Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, F/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Kittens, Cats, literal fluff, Texting, Minor Injuries, Minor Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, Soft Shane Hollander, Sprained Ankles, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealousy, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, wanking, the three stages of vodka abuse, Fluff and Angst, Angst and Humor, tonal whiplash, Angst with a Happy Ending, POV Multiple, Road Trips, Cockblocking, POV Outsider, Idiots in Love, ride or die Marly, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Jackie Pike, Miscommunication, Trust, sex and humor, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, ilya rozanov is a dramatic bitch, Shane Hollander calls someone baby, Cat Dad Shane Hollander, original feline character

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-24 Completed: 2026-07-23 Words: 35,068 Chapters: 5/5

Angry Kitten

Summary

"If you need a cat, and you deserve a cat, the universe will make sure that a cat finds you. That's the Cat Distribution System at work," the woman explains.

"But I don't need a cat," Shane says, baffled.

"Are you sure?" the bearded guy says, looking down at the box, where Shane is still stroking the kitten's head.

"Yes?" Shane says, frowning as the kitten rubs its small, bewhiskered cheek against his finger.

---

Shane finds a stray kitten; Ilya not so slowly loses his mind.

Notes

Set during episode 5, after Tampa but before they meet up again in Boston. Time may be just a teensy bit more elastic than it is in canon. Just roll with it. This is a story about a kitten, after all.

Thanks to Sami, Firesign and kaiz for cheer leading.

If you saw this story briefly earlier today - AO3 and my timezone are having a disagreement. Hopefully this time all goes well.

Chapter 1: Shane

Chapter Summary

Shane finds a stray kitten.

Chapter Notes

"Hssss!"

Shane pauses in the act of closing the door of his car, but all is quiet in the parking garage of his apartment block. He's the only one here.

"Hss!"

He hears it again just as the door closes shut. Shorter and more emphatic this time, and definitely not just his imagination.

Is there a snake in here? Or is it still too early in the year? Don't they all hibernate through the winter—or something like that? And it's still only March…

There's only one way to find out for sure. The sound came from just over there, in the corner…

"Oh," Shane says. He crouches down. "Hello." Cowering behind a wire mesh barrier, below the pipes that run along the wall, is a very small kitten. Its coat is a hodge-podge of black and pale orange with bits of white, like someone started painting it and then couldn't make up their mind which colour to use. And it looks thin, maybe? It's definitely not roly-poly like that kitten in the picture book that Jade made him read to her last time he was babysitting Hayden’s kids, and its fur looks a bit matted, like it could use a bath.

Shane reaches out his hand, palm up, for the kitten to smell. Or is that something you're meant to do when you want to make friends with a dog? Shane doesn't know for sure. He's never had a dog or a cat, not even when he was a kid. Never enough time, Mom always said, and of course she was right.

The kitten hisses at him again and attempts to back further into the corner. Shane looks around, but there's no sign of a mother cat, or any other kittens. This tiny scrap of life is completely alone down here, apart from him. He reaches a hand carefully under the mesh—and he's immediately swiped by the smallest paw he's ever seen, warning him off with teensy, needle claws.

"Ow," Shane says, sucking the wound on the tip of his thumb. "Okay, I get the message." He thinks for a minute. "Stay here," he tells it.

The kitten tries to back away even further, but it's right against the wall. There's nowhere for it to go.

"I'll be back," Shane says over his shoulder as he jogs off towards the elevator.

He's as good as his word, returning a few minutes later with a cardboard box containing a couple of hand towels, a can of tuna, a teaspoon, and a small ramekin from his kitchen.

The kitten is still there, watching his every move with bright, suspicious blue-green eyes.

Shane opens the can of tuna and spoons some into the ramekin. Then he sets it down on this side of the mesh, but close enough for the kitten to get a good whiff. He doesn't even know if the kitten is old enough for anything more than its mother's milk, but he can't think of any other way of luring it out. He takes a step back. Two.

The kitten's nose twitches, and then it lets out the most high-pitched, pathetic "Mew!" that Shane's ever heard. It dives under the mesh barrier, its little head popping out first, followed by the rest of it, which is barely bigger. Its straight little tail is about the length of Shane's pinky finger. It lunges for the tuna and starts bolting it down, making little, aggressive growling noises the whole time as it laps up the food.

Well, that answers one question.

"Hey, hey," Shane says, very, very softly. "Not so fast. You'll make yourself sick." He crouches down, not going any closer—but apparently that's still too much for the kitten, who immediately disappears back behind the mesh.

Shane lowers himself to the less than clean concrete floor. "I'm just going to sit here for a bit," he tells the kitten. "You can keep eating if you want."

He gets his phone out and checks his e-mail: a contract for an advertising campaign forwarded by his mom. He'll wait until he's on his laptop upstairs to open that. The weekly team newsletter from Coach Theriault. He already has a pretty good idea of everything it's going to say. One from his dad with the subjectline 'More jokes'. He will read it, really he will. But not right now. An update notification from one of the many hockey blogs he follows. That might be interesting. Advertisement, advertisement, advertis-

There's a rustle beside him. Shane glances to the side without moving his head. The kitten has re-emerged from its hiding place and is creeping back towards the food, its eyes darting between Shane and the tuna.

Hunger beats fear.

Shane lets it eat for a moment, long enough for the threatening nomming noises to start up again—and then he grabs it, straight across the back, using every bit of speed that his reflexes are justly famous for.

The kitten yowls, but so high-pitched it's more like a scream. It attacks. Its claws and teeth may be minuscule but they're fucking sharp, and Shane's phone clatters to the floor. But he doesn't let go of the kitten as he reaches for a towel, and he manages to roll it up so that its claws are all trapped, just like he saw on that vet video when he went down a cute animal rabbithole on Youtube one time. It winds up looking like a little blue burrito with a furious feline face.

He pops the wrapped kitten into the box, retrieves the ramekin and his phone—fortunately still in one piece—and heads for the elevator. The kitten continues to express its displeasure about the whole situation at maximum volume.

Shane almost makes it up to his penthouse apartment without incident. Almost.

The elevator slows and stops three floors short of his destination. An unfamiliar, expensively dressed older woman gets in. She raises one elegantly plucked brow at the sight of the box in Shane's arms. Admittedly, it's hard to ignore the sounds of the feline tantrum emanating from within. Shane tries, anyway, and looks down at the floor, waiting for the woman to make a snide comment about the noise, or fleas, or rules about animals in the building. But she remains as silent as Shane, while the kitten continues to yowl in protest, making enough noise for everyone.

The elevator stops again at the floor directly below the penthouse.

"The SPCA," the woman says at last as the door opens.

"I'm sorry?" Shane says, looking up.

The woman smiles very slightly. "The SPCA takes stray cats. That little one will need fostering."

"Yes," Shane says, and hopes it sounds like he knows what he's doing.

"Unless you're planning on keeping her yourself?"

"No," Shane says, because of course he doesn't know what he's doing.

The woman gives a little nod, maybe wishing him luck or maybe she's just too polite to shake her head at him, and steps out of the elevator.

Shane sags a little against the wall as the door closes behind her; the kitten's howls increase in volume and fury.

~*~

Letting himself, and the kitten, into his apartment, turns out to be only a minor improvement. He sets the box down on the floor in the second guest bedroom and at last releases the kitten from the confines of the towel. It disappears under the bed so quickly that Shane half-wonders if there is magic involved.

At least the yowling has stopped.

"You stay under there, if you want," Shane says. "You don't have to come out. Not yet."

Not until it's time to take the kitten to the SPCA, anyway. Assuming that he can persuade it to come out from under the bed. It's just as well he has plenty more cans of tuna in the pantry.

Shane closes the guestroom door behind him, ramekin in hand, and googles the SPCA on the way back to the kitchen. He finds the number, calls—and hits a snag.

"Kitten season has arrived early this year," the guy on the other end of the line says. "We're currently overrun with young mothers, and kittens not yet old enough to be adopted."

Shane's phone vibrates as a message arrives. He ignores it.

"So, what? You can't take it?"

"We can find room for your kitten, but we don't have the volunteers or resources to foster any extra kittens individually at the moment. It would have to go into the general kitten creche, which is already more crowded than we'd like."

"And that means?" Shane asks.

His phone vibrates as another message arrives. He ignores that as well.

"We can find room for it if we have to."

"Okay," Shane says, nodding, though of course the guy can't see him.

"Or, you could keep it yourself."

"No, I'm away a lot. I couldn't." What do I know about looking after a kitten, or any sort of pet? Shane thinks, but it sounds a little like his mom's voice, not his own.

"Then you'd better bring it in. We're open until five."

"I'll be there in a bit," Shane says, and ends the call.

His phone buzzes yet again. This time, he checks his notifications.

Lily: bored
Lily: still bored
Lily: where are you?

Shane: Sorry. Busy—brb

He spoons a bit more of the tuna into the ramekin and takes it back into the guestroom. There's still no sign of the kitten, so Shane sits down on the floor by the bed with the ramekin at his side and gets out his phone.

Shane: So you're still not cleared to be back on the ice?

Lily: what makes you say that?

Shane: Just a wild guess

Lily: what are you busy with?

Shane hesitates before answering. Ilya calls him kotenok sometimes, and occasionally zloy kotenok. He's said it often enough that Shane finally looked it up. He'd expected it to mean 'boring person' or… he doesn't know what. He hadn't expected to find out that Ilya has been calling him kitten, or angry kitten, this whole time. He still doesn't know how he feels about that.

But what he does know is that if he admits, now, to attempting to—not very successfully—wrangle an actual angry kitten, he'll provide Ilya with years of ammunition. And it's not like the kitten is going to be here longer than another half hour, max. Hopefully a lot less if the tuna lure works a second time.

Shane: That's a no, then?

Lily: no. Not yet. Soon.
Lily: you still have not told me what you're up to

Shane: Just home from practice. Got to run some errands

Lily: nope. Wrong answer. Boring
Lily: what are you wearing?

Shane: What I usually wear. Clothes?

Lily: Do you want to know what I'm wearing?

Shane: I guess. Do I have a choice?

Lily: I could just send you a picture. Would save time

Shane: NO MORE PICTURES!!!

Lily: You don't like the pictures I send? 😢

Shane looks up from his phone at the sound of the tell-tale lap-lap-lap starting up. Very carefully and slowly, he places his phone on the floor by his right side, turns his head to the left and looks down. The kitten has emerged from under the bed, and this time has planted one paw in the food, staking its claim as it eats, so fast that Shane is worried it's going to make itself throw up. It's ravenous. He wonders how long it was down there in the parking garage, all alone. Poor little thing. At least it's not hissing or growling or yowling this time. Shane calls that… not a win, not yet, but definitely a step in the right direction.

His phone buzzes with an incoming message—just as the kitten starts to purr, as loud as a motor. Well, as loud as the motor of one of Shane's smaller kitchen appliances, anyway. The purr sounds like it belongs to a cat at least three times the kitten's size.

Shane's phone buzzes again.

He holds himself still, not daring to move. The purr keeps going once the ramekin is licked clean. He knows he should grab the kitten now, roll it up and put it back in the box. But… it's still purring.

Shane's phone buzzes yet again.

He keeps watching as the kitten pauses to wash its little face with the paw that was so recently in the tuna, and then he blinks—and winces—in surprise as the kitten looks up and, quick as a flash, sinks a set of tiny claws through his sweats and into his thigh. He doesn't really have time to protest, because now the kitten's other front paw is joining the first and it's climbing up and over his thigh until it's sitting in his lap, purring like a mini chainsaw the whole time.

He reaches down with one hand, oh so carefully, and is rewarded with the rasp of a miniature, sandpaper tongue against the tip of his finger. The kitten is still purring, so Shane chances his luck and pets the top of the little furry head with his index finger.

The purring gets louder.

Shane should grab the kitten and wrap it up again. But it seems to like him. It's acting like it trusts him.

He pets the kitten's head some more.

When at last he grabs the kitten and the towel, he feels like a traitor, made worse by the fact that the kitten doesn't make any angry noises this time.

But the purring stops.

He places the kitten gently in the cardboard box and retrieves his phone, just as another message arrives.

Lily: Are you still there?
Lily: Shane?
Lily: Do you really want me not to send pictures of what I'm wearing? See how I suffer! [IMG: two long, muscular legs stretched out below a pair of shorts; one, with a bandaged ankle, propped up on pillows]
Lily: Shane????

Shane: Sorry. Just busy with something again.
Shane: You can send me pics. Just not… you know

Lily: No I don't know. Tell me

Shane: Don't push your luck, asshole 😠

Lily: but I am good at pushing. I'm sure that is what you said that night in Tampa. Or was it thrusting? Too many English words that mean the same thing

Shane: Don't. And delete that please.

Lily: Are you blushing?

Shane: I have to go out

Lily: помидор

Shane: what does that mean?

Lily: google is your friend

Shane: I really do need to go out
Shane: But I'll text you when I get back if you like

Lily: I might like. If I am not running errands of my own

Shane: You know you're meant to be keeping your foot elevated.
Shane: You shouldn't be running at all, or walking any further than inside your house.

Lily: but I'm bored

Shane: yes, we've covered that.
Shane: I'll text you later. I promise

Lily: 🍑🍆💦

Shane: Boston. Next week

Lily: 😘

Shane: Later

Shane's smiling as he closes the message app and checks the SPCA's website for the address of their shelter.

Then he picks up the box. The kitten makes a sad little peep, and Shane feels like a traitor all over again.

~*~

He's still not feeling any better about it five minutes later, when he's back downstairs and turning the key in the ignition of his car, the box carefully strapped in behind the seatbelt on the passenger seat beside him. The kitten starts up its high-pitched yowling again at the sound of the engine and it doesn't let up as Shane drives up the ramp and out onto the road.

Once he's turned the corner at the end of his street, he reaches over and scritches the top of the kitten's head.

The kitten's cries stop immediately.

"So, you like that?" he says, giving it a few more scritches before taking his hand back.

The kitten lets out an outraged squeak and starts yowling again.

"I guess that's a 'yes', then."

So after that Shane drives with one hand on the wheel and the other gently petting the kitten's head. After a while, that ridiculously enormous purr puts in a reappearance. It's a vast improvement on all the unhappy, angry feline noises that Shane has become all too familiar with this afternoon.

It also makes it a lot easier to hear his GPS, which is why he knows he should be turning right at the next intersection, when he sees the sign with an arrow pointing off to the left. He only has a split second to consider it. He's not even sure why he does it. Well, no, that's a lie. He knows exactly why he detours into the lefthand turning lane at the last possible second. A car horn blares behind him as he makes the sharp left turn, and the GPS advises him to drive east and then turn around.

Shane ignores it, ignores everything except the purrs of a kitten who is only happy when Shane is touching it.

He parks behind the veterinary clinic and is still telling himself that this is such a bad idea as he carries the box of kitten in through the door and up to the front counter.

"Uh, hi," Shane says. "I was wondering if a vet could check over m- this kitten."

Because maybe the kitten doesn't specifically need Shane's touch to soothe it. Maybe any human touch will do. But the least Shane can do is find out that much, and whether it's got any health issues, before he hands it over to fight for attention in the SPCA's overcrowded kitten creche.

"I'm sorry, we're all book-" the vet nurse on the other side of the counter begins. And then she looks up and clocks Shane's very, very recognisable face. Her eyes flutter in confusion. At least, Shane thinks it's confusion. Maybe not, because now she's smiling a very wide smile at him. "I'll see what I can do, if you'll just wait a moment." She indicates a free chair in the waiting area, and disappears through a side door.

Shane sits on one of the hard plastic chairs, and glances around. There are four other people waiting: two with cat carriers, one staring down at his phone with a small dog of indeterminate ancestry on a lead at his side, and a woman who is probably waiting to pick up her pet. None of them is likely to pose a threat, but he keeps the box on his lap, just in case. The kitten is starting to complain again, so he reaches into the box and strokes its head with the tips of two fingers. Once it starts to purr, he looks up and finds there are three pairs of eyes fixed on him—the guy with the dog is still engrossed in his phone. Amazingly, two of them have the grace to look away when he catches them staring. The owner of the third pair of eyes, the woman without a pet, keeps looking at him.

"You're Shane Hollander, right?" she asks.

Shane knows exactly how this interaction will go. Suppressing a sigh, he says, "Yes, that's me."

"Nice goal against Toronto the other night," she says. Shane is reaching into his jacket pocket for the sharpie he keeps there for just this sort of situation when she adds, "Cute kitten," and nods towards the box balanced on his knees.

Cute. He considers that. This kitten is never going to win any beauty contests, with its nose alone sporting three different colours of fur. But cute... How did one of the guys define cute to him once? Ugly, but interesting. That was it.

"Yeah," Shane says. "It's cute." He feels like a traitor again as soon as the word is out of his mouth.

"It?" The woman raises her brows.

"I found it in the parking garage of my building today," Shane explains.

"Ohhh," the woman says. "It found you."

"You mean the Cat Distribution System did," the youngish, bearded guy with a cat carrier beside him puts in.

"The what?" Shane says.

"If you need a cat, and you deserve a cat, the universe will make sure that a cat finds you. That's the Cat Distribution System at work," the woman explains.

"But I don't need a cat," Shane says, baffled.

"Are you sure?" the bearded guy says, looking down at the box, where Shane is still stroking the kitten's head.

"Yes?" Shane says, frowning as the kitten rubs its small, bewhiskered cheek against his finger. "I travel a lot because of hockey. I'm a professional athlete—I work out all the time. I can't be there for a cat."

"The Cat Distribution System clearly thinks otherwise," says an older woman with a cat carrier at her feet. "Cat sitters are a thing, if you don't want to leave this little baby in a cat hotel when you're away. Unless your wife or girlfriend…?"

Shane shakes his head. "I'm-" he almost says ‘single’, but… He still doesn't have a name for whatever this thing with Ilya is, but even if they can never be something, they’re not nothing, either. He’s not free. Saying he's single would feel like a lie.

