimples were prominent as he grinned at Hunter who looked pathetically in love. “Hollander was the final hurdle.”

Hayden had no idea what the fuck was going on. If there as an internal swear jar it’d be filled three times over. “And how long have the two of you been together?”

“Three weeks.” The two men said in unison and what the fuck.

What the fuck.

“Three weeks. I’ve known Shane since 2010 and I’ve been kidnapped into his wedding, but you’re invited three weeks into dating some random hockey player I thought Shane barely knew.”

Kip shrugged, burrowing further into Hunter’s side. “From your mouth to God’s ears, man.”

Hayden hated today.

Hayden hated everything and everyone in this car.

Hayden hated Shane right now.

Who he was going to meet in- fuck, turn-off- ten minutes. In ten minutes he was going to have to stand there and figure out what the fuck to say to a man he’d almost outed.

To the fucking Russian he’d almost outed.

Because again. Not moron. Hayden could fucking google and the repercussions of what he’d allowed to happen hadn’t yet stopped reverberating around his pounding skull. Gulags. Executions. People just straight up vanishing from their homes.

Hayden could have had a hand in the love of Shane’s life- gross- being fucking deported.

Lily.

He could honestly picture either of the idiots coming up with that. He’d pay to know what Shane was in Rozanov’s phone- something stupid like ‘Jane’… It was definitely Jane.

What sort of expression was he supposed to have? Was he supposed to look surprised? How did one look surprised when they’re too tired to feel much of anything anymore? He doubted they’d be fooled by a fake gasp.

Maybe he could just smile?

He’d probably start crying, so maybe not the best idea.

God, this sucked.

The cottage came into view and holy fucking shit. “That is not a cottage. That is a holiday house on steroids. That is a fucking mini mansion on a lake that a millionaire would build for his mistress.”

Beside Marlow in the passenger seat Rozanov flailed and turned on his seat, pointing at Hayden. “YES!” He near screamed, startling Vaughan out of his nap. “This! Exactly! Is not cottage!” Marlow pulled the SUV to a stop, a distinct lack of hustle and bustle oddly settling Hayden’s nerves. “Cottage should be quaint. Looked up word. Small and cute. This is glass filled monstrosity. If hailstorms will die. Would not protect from nuclear bomb.”

Russians were weird.

The car slowly emptied and Hayden crawled out behind Hunter, the rest of them milling around to grab bags and suitcases and suits and then there he was.

The front door opened and Shane appeared.

He looked so… Pretty. It wasn’t the first time Hayden had thought so, but this was…

He looked healthy. The gaunt appearance of his cheeks that had plagued him through the playoffs was gone and the colour was back in his skin. His hair was slightly longer than usual, pushed back carelessly off his face and he was dressed casually, a giant oversized Bears hoodie over shorts, bare feet.

He was smiling. Hayden hadn’t seen him smile like that in… God, years. When was the last time his best friend had looked that happy?

He watched as Shane’s eyes swept over the group then stopped. It was like Shane’s entire body melted- every bit of tension just fell away and he seemed to float over to where Rozanov was standing, eyes intent on the giant Russian and-

God.

Hayden felt like his chest was about to tear in two, his eyes immediately starting to water. He watched as Rozanov’s hand immediately, without faltering, came up to cup Shane’s cheek, thumb tracing his freckles, severe mouth folding into a fond smile as Shane went onto his tiptoes, both arms around Rozanov’s waist as they shared an embrace that was more smile than kiss, intimate, fond and well-practiced in the way that they shifted their weight, heads tilting to fit together.

This wasn’t something new.

This wasn’t the way you embraced a friend needing PR, or a fuck-buddy.

This was how he touched Jackie. This was how he touched the woman he loved.

Ilya Rozanov was the love of Shane Hollander’s life and Hayden had missed it.

He’d missed all of it.

He’d almost ruined it.

Something had happened between them in Vegas and he’d missed everything since then and it was all his fault. He could have been standing with Hunter, who grabbed Shane out of Rozanov’s arms and lifted him off his feet, squeezing him like he wanted him to pop, calling him ‘kid.’ He could have been Vaughan, attacking Shane with kisses, ruffling his hair. He could have been Marlow who had found a professional-looking camera somewhere and was darting around taking photos, phone in his other hand recording.

He could have been Christopher Grady. Boyfriend of three weeks. Kip, who had absolutely no compunctions against throwing himself at Hayden’s best friend, the two shorter men giggling, dancing in place, murmuring into each other’s ears until Shane looked up and saw him.

His eyes widened in shock.

Hayden didn’t move.

He thought he’d been okay with it.

The Rozanov of it all.

And weirdly enough he was.

But Shane hadn’t told him anything.

Shane hadn’t even given him the opportunity to be happy for him. To know the man he loved.

Instead he’d let him think, for years, that Hayden was obliged to hate Ilya Rozanov, just like the rest of them. It’d been exhausting. Against Hayden’s entire personality. But he’d done it.

For nothing.

Shane had lied to him. By omission, more often than not.

But he had.

And right now, standing here, humiliated and suddenly so fucking alone Hayden hated him for it.

He watched as Shane slowly disentangled himself from Hunter’s giant arms and toddled unsteadily towards him, stopping just a few feet away looking anxious, eyes darting around Hayden’s face like he was looking for answers, fingers tugging at the hem of the hoodie emblazoned with his future husband’s logo. “You came.” He eventually said softly, unable to meet Hayden’s eyes. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Hayden looked over to where four massive hockey players were eyeing him like they were one misstep from squishing him into the ground.

He didn’t care. He schooled his features into careful neutrality. “Did you actually think I would have hurt him if I’d known?” He asked softly, throwing the words at his best friend with as much malice as he could. “It may have been your choice to tell me, but this is your fault.” He couldn’t even make himself care that his best friend- fuck, did he even want to call him that anymore- teared up and took a step back, straight into Hunter’s arms.

Not Rozanov’s.

Because Ilya Rozanov was currently being restrained like a rabid dog, snarling between Carter and Marlow who’d let his camera fall to his chest, whispering furiously into Rozanov’s ear.

Hayden didn’t care anymore. He’d already been knocked out once today, what was a few more times for good measure. It’d been cathartic.

Shane was clutching at Hunter’s shirt like it was a lifeline.

Rozanov just looked… Disappointed. Like he’d expected better from Hayden.

He’d expected more from himself too.

He’d expected more from Shane. “One sentence, Shane. You could have said one thing. If you’d given me the slightest explanation I would’ve locked. My fucking. Phone. I wouldn’t stopped talking to him. I would have and I fucking did respect your fucking boundaries but I’m not a fucking psychic. I can’t protect something I don’t know needs it.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I’m not the only shitty friend here, or I wouldn’t have spent years hating Rozanov for no good fucking reason.” He huffed out a depressed laugh. “God… Why the fuck did you even keep me around? Was it funny? Keeping me in the dark?” He ignored the way Shane gasped in pain, eyes fixated on the ground, the dust from the gravel covering his boots.

“I get it, I fucked up. I wanted you to be happy and I wasn’t careful enough. But this? Shane I don’t give a shit that you’re gay. I really don’t.” He finally met Shane’s terrified gaze. “I don’t even give a shit that it’s Rozanov- guy’s hockey incarnate, if you were ever gonna end up with a guy it was gonna be him.” Because Hayden wasn’t fucking blind- the asshole was hot as fuck, had the skills to back up his ego, and Shane had been obsessed with him since day one. “But right now all I’m getting is that I was never going to be a part of this. Hunter’s boyfriend of three fucking weeks is here, Shane, and I didn’t even get to know who you were marrying until you were throwing yourself on him and I don’t know if you thought it’d be funny, or he did but…” He trailed off, angry, miserable and fighting back tears. “Fuck, Shane- I didn’t deserve this either.”

He turned.

The lake looked nice this time of day.

He walked away.

CARTER

He watched as Pike’s expression slowly shut down, the man hunching down over himself, shoulders drawing in, expressive eyes growing shiny with tears, his voice hoarse and hitching as he fought back sobs.

He watched as he walked away, arms tight around his chest.

He watched as Rozanov enveloped his fiancé in his giant arms, Shane shaking near uncontrollably as he watched Pike walk away without looking back, tears streaming down his face as he started to hyperventilate, Roz whispering Russian in his ear, compressing the smaller man against his chest like a giant weighted blanket.

Carter watched as one by one each of them came to realise what Shane had.

Pike had been right.

Perhaps Carter was the one who acknowledged it first. He’d felt exactly the same for those first few moments after Scott had come out. The self-hated that had flickered across Pike’s face, the self-doubt that he’d ever been a good enough friend to Shane, the devastation when he realised that a whole host of other people had been given the opportunity to be there instead of him through no fault of his own… That they’d been able to give Shane something he’d never been able to replicate no matter how hard he’d tried… Carter had felt it too. Hated that Hollander and Rozanov had given Scott a home. Somewhere safe to collapse and mourn the life he could’ve had if he’d not chosen hockey.

It had changed now, of course. Sure, Hollanov were still there in the background but New York was a hike and they couldn’t turn up on Scott’s doorstep every time he was in a mood. And if Carter found himself on Scott’s couch with the older man’s socked feet in his lap once or twice a week? If he spent more time in his guest room than his own house? He had that. Pike had nothing. 

Carter turned to Rozanov. “I think you guys should head inside, get him showered and into bed. You’ve still got a few hours. We’ll take care of the caterers and furniture.” He turned to Pike’s distant form. “I’m gonna go take care of that.”