The two women are eyeing him expectantly. He has to say something, so he finally settles for, "I don't have anyone in Montreal."

Shane should remind them, all of them—at this point, only the guy with the dog has yet to enter the conversation—that he can't have a cat, he's never had a cat. He wouldn't know what to do with a cat. Instead, he finds himself asking, "How do you all know about the Cat Distribution System?"

"It's an internet meme." And yeah, that's dog guy, still not looking up from his phone for a second even as he talks about cat memes and holds his dog on a very short leash. Shane is grateful for the short leash, if nothing else, given that there are two cats and a kitten in the room.

The other three are all still looking at him. Shane feels like a bug on a pin, shoved under a microscope. He feels surrounded. By pet owners, a sub-category of humans he's never really given much thought to before today.

Mercifully, at that moment the vet nurse sticks her head back into the room. "If you'd like to come with me, Mr Hollander?" she says.

Shane is up and out of the chair before there's even time for dog guy to look up from his phone.

The vet is waiting for him in an examination room. She's forty-ish, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a warm smile.

"I'm Dr Lara," she says.

"Shane," Shane says.

"So I heard," Dr Lara says, still with that friendly smile, but she doesn't push it. Instead, she turns her attention to the box and its contents. "And who is this?"

"I don't know. I don't think it has a name. I guess it's probably feral? I found it in the parking garage of my building, all alone and pretty hungry."

"I don't think it—or rather she—is feral."

"You don't? I'm impressed that you can tell both of those things just by looking at… her?"

"Calico cats are almost always female. It's just how the genes work. They tend to have… interesting personalities."

Huh, Shane thinks, and makes a mental note to google calico cats when he gets home.

"And as for feral, well…" Dr Lara's ever-present smile widens. "She's purring."

"Oh, that's just because she likes to be petted," Shane says, still doing exactly that.

"Right," Dr Lara says. "Which means that she's been socialised at some point, and given her age, not too long ago."

"So you think she belongs to somebody?" Shane asks, and doesn't know why he feels the sudden clench of disappointment in his chest, as heavy as a stone. If the kitten already has an owner… that's the best possible outcome, right?

"I think somebody didn't get their young female cat spayed in time and then they found themselves with a litter of unwanted kittens. They probably dumped this one and any littermates once they were on solid food. Possibly the mother too."

"I didn't see or hear any other cats or kittens when I found her. She was all alone."

"She's a lucky one, then. Let's take a look at her." Dr Lara lifts the kitten out of the box, lays her gently on her back, and unwraps her. There's a split second's warning, a noise that’s half hiss, half growl, and then the kitten is across the examination table and climbing up the front of Shane's shirt.

"What the fuck?" Shane says, but he's already grabbing her, or trying to, with the kitten wriggling out of his grasp and climbing higher, only stopping when she reaches his collarbone. She stays there, cowering beneath his chin, her entire tiny body trembling against his neck as her claws sink into his skin and she holds on for dear life. "Come on, now. It's all right," Shane says, wincing a bit, but stroking down her neck and along her spine. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

The trembling lessens, but the kitten's still not purring.

"Hold her by the scruff of her neck," Dr Lara says.

"Scruff?" Shane asks, wondering why people think he knows anything at all about cats, or even just one small kitten.

"The loose fur at the back of the neck. It's how mother cats pick up their kittens. There's a reflex that kicks in. She should relax."

Shane tries that and, after a bit of fumbling, finds that it works. He holds the kitten up in front of his face, his other hand supporting her from below.

"You are a menace," he tells her. Like someone else I know.

The kitten just stares at him, still not purring, but not yowling, and not trembling any more, either.

Dr Lara holds out both hands. "Hand her over and I'll examine her."

Shane does as he's told, and this time Dr Lara is quick to take hold of the kitten by the scruff of her neck. Things proceed much more smoothly this time. Dr Lara weighs the kitten, listens to her heart, checks her all over, including under her stubby little tail—yes, she's definitely a girl—and finally waves a microchip reader over her.

As soon as the examination is done, Shane picks up the kitten and she burrows straight into the crook of his elbow and starts to purr.

"I'd say she's six to seven weeks old, and a little bit underweight. Which isn't surprising," Dr Lara says. "She'll need feeding up, and we'll give her a flea bath, of course, but she seems to be otherwise quite healthy."

"That's good to hear," Shane says, stroking the kitten gently.

"Are you planning on keeping her? Assuming no owner can be found, since she isn't microchipped." Dr Lara isn't smiling now. She looks serious. This isn't a half-joking conversation about the Cat Distribution System at work. This is about this kitten's future, about maybe whether it will even have a future.

"I…" Shane looks down at the trusting, purring baby in his arms. She'd let herself be handled by Dr Lara in the end, grudgingly, but she hadn't purred for her. Now her little head pops out of its hiding place, as if she knows that Shane's looking down at her. She stares up at him, all huge, blue-ish, green-ish, innocent eyes, slowly closing in simple bliss as she leans into his touch. Just his. She doesn't want anybody else. "I was going to take her to the SPCA."

"But you brought her here."

"I did. I…" He pauses again. "I called them and they said they already had lots of kittens."

"Yes. All of the rescues and shelters are overflowing with kittens at the moment," Dr Lara says.

"I don't know if I can care for her. I've never had a kitten before, or any sort of pet. I have a demanding job, I…" He looks down at the kitten again. She's found one of his shirt buttons, and is doing her best to suckle on it, tiny claws kneading and flexing against the front of his shirt. "Yeah, I'm going to take her home with me. But I'm going to need some help making sure she has everything she needs."

Dr Lara smiles again. "Then you've come to the right place."

~*~

Everything passes in a bit of a blur after that.

Before anything else, Dr Lara vaccinates the kitten against terrible cat diseases that Shane had had no idea about until right that moment. The needle looks huge going into the kitten's tiny body, but weirdly the kitten doesn't protest. She doesn't even seem to really notice. A microchip goes in with equal unconcern.

Next, the vet nurse whose name is, appropriately, Kat, gives the kitten a flea bath. The kitten definitely notices that. She squeals and squirms and cries even when Shane tickles under her chin. Shane tries not to be horrified at how dirty the water in the sink gets. Kat rubs her down and then gently blow-dries her the rest of the way. The kitten hates that even more than the water.

Shane is really going to have to think of a name for her. She can't just be 'The Kitten' forever.

Whatever her name is—or will be—she turns out to be quite fluffy, to a degree that surprises Shane as he holds her in one hand against his chest. Her face is really sort of pretty—if you ignore the tri-coloured nose that ends in what looks like half a moustache—with two big splotches of black fur across her eyes that makes it seem like she's wearing a mask. Her looks are striking, anyway, whichever way you spin it.

"What have you been feeding her?" Kat asks.

"Oh, just canned tuna," Shane says.

Kat is sending him a stern look from beneath disapproving brows before Shane can explain that he didn't know he should have been keeping a supply of cat food in his pantry, just in case.

"A tiny bit of tuna is okay as an occasional treat, but she needs a good quality, balanced kitten food to keep her healthy while she's growing," Kat explains.

Okay, so not cat food. Apparently, kitten food is a thing.

"We sell the best one," Kat adds. "I'll write you a list of everything else you're going to need."

"Thanks," says Shane.

"Just one more thing," Kat says.

"Yes?" Shane wonders what else he's been doing wrong.

"Can I get an autograph?" Kat asks.

At least she's not frowning at him any more. Shane gets out his sharpie.

Not long after that, Shane finds himself standing at the front counter again, list in hand, paying a substantial bill, including the price of a large bag of kibble for kittens under four months old. He also has an emergency cardboard cat carrier covered in air holes, in which the kitten—Shane's kitten—is currently throwing the tantrum to end all tantrums.

He turns around to find the other pet owners in the waiting room watching him, mostly with looks of sympathy. Nearly all of the ones from before are gone, but the guy with the dog is still there. He finally looks up from his phone, wincing at the noise.

"Good luck," he says.

"Thanks. I think I'm going to need it," Shane replies.

"Cats, man," dog guy says with an eloquent shrug, and goes back to his phone.

~*~

Shane takes the kitten home and sets her up in the guestroom again, this time with some water, a ramekin containing actual kitten food and a box with a towel that he hopes she'll use until he gets her a litter tray.

The tantrum lets up the instant Shane releases her from the cardboard cat carrier. She climbs into his lap and starts to purr.

It's a while before Shane gets up off the floor. Then, armed with Kat's list, he heads out again to the nearest pet store.

~*~

It's a long while later when Shane returns home for the last time that day, making several trips from his car up to his apartment. He checks in on the kitten—his kitten—first thing. She's curled up among the pillows on the spare bed, but she lifts her head and squints sleepily at him when he turns on the light.

"Hi," Shane says, smiling down at her. He knows the exact moment she realises he's holding food. She lifts her little nose and sniffs the air, and a moment later she's flinging herself at him and climbing up his jeans and then his shirt. "Hey, I'm not a tree!" Shane laughs and grabs at her, but somehow he winds up petting her as he holds her against him, and she starts purring immediately.

It feels like his heart flips right over inside his chest.

He's always thought that was just a figure of speech, but then he's never had a kitten before.

He puts her back in the cardboard cat carrier while he sorts out the food, and the kitten starts up the familiar refrain of displeasure. Shane replaces the ramekins with a set of three cat bowls on their own tray: one with wet kitten food, one with more kitten kibble, and one filled with water. It's a good distraction once he lets her out again and he's busy filling the litter tray he bought.

Kat's instructions say to keep the kitten in one room to start with and slowly introduce her to the rest of the house, so Shane closes the door to the guest room behind him and goes downstairs to make a start on assembling the cat tree.

He's only made it as far as sorting all the screws by size into plastic containers when he hears the first muffled cries. How on earth can something so small yell loudly enough for him to hear this far away and through a closed door?

When he goes to investigate, he finds the guestroom door ajar, which at least makes a bit of sense, but he takes the kitten back downstairs with him, which does not make sense at all. He goes back for her litter tray and water bowl, and makes a mental note to get another of both to keep downstairs.

The kitten is not intimidated by the large, open plan room. She gets into everything, and Shane keeps having to jump up to save her from herself. Somehow, it isn't an annoyance. Mostly, she just makes him laugh. He takes a small, soft ball from the pile of cat toys he brought home from the pet store, and rolls it along the floor towards the kitten.

That keeps her attention for longer than anything except Shane himself and that very first spoonful of tuna.

Eventually, he gives up on the cat tree for the time being—it probably wasn't the best idea to buy the biggest one he could find—and goes to get dinner.

The kitten is extremely interested in Shane's salmon; she winds up with her own serving of tuna on a plate on the floor so that Shane can finish his meal in peace. Kat did say that tuna as a treat was okay, after all.

The evening continues in a whirl of Allen keys, cat toys and purring chaos. By the time Shane screws the final platform to the cat tree, it's time for bed. The kitten has already passed out on the rug beside him.

He carries her upstairs and she snuggles against him, small and soft and trusting.

Shane can't even pretend to himself that he's surprised when the cat bed, water bowl and litter tray all end up in his bedroom instead of the guestroom.

"Be good," he tells the kitten as he places her in her own soft, fluffy bed on the floor.

She just stares up at him, unblinking.

Shane also isn't all that surprised to find scratch marks on his skin as he undresses and gets ready for bed. They're mostly on his shoulders and down his arms, but there are a few on his legs that he doesn't remember acquiring, and more across his chest.

He guesses this is just one of the hazards of kitten ownership that no one warns you about.

Then again, no one warned him about anything until it was too late. Maybe that's just a feature of the Cat Distribution System.

He picks up his phone once he's in bed. There are no new messages from Ilya, which is a bit surprising. He's been going stir crazy since he sprained his ankle and his team's been on the road without him, but maybe Svetlana finally took pity on him and kept him company over dinner or something.

Shane: Hey. Hope the ankle's feeling better. I've had a busy evening but I wanted to check in before bed.

Lily:

💬
💬
💬

Lily: Good night shane

Shane: Good night, Ilya

Shane puts down his phone and turns off the bedside lamp.

He's still not quite asleep, and really not remotely surprised, when there's a light thump on the end of the bed, and a moment later something small and soft settles in against his neck.

He drifts off to sleep to the comforting rumble of a kitten's purrs.

Chapter End Notes

помидор = tomato

 

Next up: Ilya's perspective, or lack thereof

Chapter 2: Ilya

Chapter Summary

Ilya not so slowly loses his mind.

Chapter Notes

The first part of this chapter is Ilya's perspective on the events of Chapter One.

It's been four days. Four days since Ilya limped off the ice at Boston's last home game and was benched. Four days that he's spent not on home ice, but with his ankle iced and bandaged and elevated on a pile of cushions in his actual home. Four days laid up while his team travels without him.

Four days spent with only his least favourite person for company.

He FaceTimes the team, alternating between joking around and firing them up to win. He thinks ahead to the next game and the next, mentally targeting obvious weaknesses and strategising around known strengths. He reviews game tape so diligently that you might as well call him Hollander.

Hollander, who he cannot text. Not yet. Because it's still only afternoon and Ilya's not needy. He's not desperate. He's just bored with his own company. He can take or leave the ongoing text thread with Hollander. Any time.

He checks it anyway.

Hollander hasn't texted him today. He's probably still at practice.

Muttering a curse word, maybe two, Ilya swaps his phone for the TV remote. The TV's set to ESPN, but Ilya channel hops away. No more hockey for today. He’s had enough of the universe mocking him, at least until tomorrow.

He lands on a reality show about housewives or bachelors or farmers—maybe all three?—in search of love, or at least a good time.

He wants to watch that even less than he wants to watch all the hockey he currently can’t play. He turns the TV off again, snatches up his phone, and types a single word.

Ilya: bored

Ilya waits a minute. Two. Hollander’s probably driving home.

Ilya: still bored

Still no reply.

Ilya: where are you?

Hollander is his favourite person to bother, but that only works if Hollander fucking replies.

Jane:

💬

Oh yes. That's-

Jane: Sorry. Busy—brb

Ilya stares at his phone. That's not how it's supposed to go.

There's silence—nothing—for more than- for a while. Then:

Jane: So you're still not cleared to be back on the ice?

Answering a question with a question? Ilya can do that too.

Ilya: what makes you say that?

Jane: Just a wild guess

Ilya does not dignify Hollander's pitiful attempt at comedy with a direct response.

Ilya: what are you busy with?

More nothing, not even text bubbles. Ilya imagines the small crease forming between Hollander's eyebrows as he thinks about what to say.

But why does he need to think about it?

Jane: That's a no, then?

Another fucking question. Wonderful. Sooner or later, someone in this conversation is going to have to actually answer one of the questions flying back and forth. Ilya guesses it might as well be him.

Ilya: no. Not yet. Soon.

But an answer deserves an answer, so he adds:

Ilya: you still have not told me what you're up to

Jane: Just home from practice. Got to run some errands

It's an utterly boring answer. Very on-brand for Hollander. But also somehow… shifty, which is not on-brand for Hollander at all. Usually, Hollander would not simply say errands. He would tell Ilya where he was going, even if it was just to say the store.

[Tampa feels impossibly long ago, even though it’s been hardly more than a week. There’s already too much distance between them. Right now, Ilya wants so much to be able to just look into Shane’s eyes. To do many other things to Shane, too, of course. But to look into his eyes, to reach for him, to meet him halfway and press… to share a kiss…]

But Ilya is not going to call Hollander on his choice of words. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just a side effect of the way Ilya gets sometimes, when he's spent too long with nothing to properly distract him from himself and his darker thoughts. Maybe Hollander really is simply… running errands. So:

Ilya: nope. Wrong answer. Boring

Ilya: what are you wearing?

Now there's a potential distraction.

Jane: What I usually wear. Clothes?

Ilya smiles down at his phone. [Oh, Shane.]

Ilya: Do you want to know what I'm wearing?

Jane: I guess. Do I have a choice?

Ilya's head drops back against the couch, grin threatening to split his face as his chest heaves with silent laughter.

[Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane, Shane]

Ilya: I could just send you a picture. Would save time

Jane: NO MORE PICTURES!!!

Ilya: You don't like the pictures I send? 😢

He waits for a flustered response, an annoyed response. For Hollander to call him an asshole or simply to demand that he shut up.

He waits for any response.

Silence.

Ilya opens a password protected folder, and flips through until he finds the offending photograph, the one he'd sent that had made Hollander say 'no more'. Ilya stares down at the picture, traces the outline of the image on the screen, and closes the folder with reluctance.

He could look at it for hours.

Hollander still hasn't said anything more.

Ilya texts again, before he can think better of it.

Ilya: Are you still there?

Still nothing.

Ilya: Shane?

No more pictures? Telling Ilya that and then fucking disappearing? Hollander only gets what he wants if he's a good boy, and sometimes not even then. Not until Ilya's ready.

He angles his phone just so and takes a picture of the lower half of his body.

Ilya: Do you really want me not to send pictures of what I'm wearing? See how I suffer! [IMG: two long, muscular legs stretched out below a pair of shorts; one, with a bandaged ankle, propped up on pillows]

Silence. Silence that continues. Silence that does not let up.

Has Hollander already left to run his errands, whatever that might… tail? Something. Involve. Stupid English is a stupid, stupid language.

[Shane, do you care?]

Ilya: Shane????

It's embarrassingly undignified, all of those question marks. Not that Ilya usually cares much about embarrassment or dignity, but he is usually better at not allowing himself to be quite so visible.

It achieves his aim, though, because text bubbles finally, finally appear on the screen.

Jane: Sorry. Just busy with something again.

Jane: You can send me pics. Just not… you know

Ilya: No I don't know. Tell me

It's not a bad recovery, even if Ilya says so himself, while his eyes totally do not keep straying back up to 'Just busy with something again'.

Jane: Don't push your luck, asshole 😠

Ilya: but I am good at pushing. I'm sure that is what you said that night in Tampa. Or was it thrusting? Too many English words that mean the same thing

Jane: Don't. And delete that please.

Ilya: Are you blushing?

Jane: I have to go out

Ah, yes. To 'run errands'.

Ilya: помидор

Jane: what does that mean?

Ilya: google is your friend

Jane: I really do need to go out

Jane: But I'll text you when I get back if you like

Ilya: I might like. If I am not running errands of my own

Two can play at that game, Hollander.

Jane: You know you're meant to be keeping your foot elevated.

Jane: You shouldn't be running at all, or walking any further than inside your house.

Ilya: but I'm bored

Ilya is very much not above annoying him into responding.

Jane: yes, we've covered that.

Jane: I'll text you later. I promise

And look at that. It works.

Ilya: 🍑🍆💦

It's probably overkill, but a boy can dream. One day he will entice Hollander into some proper phone sex. Maybe—hopefully—today will be that day.

Jane: Boston. Next week

Or not.

Ilya: 😘

Sex or a kiss. Ilya's not fussy.

[Shane. Straddling Ilya's lap as tears well up unchecked in Ilya's eyes, and kissing him oh so sweetly as he holds Ilya's face—head—all of him— in gentle hands. Barely more than a week ago, but it's an image that's already stained sepia in Ilya's memory.]

Jane: Later

And… he's gone. To run unspecified errands, like Hollander never does.

~*~

Ilya waits. He has nothing else to do. He waits, not just for Hollander to finish with whatever it is that he's doing. Ilya waits for… anything. Nothing. He's between everything, outside everything, stopped in place, alone.

He waits a good… He checks the time on his phone. Five minutes? Feels more like five hours. Or eternity.

"Eto chush' sobach'ya!" He grabs a cushion from behind his back and throws it hard across the room. The glass-topped table lamp topples over and there's a satisfying smash as it hits the floor.

He'll have to clean up the mess. But hey, that's one advantage to being the only one here. No one else knows.

Or cares.

He gets up, ignores the glass shards all over the floor in the corner, and hobbles out of the room. Bozhe! He's such a cripple. Getting down the stairs to his gym is a bitch, but once he makes it to the bottom he starts on the latest round of the mobility and strengthening exercise program for his injured ankle. He gets through it in silence, and only allows himself the distraction of his favourite playlist when he moves on to his upper body workout. It's not so bad once he can let his legs just sit there, out of the way. His ankle isn't elevated, but he's still wearing the compression bandage, and he can bear the discomfort fine if he focuses on lifting weights and listening to music.

The playlist does not get interrupted by the buzz of an incoming text. Not even once.

The sweat is gathering under his arms and sticking his top to the small of his back, running down his neck and dripping from his hair down into his eyes by the time the workout is finished—or he is finished with it.

The sensible thing to do would be to go upstairs and take a long shower.

Ilya has never been renowned for his sensible choices. Bozhe! If the world only knew even the half of it.

He limps back to the kitchen and fetches the vodka.

~*~

Ilya doesn't pay close attention to the time. It's just that it's right there, at the top left of his phone screen. He doesn't have any choice but to notice it as he flips through every damn app on his phone except for his messages.

Shane always goes to bed at nine the night before a game. Except on those rare occasions when he and Ilya find themselves in the same city. And tonight they're not. Three hundred miles lie between them. A five hour drive. An hour and a half by plane.

So Shane should go to bed tonight, alone, at nine, according to his routine. Like clockwork. Like the clock on his phone that's telling Ilya it's now 9:11pm.

Shane said he would text him later. He said that hours ago.

Later, in this case, seems to mean tomorrow. Or maybe even the day after that.

English is such a stupid language. It's full of so many words that mean the same thing and yet it doesn't have a single one for poslezavtra. The day after tomorrow. Four entire words when one should do. Ridiculous.

Ilya takes another sip of his vodka. It's good vodka. He keeps only the best stuff. He's not going to insult it by just knocking it back. It must be savoured, like all the best things in life. Like Shane's-

His phone buzzes.

Jane: Hey. Hope the ankle's feeling better. I've had a busy evening but I wanted to check in before bed.

A busy evening? The night before a game? It's not something that he can imagine Shane ever doing—not willingly—when he's home alone, so what does it mean? What does a busy evening involve on a night when Shane Hollander, by definition, is never busy?

The words don't seem to contain resentment. It's unlikely that anybody has dropped by unannounced. Shane's chosen this. But whatever 'this' is, he's still not saying. If it was an ordinary thing, like dinner at Pike's house, Shane would say that. But he also wouldn't have dinner at Pike's house the night before a game. Pike knows Shane's routine, and knows better than even to suggest something that would break it.

No, whatever it is, Pike isn't involved.

Neither is Ilya.

Ilya: And yet again I ask: what are you up to?

Ilya: You hate socialising the night before a game.

Ilya: Who

Ilya: Good night shane

Jane: Good night, Ilya

Ilya knocks back a shot of vodka. And another for good measure.

He should eat something, probably. He definitely should sweep up the pile of broken glass in the corner. He should.

But then, Ilya's never been very good at 'should'. This whole thing with Shane, now more than ever, is an exercise in 'shouldn't'.

He grabs a cushion, aims—and misses the mate of the smashed lamp by a mile. Well, by inches, which is pretty much the same thing by his usual standards. He has way too many cushions propping him up—just call him Hollander—so he reaches down for one of the ones under his ankle and tries again.

The crash and tinkle of glass against the hardwood floor is not nearly as satisfying as it should- as it was the first time.

~*~

The next night, Boston plays Pittsburgh in Pittsburgh while Montreal plays the New York Admirals at home. Ilya keeps his eyes on Boston's away game almost the entire evening. He only flicks over to the other game a few times, but it's long enough to assure himself that Scott Hunter shouldn't have bothered boarding the retirement home's minibus in New York, never mind stepping off it and onto the ice in Montreal.

Boston squeaks a 3-2 win with a cheeky goal from Hammy in the dying moments of the third period, the puck flying past the Pittsburgh goalie's ear and into the back corner of the net before he realises what's happening.

He catches the second half of Hollander’s post-game presser once Marly is done in Pittsburgh. He’s mouthing all the usual sportsmanlike platitudes. If Shane were here, watching a replay of this interview with Ilya, Ilya would complain about how boring he sounds, how earnest, and pretend to suppress a yawn.

But Shane is not here, and they never have the leisure to simply sit down and watch a hockey game together, anyway. Not when it would take up precious time that could be spent with their hands—and other parts—all over each other. Not, apart from that last time before… when Shane came to Ilya's house in Boston.

That is done now. That is fixed. Or as fixed as it can be. Shane is again Ilya’s to touch and kiss and fuck.

When they can. As always.

Here and now, with no one else to see, Ilya drinks in the sight of Shane greedily. His freckles look washed out under the harsh glare of the TV lights. His face is shuttered and wary, the slight smile on his lips manufactured for the cameras. Ilya thinks of how those beautiful, plush lips gasp for him, how they gasp and moan and try in vain to bite back all those betraying noises as Shane arches back into the pillow, eyes fallen shut against the onslaught of sensation. No one else sees that. No one else hears that. No one else suspects that.

No one else is compatible.

Ilya’s hand slips down below the waistband of his sweats. He strokes himself idly to hardness as Shane talks about "some great work from our guys tonight" and how this victory was "very much a team effort" but "there's always room for improvement, for me personally as much as anybody else". So far, so predictable. But then Shane's tongue darts out, a flash of deeper pink against his top lip.

Ilya is thumbing over the head of his straining cock before he has time to make a conscious decision, reaction crowding out thought. He knows how hot and airless and dry it can get in those press rooms, with too many bodies packed in together in too small a space. He knows that. But fuck, Shane is stupidly, unfairly hot, and that little, unconscious public gesture ramps up his hotness to heights that Ilya is helpless to resist.

He grabs some tissues, spits into his hand, and jerks himself off there on the couch, fast and intense and utterly desperate. It's like being fifteen again. This is what Shane reduces him to, without even being in the same room. He finishes before Shane does—not something he allows himself often when they're together in the flesh. But Ilya is still stuck in Boston while Shane is in Montreal. It's not like he'll ever know.

Ilya tosses the used tissues in the trash and watches the rest of the interview. Towards the end, he picks up his phone.

Ilya: Your interviews are as boring as ever

Ilya: More boring

Ilya: Can you not at least try out some new clichés?

Of course Hollander's phone is nowhere to be seen, and he will have set it on silent for the duration of the interview, but Ilya likes to imagine it vibrating in Shane's pocket—once, twice, a third time with the arrival of each new text message—a little reminder of Ilya throbbing against him.

It's only as the questions and answers come to an end and Hollander gets up to leave that his right hand comes into view. Ilya notices the flash of white a second before the broadcast cuts out. He frowns, and taps out another text.

Ilya: what happened to your hand tonight?

Ilya: how many fingers did they tape?

Naturally, Shane does not reply. Not yet.

Ilya pours himself a vodka, and then he calls Marly for a debrief of tonight's game against Pittsburgh.

Maybe they'll be done by the time Shane gets home and looks at his phone.

~*~

Jane: Just the two fingers.

Jane: It's fine.

Ilya reads the messages as they arrive in quick succession. It's over an hour since Hollander's presser ended. He knows that Shane's apartment—his real one, the place he lives, where Ilya's never been invited—is in Westmount somewhere. It can't be more than a ten minute drive from the Bell Centre, Ilya guesses. Or at least that's what it looked like when he checked the distance on google maps yesterday when he was bored out of his mind.

Ilya: Just the two fingers? Not anything else?

Jane: Nothing more than a few bruises.

So Shane wasn't kept back by Medical. Maybe he's been out for a post-game drink with his teammates.

No, of course he hasn't. More likely, he's been going over the game in exhaustive detail with Coach.

Except that Montreal won their game against the Admirals tonight, more handily than the Raiders achieved their win with Ilya left behind, useless, in Boston. Was there really anything in the Metros' gameplay that couldn't wait until morning? Doubtful.

Maybe Shane just didn't see Ilya's texts until now.

Maybe.

Jane: also, a new cliché is an oxymoron

Ilya stares at that one for a moment before he starts typing.

Ilya: a drugged idiot?

Jane: Haha.

Jane: No

Jane: It's a contradiction in terms

Jane: Two words that mean the opposite of each other

Jane: I learned it in school

Ilya: you remember something from schooldays that isn't about hockey?

Jane: I was an okay student!

Ilya grins down at his phone.

Ilya: I'm sure

Jane: Shut up!

Ilya: I'm agreeing with you

Jane: It's the way you're agreeing.

Jane: I can just imaui=8hju90i[j[

Ilya waits. It's not like Shane is having a stroke or something. He's probably just dropped his phone. He'll text to say that now. Any second.

He doesn't.

The radio silence continues for several minutes and Ilya is seriously beginning to wonder if Shane has actually had a stroke, or maybe a heart attack, when text bubbles appear on his screen.

Jane: Sorry. Dropped my phone.

Jane: It's a bit hard to hold it and type onehanded.

It's such an easy opening, but for once Ilya doesn't take it. Instead, before he has time to change his mind, he clicks on Jane's contact info and hits 'call'.

They don't do this. They've never done this. It's ringing. Once. Twice. Ilya wonders if Shane has dropped his phone again, in surprise this time.

He answers on the third ring.

"Ilya? Is everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because you're calling. You don't usually call."

Ilya drops his voice to a suggestive murmur. "Maybe I thought I should give you a better reason to use your phone one-handed."

"Ilya." Ilya's name turns into a long breath on Shane's lips, followed by a sound that Ilya can only categorise as wet. He imagines Shane licking his top lip again, like he did during the broadcast tonight for all the world to see. Suddenly, Ilya is the one feeling breathless.

"No, really. Why are you calling?" Shane continues, voice almost steady.

"I told you. Your hand. Is easier just to talk. Maybe this way you won't drop your phone."

"My hand is fine. How's your ankle?"

"As fine as your hand."

"Ilya."

"Fine. No, really, I mean, it should be okay. Medical says I can try brace on it in a day or two. Then maybe I will fly out to join the team."

Ilya is expecting some sort of positive reaction from Shane. Maybe a "That's good," or a "You'll be glad to be back on the ice," or even just a vaguely approving "hmm!" One of those polite Canadian boy responses.

He's not expecting Shane to giggle. Because that's what the noise is that Shane lets out next. Not a laugh or a chuckle or a snicker. It's a goddamned giggle.

"What?" Ilya demands.

"No!" Shane says, but he sounds far away, like he's put his phone down. Before Ilya can think of what else to say, Shane's voice is back at a normal volume. "Sorry." There's that Canadian upbringing kicking in. It's just that it's a moment too late. "Just something on the TV. It made me laugh."

If Shane's TV is on, then he's got the sound turned off. Maybe he's reading the captions, but if he is, he's not exactly paying close attention to what Ilya's saying, is he?

"Oh," Ilya says.

"I'm really glad it isn't a bad sprain," Shane says after the silence between them stretches a beat too long.

"Like I said, is fine. Will be fine. Soon."

More silence.

"Ilya," Shane says, and takes a deep breath.

Ilya goes still. What comes next? What is Shane readying himself to say?

"I- Just a moment!" Shane says, and there's a clunk as he puts his phone down again. Ilya hears him talking in a soft murmur some distance away, and he can just make out a few words here and there. Words like "no", and… "baby"? Shane sounds exasperated but unmistakably fond.

There's someone there with him.

"Sorry about that," Shane says into the phone a moment later.

"I should go," Ilya says. He needs to go before Shane has a chance to tell him what comes next.

"But didn't you-"

"Good night, Shane," Ilya says firmly.

Shane is silent for a moment before he says, "Good night, Ilya."

Ilya ends the call.

He stares down at his phone. He stares down at it for he doesn't know how long.

A message arrives from 'Jane'. Ilya doesn't read it.

There's someone there with him, with Shane. At this hour.

Someone Shane calls 'baby'.

Not someone he's just met, that's clear. Not someone new.

There's only one person Shane has been with recently, apart from Ilya himself.

Shane is gay. He told Ilya that the last time they saw each other, in Tampa. Shane is no longer with Rose Landry. He told Ilya that in Tampa, too, that they'd broken up because they weren't compatible. Because Shane is gay.

So if it is Rose Landry, there in Shane's apartment—where Ilya has never been because Shane has never once wanted him to be there—she's just there because… why? Because Shane's her best gay friend now?

Ilya gets the vodka. He doesn't bother with a glass, but simply raises it to his lips and drinks straight from the bottle.

~*~

The next morning, after a very thorough physical, Ilya is fitted with a lace-up ankle brace and cleared to join the team. If he's a little hungover, well, Medical has seen him in that state before and it's not like the thundering headache and accompanying surly mood have anything to do with his ankle.

He flies north, arriving in the afternoon in time for a late practice in preparation for Boston's game against Ottawa the following day.

That evening, he goes out with the boys to sample Ottawa's nightlife, such as it is.

He's so busy all day that he barely has time to text Shane, except to say good night.

~*~

At morning skate the following day, Ilya's a little hungover. Again. He feels Coach LeClaire's eyes on him, and isn't surprised when he waves Ilya over.

"You're favouring your right ankle too much," Coach says bluntly.

"It's fine," Ilya says.

"It's not," Coach disagrees. "It's obvious."

Ilya knows what Coach is getting at. If he can see it, Ottawa's offence will notice it too. Well, maybe not. They play for Ottawa, after all. But still, it's important never to let any vulnerability show, to never make yourself a target.

"Give me another five minutes on the ice. I will make it less obvious."

"Okay. Five minutes to show me why I shouldn't bench you," Coach says. "But if you think I'm going to risk having you out for a month instead of a week at this point in the season…" He leaves the threat hanging there.

"Five minutes," Ilya says, and skates away.

~*~

Five minutes later, he's scratched from that night's game.

~*~

Ilya is not in the sunniest of moods as he watches the game from the sidelines that evening. He'll admit that, but maybe only because Marly made a point of asking what crawled up his ass and died there.

Boston beats Ottawa easily, even without any contribution from Ilya. 5-1, and on Ottawa's home ice, at that. They should be fucking embarrassed, but most of them just look weary as they slap each other on the back and head off down the tunnel.

Ilya is tapped for press duty, along with Connors. Of course the assembled media wants to know about Ilya's fitness as much as they want to know about anything that happened on the ice tonight. His mood has soured further by the time they finally, finally make their escape and board the bus back to the hotel.

As soon as he makes it to his hotel room, Ilya throws himself down on the bed and turns on the TV. He hunts down the highlights of tonight's game between Montreal and Washington, in Montreal. Montreal is victorious, with no small thanks to the hat trick from Hollander.

He must be in a good mood. Especially if there happened to be a special friend, say, cheering him on in the stands.

Ilya is about to switch to the highlights of Boston's own game when suddenly there is Shane—Hollander—filling the screen. He's standing shirtless in front of his locker during the post-game press scrum.

Any other time, Ilya would sit back and admire the view. Any other time, he might even listen to what Hollander is saying, clichés and all. But right now his gaze is riveted on Shane's bare shoulders.

Are those… scratches?

Shane shifts his shoulders, damp skin glistening under the bright lights, and… Yes! The thin, pink lines are obvious from this angle. And there are more on his chest, not as deep, but still visible, as though someone has dragged a fingernail across his pecs.

Ilya can't move. He just lies there and stares and stares and stares until Shane is gone, replaced with a commercial for… something. Ilya doesn't know.

The door opens and Marly enters the room.

"Ready to celeb-" he begins, then stops when he takes in whatever expression has settled onto Ilya's face. "Are you all right, brother?"

"Why wouldn't I be all right?" Ilya bites out.

Marly holds up his hands in appeasement. "No reason at all, except the obvious."

"What is obvious?" Ilya demands, sitting up so suddenly that Marly takes a step back.

"That you're still benched? And that's what they focused on in the presser after the game tonight?"