Shane sniffed disgustingly into Rozanov’s hoodie as the giant Russian swept him into a bridal carry. “Please don’t-”

“I won’t hurt him, Hollander. Believe it or not I kinda get it.” He said sadly, patting Scott on the shoulder reassuringly as he passed him, following the crushed grass down to the lake’s edge where Pike sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the edge, elbows on knees, sobbing silently.

He’d seen more men crying in the last few months than in the rest of his life combined.

He took a deep, steadying breath before settling beside the man who barely seemed to notice his presence, flinching in surprise when Carter bumped their shoulders together. The shorter man didn’t say anything, just ran long fingers through his already messy brown hair, wincing in the sunlight, sunglasses likely still in the car. “I get it. When I found out it was… Honestly, at first it was traumatising- Hollander appeared out of nowhere and climbed Roz like a tree. And then Scott? My best friend. For years. I still wonder why I wasn’t good enough to be told. It hurts. But you’ve gotta understand that- by and large because Shane’s kinda a little shit and Rozanov just compounds that by existing- they never set out to hurt us. None of us were really told, we just stumbled on them. And Scott.

“I also get the whole Rozanov thing. I didn’t understand them at first. The asshole targets Shane on the ice more than anyone else, he’s fractured ribs, cheekbones, given Hollander more ankle injuries than I can count, he mocks him incessantly every time he sees him until Shane’s barely keeping it together and we’ve spent years convinced they hated each other.” He sighed. “It’s fucking foreplay to them, Pike. All of it. The hits, the chirps, the goals, the wins and losses are all a giant sexual tally-” Pike blanched beside him, fascinating. “Yeah. Fucking ridiculous. Anyone who’s ever laid a bet on Montreal vs Boston has had a bet on who’s calling the shots in bed that night.”

“The Rozanov thing is the easiest thing to understand.”

The had Carter pulling up short. “What?”

“The Rozanov thing. Why do you think it’s such a hard thing to understand?” Pike genuinely seemed confused, tear swollen eyes all glistening and bright in the late afternoon sun. “I mean, it’s Shane.”

“I’m not getting it.”

Pike clearly thought he was an idiot. He and Hollander shared that particular expression. “It’s Shane. And Rozanov. It’s two plus two equals four.”

“Clearly the rest of us got six, man, because-”

“If they were straight and with women Rozanov would be marrying some Saudi princess and Shane would be with Rose Landry or something. But they’re not.” Pike swatted a fly from his arm. “Neither is gonna settle for anything less than the best. Why’s it so weird that they’d want each other?”

Well when you put it like that. “So you don’t have an issue with it?”

“Do I wish Shane hadn’t attached himself to the most dangerous man in the NHL? Yes. Do I think he could do better in a romantic partner? Fuck yes.” He threw his head back, staring up at the sun like it was personally insulting it. “But that’s not what Shane needs.”

“Not following.”

“It’s Shane fucking Hollander. He doesn’t need some cute, emotionally stable guy to sit at home and wait for him, especially not post Vegas. He needs someone who’s going to snap the neck of everyone who looks at him twice, who’ll challenge him and rail him into the mattress when he gets stuck in his head.”

Whooooooooah. “Bold if you to assume Hollander’s the bottom.”

Pike shot him an unimpressed glare before returning to the sun. Man was pale. “Sure. Because those eyes of his scream top.” He rubbed his fists in his eyes before sighing heavily. “Fuck, dude. Today is killing me.”

“Yeah, man. I can see that.” He pet at Pike’s knee, the man flicking at his hand. “I’m sorry about how we handled it.”

“Yeah… We. Your Dinosaur Support Group. That you’re all in.” Pike sniffed, rubbing at his nose. “I get it. I do. Secrets. But did any of you once think about the fact that Shane is all I have?” He said self-depreciatingly. Carter rubbed at his chest. That was some fanfiction level angst. “JJ’s Shane’s friend and a pretty shit one at that, our entire team hates me just as much as they do Shane and as much as I love Jackie she’s my wife first and foremost and has her own life. For years I’ve had Shane and now I find out that you’ve all been sitting here, together, for all I know laughing at how fucking stupid I was, thinking that I actually had the right to meet the person he loved? God forbid I try to break into your little club, eh?”

“That’s not what happened, Pike-”

“Sure. It’s not like he cancelled our new years plans to be with you all. It’s not like he stopped spending any time with me on away games so he could be on his phone in a freezing cold stairwell. Even before I fucked up- and I know I fucked up, you don’t need to tell me again- I was becoming less and less important to him… What every guy dreads, losing his best friend to some girl but now I find out it’s because he just didn’t want me around? Why the fuck am I even here, man?” He ended with a pathetic cry, clenching his eyes shut tight.

Fucking Hollanov.

He was feeling sorry for Hayden Pike.

Carter flopped over onto his back, bending his knees, resting his arm over his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun. Around them the water lapped gently against the pylons, insects chirped in the adjacent grasses. A loon called in the distance. “You know, I had excuses ready. Explanations. But honestly? I think everyone’s fucked up here.” He doubted that either Hollander or Rozanov would disagree, if he’d been reading their expressions right. “You might actually be most innocent one, man.”

Pike turned to him, those bright blue eyes all watery and pathetic. “I would never have told anyone if I’d known.”

Shot straight to the heart. “You wouldn’t be here if we thought you would.”

“My phone-”

“You really didn’t let her do it?” Carter asked softly, watching the man’s reactions carefully. The silence that followed was telling. “Look- I’m sorry. We all thought… Fuck, man, we thought you thought it was a joke. Funny. Adding Rozanov to that chat. We thought you didn’t care and fuck were we angry.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Pike whispered into his knees, occasional tears running down his cheeks. “I swear, if I’d known what she was planning I… It’s Shane, Vaughan. Irrespective of who he was protecting I never would have done it.”

Carter exhaled heavily before texting the group. “Yeah. I think we’re getting that.” He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket. “It’s not a green card marriage, you know that, right?” Maybe not. “They can’t be together if Rozanov’s in prison, Pike, but it doesn’t mean they love each other any less. The marriage is going to give Ilya an extra level of protection if they’re found out but neither of them- neither they nor Scott, really, have any intention of coming out whilst they’re still on the roster. They’re at the heights of their careers and this could ruin them all-”

“Jackie would never-”

“But she did, Hayden. Are you actually going to tell me that given the opportunity she wouldn’t have shared that number far and wide with the best of intentions? Shane says she’s a wonderful woman, that she’d keep their secrets, but a well-meaning slip here or there to a homophobic husband and it’d all come crashing down and we’re not willing to risk it.” He peeked out under his elbow to see Pike nodding sadly. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. Your wife seems nice.”

“Yeah… Can you… Can you tell me about them?” He asked softly. “Are they… Lily predates me.”

Fuck. Man sounded fucking terrified. “Yeah, Pike. You’ll see it later, but the ring Hollander gave him isn’t cheap, and sure as hell isn’t overnight delivery. I’ve seen Rozanov spend hours on the phone to Hollander when it’s been weeks since they’ve seen each other. They’re on a plane the instant they’re even near each other’s city. Rozanov has essentially given up his entire family and ties to Russia to be with him… Honestly, they’re disgustingly perfect together.”

A watery huff of laughter. “He’s never smiled more, you know? At Lily. Glued to his phone. Giggling in the middle of the night. Highschool crush level of adorable.”

“Kinda what it is, if you think about it. ’08, Pike. That’s when they met.” He watched in fascination as Pike’s expression changed from fascination to… Devastation?

Well fuck.

“Pike.”

“Don’t.”

“Pike-”

“I swear to God, Carter, if you say one more fucking word I’ll drown you under this fucking dock.” Pike whispered furiously, flushing bright red down to where his neck disappeared under his t-shirt. Carter believed him.

So he covered his eyes again. Lay in the sun. And waited for Hayden Pike to compose himself. “I get it, man.”

“Carter, I said shut it-”

“Give me your number.”

“What?”

Carter dug around in his pocket and handed Pike his phone. “We can have our own support group. ‘Jilted Best Friends.’ Cause no way in hell are you ever going to measure up to Ilya fucking Rozanov. Just like Kip Grady-”

“Three fucking weeks-”

“Scott was pining for weeks-”

“Fucking lesbian.”

“Hah!  Exactly!”  He pushed himself upright. “Scott’s this close from asking him to move in with him. It’s gonna be a nightmare when Kip tells him no.”

“Why would he tell him no?”

Carter turned. Slowly. “Seriously? It’s been three weeks, Pike. You don’t move in with a guy you barely know after three weeks.”

“I moved in with Shane after a day, so I wouldn’t know.”

Carter snorted in amusement. “God, if you ever get over the fact that Roz stole your bff you two are gonna get on like a house on fire.” He loved the look of horror on Pike’s face. “You think you’re gonna be okay to head back up?”

“Yeah… It’s just gonna take time, I think, to get used to it. I thought… I thought that Lil- Rozanov. I thought Rozanov was doing something to him. Making him change but… He’s more like he was in the beginning. He hid it, but… There’s so much more life to him now.

“It’s like he was suppressing every instinct he had, making himself small. Unnoticeable. Harmless. Because it’s the only fucking way he could survive. It’s like now he doesn’t give a shit anymore. Showing a fucking personality aside from the one the media and his mom gave him.

“It’s not gonna be easy and I hate that I made it even harder for him. Tucking in his head when he suffers a fucking hate crime on the ice. Having to monitor everything he says, does, having alerts on his phone for every single time he’s mentioned in the media, hoping and praying that it’s not something that’ll out him. Flinching every time someone hugs him because he’s terrified it’ll be a punch- and knowing our team it may be. He’s analysing every back slap, every step into the locker room… They’re going to spend the next decade of their lives hiding everything important about themselves.”