Ilya shakes his head. "That does not matter. It is already forgotten. I will be back on the ice for our next game."

"Okay then. So, are you ready to come celebrate our win?"

Is he? Is he ready to sit in a bar with the rest of the team, to drink and drink and drink until maybe he'll reach the point where he can not think about Shane's skin—skin that Ilya has kissed and sucked and laid his head against—being marked by someone else?

There's a loud noise, almost like a howl, and then Ilya's on his feet.

"I need to go!" he says.

"Where, exactly, do you need to go to?" Marly asks warily. "I'm guessing not the bar from last night."

"No, of course not," Ilya says, wondering how Marly can be so stupid. "I need to go to Montreal."

"Right now?" Marly's staring at him as if something's very wrong.

"Right now," Ilya confirms, and then he's out the door, not caring what Marly thinks or even if he follows.

He is not going to let Shane run away without a word again. If this is the end, then he's going to tell Ilya why and he's going to tell him to his face.

Chapter End Notes

Russian:

Eto chush' sobach'ya! = This is bullshit!

Bozhe! = Christ!

poslezavtra = the day after tomorrow

 

So it turns out this story is going to be three chapters and not just two...

Chapter 3: Wingmen

Chapter Summary

A midnight road trip and an unexpected phone call.

Chapter Notes

Cliff races after Roz down the hotel corridor and into the elevator in the nick of time, just before the doors close.

"What are you doing?" Roz asks, frowning ferociously. He's radiating 'keep the fuck away from me' vibes. The tension practically ripples through his shoulders, and he's doing his very best to loom at Cliff despite the fact that Cliff has several inches on him.

"You can't drive to Montreal," Cliff says, and then adds quickly, as Roz's scowl deepens, "Not by yourself. You're tired and your ankle isn't healed—" plus, he doesn't say, you're in a deeply self-destructive mood "—and you'd probably drive yourself into a ditch before you got even halfway there."

"So, what? Are you offering to drive to Montreal with me in the middle of the fucking night, Marly?"

"Yes," Cliff says simply. "Someone has to save you from yourself. Might as well be me."

"Fuck off," Roz says, but with far less heat than Cliff's anticipating.

"It's your Montreal girl, right?" Cliff says, thinking vaguely of that saying about fools and angels.

For a split second, Roz looks so sad and vulnerable that- Fuck, not sad. Something heavier and deeper. And then the naked look is gone and he's scowling again.

"We need to talk," he mutters in a growl so low that it's only because Cliff is super familiar with the way Roz's accent works that he makes out the words at all.

"Then I'll get you to her so that you can talk and work it out," Cliff says firmly. No way is he living through another breakup between those two if there's a chance in hell of preventing it. The boys have just barely recovered from the last one.

The elevator reaches the lobby and the doors slide open.

"I'm guessing you haven't got a car waiting?" Cliff asks.

"Do you think I planned this?" Roz asks dryly—and yeah, fair point. Whatever is going on, it's clearly blown up suddenly, even if Cliff is pretty sure it's been building for at least a little bit.

Cliff gets out his phone and does a quick google search. "There's a car hire place a block south of here. It's open until midnight," he says.

Roz is already striding towards the hotel's revolving door, and Cliff once again has to race to keep up with him.

The car place is small, and the selection of vehicles on offer even smaller. There's only one employee on duty at this time of night, a young guy sitting behind the counter with his feet propped up while he scrolls his phone. He looks up as the door opens and the two of them come in. Naturally, there's no sign of recognition in his eyes when they light on Cliff: this is Ottawa, and most of the people here are barely interested in their own team, let alone even a first line wing from Boston. But then the guy's gaze shifts to Roz and… Of course he knows who Roz is.

"We need a car. What's the fastest thing you've got?" Roz asks as soon as they're within spitting distance of the counter, not bothering with even so much as a 'hello'.

"Uh," the guy says, but to his credit he puts down his phone, stands up as straight as he can, and plasters on an approximation of a helpful salesperson smile. "Everything we've got is more about reliability than speed, but they can go pretty fast on the open road." He's clearly drawing from some sort of spiel that he's learned by heart, but his eyes are wide and still fixed on Roz.

"What's the most reliably fast thing you've got, then?" Roz says.

Cliff can only hope that the kid is too dazzled to take much note of the heavy sarcasm.

"I can give you a choice between a Hyundai, a Toyota and a Ford."

"Sports cars?" Roz asks, not even trying to keep the disdain out of his voice at the idea of a Hyundai sports car. But hey, maybe they've got a vintage Mustang or something unexpected out back.

"Compact SUVs," the kid says.

Which is how Cliff winds up being the sole witness to the highly unlikely sight of Ilya Rozanov pulling up outside their hotel less than ten minutes later behind the wheel of a Toyota RAV4.

At least it's fitted with snow tyres?

"Five minutes to get your stuff," Roz says. "Then I'm leaving."

"You're not going to change out of that suit, or at least get rid of the tie?" Cliff asks. Roz is still dressed for the post-game cameras.

"I can get changed in less than five minutes." Roz opens the car door and gets out.

I'll just bet you can, Cliff thinks, hastening to follow. Roz must have thrown his clothes on and hightailed it out of countless bedrooms over the years, most likely without so much as a backward look. Probably every bedroom except one, in Montreal.

Four minutes later, they're descending in the elevator together again, this time both dressed in jeans and hoodies, their luggage beside them. Cliff thinks better of checking out once they reach the lobby; it's way better that management, and especially Coach, doesn't find out until morning that their captain has gone AWOL.

Roz jumps into the car and has the engine running before Cliff has a chance to get in or even lob his stuff into the trunk, let alone suggest that maybe he should drive. The car takes off like a rocket while he's still buckling his seatbelt. Cliff holds on for dear life as Roz negotiates the streets in the centre of town and gets them out onto the highway. At this time of night, it doesn't take long. But then, this is Ottawa. It probably doesn't take that long during the day, either.

They zoom down the highway, the interior of the car washed with watery yellow light as they pass beneath one streetlight and then another and another, in a regular, hypnotic rhythm. Neither of them says anything until they've left the streetlights behind, and Ottawa is nothing more than a distant smudge in the rearview mirror. Roz stares straight ahead into the darkness, focused on something that maybe only he can see, as his hands grip the wheel too tight.

Cliff clears his throat, all too aware that he's probably taking his life in his hands here, and says, "So, your Montreal girl."

Roz expels a breath, short and sharp, but he stays silent so long after that that Cliff has given up on getting any more of an answer when he finally says, "Yes."

"You only just got back together. Like a week or two ago. Right?"

Roz takes his eyes off the road for a moment to give Cliff an unamused look, what Cliff thinks of as one of his Russian looks. "Just ask whatever it is you want to ask, Marly. There's just the two of us here."

"Are you going to answer? Without, like, pulling over to do me violence, or leave me on the side of the road or whatever?"

That earns him a snort of still unamused laughter from Roz. "I did not say that I would answer, but no, I won't kick you out of the car. And I would never hurt you. Much."

"Thanks for the reassurance," Cliff says, with an unamused look of his own.

Roz sends another glance his way, raising his eyebrows this time. "So?"

"So, your Montreal girl," Cliff says again, because that was where this conversation started. "You only just got back together."

"So you said already."

"I'm getting there. Give me a moment, brother!"

Roz sighs, and rolls his eyes, but maybe he isn't holding the steering wheel in quite so much of a deathgrip as before, so Cliff is going to call that a minor win. "Speak!" Roz says.

So Cliff speaks: "You don't want to break up again."

"Was that meant to be a question? Because if it was, I did not hear it."

"I guess it wasn't. Because I don't think we'd be in this Toyota, driving to Montreal right after a game at getting close to midnight, if you were fine with letting your Montreal girl go without a fight."

"You don't think so?" Roz asks witheringly.

"I know so," Cliff says, undeterred. "And I think I'm right that whatever casual thing you had going on, it isn't… It's not the same as it was before."

"Still not hearing a question," Roz says, impatient now and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Are we driving to Montreal so that you can propose?" Cliff blurts out.

Roz jams on the brakes so hard that it's a wonder the car doesn't skid across the road and into the concrete barrier in the middle. Cliff thanks god for those snow tyres. Instead, Roz pulls over across the white line and onto the shoulder of the road. Even though it's well into March, there's still a bit of slushy snow to be seen in the dead grass by the side of the road. Fucking Canada.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Marly?" Roz demands.

"It seemed like a reasonable question!"

"Because I said I needed to talk with my, with…" Roz shakes his head, like he's trying to clear it. A stray curl flops down over his forehead, and Cliff thinks, maybe not so irrelevantly, that it's been a while since Roz's hair has seen any product. That should have been a warning sign all on its own. "That is not the same as a fucking marriage proposal!"

"The way I see it," Cliff says, as carefully as he can, "is that whatever you've got going together, it's not casual. Not now. And when things aren't casual any more, getting married is something people do." He chances a tiny, conspiratorial grin at Roz. "Or so I've heard."

Roz lets out a humourless laugh. "We can't get married."

"Can't you? Or at least make it official enough for her to be a WAG? Because, if you don't mind me butting in here—"

"Oh, now you ask if I mind?"

"—it seems like not being together isn't something that's working out for the two of you either."

Roz is silent for so long that Cliff is pretty sure that part of the conversation is at an end, but then he says, very softly, "It would not matter if I wanted to get married, even if it was possible. I do not think my… Jane wants me any more."

And there it is. A name. At last. Not some nameless Montreal girl. Jane from Montreal. Montreal Jane. The woman who's apparently so extraordinary that she captured Ilya Rozanov's heart, long ago, and never let go of it.

"And that's why you need to talk to her, to find out that you've got it wrong, or whatever, so let's get back on the road and get you there," Cliff says bracingly, and means it. Quite apart from helping fix Roz's more than usually chaotic lovelife, he would like to get to Montreal and find a hotel room to crash in before, say, 3:00am.

At that opportune moment, Roz's phone buzzes with an incoming message. He snatches it up from the little cubby hole below the dash—but not before Cliff has seen the name 'Jane' flash up on the screen.

"At least she's still talking to you. That has to be a good sign, right?" Cliff observes, but Roz is too intent on tapping out a message on his phone to even grunt in acknowledgement. "How about I drive for a while, while you're otherwise engaged," he continues. Still no response, so Cliff gets out of the car—fuck, it's cold!—and walks round to the driver's side. "Out!" he says, gesturing as he opens the door.

Roz still doesn't reply, but he does as he's told and gets out, walking slowly around the car—a slight hitch to his gait thanks to his ankle—with his eyes never leaving his phone screen the whole time.

Cliff settles into the driver's seat with more than a little relief and pulls out onto the road, and then they're heading for Montreal again.

For the next little while, he mostly ignores whatever frantic conversation is happening via text from the seat beside him, but he glances over once or twice—just checking on his friend and captain!—and one time he sees his own name on Roz's phone screen:

Give it to me and I'll give you Marly's. Like I said, could be useful, just in case—followed by Cliff's phone number.

Jane knows about Cliff? Roz has talked to Jane about Cliff before? Roz has conversations about his friends and teammates, about his life, with her? Yeah, that's not what you do with a casual hook-up, even a long-term one. Cliff can't help but wonder if Roz is going to wind up engaged by the time this night is over, however much he keeps denying that it's an option.

That, or heartbroken. But Cliff isn't going to entertain that possibility any more than he's going to let Roz dwell on it.

Cliff looks over again, ready to say something—anything—just in time to see Roz creating a new contact called 'FBM'. Cliff guesses that Roz calls the number, because he holds his phone up to his ear. But only for a moment or two. Just long enough for it to ring a few times, for someone to answer, and for Roz to say a single word and… end the call?

Then Roz starts typing again.

"So, uh, Roz," Cliff says. "Could you tell me where we're going?"

"Montreal," Roz says, without looking up.

"I know that, but like an address that I could put into the GPS so that I know where I'm going once we hit the outskirts of the city?"

"I'm working on it," Roz says, short and impatient.

"What?" Cliff doesn't mean to actually voice the question, but what? Roz doesn't know where Jane lives, after all this time? No, that's a stupid thought. Of course he does. More likely that they're settling on somewhere to meet up that's more discreet. Because for some reason, even now, Roz is being cagey as fuck about this woman. Cliff can only hope that they'll end up at some hotel with 24-hour check-in and more than one available room.

"I told you, I'm working on it," Roz says, his tone even sharper this time.

"Fine. You do that, and I'll stop at the next gas station and get us two of whatever they have that's got a fuckton of caffeine in it. And then we'll keep going until we get to Montreal," Cliff says.

That earns him a half-hearted thumbs up from Roz. Progress. A moment ago, it probably would have been a different finger.

Cliff smiles, and keeps driving into the Canadian night.

~*~

Hayden stares tiredly into the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth. It's been a long, long day, starting and ending with Arthur's teething-related misery. Oh yeah, and there was a hockey game in there somewhere too, one his team won, but Hayden still feels like the greater victory is getting his son off to sleep, for however long that lasts.

In the meantime, Hayden can't wait to hit the hay.

Some of the guys were planning to go to a bar after the game tonight. Hayden doesn't know how they have the strength at this point in the season. But then, none of those guys have kids.

Shane isn't part of that group, which isn't any sort of surprise, but he still seemed keener than usual to get out of there tonight even though he doesn't have kids, either. If he was anybody else, Hayden would suspect that he had someone waiting for him back at his apartment. But it's not like they're in Boston, the only place Hayden knows for sure that Shane ever hooks up with anybody.

Then again, those scratches on Shane's shoulders looked like someone had been maybe getting a bit too enthusiastic. Or they would look like that, if it was anyone but Shane.

Or perhaps Shane had been dragged backwards through a bramble bush, which, given that this was Shane, seemed almost more plausible than the other thing.

But all Shane had said, when Hayden asked if he was heading straight home, was that he had a new acquisition he needed to get back to, and he'd tell Hayden about it another time. Some of the other guys had been standing right by them, so Hayden hadn't pressed the issue, but…

A new acquisition. Not a person. A thing. Knowing Shane, it's probably a new piece of gym equipment. He could be working out with it even now, at near midnight on a game night.

Hayden drops his toothbrush into the holder and goes through to the bedroom.

The best thing about tonight's game—apart from the win—is that it was, thankfully, a home game, which means that when Hayden flops down on the bed, it's his own bed, in his own house, with his own lovely, equally exhausted wife waiting in it for him. She's nodded off with a book open on her lap, the bedside lamp casting a warm glow over her softly rounded features. Six months gone with their fourth child, and Jackie's easily the most beautiful sight he's ever laid eyes on.

He leans in to press a soft kiss to her lips, light as a butterfly landing there, and she stirs. He feels her smile more than sees it as her eyes flutter open.

"You got Arthur down," she says. It's not a question because the blessed quiet is answer enough.

"I did," Hayden says. "Do I get a reward for service above and beyond the call of duty?"

"I'll see what I can do." She gives him a very familiar look from beneath her lashes as she lifts her book off the covers and onto the nightstand.

His hand goes unerringly to her boob as she leans closer to kiss him properly. Jackie's breasts are more than a handful right now, ripe and luscious like the rest of her, but the distance remains the same, a perfect arm's length away from him. They're made for each other. He knew that the first time h-

His phone rings, the ringtone loud and discordant as it cuts through the quiet.

Hayden and Jackie spring apart, two minds but just a single thought between them: turn that thing off before it disturbs the baby.

Hayden grabs the phone off the nightstand after the first ring. It's an unknown number. He should decline the call but instead he answers so that he can demand, voice low and furious, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, cold calling at this hour? There are children here trying to sleep!"

There's no response for a moment, and Hayden's half-expecting it to divert to a call centre on the other side of the world somewhere. But then a voice that's more than half a whisper says, succinctly, "Text," and the line goes dead.

Hayden stares down at the phone in his hand. Less than ten seconds later, the phone buzzes, and the first text arrives, closely followed by the second. And the third.

Unknown Number: Hello Hayden Pike
Unknown Number: My name is Lily. I live in Boston.
Unknown Number: Perhaps you have heard of me?
Unknown Number: We have a mutual friend

"Holy fuck," Hayden breathes.

"What?" Jackie asks, eyes round—and then, belatedly, adds, "Swear jar."

Hayden lets out a shaky laugh. "If there was ever a time to forget about the swear jar, I think this is it." He turns the phone around so she can read the words on the screen.

"Holy fuck," Jackie says. "Boston Lily?"

"Seems like it."

"You'd better say something in reply!"

Unknown number: I know you are awake Hayden Pike
Unknown number: Answer please.

Hayden takes the phone back and starts to type.

Hayden: Hi
Hayden: This is unexpected.
Hayden: Did you get my number from Shane?
Hayden: Oh fuck is Shane all right?
Hayden: Are you with him?
Hayden: Has something happened?

Unknown number: I only asked that you answer.
Unknown number: Not interrogate
Unknown number: Yes, I got your number from Shane.
Unknown number: Obviously.
Unknown number: No, I am not with him. He is fine.
Unknown number: Probably
Unknown number: I need a favor

Jackie shifts in bed, pulling her unwieldy body up closer to the headboard and leaning across Hayden's pillows so that she can read over his shoulder.

A favor? she mouths, as if Lily might somehow hear her if she says it out loud.

Hayden shrugs.

Hayden: What sort of favor?

Text bubbles appear and disappear for a moment. Then:

Unknown number: I need his address. In Montreal.

Hayden and Jackie share a long look.

"What the fuck?" Hayden says.

"Don't say that to her," Jackie says.

"I wasn't going to," Hayden assures her. "But still: what the fuck? How does she not know where he lives?"

"Maybe they only meet up when he's in Boston."

"Maybe, but their whole… thing has been going on for years. How likely is it that she hasn't visited him here even once in all that time?" It's hard for Hayden to wrap his head around the idea. Jackie took him back to the apartment she shared with two other girls the first night they met, and then they stopped for breakfast together on the way to his the next morning. He can't imagine not being welcome in her space, or her not being welcome in his.

"We don't know anything about her, except that Shane acts like she's some big secret," Jackie points out. "Maybe she hasn't been able to visit him."

Unknown number: Are you going to answer my question?

Hayden: Sorry. Just a moment.

"What do I say?" he asks Jackie.

"Ask why she doesn't just ask Shane for his address."

It's so obvious that Hayden doesn't know why he didn't think of it himself. For the millionth time in his life, he's really, really glad he has Jackie.

Hayden: Why don't you just ask Shane?

Unknown number: I want to surprise him

Hayden considers the five words. They still don't add up to much of an answer.

"That makes me feel uneasy," he says. "It could mean anything."

"It could," Jackie says, in a way that says she thinks it means something.

"I can't just give out Shane's address to random women!"

"She's not a random woman."

"We don't know anything about her. You just said so yourself," Hayden points out.

"We know that she's not random to Shane. She's someone very, very specific."

Hayden stares at her helplessly. "So. What. Do. I. Say?"

"Ask her why she wants Shane's address. If the surprise is something that she wants to have delivered to him, she can send it via work, and then we don't have to worry about breaching his privacy."

"Good idea." Hayden lets out a sigh of relief.

Hayden: Can you tell me why you need Shane's address?

The response is almost immediate.

Unknown number: None of your business

Hayden: I don't mean that you need to tell me anything private. That stuff's between the two of you.
Hayden: But I can't just give out Shane's address without some sort of reason.

Text bubbles appear and disappear, and then appear again. It's more than a minute before Lily finally sends another text.

Unknown number: Because we need to talk. In person.

Hayden raises his eyebrows, and he and Jackie share another long look.

"Ask her why this couldn't wait until morning," Jackie says.

Hayden starts typing the question, even though he's pretty sure they both already know the answer.

Hayden: You had to wake us up for this now? It couldn't wait until morning?

Unknown number: You were not asleep.
Unknown number: Are you going to give me his address or not?

"Wow. She's very… blunt," Hayden says.

"Maybe Shane likes that," Jackie says innocently.

"No!" Hayden says immediately. "He's my best friend. No. I'm not going there."

"I think we already are there," Jackie says, and because Hayden knows her as well as he does, he can see that she's trying really hard not to smile.

"Jackie," Hayden says.

"Give me the phone," Jackie says, holding out her hand.

Hayden hands it over without a word because maybe, just maybe, Shane—oh god, Shane—isn't the only one who likes a bit of… bluntness every now and then.

Jackie starts typing.

Hayden: Are you in Montreal right now?

Again, the response isn't immediate, but this time when the text bubbles start up again they resolve into words very quickly.

Unknown number: I am on my way

Jackie opens Hayden's contacts, finds Shane's address, and shares it.

"Jackie," Hayden says again.

Unknown number: Thank you
Unknown number: That took even longer than I expected

Jackie claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. But she also catches Hayden's eye again.

"He's talked to her about me," Hayden says.

Jackie nods, and he knows that, like almost always, they're on the same page. Shane has talked to Lily about Hayden enough that she has opinions about him. You don't do that with someone who's just a hook-up, even if it's a hook-up that's been around longer than most.

He's about to actually say all that to Jackie, but she's started typing again.

Hayden: You have his address but I'm not giving you the door code.
Hayden: You'll have to ask him for that when you get there.
Hayden: It has to be up to him to decide if he wants to let you in.

There's nothing for a moment. A long moment. And then:

Unknown number: That is fair
Unknown number: I wish you both a good sleep
Unknown number: Well, I wish that for one of you
Unknown number: Good night

Hayden stares down at the phone. He can feel his eyes widening so much that they must look like saucers.

"She knew!" he says.

"She did," Jackie agrees. "Whoever she is, she's very… perceptive. I'm beginning to see why Shane's kept up this thing with her for so long."

"You are?" Hayden asks, because he's not seeing that at all. If anything, he's more confused about Lily than he was before the arrival of that first text.

"He needs someone who really sees him."

"And you think Lily does?"

"She's travelling to Montreal at midnight to talk to him in person."

"That's true," Hayden says.

Jackie still has his phone, and as Hayden watches she creates a new contact: Shane's Lily. Then she leans in close to place the phone on his nightstand. The action leaves her half draped across him.

"Come here. I still owe you that reward," she says, pulling him down into her arms.

Their kiss is interrupted, almost as soon as it starts, by the unmistakable sound of a whimper coming from the baby monitor on the nightstand.

They both freeze. And yes, there it is again. A whimper, and then a fretful whine.

"I'll go," Hayden says, letting out a weary sigh as he relinquishes his delectable armful of wife.

"I knew there was a reason why I married you," Jackie says, but her smile is fond. More than fond.

"Only one reason?" Hayden asks.

"Maybe two," she says. "Your reward will be waiting when you come back. That's a promise."

Hayden leans back down to press a hasty kiss to her lips. He's so lucky to have her and the life they've made together. Whatever Shane has with Lily is nothing in comparison. Otherwise he would have invited her into his life long ago.

Wouldn't he?

~*~

It's not quite 1:30am when Cliff pulls up outside a tall, modern apartment building in an exclusive little enclave that he knows for a fact is barely a stone's throw from the Bell Centre, home ice of the Montreal Metros.

So Jane is… some other hockey player's girl? Someone else's wife?

Nah. That's not Roz's style. He's free and easy with his favours, but usually only with women he knows are equally free. And equally easy.

Something tells him Jane isn't easy, though. That's probably part of what's kept Roz interested all this time, the challenge of it. She's connected to the Metros somehow, that's for damn sure. No wonder he's kept it quiet.

"Well, this is it," Cliff says as he turns off the engine. "Are you planning to call her anytime soon?" he adds, when Roz just sits there.

"I'll call her when I get out of the car. You do not need to wait."

Cliff looks at him, incredulous. "You want me to just leave you here by yourself, at this hour? What if she won't let you in?"

"She will."

"But what if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll call an Uber and come crash your hotel room," Roz says.

"Maybe I won't give you my room number—or even the name of my hotel."

"Well maybe I will just sit out here and freeze to death, then!" Roz snaps, and suddenly he's all tension.

"Call her," Cliff advises. "And yes of course get out of the car first. Keep it private. I don't want to eavesdrop. But I'll be waiting here until I see you go inside that building. Okay?"

"Okay," Roz says, and lets out a deep breath that's not quite a sigh. He gets out of the car.

Cliff waits while Roz retrieves his luggage from the trunk, and finally makes the call. He waits when Roz lowers the phone from his ear and calls again. He waits while things play out just the same for a third time.

And he waits while Roz goes up to the panel by the front door and presses the call button right at the top. The one for the penthouse, maybe?

Roz presses that button more times than is probably wise—but eventually he gets a response. There's an exchange through the intercom that Cliff can't hear from inside the car, but the taut set of Roz's shoulders doesn't relax so he figures the conversation is just as tense.

He's honestly surprised when whoever it is Roz is talking to—let's still call her 'Jane'—relents enough to buzz him in. The front door opens, and Roz steps inside.

Cliff waves, but Roz doesn't look back.

He waits another fifteen minutes, just to be completely sure, but Roz doesn't return. There's no sign of anyone else slipping out of the building, dragging a body bag, either, so she probably hasn't killed him. At least, Cliff hopes not. Either way, he's done as much as he can. Now it's all up to Roz.

Cliff wishes that that thought fills him with more confidence than it does, but… whatever.

He presses the Toyota's starter button and drives off in the direction of a hotel he knows. It's only five minutes from here, and it not only has an all night front desk, it also has an all night bar.

Cliff feels he's more than earned it.

Chapter End Notes

Uh, yeah, the chapter count went up again. The next one should really be the end, and will include more kitten. ETA: yeah, well. I was half right.

Chapter 4: Shane Again

Chapter Summary

Shane's side of the story.

Chapter Notes

A literal fluff warning for this chapter in particular. There's a lot of kitten herein.

Massive thanks to Samirant for helping me beat this thing into submission.

This chapter is for Nym. <3

Three Days Ago

Shane wakes up alone as glimmers of morning light try their best to infiltrate around the edges of the blind. Alone. Just like every morning. He's used to it. No one ever stays, whether he's here in his own bed or… elsewhere. Even Rose didn't, during their brief time together, when the entire world knew they spent the whole night in the same bed.

The entire world was wrong.

She'd been up and dressed long before even Shane's alarm had had a chance to go off, movie set hours being what they are—even crazier (for certain values of crazy) than the sort of schedule that Shane sets for himself.

He'd been relieved to see Rose go, to have those few extra hours in his own bed by himself, all the while telling himself it wasn't relief he was feeling.

It would be nice, maybe, to wake up to company that he truly wants, to wake up to daylight and to not be alone. But even the kitten—his kitten—has abandoned him during the night. Shane would almost think that he dreamed the whole thing with her yesterday, if not for the fact that there's a cat bed on the floor, and several pet bowls right next to it. All of them are empty, apart from the water bowl.

A sudden scraping sound has him glancing sharply towards the corner—and there she is, his kitten, industriously digging in the litter tray. He bought a special mat to go under the tray, to catch stray bits of litter, but no one seems to have told the kitten that that's what it's for. She's scattering cat litter everywhere with abandon. The mat doesn't stand a chance. Maybe he should put the cover back on the tray, but would she be able to figure out how the built-in catflap works? Is she even strong enough to push it open? She's so very little…

There has to be something better out there. Surely modern technology has grappled with the question of litter tray design and come up with a more efficient solution?

Shane sits up properly in bed—and the kitten lets out a loud squeak. She leaps out of the litter tray. Not gracefully—she makes a wobbly landing on the bedroom rug—but it's definitely intended to be a leap. And then she scampers over and starts climbing up the side of the bed, her little claws sinking determinedly into the fabric bed base.

She makes it up onto the covers and runs over to Shane's lap. She sits there, looking up at him all sweet and innocent, and then she opens her tiny, pink mouth and yells at a decibel level that is truly impressive.

"Good morning to you too," Shane says, and can't stop the smile that's curving the corners of his lips even as he winces at the noise. He picks up the kitten in one hand, and lifts her so that they're face to face. "Are you ready for some breakfast?"

The kitten lets out a long, loud "Meeeewww," considerably more pathetic than the demanding sound of a moment ago.

"That sounds like a 'yes'," Shane says. "I'll see what I can do."

While he cleans up the litter, he stows her in the large, hard plastic cat carrier that he bought yesterday to replace the cardboard one. It has a soft, microfibre pet blanket in the bottom of it, but the kitten starts up her usual wails of despair as soon as he shuts the door on her. Her small pink and black nose pokes through the grille, and her cries grow louder as Shane turns on the handheld vacuum that he keeps for cleaning the footwells of his car.

When he lets her out again, she cuddles in against his chest, right up close by his heart, and purrs.

Shane pets her, and tries to imagine leaving her at the SPCA to an uncertain future.

He can't.

By the time he gets breakfast and sets down her food bowls, she's started yelling again.

Kat the vet nurse had been very clear in her instructions: don't feed her too much at once. Five small meals a day are the appropriate number for a kitten her age. But once her breakfast is done, the kitten is still nosing around the bowl where her wet food was, looking for scraps that are already in her belly.

Shane brings her downstairs after he has mixed his morning protein shake in the blender—he can just imagine how she would react to the sound of it in action. He serves up a single teaspoonful of tuna on a small plate.

"Tuna," he tells the kitten, and sets it down before her.

It's gone in not much more than an instant while Shane takes his time with his shake.

It's a game day, so Shane needs to get ready for work. The pre-game team meeting and morning skate wait for no one.

Last thing before he leaves, he sets up the automatic pet feeder in the guest room. It's just a simple one that dispenses kibble at regular intervals—the best that the pet store had on hand yesterday. Shane has already ordered one with a 1080p HD camera, two way audio and a wifi connection so he can control portions remotely from an app on his phone, but it won't arrive until tomorrow. That puts him in mind of the other urgent purchase he needs to make, so he spends five minutes googling automatic litter trays when he should already be out the door and on his way to the rink.

He's not hugely surprised when he winds up on the website for something called a litter robot. Of course other cat owners—and modern technology—have already come up with the solution he's looking for. He orders one immediately, thinks about it for another few seconds, then orders a second one as well.

He locks the kitten in the guestroom with her automatic feeder, her water, her bed and a clean litter tray.

He's sure he can still hear the sounds of feline displeasure emanating from upstairs as he closes the door of his apartment behind him.

Shane should get a pet monitor as well, so he can keep a proper eye on the kitten when she's not using the new feeder. Maybe one with multiple camera angles.

~*~

Shane hasn't heard from Ilya by the time morning skate is over, and he's showered and changed back into his street clothes. He shoots off a quick text, asking after Ilya's ankle.

There's no reply.

It's no big deal. They don't text every day. Not usually. Except that they have been these last however many (five) days since Ilya's injury has kept him off the ice.

Shane goes home to get lunch, to continue with the rest of his game day routine—and, of course, to check on his kitten.

~*~

There's another car ahead of him, driving into the parking garage beneath his building. As he walks from his car over to the elevator, Shane realises that he knows the other driver. Or, at least, he knows her face. She's the same woman he shared the elevator with yesterday.

"We meet again," she says, with a polite smile. She's not as dressed up as yesterday. She looks more approachable. More human. She presses the button to call the elevator.

"I'm Shane," Shane says, because it's been drummed into him by his mom that when someone goes to the trouble of making an opening like that, you make use of it.

"Helen," says the woman. "You live in the penthouse, right?"

"Yeah," says Shane, because she already knows where he was going in the elevator yesterday. There's no point in denying it.

"I live directly below you," she says.

Shane nods, because he remembers that she got out of the elevator just before he did yesterday, too.

"My husband says you're a hockey player," Helen continues.

Shane nods again. "I play with the Metros. Living here is convenient for the Bell Centre."

"Oh, that's nice."

Shane can tell that she has no idea who he is, and a tiny fraction of the ever-present tension leaves his shoulders.

"That kitten you had yesterday didn't look so convenient," Helen says, and this time her smile is more genuine, and less of a thing that people do because it's expected. "I used to foster kittens for one of the big rescues. Seeing her all wrapped up in a towel and complaining took me right back."

Shane's smiling in turn, and his smile is just as real, before he realises he's doing it. "I kept her," he says, and then admits: "I don't know what I'm doing, but I kept her."

"I'm sure you're doing fine. Food and a litter tray, somewhere comfortable to sleep, plenty of attention and things to play with, safety." Helen counts each point off on her fingers. "As long as a kitten has all of those, you can't really go wrong."

There's a pause in their conversation as the elevator arrives. Once they get in and the doors close, Shane says, "I got all those things you mentioned. And some other things, too. And I have more on order."

"It sounds like you're making a good start."

"I'm trying," Shane says. "But of course there's the attention. I can't always give it to her. Being a professional athlete makes demands on my time. I'm going to have to find somewhere for her to stay, or maybe for someone to mind her when I'm on the road for away games." It's more than he intended to say, but somehow, once he starts talking, the words—and worries—come pouring out.

"I know a good pet minding service," Helen says. "They'll even house sit, so someone can be there in your home with your kitten while you're away. Stop off at my apartment and I'll get you their card, if you like."

"I don't-" Shane begins.

"Their sitters are thoroughly vetted, if that's what you're concerned about. I'm pretty sure that includes a police check—but you can look up the details on their website once I find that card."

Which is how Shane finds himself getting out of the elevator at the floor below his own. Helen's apartment is nice, more than nice, which is only to be expected for an apartment in Westmount with a view like this, but it looks lived in in a way that Shane knows his doesn't.

The conversation continues for a few more minutes, until Shane makes his excuses.

"You'll be fine," Helen says as she shows him to the door.

"I just wish I could persuade her not to leave scratches all over me!" Shane says, with feeling.

Helen laughs. "She'll grow out of that. She just hasn't realised that you're not covered in fur, like a cat."

"How long is that likely to take?" Shane asks.

"They usually work it out by the age of four or five months."

It doesn't sound like long when Helen says it like that, but Shane groans. "The vet says she's only six or seven weeks!"

"She'll be a cat before you know it," Helen says with a small, amused smile.

Shane thinks that that's easy for her to say, but he thanks her for recommending the sitting service and gets back in the elevator to go home to his kitten.

~*~

Shane finds the kitten on the spare bed again, nestled among the pillows. She's curled up in a tiny ball, her black and orange tail wrapped in front of her legs and the tip of it just touching the end of her nose.

She looks up at him, sleepy-eyed, for a moment, then yawns hugely.

He picks her up and she snuggles against him, purring.

Only me, Shane thinks. She only ever wants me.

~*~

Of course, once she's properly awake, the kitten wants to play. A not very elaborate game with a feather toy ensues. Shane waves it around, just high enough to infuriate her, and she rises up on her hind legs a second, tiny paws swatting at the feather, before she falls to all fours. Shane laughs—right up until the moment he feels a short, sharp sting on his wrist and looks down to see a flea there a second before it hops off.

Horrified, Shane imagines his entire apartment crawling—or hopping!—with fleas, before commonsense asserts itself. He thinks it through.

The kitten had a flea bath yesterday. The vet nurse used the safe-for-young-kittens flea spray on her afterwards. And she—the kitten— spent the entire night in his bedroom without any signs of flea infestation come morning.

This flea must have been here since yesterday, when he first brought the kitten up to his apartment and locked her in the guest room before taking her to the vet. He's kept the door closed, so the fleas are probably confined to this room for now.

He evacuates the kitten to his own bedroom. Googles what to do. Ends up with lots of contradictory advice. Calls the vet office. Ends up with a plan to fumigate the spare room, while keeping the kitten at a very safe distance, and to monitor her for fleas for the next few days, just in case. She should be flea-proof until the effects of yesterday's flea bath wear off, but he can get a bottle of flea spray from the vet's if he needs it.