“Yeah… But I reckon the only way they could have escaped the other was if a plane fucking crashed and one died and I’d bet you the other wouldn’t have much of a reason to keep going. This is the man Hollander’s so desperately in love with that he’ll risk the both of them being outed if it means keeping him safe.”

“Ilya Rozanov.”

“Ilya fucking Rozanov, mate.”

Chapter End Notes

Now. I know that many of you are veterans in the yaoi/fujoshi world. I myself am. And so when you get to the end you will see exactly where Carter and Hayden want to take this.

You will also see that I’m leaving myself some plausible deniability if the penguins in my brain release me from the madness.
But.
If we do go down this rabbit hole I guarantee you that:
1. No one is dying to facilitate the madness
2. No one is going to suddenly become a raging homophobe
3. Is this happens it will be slow. And gentle. And realistic within the bounds of the characters and their original storylines in Our Lord and Saviour Rachel Reid’s masterpiece

So. Buckle up, bitches, and prepare for some light angst.

Wedding and sex next time. I promise. Too many words already.

Chapter 14: Ilya Was Not Expecting That.

Chapter Summary

So….. This did not go as planned.

As you know by now I have zero ability to control these characters. Once I start writing it all goes to shit. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to write the entire thing all at once and then post it… but then it never would have been written at all :-)

Now. The first apology.
I wanted wedding this chapter.
It didn’t happen.
So many words already.

Second apology. I told Svetlana that everyone was loving how she was such a good friend and more supportive than Hayden and she just said I’m Russian Hold My Beer and went for full nuclear implosion. So yeah. I was not expecting this but my fingies demanded it, brain types what magical spirits tell me to.

Third apology. I told Hayden that he was going to have a slow and steady improvement in status and he would one day be Shane’s friend again. Hayden said fuck you I’m gonna cry and my giant Disney Princess eyes are going to make everyone love me. I’m also sleep deprived and depressed so leave me alone.

So. Enjoy a chapter of misery.

Chapter Notes

SVETLANA

Something was very wrong here.

The thought had first appeared when she’d spotted Scott Hunter peeking out of the SUV, a complete stranger beside him, utterly aware of Ilya’s secret- the secret he’d begged her to keep for years.

It had only gotten worse when she heard the words Shane Hollander in relation to the man her friend had been fucking on and off for the better part of half a decade.

Jane.

She’d watched the way this Jane had toyed with Ilya’s affections, sending him spiralling from ecstatic to dejected to depressed within the space of a day, the way he’d alternate between diving for his phone to destroying it, seven phones over the course of six months at one point.

She had done her best to support him. She had answered his questions. She’d tried to help him understand why Jane responded the way she did, to translate the complicated English into their far simpler language.

She’d watched the aftermath of Vegas.

Svetlana had never been so terrified in her life, the day she had walked into Ilya’s Boston apartment and found him sitting on his couch, staring at his phone in the darkness. Documents scattered over the table in front of him. Property brochures. Agents. Linen samples. Paint swatches. A good seventeen articles on autism, ADHD, OCD, anxiety disorders. A picture of a ring with engraving on the outside.

Svetlana had listened for hours as he poured his heart out about his Jane. How he had hurt her. How he was scared he would hurt her again. How she had cried as she asked Ilya to forgo others- to forgo Svetlana, even if not by name. Svetlana had scowled, unseen by her friend as he described all the things he was doing to make this man comfortable in his life, all of the things he was going to change about his world, about himself. Without hesitation.

This man, who would leave her Ilyushka to stew in the darkness as he chose a home based on what he thought he would like, as he cried himself to sleep on his couch to the thought that he would never be good enough for them, that he feared he wouldn’t survive losing him if he decided he wasn’t enough.

She had picked up the pieces. Picked up the bottles and the cups as Ilya’s phone kept up a steady cadence of cute little kitten noises, the texts concentrated in the morning, evening, as if Jane could go the entire day without thinking of him.

It had taken over a week but Ilya had survived the initial plunge into monogamy and during that time he’d sold half of his car collection, bought a house far too large and too light for him, and quit smoking.

Her Ilya had quit smoking. Like that. He didn’t accompany her outside anymore in clubs, claiming that his wardrobe still smelled like cigarettes and his Jane didn’t like it.

Jane had been in his apartment.

Jane, who was so ashamed of her wonderful Ilya that Svetlana had never met her.

She watched as Ilya turned down woman after woman after woman, letting them touch him until it became sexual, never touching more than was strictly required, kind words of discouragement as he slipped away into the night, his diet coke in hand, ignoring the drinks Svetlana kept on ordering out of habit, leaving them untouched more often than not.

And if she tried. Once. For old time’s sake. And he just looked at her sadly, as if she were the one losing part of herself- well, it was just between the two of them.

And then Russia the first.

She knew Ilya had mixed feelings about returning home each summer. She knew that it was becoming harder each time to force himself into a position of weakness with his father, his brother, their country. It was why she always accompanied him without second thought, picking up the late-night calls and meeting in seedy bars, in hotel rooms…

But not this time.

She was waiting, that first night. It was always the worst one. Being home. She was dressed, purse packed, heels waiting by the door.

Nothing.

Nothing the next night.

Days passed.

Then he called, asking if she wanted lunch.

Lunch.

She said yes.

He looked… She hated herself, just for a moment. For thinking that he looked too good. Too healthy. Like he’d been sleeping. He never slept for the first week, always waking with nightmares. In the past she hadn’t slept either, letting him lay his head in her lap as she carded her fingers through his hair, sharing stories of Boston, of hockey, anything to distract them both.

But he looked well.

His phone buzzed in little fits and starts throughout the hour he had deigned to grace her with his presence. Spates of notifications, all from Jane. Despite the time difference.  It must have been the middle of the night.

He left her with a smile, paying the bill as he swanned out of the restaurant.

Two nights later he left Russia without her.

Without her.

For Jane.

She had refused to follow him and spent several miserable weeks alone.

She hated that Jane made him selfish, but life continued on.

As it did.

And her friend continued to change.

It has started, in retrospect, long ago but it wasn’t until she peered over Ilya’s shoulder just before Christmas and saw the name Dinosaur appear on his phone screen that it had clicked. There was only one man Ilya would ever call that.

She’d picked up the unlocked phone, swiping it open and selecting the chat thread, eyes narrowing in confusion as she saw months of memes and film recommendations and chirps and fond little anecdotes. Ilya was friends with Scott Hunter.

Not only that.

No.

Cliff Marlow.

Whilst Ilya had always been friends with his teammates they had never been close. They were the backup singers to charismatic Russians, existing in the background like white noise as he paid attention to her, fawning for her attention. Cliff Marlow, whilst possibly the one Ilya was closest to, had nonetheless been inconsequential in her mind.

It seemed that she was about to be supplanted.

Their chats were… Domestic. They teed up times to play video games. They were at each other’s homes, together more often than not between away games, rooming together on the road despite not needing to, arguing over who was bringing the skin care routine this time, who was bringing the toothpaste, could they borrow a sweater it was too cold, should I shave tonight, do you have my toenail clippers, did you see what Hunter did the other day, have you seen that fucking goal of Hollander’s?

And Jane.

He knew Jane.

Ilya had returned before she could open that chat and she cursed herself for wasting time on the others, promising to do better the next time the precious device was in her grasp.

Then came New Year’s.

They always spent New Year’s together at the hottest, newest club in town. Almost every year since they’d started sleeping together they’d spent New Years Day in bed, watching Russian drama reruns, smoking until their lips stung, drunk as skunks until January 2^nd.

She’d been waiting.

Not a single message.

She’d caved and asked the morning of December 31^st, as she’d never had to do before, about Ilya’s plans. 

He was in New York.

He bid her happy hunting.

He didn’t even realise that she’d been waiting for him. Years of tradition and it hadn’t even crossed his mind that it would matter to her. He sounded so happy, carefree, like he had not a care in the world.

He was slowly pulling away from her and she hadn’t even noticed. Her best friend didn’t even think of her-

No. That was unfair. He thought about her all the time. But she wasn’t number one anymore in his speed dial. Her chat wasn’t at the top of the list. His plans didn’t exclusively revolve around her.

It was a bitter pill to swallow.

And then they watched Shane Hollander break down on the ice.

They watched Scott Hunter lead him around like a sad duckling.

And Ilya didn’t laugh once. Around him his teammates were hooting, hollering, rejoicing at the downfall of their captain’s hated rival.

Her friend was contemplating murder. From the deep, subvocal growl in Marlow’s chest beside her she doubted he’d be alone in disposing of the body.

In retrospect she had been a fool not to recognise it, that look. It was one Ilya had thrown her way over and over again. Protectiveness.

Shane Hollander.

He’d spent the next several hours on the phone. She heard Scott Hunter’s name. Marlow was in the room with him. Ilya’s world was expanding and whilst she hadn’t been excluded… She played a different role now.

And then Russia.

Again.

It was always Russia.

It was the end of Russia, for him.

And perhaps for her.

Because he hadn’t come to her. For her. Hadn’t considered that his association with her may damage her reputation.

Put her in danger.

His only thought had been to get to his Jane.

Shane Hollander.

Ilya had looked happy. Happier than she had ever seen him, really, when he revealed his secret.

Jane.

Svetlana had lied. Said she was happy. Kissed his grinning face.

She was terrified for him.

The thought that something was wrong had solidified as she followed Ilya into Hayden Pike’s home. As she listened, half understanding, half inferring, to the reason for the Voyageur’s dyscohesive play at the end of the season, overshadowing their cup win.

The thought had turned into an all-encompassing feeling as they’d piled into the SUV Svetlana hadn’t even known Ilya knew how to drive and she watched Pike collapse into an exhausted sleep, seemingly a willing, or perhaps uncaring part in the play.

She’d stood there and watched as Shane Hollander threw himself at Ilya as if he was the only man in the world capable of holding him together.

She’d stood there and listened as Hayden Pike had voiced her own concerns.

And she waited for Ilya to explain it all.

She prayed he would.

She prayed that he had a reason.

If he didn’t, she would not let this happen.

She loved him too much for that.

ILYA

Their group moved as one giant sloth-like beast, slowly and carefully and completely and utterly stunned.

That wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

Ilya had pictured it the instant Pike had opened his front door- they’d kidnap him, he’d be repentant and he’d sit nice and quiet in the back, out of sight out of mind but there, so that one day when he was less of a piece of shit he’d not feel so guilty for missing the most important day of Ilya’s life.

Turned out Pike was the victim here.

Turned out his little fish at a spine. Ilya did not approve.

Okay maybe he approved of it a little.

A lot.

Fuck Pike and his pathetic little spine ruining all of Ilya’s plans.

Him and his soft swoopy hair.

“I feel kinda bad for smacking him with the door now.” He heard Kip mutter to the side, the little smoothie boy looking guilty.

“Probably would have kicked door down if you had not.” Ilya muttered as they closed the front door, the cool of the air conditioner washing over them.

The dishwasher was running.

Svetlana was looking around with a less than impressed glare- she would like Shane’s house far more.

Shane was breathing heavily, hands pressed against the wall, head resting between them, shoulders heaving as he struggled to calm himself.

No. This wasn’t how Ilya had expected the afternoon to proceed.

No one said anything as he covered Shane’s back with his body, nuzzling his face into his neck, arms circling around his chest, constricting.

Hard.

“Breathe, Hollander.” He murmured into his ear, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Just breathe. He has not gone anywhere. Carter will stop from jumping into lake.” Shane took a deep, shuddering breath. “That is very good. Now another one. You cannot be blue for photos, my suit is blue.”

His husband choked out a laugh. “Vain bastard.”

Ilya just shrugged, waiting as the movement of Shane’s chest became more regular, easing and increasing the pressure of his arms. “I am very hot. Is lots of work.”

“I’ve seen your curl routine, bastard, I know.”

Ilya hummed in acknowledgement. “Your skin, my hair, between us we make single beautiful creature.” He hauled his husband back into his arms and walked them both towards the kitchen, one arm looped around Shane’s chest, the other reaching for a glass of water which Marlow handily passed him. “Thank you.”

Marley nodded slowly. “Guess I wasn’t the only one not expecting that… Kinda didn’t expect Pike to fight back.”

Shane snorted grossly, phlegm stuck in his throat. “He’s got twin girls and a wife that runs over him on a daily basis- he was never going to go down without a fight… I just didn’t… I just thought that he was going to say sorry. Justify himself, I didn’t…” He looked up at him and Ilya’s heart broke for his poor little hockey player. “Is this my fault?”

“No, Hollander, is not your fault.” Ilya said softly, grimacing when Shane gave him an unimpressed look. “Fine, is not only your fault. Is also mine a little. So used to hiding everything, then suddenly people are knowing and we forget that some do not. Some that maybe should have told. Like Pike. And Sveta”

“You weren’t sure.”

“Is terrible hockey player-”

“No.” Shane interjected firmly, placing a hand against Ilya’s neck. “No. I mean you weren’t sure it was his fault. Even from the beginning. You were talking to him, all the time, you never said he was planning something, or pushing. You liked it. Talking to him.”

Ilya’s nose twitched as he tried to decide how to answer what was essentially a question. Damn his cute little husband for being so perceptive. He led Shane over to the couch, settling down beside Svetlana, pulling Shane into his side. “Maybe yes. Maybe no. Was little bit unsure. Pike has been…” He rocked his hand from side to side. “Little like ground in earthquake. Not steady. For while now. Thought maybe had forgotten was big secret.”

“Oh… I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

“You have been very stressed, and very busy with excellent boyfriend. Did not notice Pike was sad little fish.” He pressed a kiss to the side of his husband’s head. “Was watching, just in case. Until end.” He cocked his head to the side. “You tell me very little of him, hmm? He is your little secret, only one you keep from me. Like he is your little pet and you do not want me to steal- Ow!”

Shane wacked him in the side indignantly. “Hayden is not a pet, asshole. And I’ve told you plenty of things about him.”

“Um… Sorry to break it to you Hollzy but you really haven’t.” Marlow pointed out, and Ilya nodded frantically in his direction, happy to have a comrade in arms when arguing with his husband. “Kids, mediocre hockey player, feeds you. That’s pretty much it. I know more about Boiziau’s video game obsession and teeth brushing habits than Pike.”

“Really, really blue eyes.” Scott interjected. “But you may have been complaining about that one.”

“Entire league knows about kids, so does not count.” Ilya pointed out as he settled down further into the soft cushions, “I tell you much more about Marlow, even about Sveta than you say of the Pike. He is yours only.”

Their phones went off.

Shane looked down. Gulped audibly.

 “I need to talk to him. Now.”

SHANE

Two o’clock.

The officiant would be arriving at six.

Four hours.

He could… He could fix this.

He had to.

There was a pain in his foot. He looked down. He’d forgotten his shoes. He turned back to the cottage only to find Ilya standing behind him, a pair of boat shoes in his hand. “You do not need to do this.” His fiancé said softly, bending down, placing Shane’s hand on his shoulder. “Not today.” He leaned forward, kissing Shane’s hipbone over his shorts.

Shane reached down as he stepped into the shoes, running his hand through Ilya’s curls. Multifaceted blue eyes gazed up at him steadily, concerned. “I know.” He replied as Ilya stood, kissing his cheek softly. “I know I don’t. But I want to. I really want to.” He nodded to himself, throwing a glance over his shoulder to the dock where he could see Carter’s head, Hayden’s feet over the edge of the decking. “Keep the others busy for a bit?”

“Will break out good vodka.”

“Can we please not have a cliched drunk wedding?” Shane asked with a small, nervous smile as he turned to the lake, Ilya’s chuckle chasing him like a reassuring ghost.

A soft breeze ruffled through the long, bright green grass as he trudged down the path, warm and comforting. The temperature had already started to drop and it wouldn’t be unbearable once they were in their suits. Hopefully. He rounded the corner and let out a soft whine as he saw Carter take his phone back from Hayden, ruffling the younger man’s hair, Hayden looking…

He looked like shit.

It was new to Shane. He’d never seen Hayden less than content in his presence, smiling and happy and talking about a kid or Jackie or hockey or Shane, seemingly constantly delighted with the world.

His eyes were red, puffy, his cheeks blotchy. His hair was a mess, like he’d just pulled off a helmet. He’d sweated through the back of his t-shirt and looked uncomfortable in the heat, the sun still beating down on the dock. He was wincing, angling his face away from the light. His sunglasses were in Shane’s hand, having retrieved them from the ground when Hayden had run off, his cap still back in the cottage with the rest of the man’s luggage. Ilya hadn’t moved it yet, just leaving it on the kitchen bench unlike the others’, already divided between the guest rooms.

He silently stepped out from the tree line and like a sixth sense Hayden’s head snapped up, bright blue eyes bleary and squinting in the harsh sunlight, causing Shane to wince in sympathy. “Um… Hey.” He said softly, both of his hands sliding into his pockets in a vain attempt to stop himself fidgeting.

“Should I head back up?” Carter asked, already standing and brushing off his shorts, far better dressed for the weather than Hayden.

“Um, yeah? Scott’s about to commit murder if Marlow steals another tart and Ilya has realised that Kip no self-control so he’s trying to stop him from egging them on before something gets broken.”

“So you want me to sit on Scott. Got it.” Carter said with a happy bounce in his step, slapping Shane on the back with enough force to send him a few steps forward, skipping up the track at a near sprint, leaving them alone.

Alone.

For the last three months they hadn’t been.

Alone.

Not really.

Not in any meaningful way. Shane had done his best to avoid Hayden, rolling over in his bed to face the wall, ear plugs, headphones, anything to stop him from having to interact with him.

Shane had missed him so damn much. Apparently Hayden had missed him too.

They were a fucking mess.

“I wanted you here.” He forced out, twisting his fingers together in front of him as he looked down at Hayden, the man covering his eyes with his hands. Shane handed over the sunglasses. “I… I didn’t send Ilya there to fuck with you, I didn’t think you’d answer my calls-”

“I have a new baby and my wife is in therapy for postpartum depression, my brother-in-law is living with us because we’re barely coping. I haven’t been answering anyone’s calls, Shane, my phone lives on do not disturb to stop it from waking Arthur but for you and Jackie. It’s set for you and Jackie to get through but you didn’t call. Just a few pathetic little messages once you didn’t have to see me in person anymore compared to the hundreds I sent you- the dozens after you asked me to leave you alone and I was expected to know you suddenly wanted to talk to me?” He sounded angry, and Shane shifted back a little, cringing internally. “Hundreds of messages. Not a single reply. But of course Shane Hollander must be acknowledged.” He shook his head, refusing to look at Shane. “I wasn’t asking for a heart to heart but it would have been nice to know if our friendship was over before you sent your fucking guard dog and his besties to slam a door in my face. Awesome. Just awesome. Love that for you, buddy.”