It means that Shane has to go out to the store before lunch, disrupting his game day routine… He looks down at the kitten and she squints up at him, eyes half-closed in content that he is there with her. For her. That he will keep her safe.

He has some leeway between lunch and his game day nap, an intentional buffer that he's built into his routine, to keep things just loose enough that his body stays loose too. He'll go then. In the meantime, he'll strip off the bedding and wash it—while keeping his kitten far, far away from that guest bedroom.

~*~

Shane fetches a meal prepped by the team nutritionist for himself, while he measures out careful portions of wet and dry kitten food for the kitten. She polishes hers off while Shane's lunch is still heating in the microwave, and looks around for more.

There's an opened can of tuna in the fridge that needs to be used up. Once his lunch is ready, Shane puts a teaspoonful of tuna on a small plate—he should probably invest in some kitten-sized plates—and heats it in the microwave for five seconds.

"Tuna, your royal highness," he says, as he sets it down before the kitten.

She's done with the tuna before Shane even gets his lunch onto his plate.

The run to the store and the subsequent careful sealing off and flea bombing of the guestroom takes just over half an hour.

Shane's still adhering to his routine. Just.

Afterwards, when he settles in on his modular sofa for his pre-game afternoon nap, the kitten settles in too—snuggled in against him in the curve where neck meets shoulder, where she spent much of the night.

He dozes off easily, and when his alarm wakes him an hour and a half later, he feels more rested than usual.

What you lose on the swings you gain on the roundabouts, as his dad likes to say. Shane reaches up to pet the sleeping kitten curled up against his neck and smiles.

~*~

There's still no response from Ilya to Shane's enquiry about his ankle.

Shane sticks to the rest of his game day routine—which very much does not involve texting anyone who's decided to be weird and silent.

~*~

Of course Ilya waits to text him until Shane's halfway through his post-game presser after Montreal's victory over New York that night. Shane has his media face on and he's trying to pay close attention to the questions that are being thrown at him when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Once. Twice. A third time.

He wonders what those three messages say.

They could be from anyone.

He knows they're not.

He stumbles over an answer to a reporter's question. Licks his lips—god, it's hot in here. So many people, pressing in, in his face. He hopes they believe his apology and bashful little grin that it's been a long day.

Two more messages arrive just as he's finally making his escape from the press room. He doesn't look at them. He'll keep them for when he's at home, a present to his future self. A promise of things to come.

~*~

Shane arrives home to mayhem. The only good thing about it is that the kitten appears to be unharmed, and the chaos is confined, like the kitten, to his bedroom. The bedside lamp is on its side on the floor. Fortunately, it's a Japanese style lamp with a fabric shade, and it's relatively small and light, so it's still in one piece—relative being the operative term there. It's still not clear to him how something that weighs less than a pound managed to knock it over. The two smallest throw pillows are also on the floor, and the duvet is askew, as if something has been hanging off the side of it—again, though, something a bit heavier than a barely one pound kitten.

There's cat litter everywhere.

The effects of the flea bomb will have dissipated by now so it should be safe to put the kitten back in the guestroom while he cleans up in here—but there's no way Shane is going to risk it. He picks her up and takes her to the ensuite bathroom, setting her down on a hand towel so her little paws won't get too cold on the tiles.

He cleans to a soundtrack of angry, high-pitched yowls alternating with pathetic, heartrending squeaks. To not put too fine a point on it, the kitten is very unhappy that there's a door between her and Shane.

The cleaning takes longer than it should; it's awkward holding onto the vacuum cleaner with a couple of his fingers taped together thanks to a stretched tendon, plus it takes time to hunt down every stray bit of cat litter. The instant he finally opens the bathroom door and retrieves the kitten, her sad little cries turn into purrs—purrs that only get louder as he carries her downstairs. He serves her a late evening snack—tuna again—and then leaves her to explore as he ices his hand for ten minutes.

Then Shane flops down on the couch, picks up his phone and lets himself have his reward.

Lily: Your interviews are as boring as ever
Lily: More boring
Lily: Can you not at least try out some new clichés?
Lily: what happened to your hand tonight?
Lily: how many fingers did they tape?

Ilya noticed Shane's taped fingers. Of course he did. Warmth settles in the pit of Shane's stomach. Even when Ilya's silent he's still thinking about Shane. He's still watching Shane whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Shane: Just the two fingers.
Shane: It's fine.

Lily: Just the two fingers? Not anything else?

Ilya's reply is immediate. Has he been waiting? Wondering? Worrying?

Too many 'w' words. There's a name for that, rhyming at the beginning of words instead of at the end. Shane can't remember what it is.

Shane: Nothing more than a few bruises.

But he does remember another literary thingummy, one that's somehow stayed in the back of his mind when most of the rest of what he learned in English class—and math and history and geography—all went in one ear and out the other if it couldn't be connected to hockey somehow.

Shane: also, a new cliché is an oxymoron

There's a bit more of a wait before Ilya replies this time.

Lily: a drugged idiot?

Shane laughs out loud before typing it out for Ilya.

Shane: Haha.
Shane: No
Shane: It's a contradiction in terms
Shane: Two words that mean the opposite of each other
Shane: I learned it in school

Lily: you remember something from schooldays that isn't about hockey?

Shane: I was an okay student!

Lily: I'm sure

It's a bit of a lie. They both know it.

Shane: Shut up!

Lily: I'm agreeing with you

Shane can't help grinning down at his phone.

Shane: It's the way you're agreeing.
Shane: I can just ima

"What the fuck?!"

The kitten lands first on Shane's shoulder and a second later launches herself down into his lap. Shane instinctively grabs for her to stop her from falling between his knees and his phone goes flying, skittering across the floor.

He holds her hard against his chest and lets out a shaky sigh. Beneath his hands she wriggles and complains, trying to escape to freedom.

"Well, you shouldn't have tried a kamikaze dive, should you?" Shane says, unimpressed. But he loosens his hold on her and pets her. Just a bit.

He's rewarded with the softest of purrs.

Shane retrieves his phone from under the coffee table. Somehow, it's still in one piece.

Shane: I can just imaui=8hju90i[j[
Shane: Sorry. Dropped my phone.
Shane: It's a bit hard to hold it and type onehanded.

Shane regrets that last sentence as soon as he's finished typing it, waits for the masturbation joke that's sure to follow.

But it doesn't.

Instead, his phone starts ringing. The caller ID says 'Lily'. Shane almost drops his phone again, he's so surprised.

They never do this, have never done this. They've never called each other. Ever.

It takes him a moment to offload the kitten onto the couch beside him and to actually answer the phone. He fumbles, almost drops it for a third time—so much for his famously steady hands and lightning fast reflexes—but gets there in the end.

"Ilya? Is everything okay?" Because everything must not be okay, by definition, if Ilya is calling him.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because you're calling. You don't usually call."

"Maybe I thought I should give you a better reason to use your phone one-handed." And there it is, the masturbation joke. Except it doesn't sound like a joke when Shane can hear Ilya actually saying it, in that low, seductive growl of a voice, instead of Shane just reading the words on his phone screen and imagining.

"Ilya." Shane swallows. Hard. "No, really. Why are you calling?" He's proud of how almost totally completely utterly normal his voice sounds by the time he finishes asking the question.

"I told you. Your hand. Is easier just to talk. Maybe this way you won't drop your phone."

Shane's eyes narrow at the jab. "My hand is fine. How's your ankle?"

"As fine as your hand."

"Ilya." As if a slightly overstretched tendon in his hand can be compared to an ankle sprain that's kept Ilya off the ice all week.

"Fine. No, really, I mean, should be okay," Ilya insists. "Medical says I can try brace on it in a day or two. Then maybe I will fly out to join the team."

Shane opens his mouth to speak, but stops as he catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. The kitten has wandered over to the vintage drinks cabinet by the wall. The cabinet is a statement piece that Shane's interior designer had selected, to break up the line of sight on that side of the room and keep things interesting—or that's what she'd said, anyway. It usually just sits there, empty, but as Shane watches, the kitten creeps towards its polished metal doors—and then suddenly leaps, legs flaring outward as her tail fluffs out like a bottle brush, daring the kitten in the mirror to attack.

Shane chokes on a laugh.

Her head hits the cabinet with a thud.

"No!" Shane hopes that kitten skulls are thick. He gets up quickly to retrieve her before she can really hurt herself, and sets her down on the couch beside him. Again.

"Sorry," he says as he lifts his phone back to his ear. "Just something on the TV. It made me laugh." He's not completely sure why he lies. He'll have to tell Ilya about the kitten, now that she's going to be a permanent fixture in his life. Just… not yet. Not until he gets better at being a kitten owner. Not until he can say, with confidence, that he knows what he's doing. That he's good at it.

"Oh," Ilya says. Nothing else. Just… oh.

Silence. Too much silence.

"I'm really glad it isn't a bad sprain," Shane says quickly—and too slowly.

"Like I said, is fine. Will be fine. Soon."

Shane should tell Ilya about the kitten. Why keep it a secret? Ilya's going to make a crack about the zloy kotenok acquiring his own zloy kotenok regardless of how hard Shane tries to master the art of kitten management in the meantime.

"Ilya," Shane begins, and takes a deep breath. "I-"

The kitten chooses that moment to start ascending the sheer curtain at the edge of the panoramic window that takes up most of the wall on the other side of the room.

"Just a moment!" Shane drops his phone on the coffee table and sprints over to the window. The kitten is swaying dangerously on the curtain, like she's in a strong wind, and Shane grabs her off it, just in the nick of time before she falls. "No, baby, don't do that," he says, carefully detaching one last stubborn claw from the curtain before cradling her against him. He's really going to have to find a proper name for her—if he manages to save her from herself long enough that she'll need one.

He brings the kitten back over to the couch, and this time holds her firmly in his lap as he picks up his phone again.

"Sorry about that," he tells Ilya.

"I should go," Ilya says.

Shane blinks. This is their first ever phone call, and they've barely said anything to each other.

"But didn't you-"

"Good night, Shane," Ilya says, and there's an implacable note in his voice.

He's in a weird mood tonight, first calling Shane, right out of the blue, and then not wanting to talk. Maybe it's best that they try this again another time. So:

"Good night, Ilya," Shane says in return.

And then the line goes dead.

Shane stares down at his phone. What just happened?

He lets go of the kitten so he can type.

Shane: Ilya? Is everything okay?

Shane's message is delivered.

There's no reply.

Maybe Shane just sits there and stares at his phone a bit too long, his mind wandering… somewhere it shouldn't, because he's conscious of blinking back to reality when the kitten climbs up the side of his leg and into his lap.

He pets her, stroking the top of her little head between her ridiculously large ears, and feels a bit of the tension that lives between his shoulderblades fall away as she leans into the caress and purrs. Was it his dad who said once that young kittens, with their out of proportion ears, almost look as if they should be able to fly like Dumbo the elephant? Somehow, Shane wouldn't be surprised if this particular kitten developed a knack for flying. She's definitely throwing her all into leaping and dive bombing.

He smiles down at her, and she looks up at him, eyes half-closed in pleasure—before she opens her mouth and yells.

It's only been a day and a half, but Shane recognises that particular pitch and volume level. That's the one that means, "Feed me!"

Oh, of course. What with the unexpected cleaning upstairs and having to ice his fingers and then Ilya calling, the kitten is still waiting on her final meal of the day.

"The standard of service in this establishment is slipping, huh?" he says to her. "Okay, let's fix that."

There's a little bit of the can of tuna left in the fridge. He gives her that and some kibble. As soon as he puts the bowls down in front of her, she goes straight for the tuna before deigning to even look at the kibble.

"Tuna. Of course, that's what you want."

She's such a princess, or at least some form of feline royalty.

Princess.

Maybe that would be a good name. No. Too… dainty for something so small and yet so fearless. The right name will come, though. He'll find it. Or it will find him—just like the kitten herself.

It's probably just another aspect of the Cat Distribution System at work.

~*~

Two Days Ago

There's no practice the next day, so Shane starts with his regular morning run, and then hits the gym to work on his legs. He swings by his apartment a couple of times throughout the day to feed his kitten, and to play with her. She's back in the guestroom now when he's not home, and the smaller room provides her with less scope to wreak havoc. He needs to get her more distractions, though. He unpacks a tunnel thing that he bought at the pet store on that first day and brings it upstairs. It's an immediate hit with the kitten, who starts up a game of hide and pounce and bite-Daddy-through-the-side-of-the-tunnel. At least her little fangs don't feel quite so needle-like when there's a layer of polyester in between.

Maybe he should look for a cat tunnel made out of more durable material? Shane adds it to the list of kitten-related things to be looked into.

The litter robots are delivered, along with the new automatic feeder. Shane sets up one litter robot in the corner of the upstairs guest bathroom and the other in the laundry room downstairs. The kitten isn't quite big enough to use them yet, but when she is, Shane will be ready.

All in all, things are working out pretty well for Shane and the kitten. He feels like he's already building a kitten routine to fit pretty seamlessly with his workout routine.

He hears from Ilya precisely once that morning, to say that he's been cleared to join his team for their next game in Ottawa. Then, Shane guesses, Ilya's too busy packing and travelling to say much more.

It's as if last night's phone call never happened.

It's as if last night's text conversation never happened.

It's almost as if everything in Tampa-

No. They'll talk again, in person, when they see each other in Boston. It's only a week away.

Shane puts in his earplugs and concentrates on his legwork some more.

That evening, last thing before turning off the bedside lamp, he texts Ilya to say good night. Ilya's answering 'good night' comes back swiftly, and arrives before Shane even has time to put his phone on silent.

Shane spends too long staring at that simple, two word message, trying to work out what it might mean. Eventually, he tells himself he's an idiot. It means exactly what it says. Nothing more and nothing less.

Still, it's a while before he gets off to sleep. Stroking the kitten as she purrs against his chest definitely helps, though.

~*~

Yesterday

Next day is a game day. Montreal is playing Washington.

Shane takes care to fit the kitten into his game day routine. It's easier this time. He's really starting to get the hang of this whole kitten-owning thing. While he's at home, anyway. A couple of candidates from the cat sitting service are coming for an interview tomorrow. Hopefully, at least one of them will be good enough that Shane can trust them with his kitten while he's on the road next week.

He doesn't hear from Ilya throughout the day, but then Ilya has a game today, too, his first since being allowed back on the ice.

Shane almost—almost—texts him to wish him good luck, but he can just imagine how Ilya would respond to the idea of needing luck when playing against Ottawa.

The text thread between Lily and Jane stays silent.

~*~

Montreal defeats Washington.

Shane still hasn't heard from Ilya.

He makes it through the usual post-game circus of media intrusion—both in terms of their questions and more generally, as they thrust microphones in his face in the locker room when he's still half-dressed after his shower—and still hasn't had the leisure to simply reach for his phone and do more than glance at his notifications when Hayden asks if he has plans that night.

Shane wants to say that he needs to get home to his kitten but… Not in the locker room. Not with that certain group of guys right by them, the ones who develop a pack mentality when they're together and ready to hit the clubs post-game.

So Shane says something about a new acquisition that he wants to get home to, and it's really not a lie, even if the kitten is most definitely a who rather than a what. He and Hayden walk out to their cars together, bid each other good night…

All of which means that Shane doesn't check his phone until after he's home, and the kitten has been freed and fed. It's only then, seeing the reporting from Ottawa, that he finds out that Ilya didn't play tonight after all.

It's late, but something tells him that Ilya won't be asleep. He's probably out on a bar hop with the Raiders. Shane half-hopes he is, half-hopes he isn't.

Shane watches Ilya's post-game interview, listens to Ilya's short, sharp answers to every question put to him—too many about Ilya, personally, and not nearly enough about the game—takes in every line of frustration etched in his face, feels all the tension radiating off him.

And then he texts him:

Shane: I just saw. Call me if you want.

To his surprise, Ilya texts back almost at once.

Lily: Can't call. I am with Marlow

Shane: Everything okay?

Lily: Why wouldn't it be?

Shane: You were re-benched before you had a chance to get back on the ice?

Lily: Untrue. I made it halfway through morning skate

Shane: I saw your presser.

Lily: It doesn't matter. I will be back on the ice next game.

Shane: Still a bummer.

Lily: Enough. I could ask you about your presser
Lily: Or better yet, the locker room questions
Lily: You have decided to imitate the best hockey player in the league and do interviews without shirt from now on?

Shane: Not intentionally! They ambushed me.

Lily: Ah, so you admit that I am the best hockey player

Shane: No I don't!

Lily: It was memorable sight, you with your shirt off like that

Shane: I thought you said you were with Marlow?

Lily: I did

Shane: Then maybe don't say stuff like that

Lily: I am just telling the truth
Lily: Don't worry. He is not looking over my shoulder

Shane: Even so. He could.

Lily: No. He is driving

Shane: Driving? Where are you going?

Lily: Is not important.
Lily: I was thinking that I should give you his number

Shane: Marlow's? Why?

Lily: For the future.
Lily: Just in case.
Lily: If I get injured again, maybe more seriously, or there is some reason why you can't contact me. You could ask him what's going on

Shane: Yeah, right. Like he'd just tell me

Lily: He would tell you if you told him you were Jane from Montreal

Shane: I hadn't thought of it like that

Lily: Just as well I did
Lily: And you could give me Pike's number
Lily: For same reason
Lily: Just in case

Shane: Yeah, I guess I could.

Lily: Give it to me and I'll give you Marly's. Like I said, could be useful, just in case

A second later, what Shane presumes is Cliff Marlow's phone number pops up on the screen. He really can't not share Hayden's in return—so he does.

The conversation winds down very quickly after that and before Shane knows it, they're exchanging good nights.

He takes the kitten upstairs and gets ready for bed. This time, he doesn't bother depositing her in her own special cat bed on the floor. That's not just a losing battle. It's one that he's already lost. Comprehensively.