“I didn’t ask them to hurt you.” Shane whispered.

“I know you didn’t, but you sure as hell didn’t ask them not to. They thought it was hilarious. Your fiancé was having the time of his life and I haven’t slept in three days and now I get to explain to my wife that I walked into a fucking door.” Shane couldn’t help but stare at the ugly bruise that was coming up over Hayden’s cheekbone. It looked painful, red and ugly.

“They… We got caught up in-”

“The moment? Nice.” For the first time Hayden looked up at him. “Are we even now? Was it a tit for tat? I get a mild concussion, Rozanov gets a new phone number?” Hayden gestured at his face.

“You don’t have a conc-”

“Well forgive me for saying this but you weren’t there, Shane, you weren’t the one blacking out on the floor. Suppose I should be grateful it’s off season and I’m barely on my phone anyway. Maybe you should educate Hunter’s boyfriend in the fine art of not knocking your opponents out for a laugh.”

Hayden turned back out over the water and Shane rubbed at his sternum, his heart constricting in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Hayden shrugged. “Not much we can do about it now. You think I’m a homophobic piece of shit, your fiancé thinks I’m a homophobic piece of shit, your friends think I’m a homophobic piece of shit, pretty sure Jackie thinks I’m a piece of shit at the moment- I think I’m a piece of shit… It’s fine, Shane. It’s all fine. I’m here. I’m thankful you let me be here. I’ll stand at the back so you don’t need to look at me, I’ll stay away from Marlow so I’m not in the photos, I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you need. And when you want me to leave I’ll go and I’ll answer your calls and when my head stops spinning I’ll answer your messages and when you can’t reach your actual friends I’ll be grateful for whatever scrap of attention you’re willing to leave me with. Sound good?”

Shane sniffed. Wiped at the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. “Hayden-”

“No, Shane. Look. I’m sorry for what I said. Back there. You didn’t have to tell me jack shit. You never did. I get it. It wasn’t my business. I was convenient. I was nice enough. I was the punching bag between you and Comeau and Patrice and the others. I was useful. I get it.

“I’m the idiot here, thinking we were more. But it’s fine. All fine.” He trailed off, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry I don’t have a better suit. Moths got in the wardrobe, hit my tux. But if you’re okay with it, it’d be nice if I could have a photo. With you. You can keep it here. I won’t take it home with me.” His hands were shaking in his lap and Shane didn’t know how to fix this. He never knew how to fix things like this. Ilya just… He just compensated for Shane’s deficits. He fixed himself, just poking and prodding Shane into the spaces he needed him to fill easy as breathing, Hayden… Shane had never needed to fix Hayden, the man had never needed it before now.

Hayden fixed him.

Now he was standing on his dock in shorts and boat shoes and Hayden was sitting there hating himself because Shane had never been able to trust him enough to reveal anything. “Hay… I’m sorry. I just… You have no idea how hard it was, hiding everything. I felt that if I told anyone, even you… With your perfect wife and perfect kids, your perfectly straight life-”

“Pretty sure they call that bi-erasure, buddy.”

Shane’s brain shuddered to a half. Suddenly. Painfully. “What?”

He felt sick.

Hayden just shrugged. Like it was nothing. Like coming out was nothing to him. Like asking for scrambled eggs over poached. Shane had struggled for years and Hayden just came out and said it. “You… You’re bi?”

“Pretty much. I haven’t looked into it extensively, not like you have, but yeah.” He ran his hands through his hair, eyes dead as he picked at the seam of his t-shirt.

“You… how can you just say that?” Shane felt his chest constrict painfully at the thought of coming out. “It’s-”

“Pretty sure if there was ever a safe space to come out in it’d be here, buddy. Straights are the minority for once.”

“But… You never said anything. Not once!” Shane couldn’t help but feel hurt. Angry.

“Why would I?”

“Why? Because I’ve been fucking alone, Hayden!” Shane shouted taking a step back, barely able to look at him. “Fuck! Why the fuck would you keep this from me?”

Hayden scrambled to his feet, looking just as pissed off as Shane felt. “Excuse me? Why would I- Shane! Why the fuck would I have told you?! Who the fuck goes around just shouting their sexuality from the rooftops if it’s irrelevant?! I was fucking terrified you’d start freaking out on me! Just like you were! We were living together! We saw each other naked every day, showered together, I’ve seen more of your dick than I have mine! I am intimately acquainted with each fucking freckle on your ass to the degree I’d probably give Rozanov a run for his money!”

That was enough to snap Shane out of his fugue state. “He counts them.” He blurted out, mind immediately going to the last instance where Ilya had done just that, biting each prominent freckle-

“Sixteen.”

Shane’s face went red. Not just normal red, like the casual teasing red. Red. “Oh my God, Hay- why the fuck are you staring that hard at my ass?!” He shrieked, and he was surprised that no one had come to find them they were making so much noise.

Hayden just threw his hands up in the air exasperatedly. “Why the fuck do you think! You get changed in front of me! Every day! And you’re always facing away! What the fuck else am I going to stare at?! I get bored!”

Shane’s ass was a fucking fidget toy.

“I hate everything about this situation.” Shane moaned into his hands. “Sixteen fucking freckles.”

“That are regularly countable.”

“Please don’t ever say this in front of Ilya.”

“I’m not stupid, Shane, I don’t want to die.” Hayden flopped back onto the decking, shaking his head. "How the fuck is my gaydar so broken that I didn't clock you? Or any of these fucking morons? And how the fuck did you get your hands on Rozanov?” He looked up at Shane, bright blue eyes widening in interest. “You gotta tell me, buddy- you’re not exactly…”

“Hot?”

“Fuck off, you know you’re hot, all those magazines can’t be wrong. You just… You don’t seem his type.”

“A slut?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I spent way too much time staring at his dick.”

Hayden’s head smacked back against the dock and he groaned unhappily. “You two fucking deserve each other, man. Batshit crazy as each other.” Shane just shrugged. “Just sit down, man, you’re making me nervous and I think this conversation is way overdue.” He patted the wood beside him and Shane just.

Grabbed him.

By the collar.

Dragged him onto the grass.

Like a fucking dog.

“It’s way too hot and I don’t wanna get sunburned for the pictures.” He said as he sat down next to Hayden, close enough that they were pressed together along their sides. Like they used to be. “So?”

Hayden rubbed at his still-blotchy face. “Fuck. Okay. So I get why you didn’t tell me about Lily. And why you freaked out when Jacks stole the number. It would have been a massive deal no matter who they were. I get it. She thought it would be nice. Funny. It wasn’t. And I get that whatever fucked up thing our friendship was is over now. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to know you didn’t trust me. Or that you thought I was like the rest of them. The team. Because I’m not. I hid it when every girlfriend I told before Jackie assumed I was going to cheat on her with a guy- with you, honestly. They fucking hated you, man.” He bumped his shoulder into Shane’s. “You were always at media after games so you missed the rest most of the time. The first time we hugged after a goal they were wolf-whistling in the locker room. When we moved in together it was months, months, Shane, of the team making comments, called me a cocksucker, a faggot, a queer, every name under the sun-”

“I didn’t know-”

“I made sure you didn’t. You didn’t need to know-”

“I was your friend-”

“I think we’ve already established neither of us has been a very good one, buddy, but it hurts that you think I just let it happen- that you told other people I just let it happen. That you thought I didn’t spend years trying to bear the brunt of the shit they threw at us. You had enough to deal with and I was a far easier target than you were, far easier to get rid of if I stepped out of line.”

“What the fuck does that mean? I could have handled it!”

“Look, man, we both know you have a touch of the ‘tism-”

Shane reached over and pinched him, causing Hayden to yelp and rub at his thigh. “I don’t have a touch, I was fucking bathed in autism, if Ilya’s to be believed. And my therapist.”

“Yeah well, you weren’t always so well adjusted, Shane, and I was worried dealing with all that along with the expectations the team were putting on you was going to be too much. Plus it was easier once I had Jackie, they backed off after a year or so of accusing her of being a beard. And yeah, she knows. Doesn’t really care. I’d like to think that if there’d actually been someone, like you have, that I would have told you. I’d hope I would have but I get why you didn’t… I… I’ve been with both. Before Jacks. But nothing serious.”

I’ve been with both.

Both.

Hayden was still talking but Shane’s head was spinning and he needed to sit the fuck down.

He was already sitting down.

“Aaaaand there we go.” Shane felt a hand in his hair and Hayden tipped him over, snapping him out of his hyperventilation and settling his head in his lap, Hayden’s legs straightening out to give him space, Shane’s hand reaching up to grab the material of his trousers, now strained by grass. “Do I need to get Rozanov?” Hayden let out a depressed chuckle above him, fingers still running through Shane’s hair as they had in the past. “How is this my life, the Demon of Boston is your emotional support teddy bear.”

Shane giggled hysterically, rubbing his cheek against the comfortingly soft fabric. “Oh my god this is the worst.”

Under him Hayden stiffened and he started to wriggle his way out from under him. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“How the fuck did I not notice you bringing men home?”

Hayden snorted and Shane made his arms work enough to turn himself around to face the man who looked down at Shane like he was an idiot. “You do realise what you just asked me, Mr ‘I’m Gonna Fuck My Archrival Non-stop for Seven Years in Secret’, yeah? If you could hide it there’s no reason I couldn’t. No one fucking notices me, buddy, I was a third line winger whose only claim to fame was that you knew my name. I was just another guy with brown hair in a club or a pub and the only guy I ever actually fucked wanted nothing to do with me the morning after. Threw me out without even asking my name. Women were an option and they were far easier.”