He leaves the cat bed in the guest room.

As soon as he gets under the covers, the kitten climbs onto his belly and then scampers up to his chest. She sits there for a moment, staring at him intently.

Shane reaches out and briefly pets her.

"Have you got any idea why Ilya's been so weird? Even that text conversation tonight felt… off somehow."

The kitten regards him very seriously for a moment, and then she lets out a high-pitched squeak.

Shane wonders if that's a 'no'.

It's only when she does it again that he realises it's nothing to do with anything he said. No, it's about something he did. Or something he didn't do.

He stopped petting her.

"Sorry," he says, and strokes her head some more before pulling ever so gently on her ears.

The by now very familiar mini chainsaw purr starts up, and the kitten settles down on his chest like a tiny sphinx.

God, she's cute.

Tiny claws flex against his chest. He can feel them—just—through the t-shirt he's wearing. The claws flex and flex and flex some more, and Shane realises that she's kneading. One of the cat forums he'd found online said that it's something kittens do against their mother's belly to stimulate milk production.

"Sorry," Shane tells her, "that's not going to work for all sorts of reasons."

But the kitten just purrs, blue-green eyes heavy-lidded with sleepiness, and continues to knead him.

Shane switches his phone to silent, carefully, carefully reaches around to find the charging cable without disturbing the kitten on his chest, plugs the cable into the phone, and turns the light off before drifting off to sleep.

~*~

Today

Shane comes abruptly awake in darkness—to the blare of the intercom ringtone and the sting of tiny claws sinking into his skin. The kitten hisses, the first time she's sounded actually scared since they first met. By the time he fumbles for the switch on the lamp, the kitten has dived under the covers and is trembling against his side.

He pets her while murmuring reassurances, checks the time on his phone—1:27am, and also three missed calls? He groans. What the ever-loving fuck?

But the intercom is ringing again.

Shane groans some more, but he sits up, tells the kitten to stay where she is, and gets out of bed.

The intercom is ringing a third time by the time he reaches it. It had better not be some bored kid playing a prank. If they're expecting the media-friendly version of Shane at this hour, they're in for a rude shock.

"Hello," he says, and because he's still half asleep and the overhead light is almost blinding, he doesn't look at the video feed. So he's not prepared for what comes next.

"Shane? Shane! Let me in!" says Ilya's voice.

And Shane is suddenly wide awake.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, this is still not the end. This chapter kept getting longer and longer until I finally waved the white flag and admitted it had to be two chapters.

Russian:

Zloy kotenok = angry kitten (of course!)

Also, litter robots are a real thing! (Google if you're curious.)

Okay, that's it for now. Next time WILL be the end. They can't evade it any longer. (I hope).

 

ETA QUICK NOTE 23 July: I'm TRYING to post the final chapter, but AO3 is not playing nicely with my timezone. Will try again a bit later!

Chapter 5: Tuna

Chapter Summary

Ilya, Shane and The Kitten(TM) come face to face at last.

Chapter Notes

Well, here it is. This chapter took a little while because this it just kept growing and growing until it ended up at just under 12,000 words - so you get essentially two chapters for the price of one, even though almost all of it is one humongous scene. I hope you all enjoy Ilya finally finding out about The Kitten.

Huge thanks to Sami for making sure that I got to the end and generally being an awesome friend and beta.❤️

Ilya gets out of the car.

One thing at a time.

Ilya gets his gear out of the trunk.

One thing at a time.

He slams the trunk closed. Hard.

One thing at a time.

He grabs his phone and calls Shane and calls Shane and calls Shane.

No answer. No answer. No answer.

Marly's still sitting there in that cramped fucking Toyota SUV—not enough room for Ilya's legs to stretch out, let alone Cliff's—waiting to see what happens. Waiting to see if he needs to rescue Ilya from himself. Again. Twice in one evening. Fuck, that's probably some kind of record. Or it would be, if Ilya ends up needing to be rescued this time.

Shane's probably set his phone on silent. That's why he's not answering. Because it's 1:30 in the fucking morning and he's asleep like the good boy that all the world—except for Ilya—is sure that he is. Not because he's ignoring Ilya on purpose. Not because he's got someo- something better to do.

Just because he's sleeping, it doesn't mean he's sleeping alone, of course.

Ilya races up to the entryway, drops his gear bag at his feet and jams his finger down hard on the call button for the penthouse.

No answer.

He lets it ring out and presses it again.

Still no answer.

He glances around.

Marly is still waiting there, the fucker.

He presses the call button a third time, lets it ring and ring and is readying himself for his fourth attempt when the buzz of the ringtone is replaced by static—and a tired-sounding voice saying, "Hello."

"Shane?" No, of course it's Shane. "Shane! Let me in!"

"Ilya?"

"Yes, is me."

"What are you-"

"It is cold out here. Let me in and then we can talk about what and why."

There's silence. The tension grips Ilya so hard that his traps feel like they've been hewn out of rock.

There's a buzz and the entry doors slide open.

Ilya grabs his bag off the ground and steps inside. It's shockingly warm in the lobby. At least he won't freeze to death if Shane decides not to let him in after all. He finds the elevator, steps inside that, and then he's on his way up to Shane's apartment: the apartment that has always been off limits, until now, when Ilya's almost literally pushing his way in.

It's been a couple of hours—a bit more than that—since Ilya strode out of his hotel room back in Ottawa and told Marly he was going to Montreal. Since then, he's had the best part of two hours in the car to think about what he's going to say.

He still has no idea. And now this sleek and spacious elevator, with its tasteful gold accents, is hurtling him toward the moment of truth.

The elevator slows and stops, the doors open, Ilya steps out in front of an open door. Standing in that doorway is Shane Hollander. He's wearing a t-shirt and pyjama pants, feet bare and hair mussed—maybe just from lying in his bed, asleep and alone. His expression is… exasperated, that's the word. Wanting to be pissed, but not yet sure if he has a right to be. He looks… normal. A normal version of Shane.

A beautiful sight.

Or it would be, if things really were normal.

"You're here," Shane says, as if they've just skated up to meet each other at centre ice, chatting lightly—making arrangements for later under the cover of lazy chirps—before they settle into the face-off and the game gets underway.

"Hi," Ilya says. He still doesn't know what else to say. That single syllable is all he's got in him right now.

He drops his gear bag, crosses the narrow strip of carpeted not-quite-hallway, crowds Shane in against the doorframe.

"Hi," he says again, sending a slanted look from beneath half-closed lids, just before he cups Shane's face between his hands and kisses him hard. There is nothing tentative about this kiss, nothing uncertain, even though Ilya feels as if he is made of nothing but uncertainty, and has been for hours. The kiss is not a question. It's a statement, or at least it tries to be. Shane melts into the closeness, as if nothing has changed between them, his tongue shoving and licking into Ilya's mouth impatiently as he kisses him back.

You're here, Ilya thinks, or possibly he murmurs the words against Shane's lips as one hand traces a path along Shane's jaw, across the taut line of his neck, and up and up and up, fingers tangling in Shane's hair. You're mine, he wants to say. Mine, mine, mine, and he twists Shane's hair between his fingers, grips it hard enough to hurt.

Shane moans into the kiss, lips chasing Ilya's mouth as he pulls back just enough to tease.

Maybe this is the last time, the last kiss, but right now Shane is his. Maybe it's desperate. Maybe it's pathetic. Maybe. But it's also just the two of them here, in this moment—at least while they're on this side of the door.

Shane’s hands are pushing up under the bottom edge of Ilya's hoodie, under his t-shirt now, seeking and finding bare skin, fingers digging in hard and possessive and oh so terribly familiar and-

pushing him away?

Ilya takes an unwilling step back just as Shane lets out a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling so sharply that Ilya feels it like a cold east wind against his face.

"What…" Shane says, screwing his eyes shut as he shakes his head—trying to clear it, probably.

Ilya's fingers slide away, out of Shane’s hair, trailing down the line of Shane's neck but hesitating at his shoulder, not willing to be completely banished.

Shane opens his eyes and looks straight into Ilya's.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

"Does anything have to be wrong?" Ilya asks, staring steadily back. They've reverted to answering questions with questions, just like when they were texting the other day, when Ilya first realised that something was off—that something was wrong.

"Well yeah, I think it does," Shane says. "You've just shown up at my door at ass o'clock in the morning, when I know for a fact that you were in Ottawa only a few hours ago and-" He stops, frowns. "How did you know that this was my door?"

"You invited me up," Ilya says, because it's the truth.

"Asshole. You know that's not what I meant."

"How can I know what you meant? Am not a mind reader."

"How did you get my add- Oh fuck, Hayden. You asked him, didn't you? Boston Lily asked him."

"Maybe," Ilya says, and drops his hand from Shane's shoulder at last. The distance between them suddenly feels infinitely greater.

"There's no maybe about it. That's why you gave me Marlow’s number—Jesus, while he was driving you here from Ottawa—and fed me all that bullshit about 'just in case'."

"No bullshit. Was not a bad idea."

"Maybe not the worst idea, but still totally bullshit," Shane disagrees, heat in his voice, and not in a good way. His frown deepens unhappily. "Why didn't you just ask me?"

"Because you could have refused."

"Of course I wouldn't have refused! I don't care if you know where I live."

"But you care about letting me come here."

"Well yeah, because people might see you in the building where I live. Probably not at this hour of the night, but-"

"So you agree: it was best I ask Pike."

"No I-" Shane closes his mouth firmly and with obvious effort. "Since you're here, I guess you'd better come in—and tell me what's wrong." He turns on his heel and goes in through the door to his apartment, leaving Ilya to follow.

Ilya stares after him for a moment that feels like a week. There will be no going back.

He grabs his gear, whispers, "Okay," and steps over the threshold into the unknown.

Hollander is waiting for him, hovering awkwardly halfway across the room.

"Would you like something to drink?" he asks, and Ilya almost laughs. If it isn't just like Hollander to try to be a good host, even when he's just been roused from sleep at 1:30 in the morning, and especially when he wants the looming conversation as little as Ilya.

Probably even less than Ilya.

Neither of them really knows what to do with themselves when sex is not the first thing on the agenda.

When it is not on the agenda at all.

"Herbal tea?" Hollander suggests.

"Tea," Ilya says flatly, and lets his expression do the rest of the talking.

"It's the middle of the night," Hollander says. "I'm not drinking caffeine."

"I drank much caffeine on the way here. Will probably not sleep at all, anyway," Ilya says. Particularly not if the conversation ends the way he fea- thinks it will. "You have something stronger than tea?"

"There's a bottle of Scotch one of Rose's friends gave me," Hollander says.

One of Rose's friends. Ilya only just stops himself from asking if they gifted the Scotch when Shane and Rose were officially dating, or if it is a more recent acquisition. If Rose Landry's friend is waiting upstairs even now.

"Scotch is fine," he says.

"Okay." Hollander turns away, heading towards the kitchen area.

Ilya drops his gear bag by the door, scuffs off his shoes, and looks around. It's the first and probably the last time he'll get to see inside Hollander's actual personal space, his real habitat, and Ilya can't help but be curious.

Hollander's apartment is, disappointingly, exactly what anyone might have expected it to be: an open, modern layout, spacious and uncluttered, the walls, floor, cabinetry and furnishings a blend of carefully selected neutral tones that complement each other. While there's nothing that stands out as particularly personal, and no sign—two coffee mugs side by side, say—that even hints that this room could be regularly occupied by more than one person, there are still one or two items that break up the pattern just enough to keep things interesting. Items that are very intentionally designed to work as "statements" in a sea of neutral nothingness. One of these is the rug, with its black and white zig-zags, that makes Ilya's eyes hurt if he stares at it for more than a moment. Another is the old-fashioned drinks cabinet over by the wall—where, apparently, Hollander does not keep his Scotch.

Regardless of what one thinks of the overall effect, it screams "very, very expensive interior designer", all of it, except for that… thing over by the window. The thing that stops Ilya from concluding that this apartment is no more Hollander's true home than the half-furnished sex condo.

The window is so big that it would be more accurate to call it a wall made out of glass. And almost all of it is obscured by the… thing.

It's huge and hideous and neither matches nor complements anything else in the room. It looms menacingly, as if emerging from the darkness outside the window. Bits of it, rope-clad poles, climb towards the ceiling, while other parts—sections?—of it fling themselves sideways, or come to a sudden stop, pathways ending in random boxes. The soft light from the nearby floor lamp only serves to bathe the whole of it in sinister shadows.

Ilya would not have picked Hollander as a fan of modern art, still less that he would prove to possess such terrible taste. But that's what it must be, yes? A huge piece of sculpture by an artist who doesn't know the meaning of the word. It looks, almost, like one of those things that people in North America get for their bored indoor cats to climb on—except that it's about four times bigger than even the biggest one Ilya's ever seen.

"Ahem." Hollander clears his throat behind Ilya. "Let's sit down."

They sit on opposing sides of the L-shaped modular sofa; not close enough to touch but near enough to look each other in the eye.

They avoid each other's gaze.

Hollander pours them each a large Scotch. Laphroaig single malt. Not a bad gift. Lacking in imagination, of course, but-

"What is it that you want to say?" Hollander asks.

Ilya picks up his Scotch and contemplates its honey-coloured depths a moment before taking a sip. Scotch whisky does not possess the cold, deadly heat of vodka. Instead, it's deep and rich, and abrades the sides of his throat going down, before kindling a fire deep in his belly.

"Ilya," Hollander prompts.

Ilya sets his glass down on the coffee table. "Maybe you should just say it, Hollander."

"Say what?" Hollander looks at him, properly, a puzzled frown creasing his brows.

Ilya snatches his glass back up and drains the rest of its contents in one go. It's oddly calming, and from somewhere he finds the words. "Say that this is it. That we are done."

There's a moment of heavy silence. Hollander's puzzled face has turned into something else. Is it relief? Or simply shock at being found out? But there is no out to find. They aren't anything now, and they sure as hell weren't anything before. They made no promises, not even the promise that they would hook up again. They never have. Ilya has no right to be here, uninvited. He has no right to any part of Hollander, no say in any choice that he might make.

But Ilya is selfish. Ilya is here. Ilya needs desperately to hear the words from Hollander's lips, to make them real. So-

"Why would I-"

"Who is it?" Ilya bursts out. He wasn't planning to ask. All the way here in the car, he kept telling himself that asking who as well as why is a show of weakness he can't afford. But who is he kidding? Just driving through the night in order to conduct this conversation in person—to have this conversation at all—is a show of weakness in itself. Besides, last time they saw each other Ilya wept in Hollander's—in Shane's—arms. Shane already knows just how weak Ilya is.

"Ilya, you're not making any sense." But Shane has gone very pale. He knows what Ilya just said. And he knows why, even if he's trying to deny it.

"Who is the person you call baby?" Ilya spits out the last word, reckless now that he has revealed himself, now that Shane can see exactly how pathetic and needy he is. He jumps to his feet, unable to sit still. Unable to even look at Shane as he waits for the answer that will surely follow. He strides towards the kitchen island, more to give his legs something to do than out of any real desire to discover which neutral shades Shane's interior designer went wild with in the kitchen.

His eyes light on a pile of neatly stacked small cans at one end of the kitchen island, and then widen as he recognises the label. Tuna? Why the fuck is Shane keeping cans of tuna out on display? As some kind of reminder to himself that Ilya will always, always want too much?

"I don't think I've ever called anybody 'baby' in my life," Shane says. His voice sounds close. He's standing somewhere near, just behind Ilya.

Ilya does not turn around to look at him. Or, rather, Ilya does not intend to turn around to look at him—but suddenly he is.

"I heard you," Ilya says. He gives up the words unwillingly, but they just keep coming anyway. "When I called you the other night. You went away from the phone, but still I heard."

Shane's face does something very complicated then, half trying on one expression and then another, and another, before finally, astonishingly, settling on a small smile.

"You haven't guessed?" he asks softly, his gaze flicking from Ilya to the kitchen island and over to the thing in front of the window.

Ilya tells himself that at least Shane isn't denying it any more. That thought proves to be the opposite of comfort.

"I guessed enough—and then I saw. Tonight. Your interview. I saw the marks on your skin. Do not try to tell me that you put them there yourself."

"No, of course I didn't." The casual way Shane admits to it, as much as the words themselves, is like a knife plunged through Ilya's heart. "But that's what made you rent a car on the spur of the moment and drive from Ottawa to Montreal after a game?"

"Enough," Ilya says, suddenly tired of it all. "Just tell me who it is, and that whatever we were is no more, and I will go." Where, exactly, he'll go is a very good question, one that he hasn't considered until now. Somehow, he hasn't been able to think beyond this moment. He'll go… somewhere. It doesn't matter.

"Come upstairs with me and I'll show you how I got those marks," Shane says, in the same slightly flat, earnest tone that he uses for everything from post-game interviews to giving Ilya his latest hotel room number.

Ilya actually gasps, letting out a little of the shock and pain that grips him at the matter-of-fact coldness of that single sentence. "I would never have believed it. Until this moment. Just would not have." He's shaking his head as he says it, as if continuing to deny it will undo it.

"What?" Shane asks, and now he looks puzzled again.

"That you could be cruel." Ilya's bottom lip trembles. Just barely, but he knows it's enough for Shane to notice.

Shane lifts a hand, as if he's about to reach out, but then lets it drop to his side. "I'm not-" He pauses, eyes narrowing as he considers what to say next. "I might have strung things out a little, because I really didn't appreciate being woken up like that in the middle of the night with no warning. Not when you could have just called me hours ago and asked, asshole."

"Oh really?" Ilya says, withering and relieved about it. Sharp and biting is what he needs to be, not whatever that was a moment ago. "And you would have reacted well if I had called you up and asked a question like that? 'Hello, Shane. How are you? Yes, I am fine, but I saw you on TV just now and couldn't help noticing the scratch marks on your-'"

"All right. Yeah. Maybe not." Shane sighs. "But I'm telling you now: there's no one else. Do you trust that that's the truth? That I would never lie to you about something like that?"