“You sound like Ilya.”

“Gross. Don’t ever say that again.” He sighed heavily, reclining back on his hands as Shane stared up at the leafy canopy above them. “Seriously, man? I get it, he’s hot as fuck but is that really enough to put up with his personality? I mean, I could learn to ignore a whole lot but-”

Shane flailed a hand to the side, slapping at Hayden’s chest. “Shut up. He’s great.”

“Oh, he’s great. That’s reassuring. Russia’s Greatest Love Machine is great, God, how did I not figure it from the fucking ringtone-”

“Hayden.”

“No, no, I’m sure that great is just fine-”

“Hayden!” Shane pushed himself up, rolling over to wack Hayden around the head, the asshole laughing as he covered his face with his arms.

“I guess I could put up with great if he was actually packing those nine inches-”

“Oh my God, shut up!” Shane squeaked.

He squeaked.

Hayden froze. Sat up. “No. No. He doesn’t get the looks. And the skills. And Shane fucking Hollander. And a fucking nine-inch dick. Please tell me the world isn’t that fucking cruel.” Shane’s expression must have said it all. Hayden suddenly looked worried. He looked down at Shane. “Buddy… You’re fucking tiny. Does it actually fit?”

“Oh my God! Hayden!”

MARLOW

Carter looked wrung out, like someone had shoved him in the dryer, turned up the heat and he’d gotten all tangled up with a pair of stockings. “Pretty sure Pike’s either gonna flee back to Montreal or you’re gonna have to share your bed tonight, Roz, because those two looked one good hug from refusing to let the other go for the next twenty-four hours.” He said exhaustedly, accepting Scott’s glass of water and collapsing onto the lounge. “I never thought I’d genuinely feel sorry for Hayden Pike but he’s like a sad little kitten-”

“No, Hollander is sad kitten, Pike is sad fish.”

Carter shook his head. “Sorry to tell you this dude, but those were some sad kitten eyes, enough to rival Hollander’s.” Rozanov groaned from where he was slumped over the back of the couch, kicking his feet petulantly against the ground. “We were kinda dicks to the poor guy.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve it.” Scott said as he settled down beside Kip, pulling the smaller man onto his lap. Sickening. Contagious. Now Cliff wanted a Kip. He watched as Hunter reached out and grabbed the one of Carter’s belt loops, pulling him in closer, the tall, lanky forward barely noticing as he shuffled along, further from Cliff’s side until Kip’s feet were resting on his lap.

Cliff wanted feet on his lap. He wanted the One Ring on his finger and someone nice and warm and tasty to come home to. He snapped a picture of the three men, earning him a finger from Hunter. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave the drives all here after backing them up.” He had his laptop in his bag for that exact reason, as well as several external hard drives.

He was a man on a mission. One day this shit was gonna be a documentary and he was gonna be front and centre. No blurry red eyes from Cliff Marlow.

To that end he turned the camera around for a selfie.

He’d always enjoyed photography, less as something to do during the off season and more as the thing he’d given up the instant he’d learned just how much money NHL players made over their careers, God willing it wasn’t cut short by injury. Every hockey player he knew seemed to ignore the fact that they would one day have to retire- bad juju to think of the future, he supposed- but Cliff had never been particularly terrified of the great ‘R’ word, and now that Hollander had gotten his cute little mitts into Cliff’s investment portfolio he could spend the rest of his working life following birds around the Northern Hemisphere if he wanted to. Become a wedding photographer. Teach kids how to put on skates. Find a hot wife and become a house husband. He’d always wanted to learn how to bake.

Roz would become a model. Or an actor. Those cheekbones of his didn’t deserve to be hidden from the world once he wasn’t punching people on camera.

“I do not understand why Hollander wants him here.” Svetlana said as Roz slithered along the couch like a snake into her lap, wrapping an arm around her tiny waist. “You have said he was dangerous?”

Ilya blew a raspberry. Kip giggled. Hunter dropped his head onto the back of the couch and Carter was staring at his neck like he was seeing God for the first time.

Roz and his fucking tingles making Cliff see things.

Cliff turned back to the window- one of the many- and craned his neck over to try and see down to the lake. Nothing but trees.

“Why the fuck are you staring that hard at my ass?!” Cliff flinched as Hollander’s dulcet tones echoed up from the water. 

He watched as Ilya sat up slowly. Frowned. Turned to the windows. Looked. Huffed. “Because is excellent ass.” He muttered before flopping back down on his front, seemingly content to let his fiancé and Pike yell it out.

“I would pay through the nose to be so secure in a relationship.” Hunter muttered irritatedly, slumping in his seat so that he had the reach to nudge Rozanov in the shin. Kip huffed in annoyance and shifted off his lap, squeezing down between Hunter and Carter, half on top of the other man. Carter didn’t seem to mind the intrusion on his space, too busy patting Scott on the head like a dog, eyes intent on the window.

“Has taken many years to be secure, Hunter. You have seen only end of very long and very shitty journey. At beginning was sure that he would leave me for more convenient man. Little smoothie boy of his own. Never said he wanted me to stop sleeping with others. Was sad.” He lifted his hand above his head and the ring glinted in the sunlight. That very specific Hollander-induced grin appeared. “Now is all mine. Pike can stare at ass, cannot touch unless I say he can.”

“Which will be never?” Kip asked softly. Little smoothie boy was such a cute little thing, not that he was particularly little. Those shoulders, those biceps- he bet Scott had taken full advantage of those biceps. Hunter kept on touching them, running his fingers up and down his legs, curling their fingers together, it was like he was bestowing upon him every little bit of affection he’d been holding in for years.

Cliff hated him a little.

“Maybe. Or maybe one day I will let him touch if he is very good boy. Is very bad hockey player but is not stupid. Would appreciate Hollander’s ass. Whole world should appreciate his ass.”

What the effing fuck. “Um… Roz? Pretty sure Pike has no interest-”

“Pike is jealous little bitch. No one is so mean and cranky about losing friend unless secretly in love with friend.”

“Pretty sure Pike’s married. Happily.” Oh, so now Hunter was paying attention. “And also very straight.”

“You have shitty gaydar, Hunter.” Ilya was distracted from whatever fresh hell he was about to inflict upon them by the sound of footsteps on stone and his face lit up as he bolted, ripping open the patio door.

For a moment Cliff felt sorry for Svetlana who was left rubbing at her leg, a casualty to Roz’s enthusiasm. Roz had always maintained that they were friends first and foremost, any arrangement other than that had been one of convenience, friendship, comrades in each other’s arms. 

For Roz at least.

Cliff had often wondered if maybe she had at one point hoped for more. Or that they had been more. Roz had always made a habit of taking people’s words as law, using it against them if needed and he could imagine the man simply ignoring any non-implicit signs that she had wanted anything other than a convenient fuck, defaulting to their official arrangement.

Roz was lucky as fuck Hollander was a persistent little shit.

Cliff probably would have done the same if he’d had Shane Hollander waiting in the wings with his doe eyes, soft lips, fuckable ass and the kind of stare that would have anyone touching what was his turning to dust at his skate-wearing feet.

Shane Hollander was fucking terrifying, and it wasn’t just him noticing it, the league was experiencing little tidbits of it and they were not. Happy. 

Cliff was torn from his musings as Ilya sighed heavily. “Shane. You are attached to giant fish.” He said matter-of-factly, looking down at where Hollzy’s hand seemed to be welded around Pike’s wrist, as if completely unwilling to let him go. “You will have to let go to get changed.”

Hollander just looked down. And up. “Jealous?” He asked with a little smug grin.

What. A. Little. Shit.

They were perfect together.

“Would be jealous except tonight will have my dick in your mouth and Pike will go back to spawn and Lady Pike.”

To Cliff’s surprise, both Pike and Hollander looked unhappy at that. “Why is he going home?”  Hollander asked petulantly, grip tightening to the point that he was sure Pike would end up with a bruise. “Did Jackie call?”

“No…” Ilya looked down at the hands again. Then sighed. “Hate when Carter is right.” He grumbled before catching Hollander’s other hand and leading him towards the bedroom. “Need to shower. Too much crying. All sticky.” Hollander was nodding. “Can take pet Pike if want, but plan to fuck you before wedding for good luck.”

“Nope, nope, nope. I love you buddy, but I am a one woman kinda guy.” Pike wrenched himself free as Hollander was dragged away and retreated to the emptiest corner of the kitchen, right next to the fridge, far away from the rest of them. His eyes were darting around the room, checking the exits, wincing as he pulled on the bruising flesh of his cheek. He looked like shit. “I’ll just stay here, nice and quiet.” And he did just that, slipping further away until he was sitting in the hallway by the front door, curing down into a ball with his phone in his hand, avoiding Cliff’s glare by shoving his face into his drawn-up knees.

Small, depressed kitten.

Fuuuuuuuck.

“You need something to eat, Pike?”

“No.”

“You drank anything since we grabbed you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re going to need to get changed.”

“I’ll shower once they’re out.”

“Pike-”

“it’s fine.” He peeked over his crossed arms at Cliff, expression guarded. “I’m not going to fuck this up, I’m not going to ruin your fun, I’m not going to object, I’m not going to do anything. You can stop worrying about me.”

They’d broken Pike.

Hollzy would not be impressed.

Groaning as he did, Cliff searched through the giant freezer for an ice pack, pulled out a bottle of coke- who the hell used glass bottles of coke anymore? Only the best for Hollzy’s boy he supposed- and shoved them at Pike who flinched back in surprise, bumping his face against his arm and crying out in pain. Shit, Cliff hoped Kip hadn’t broken something. “That looks like shit.”

“Feels like shit.” Pike laid his face down on the ice pack and looked like he was about to fall asleep.

“Ah ah, look at me.” Pike scowled but acquiesced to Cliff’s quick concussion check- they both knew the process. “Maybe a mild one, but dude… You’re out of it.”

“You try having a colicky baby and we’ll see how much sleep you get, Marlow. Either leave me the fuck alone or show me where I can find a fucking bed, this is the best nap I’m going to take for the next twelve months.”

Cliff thought of the three guest rooms downstairs, already taken over by bags and boxes and suits freshly steamed and dresses hung up in windows. He didn’t think any of the others would be okay with Pike taking their bed, he didn’t even feel comfortable right now. “Come on, I’m sure Hollzy won’t mind if you collapsed in his room for a bit.” He helped Pike to his feet and led him to the master bathroom, the shower still running in the background, soft moans filtering through the heavy wooden door.

Pike didn’t even seem to notice, just fumbled around with the remote Cliff hadn’t noticed for a few moments before the shutters started to drop, toeing off his shoes and laying them beside the door, his shirt and pants folded and organised neatly on the top of the hamper by the bathroom.

Cliff watched as the smaller man took his icepack and wrapped it in a shirt he’d pulled from the dresser, laying it down on one of the pillows before he crawled between the quilt and upper sheet, seeming to melt into the mattress. There was a thump against glass and a long, protracted moan.

Pike was already asleep.

ILYA

Why the fuck was there a Pike in his bed?

SHANE

Why the fuck was Hayden in his bed?

He reached back, grasping at Ilya’s wet forearm. “Ilya-”

“I am seeing this. Who put him-”

“Oh, hey guys.” Cliff stuck his head around the corner. “Sorry- guy looked like he was about to collapse. I’m pretty sure he’s at least a little bit concussed and I didn’t want him sleeping in the corridor.”

Ilya stepped around the bed, dropping his towel and grabbing a pair of underwear from Shane’s dresser. “You could not put him in guest room?”

“Do you actually trust Scott or Carter around him? Or Kip? Guy seems to have decided little Hollzy here is worth risking assault charges for and I’m pretty sure we don’t want Pike dead. Figured this was the safest place to leave him. Didn’t expect him to strip and burrow in.” He pointed to where Hayden’s clothes were neatly folded.

Ilya leaned over the bed, huffing in amusement. “Follows Hollander’s rules. No outside clothes in bed.” He sat down right next to Hayden, the smaller man not even stirring as Ilya pulled on his socks. “You should take nap, Shane.”

Shane paused in towelling his hair. “Huh?”

“Has been shit day. You have spent most of it crying. I do not want puffy eyes in my photos. One day will be on front of paper, need you to look pretty pretty.” He stood, both hands cupping Shane’s cheeks, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. “You curl up here with pet Pike until lawyer turns up with official person.” He started to push Shane towards the bed but Shane hesitated.

“Ilya… He’s…” He winced, looking down at Hayden’s face, resting on the ice pack. “He’s bi, Ilya.” He looked back up at his fiancé. “Hayden’s bisexual. I… We both missed things. About each other. But… Are you okay? With that?” He trailed off nervously, fingers trailing absently up and down Ilya’s bare chest. “He’s not… It’s not me, he loves Jackie but…” He didn’t want to do it. But he would. He was so fucking down bad for his husband that he’d walk away. Walk away right now, friendship over, but he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to.

Ilya leaned down, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “That is biphobia, my cute little Canadian hockey player. If you do not think Pike is cheater of Lady Pike, you can snuggle him. Like cute little kitten with fish toy.”

Shane loved his husband. So fucking much. “You’re amazing.” He ran his arms around Ilya’s neck, lilting onto his tip toes and running his tongue along his lips, smiling happily when they opened, Ilya leaning into the kiss. “So fucking amazing.”

“I know this. Most amazing.” He handed Shane a pair of shorts. “Sleep, my precious.”

“I’m not a ring.”

“Still my precious.”

“I don’t even have a ring.”

“If you did not decide to elope today, would have had time to get-”

“Ummmmm….” Both men turned to see Cliff standing by the door. Still standing. “I may have paid a visit to Roz’s place.”

Ilya’s eyes widened in delight. “You did!”

“I did. It’s in my bags.” Shane was suddenly abandoned as Ilya grabbed Cliff around his waist, throwing the giant man over his shoulders, hurrying towards the guest rooms in a cloud of laughter. Shane just decided Ilya had been right and shut the bedroom door, dropping his towel, pulling on his shorts and slipping under the covers beside Hayden, the other man grumbling before curling into a tighter ball.

Shane was out in seconds.

SCOTT

Scott watched as the bedroom door closed on Hollander’s towelled form, Rozanov and Marlow disappearing down the stairs to the lower level of the cottage in search of a ‘precious.’

He wished he didn’t know what they were talking about.

Beside him Kip had pulled out his phone and was snapping photos- of the ceiling, the kitchen, the windows, Carter, Scott- and Scott watched as each and every one was carefully tucked away into a password protected folder without Scott even having to ask. On his other side Carter had slumped over, his face smooshed into the plush couch cushions that Scott recognised from Rozanov’s apartment. And his apartment. Apparently Hollander bred cushions for fun.

Svetlana stood, riotous curls bouncing around her delicate features, dark eyes narrowing as she eyed the bedroom door. “Ilyushka trusts that one too much.”

“Who, Hollander?” Scott asked as she passed him, making her way into the kitchen and digging through the pre-delivered trays of food, all able to be left out on the bench without spoiling.

“No, the Pike.” It was odd, hearing a less severe version of Rozanov’s accent in a woman’s tone. She rifled under the foil and returned with a handful of grapes, popping each one into her glass of vodka like a very weird cocktail. Kip made a disgusted little noise in the back of his throat before turning back to Instagram. “Ilya is foolish to trust him with his bride.”

Scott huffed in amusement. “I doubt Hollander would appreciate you calling him that.”

“Then perhaps Ilya should not have been telling me of his ‘Jane’ for years on end.” She pointed out. “Still he has not told me what the Pike did to deserve your anger and it is starting to irritate me given that the little smoothie boy knows and I have been at Ilyushka’s side for far longer than he.” Her dark red nail polish shone against the expensive prisms of the glass tumbler. She frowned slightly into the liquid before throwing it back like a shot and Scott was explicitly reminded of her Russian heritage. “I do not mean offence to you, smoothie boy, I am sure you are very nice but I have gone from thinking Ilya despises Hollander to seeing him wish to marry him and I want answers. Ilya will have little time to tell me soon and I wish to know.”

“Is very short story, really.” They all turned to find Rozanov standing with Marlow in the doorway, hands wrapped around a small wooden box. “Very sexy man meets cute kitten, kitten wants to fuck, flee Russia, now we get married for me to be citizen!” He reached into Svetlana’s glass, retrieving a grape. “Is same as any other love story for- what is American thing, is card with colour.”

“Green card.” Scott said softly, watching as Svetlana’s expression flickered to angry and back at Rozanov’s flippant explanation.

“You have never once seemed inclined to marry, Ilya, I think I deserve an explanation.” Svetlana patted the couch beside her. “Come. I want to understand, before I allow this to happen.”

Rozanov chuckled but did what she said. “Is cute you think I would let you stop. Hollander would chop off head and throw body in lake before letting anyone stop him from marrying me.”

“That is very sweet, Ilyushka, but it doesn’t mean I’m not concerned. I watched picture after picture of you running from Russia and I worry that you are doing this for the wrong reasons. Hollander too. Very few in this industry do not know of the great love between Hollander his parents- and yet they are not here. I wish to know why.”

In his lap Kip- who likely didn’t know this stilled. Carter pushed himself forward, clearly interested in the answer.

Scott had thought about it.

He hated that he’d done it, but he had.

He didn’t want to be a cynic. He didn’t want to think that something as important as marriage was being used just to keep Rozanov out of a Russian prison if everything went to shit…

But the timing.

 “Do you truly think I would do this? Marry most difficult man in all of hockey just to stay out of Russia? Could stay in Boston forever, become American. Much easier.” Rozanov leaned back, arm along the top of the couch, relaxed like Scott rarely saw him, perfectly content in Hollander’s cottage. “Ring, too. Ordered months ago. No, while very convenient am not marrying Hollander because is easy. Am marrying because want to spend rest of life with fussy little Canadian Hockey player. Want fluffy dog with him. Giant fat cat. Maybe children, I do not know, he likes the Pike spawn.

“Was happiest I have ever been, when he asks me. Was so nervous, ran in door and threw box at me. Very cute.” Ah, the Hollander grin. Scott smiled. Thank fuck for that.

Svetlana nodded slowly. “I see… But Ilyushka. Are you sure this is what he wants?” That had Rozanov flinching in place, Marlow’s hand immediately coming to rest on his knee. The Russian woman winced in discomfort as she took on Rozanov’s expression but pressed onwards. “I can see that you think you love him very much but you have said he was nervous even to propose. And was likely also scared when you left Russia. Are you sure he isn’t just caught up in the moment? You know that I would help you if you needed it, Ilyushka. You should not have to marry a man I have never met, who you have said is boring.”

Rozanov fiddled with his wedding ring as he answered, deep in thought. Scott thought he sounded a little sad. “Boring… Is very boring, yes. In morning I wake up to boring book on beside table and boring husband snoring on shoulder. Then I have boring breakfast that is exactly right number of calories with no sugar and too green to be normal. Sometimes after I will go for run in boring trees. Sometimes I lie in boring grass and do nothing for hours. Sometimes I find puzzles in Hollander’s giant storage room and do them. Sometimes I rearrange pantry.” A soft, gentle smile graced his features, making him look younger than he already was. “You may think is sad but I think that I will be very happy, being boring with him. I do not need the excitement anymore. I do not need the loud clubs and the girls and the smoking and drinking. Now I have him.”

“But it is not right, to only have one thing that is important to you. Your entire life cannot revolve around one man.” She said it as if she was talking to a child. If Scott had said something so blatantly patronising Rozanov would have already thrown a pillow at his face. He supposed it was a testament to his respect for the woman that he was hearing her out. “To do this will only cause resentment as you leave behind everything you used to care about for him.”

To Scott’s surprise, Rozanov just shook his head. “You do not understand, Sveta. He is the only thing I have ever truly cared about. From the very beginning. Since I was baby and saw him at Junior’s. With his beautiful freckles and weak backhand. I go out because I must, Sveta. I drink because is what Russians do. I hate him on ice because is expected. I do not want to do these things anymore. I want to go back to hotel room early and facetime husband. I want to spend summers here, with enough food to not have to ever leave until pre-season, snuggling on couch and watching stupid Canadian wolf birds scream at nothing. I do not want him to ever go away. I do not want to ever go away.”

Svetlana seemed to gather herself, as if preparing to go to war. “Ilyushka. I do not wish to ruin this but you are my closest, dearest and longest friend. I would never want you to think that this is your only option, to force yourself, or even Hollander, into a shotgun wedding for the wrong reasons. I would marry you before that, I could give you American citizenship.” Scott choked on a gasp and beside him Carter’s fingers dug into his thigh, as if stopping him from throwing himself at the woman.

He was close to doing just that.

“Do not do this if it is not for the right reasons, please. A wedding where there are only a few friends, no family as if you are scared they would be ashamed of your happiness, it is not right.” 

Rozanov just sat there, staring at his feet, shoulders hunched over as if trying to hide from her words. Scott fought down the urge to go over and comfort him but he knew it wouldn’t be well received. He wondered if those were points Rozanov had bought up to himself. If he was thinking them for the first time Scott couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling.

There was a click of a door opening and they turned to the bedroom to find Shane Hollander standing there. Canada’s Golden Boy.  Polite, and sweet, and kind, and non-violent Shane Hollander.

Scott was honestly sure there was about to be a murder.

“You’re a guest in my house, Svetlana.” His usually amiable tone was gone, flat and harsh as he crossed the floor rapidly, placing himself between Svetlana and Rozanov, who was looking up at Hollander as if he was God himself. “I let you come here because he loves you, and I thought you deserved to know about us.” He spat our harshly, looking up at the slightly taller woman. “But if you’re going to keep spouting bullshit like you know anything about our relationship then I’ll drive you back to the fucking airport myself.” He reached down and placed his hand on the back of Rozanov’s neck, the larger man leaning into his side with a relieved sigh, Scott catching the edges of tears as his face buried into Hollander’s belly. “Come on, I’m pretty sure you’re the one who needs a nap right now.”

“Nooooo do I have to share with Pike?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay in the middle. The Great Wall of Shane.”

“I do not know what this is.” Rozanov grumbled as he wrapped himself around his fiancé, Hollander shuffling them away from Svetlana without a second look.

“Hollander!” Svetlana shifted, as if to follow them.

Hollander didn’t even pause. “Unless it’s an apology I don’t care!” He called, the last few words muffled by the door as he unapologetically told the woman to fuck off.

It was times like these that Scott really got it. How they worked. That unwavering support that he’d been craving his entire adult life. The inability to see the other in pain.

“It wasn’t Roz’s fault. Hollander’s parents not being here.” Cliff suddenly said, eyeing Svetlana with far less fondness than before. “His dad is fine, but his mum… Roz has said a few things, over the last year. Things she’s said. Endorsements that she’s pushed, even though Hollzy’s not wanted to do them. It’s caused tension. Especially the ones that aren’t overly friendly to the alphabet soup of sexuality. She’s also had things to say about the way he’s been playing, asking him to tone it down…

“She’s his manager, agent, everything wrapped into one and it’s been putting a strain on their relationship for a while now, enough that Hollander’s looking into changing agents. He hasn’t broached the subject with her, so I’d appreciate it if this didn’t leave here.” He ran his hand over his stubble, skin rasping against rough hair in the awkward silence. “Look. I like you, Svetlana. You’ve been there for Roz for years, long before I knew anything about Hollander but you can’t just say shit like that. Hollzy was right- you don’t know anything about their relationship-”

The woman scoffed angrily. “Oh- so you’ll reprimand me for caring, but you will let Pike go?”

“Pike’s only mistake was not changing the password on his phone, Svetlana. Something we didn’t realise until now.” Carter pointed out quickly, already coming to the defence of the man who Scott suspected was his new friend. “He didn’t stand in front of Roz and try to invalidate his entire relationship- a relationship that, from what I’ve seen, is a hell of a lot stronger than most. You pared down an epic love story to a fucking immigration case and then offered to marry a man who’s clearly happily engaged.” He finished bluntly, almost sneering at the Russian. Scott had honestly never seen Carter in such a state, the normally affable man happy to let bygones be bygones. “What did you actually think he’d do? Give up the man he’s been in love with since ’08 and be with you?”

Svetlana looked vaguely disgusted. “No, I would never-”

“Then what? Have them cancel the wedding, we all go home, everything’s just fine? Did you actually expect their relationship would survive something like that?”

Her mouth gaped open like a fish and Scott felt just a little sorry for her. Only a little bit. “I… I do not know what I thought.”

“Didn’t think you did. I think it’d be a good idea if we all did a Pike and took a nap.” He stood up, pulling Scott and Kip with him. “Marlow, I’m calling for a fucking cuddle puddle in Scott’s room.”

What the fuck.

“Excellent idea, old chap.” Marlow stood, clapping Carter’s shoulder and grabbing Kip’s arm, the two men shoving them towards the stairs, away from the woman who had collapsed to sitting, staring at the polished wooden floorboards, a slight quiver causing her to wrap her arms around her chest.

The last thing he saw was the look of self-loathing that crossed her features.

He was more than familiar with that expression.

Chapter End Notes

I promise, originally Hayden was supposed to be straight and mean. Sveta was nice and supportive like book. I disagreed.

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Oh. What is that?

The next chapter?

Almost finished? With wedding? And itty bitty young Scott Hunter's sex tape with a hot yoga instructor?

Final edits whilst I get my Loon tattoo tomorrow :-)

Chapter 15: Ilya. No.

Chapter Summary

In which:
There is a wedding.
Scott has a sex tape.
Ilya gets a pet fish.

Chapter Notes

So… I’ve read all of your comments and there are some strong opinions.

Firstly, the OOC- well yeah, that’s how fanfiction works, if I wanted to keep them in character I’d just read the book again. I want them healthy and happy and together and unhinged so sue me. They were more canon at the beginning and now they’re barely hanging on because they’re not miserable and hiding. To be fair they'll probably calm down a bit when they're not al squished together.

Secondly I’m glad most of you like Hayden and Svetlana. I rewrote them twenty times or so but I was really happy with it.

Thirdly- those of you saying Svetlana’s writing comes across misogynistic.
Guys.
She’s been there for two tiny bits of a chapter.
This chapter was originally one giant chapter so give me a fucking second.

Are you forgetting that she and Hayden haven’t been gently introduced to chaos- Cliff and Scott and Carter were introduced to normal Hollanov, Hayden and Sveta have been dropped straight into a wedding of dinosaur loving cult leaders, so their reactions aren’t normal, they’re stressed and panicked because what the fuck.

And I can say this because I had this happen to me, and whilst I’m not in a fanfiction Svetlana’s thoughts were running through my head but I was in public so I didn’t scream it at the engaged idiot. I blow raspberry at you for saying my feelings are misogynistic and invalid.

Also she WAS invited into Shane’s home otherwise she’d be standing the fuck outside in an airport in Ottawa. She’s not a vampire, she doesn’t need an explicit invite into the house.

Clearly I have opinions here.

Fourthly- I’m also sorry for those of you who didn’t like where Jackie/Hayden are heading but given there are stories out there where they kill her off in the background for convenience I think I’m allowed to take artistic licence. I think this chapter will make it clearer where things will eventually end up but we’re 100,000 words in and nowhere near finished so bear with me. This will be slow.

Fifthly- To the people who have mentioned Ilya sharing Shane- don’t worry, in my mind he never really will… Ilya Rozanov doesn’t share. He doesn’t need to. Do they have kinks? Well obviously, but that ain’t sharing. That’s saying- look at the pretty thing you can’t touch. Am I not glorious to have caught such a pretty thing.

 

Now.

I have tried my best with the wedding to straddle the line of realism and crack cocaine and spent a long time deciding on whose POV it would be from. In the end I just wanted someone who was happy and had no inner thoughts about it. Or at all. So enjoy Cliff ‘No Brain Cell Today’ Marlow. The others are just along for the ride and I hope you are too!

Mary will pop up again with her weirdo dads- who remind me of the Klopeks from The ‘Burbs- if you haven’t watched it. Watch it. It’s insane and I love it.

And lastly- the smut. Honestly? Came out of fucking nowhere and I ran with it because I saw a random fic that I never read that said what if Ryan was one of Scott’s old flings but I haven’t read his book and so this happened and you will not make me regret it and its unrealistic but.

Why not.

Enjoy!