Ilya swallows. His eyes are locked on Shane.

"Ilya? Do you trust me?"

Does he? The question opens a chasm between them. It would take a huge leap of faith to make it to the other side safely, to avoid the sheer drop and the death of hopes that awaits far below.

Does he trust Shane?

Ilya takes a single step towards Shane—and steps right over the chasm. All at once, they're on the same side.

"Yes," he says. "I trust you."

"Good," Shane says. He leans in to push a stray lock of hair back from Ilya's face, and kisses him softly before taking him by the hand. "Now come upstairs with me and I'll show you."

They ascend the stairs hand in hand. It feels… nice. Or it would, if Ilya could be sure of what awaits them upstairs.

Shane leads him in through a door. It's no surprise that it's Shane's bedroom. Ilya takes it in at a glance. It's spacious, like every other room he's seen in this apartment, and barely lived in, also like every other room he's seen in this apartment. A large, chocolate brown rug, soft and thick, covers most of the hardwood floor. A closet takes up one entire wall; the doors are shut, revealing nothing. A dresser stands against the adjoining wall and a chair in the corner, upholstered in shades of brown and with, for some reason, two metal bowls placed under it. A door on the other side of the room leads into an ensuite bathroom.

Finally, Ilya's gaze comes to rest on the bed, Shane's real bed, the one that he must think of when he's on the road, longing for his own space instead of yet another hotel room. This side of the bed has been occupied recently, the pillows disturbed and the covers clearly thrown back in haste. The other side, just as clearly, remains untouched. There are matching lamps on top of twin nightstands, but the one on this side of the bed has a book and a water bottle beside it. That's it. There's nothing else remotely personal to be seen.

Meanwhile, Shane is looking around. "Where is she?" he asks the room at large.

Ilya looks around, too. He trusts Shane when he says there's no one else, but that still doesn't completely rule out the prospect of Rose Landry—Shane's friend—leaping out of the ensuite bathroom and yelling, "Surprise!" as part of the world's most needlessly complicated prank.

But there's nobody in the bathroom. The only thing that looks slightly out of place is the shallow tray in the corner.

"There you are!" Shane exclaims—but Ilya still sees no one.

Then the bed covers move, all by themselves, and Ilya nearly jumps out of his skin. "Motherfucker!"

A second later, a tiny face pushes out from under the duvet. The face is covered in black and white and pale orange fur, and belongs to what proves to be the smallest kitten Ilya's ever seen. The kitten eyes him suspiciously, but it doesn't waste much time on him. It stomps across the sheet, sits down in front of Shane, and lets out a loud, demanding cry that should belong to a much larger cat.

Shane picks the kitten up in one hand as if it weighs nothing. But really, it's so small that it must weigh hardly anything at all. He holds the kitten against his chest and pets it in long, slow strokes from the top of its head down to the base of its short little tail. The kitten snuggles in and starts to purr. Its purr is loud, too.

"Hello, baby. See? I'm back. Everything's okay," Shane tells it in a low, caressing voice that Ilya has never heard before. Never, that is, except for once, during the single phone call they have ever shared.

Ilya watches, transfixed. He is not sure what his face is doing, but it's matched by how he feels: he's not sure what's happening there, either. All he is really certain of is that the sight of Shane cuddling a tiny kitten while he coos at it is making Ilya’s chest feel so tight that he can barely breathe.

"This is why… The scratches… This baby," Ilya says, not very lucidly. "And I thought… I thought…"

"You thought-"

"How long have you had it?" Ilya puts in quickly before Shane can complete that damning sentence. Before Shane can say: you thought I had someone else when all the time it was just a tiny, helpless kitten.

"I found her in the parking garage downstairs a few days ago. I didn't mean to keep her, but she was so little, and she was all alone, Ilya. I couldn't just…" Shane looks down at the kitten as he continues to stroke her and she continues to purr.

Ilya has been tormented for days by the thought of Shane with someone else, he nearly lost his goddamned mind with jealousy, he drove through the night to confront Shane, all because, it turns out, Shane did what any decent person would do. He rescued something in need. And then, because he's Shane, he went the extra mile, and took on the responsibility of looking after it for good.

If Ilya wasn't so relieved, he'd be dying of embarrassment.

The embarrassment still might win.

"Of course you could not. She is a baby," Ilya says. "Just a baby."

He reaches out with a single finger and tickles the fluff under the kitten's ear at the hinge of her jaw. She leans into the touch at once, and her purrs grow even louder.

Shane stares at him. "How did you know she'd like that?"

"Have you never met a cat before?" Ilya asks, quirking one eyebrow at him. "Every cat likes that."

"Actually, I hadn't really met a cat before," Shane admits, like it's some kind of dire failing. "Did you have a cat when you were a kid?"

Ilya shakes his head. "No, but my babushka, my grandmother, did." He almost smiles at the memory. "She taught me the ways of cats." His finger slips down over the kitten's jaw and she immediately lifts her chin, eyes closing in appreciation as he strokes along the line of her throat.

"You definitely know more than I do," Shane says, his eyes following the path of Ilya's finger. "I've only been learning since Monday."

Ilya nods. "That tracks."

Shane looks up sharply. "What do you mean by that?"

"That is when you started being weird." "I started being weird? You're the one who's been all weird and not answering my texts for days."

Ilya shrugs. "It has been a busy week."

"You've been at home for almost all of it," Shane observes, eyebrows raised in a significant look that Ilya chooses very firmly to ignore.

"What is her name?" Ilya asks. He leaves off stroking and the kitten immediately lets out a squeak of protest.

Shane smiles down at her and scritches her head. The complaints stop at once. "I don't know. I haven't found anything that fits her properly yet."

So, asking Shane a question about his tiny cat is even more distracting than asking a question about hockey statistics. Ilya mentally files that away for future reference.

Of course, there's an even easier way to distract him.

Ilya cups Shane's jaw with his left hand, trails his fingers along and down until his middle finger is resting under Shane's chin, tilting it up, drawing Shane's attention away from the kitten in his arms and back to where it should be: firmly on Ilya.

"Is this the longest we have ever stood by a bed together?" he asks. He strokes along the underside of Shane's jaw, just like he did with the kitten, and wonders if he can draw a purr out of Shane as well.

Shane's head falls back, exposing the long, beautiful line of his throat, as he lets out a stuttery breath. What can Ilya do but kiss him, and kiss him in the knowledge that this is not the end? That no one but Ilya gets to see-

"Meeeeyoooowl!"

Shane jerks back, ending the kiss when it's barely begun. "Sorry," he says, and for a split second Ilya thinks that Shane is going to tell him that they can't have sex while there is a baby in the house. That sorry, someone has to leave. This can't go on. Then, when Shane looks down, he realises that Shane is talking not to Ilya but to the kitten, and petting her in apology. "I'll just go put her in the guestroom where she'll be out of the way. Her bed is in there." These words, at least, are for Ilya, even if Shane's hands still belong to the kitten. For the moment.

"Okay," Ilya says. "Be quick. It is very late. I might doze off if you leave me waiting too long."

"I thought you said you'd had so much caffeine you didn't think you'd sleep at all tonight?"

"Come back quickly and we will put it to the test." Even by the soft light from the lamp, Ilya can see the blush staining Shane's cheeks. "Pomidor," Ilya says, with a delighted smile.

"What does that mean?" Shane asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I said it to you the other day, in a text," Ilya says. "You did not look it up?"

"I was busy." Shane holds the kitten out in explanation.

Ilya throws himself down on the unused side of the bed. "I think I am getting sleepy," he says in a sing-song voice, letting his head sink back against the pillows.

"Okay, okay. I'll be right back," Shane says, and disappears out the door with the kitten.

Ilya jumps up as soon as Shane is gone and undresses quickly. He's back on the bed, striking a very deliberate pose, when Shane returns, kitten-less. Ilya is pretty sure he can hear muffled yowls of outrage in the distance somewhere, but they're easy to ignore. Ilya is not mag-something—generous—in victory

Shane stops in the bedroom doorway, stops and stares at the sight of Ilya, nude, and spread out artfully against the covers.

"You're here," Shane says softly, just like he did when he saw Ilya step out of the elevator, and it occurs to Ilya that he's not the only one who's acutely conscious that this will be their first time in Shane's real bed.

"Come," Ilya says, patting the bed beside him. The accompanying look he sends Shane says that he doesn't just mean to come here.

Shane sits down on the side of the bed and shrugs out of his clothes. He folds each item carefully—Ilya would expect nothing less—and places them in a neat stack on the chair in the corner.

When he turns and approaches the bed, it's Ilya's turn to stop and stare. He will never get tired of knowing Shane, in every sense of the word; of knowing the look and feel and taste of what lies beneath his public face, beneath the fierce competitiveness out on the ice, the grace and precision of movement, and the blue and red of Montreal.

He'd thought he was about to lose the right to all of that. All the way here, in the car with Marly, it was all he could think of.

Shane reaches the bed.

Ilya looks up at him, meets his eyes, lets his gaze travel slowly down, lets it linger here and here and especially here. "So you are planning to just stand there indefinitely?"

Ilya pulls Shane down to him just as Shane half flings himself on top of Ilya. Just as well that Shane has a hockey player's upper body strength, and easily props himself up on one hand, or they both would have had the breath knocked out of them.

Ilya wouldn't really have cared that much. He already feels breathless.

"Hi," Ilya says, in another echo from before, hands sliding up to clasp the back of Shane's neck.

"Just to be clear, you're an asshole for waking me up and scaring my kitten," Shane says, and Ilya knows exactly which one of these things is the greater crime in Shane's eyes. "But I'm glad you're here at last." He smiles down at Ilya, pleased with himself, like he's broken some long-held record.

"There is no 'at last'. You could have just invited me here, years ago," Ilya points out.

"I-" Shane begins, but Ilya can wait no longer and pulls him down the rest of the way into a kiss.

Shane does not resist. He never has, not once.

He doesn't resist when Ilya rolls them over, either.

"Where do you keep the lube?" Ilya asks, scattering kisses down Shane's neck.

Shane arches, head sinking back into the pillow, and lets out a long, shaky breath. "Nightstand drawer," he says.

"Ah, Hollander, you're so predictable," Ilya says, and then swallows up Shane's protest with a kiss to his lips. It swiftly deepens as Shane's hands cradle Ilya's face for a moment before sliding up into his hair, arms twining around Ilya's head as Shane's tongue fucks his mouth.

Ilya groans into the kiss. Bozhe, if he hadn't been hard already…

He reaches out with one hand and finds the drawer, still exchanging sloppy kisses with Shane as he rummages for the bottle of lube, their bodies rocking together, impatient to be past the warm-ups and to get on with the main game.

Ilya pulls back and sits up, straddling Shane as he pours out a generous amount of lube and then rubs it slowly between his palms to warm it, taking his time.

His gaze falls on the scratches across Shane's chest, and on his shoulders. Now that he's up this close, Ilya sees that there are more scratch marks than he noticed on TV, some deep enough to draw blood, others smaller and fainter, as fine as cobwebs. Shane's kitten is a menace and Ilya was a fool.

But who expects a kitten? Not Ilya, and not Shane either. And yet here they are.

"Come on, Ilya," Shane whines, bucking his hips.

"Impatient," Ilya tsks, and instead of touching Shane's straining cock, he takes his own in hand. "How long can you wait, do you think?" he asks, stroking lazily along his shaft.

"Fuck you," Shane says, and Ilya grins as he sees the conflict warring in Shane's eyes. He wants Ilya to touch his cock, so badly, but he also wants to… rise to the challenge.

"How long?" Ilya asks again.

"Long enough," Shane grits out, but he's lifted his head a little and he's watching Ilya's every move.

"Is good lube," Ilya says conversationally as his hand slips up and down his cock, gaining a little speed as he feels Shane's hot gaze on him. "Niiiice and slippery. Not too viscous. That is the word, I think?"

"Fuck you. I'm not giving you English lessons now."

"You are not. I already knew that word." He slides his hand up his cock again, and thumbs the slit, before staring down into Shane's eyes. "How. Long?"

Shane shifts against the sheet, turning his head to the side to avoid Ilya's gaze. "As long as you want me to," he says at last. "Asshole."

"The right answer!" Ilya cries, his hands slapping wetly together as he gives Shane a little round of applause. "A point to Hollander."

"Only one?" Shane looks… affronted? Is that the right word for oskorblennyy? Ilya is not about to stop and ask.

"Greedy. I had to ask three times. One point is being generous," he says instead. "Half a point."

"Half a point isn't a thing. It's either a point or it's not," Shane argues.

"My game, my rules," Ilya says, shrugging. "Is not hockey."

"Well it should be," Shane grumbles.

Ilya lets out a bark of laughter. "Hollander, only you," he says fondly.

"Are you going to fuck me or not?" Shane reaches down, as if to-

Ilya slaps his hand away, but gently. "Greedy and impatient."

"Fuck and you."

"No, Hollander. Fuck you. Literally." Ilya grins a shit-eating grin. "Another useful English word I have learned."

"Not so useful if you don't actually do it," Shane says pointedly.

"Oh, I'm planning to do it." This time, on the downward stroke, Ilya lets his hand keep going, slipping down to Shane's inner thigh, sliding along the crease between thigh and hip, skimming his balls with a feather light touch once, twice… Shane's cock jerks, precome leaking from the head. "How long did you say?" Ilya asks, his voice hoarser than before.

He leans down to kiss Shane before he can reply. Or at least that is his intention. But Shane gets there first, reaching for Ilya and capturing his lips in a devouring kiss.

They're both breathing hard when Ilya pulls away.

"Please," Shane whispers.

"Of course, dorogoy," Ilya says, just as softly, slipping in the dangerous endearment as if it is simply a fond chirp like pomidor. "Eventually."

Shane groans and drops his head back into the pillow, his eyes falling shut.

Ilya climbs off Shane, and stands beside the bed a moment, looking down at him. It's a sight just for his eyes. No one else's.

Shane opens his eyes, and any objection he might have been about to make about the delay dies on his lips.

"I'm here," Ilya says.

"You are," Shane agrees.

Their eyes are having another, silent conversation. Or maybe it's the same conversation, but even more scarily honest.

Ilya is the one to look away, and a moment later he's back on the bed, down the end this time. He taps the inside of Shane's knee, and Shane obediently spreads his legs, just like he always does. Ilya is pretty sure that Shane isn't even conscious that it's a thing they do. It's like his response to Ilya's touch is hardwired.

Just Ilya's. No one else's.

"And now I am here," Ilya growls as flops down between Shane's legs and starts kiss-licking his way up the inside of Shane's thigh with broad, teasing strokes of his tongue. When he reaches the top, he buries his face in Shane's pubes, breathing him in, all sweaty and musky and Shane, then turns his head to rub his cheekbone against the side of Shane's cock, just enough to tease, as he feels Shane's fingers tangle in his hair and hears him groan somewhere above. Ilya lifts his head. "Legs," he says, voice not quite steady. And Shane lifts his legs so that Ilya can pull them up and over his shoulders.

Ilya leans in and licks.

By the time he's done, with mouth and tongue and fingers and just enough lube to make Shane slick and ready, Shane is cursing and pleading and moaning Ilya's name, his fingers gripping the mattress so hard that Ilya wouldn't be surprised to find holes torn through the sheet. Shane's powerful, athlete's legs are locked around Ilya's shoulders so tightly that it's altogether possible he'll throw Ilya onto the floor the next time he lifts his hips off the bed.

Ilya grins his anticipation against the puckered skin around Shane's hole, presses one last kiss there when he hears his own name gasped out again, half praise and half a curse. He loves to live dangerously, almost as much as he loves to fuck Shane Hollander, and when he can combine the two…

He leans back as much as he can—not much—and touches two fingers to the inside of Shane's knee. The death grip on his shoulders relaxes instantly, and Ilya frees himself, setting Shane's legs down carefully on the bed on either side of him.

"Soon," Ilya promises as he gets up, but he gives himself a moment to drink in the sight of Shane sprawled on his own bed, to commit the image to memory. Shane's head is thrown back against the pillows, his long, beautiful neck exposed and vulnerable, and his mouth open on a sigh. The sheen of sweat makes his skin glisten gold in the lamplight. He is spread out before Ilya like a feast. A feast that only two will share.

He grips his own cock, and strokes, imagines… But he doesn't have to imagine. Not tonight. He breathes out, slowly and deliberately, drops his hand to his side, and walks to the bathroom. He blinks at the brightness as he turns on the bathroom light and looks down at the floor to avoid the worst of it. He almost laughs when his eyes light on the tray in the corner that he'd noticed earlier, and he realises, incongruously, as he washes the lube off his cock with quick efficiency, that the tray is filled with cat litter.

One mystery solved.

Back in the bedroom, he hunts down his jeans, retrieves the condom that he keeps in his back pocket, rips it open, and rolls it down onto his dick.

"Are you ready for me, Hollander?" he asks as he kneels on the bed between Shane's knees, and grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand to slather it onto his hand.

"Fuck you," Shane breathes, in the way he always does when what he really means is 'fuck me'.

"Right now," Ilya promises, one hand under Shane's ass as he lines himself up. Shane tilts his hips just so, and then Ilya is pressing into the slick tightness of him, at last at last at fucking last, propping himself up on his elbows as he leans in to capture Shane's mouth with his own.

Shane clutches at Ilya's shoulders, his chest, hands sliding down to grab Ilya's ass and then up over his back and into his hair, feverishly desperate as he reaches for any part of Ilya that is, well, within reach as they rock together.

And then it's easy. Easy to get lost in the rhythm, in each other, in the truth that only dares speak its name, in silence, when they're together like this.

Ilya's hand is still on Shane's ass, so it's easy to adjust, easy to get the angle just exactly right, easy to slide his hand up and over Shane's hip and to close it around his cock at last—and impossible to look away from Shane's face as he gets closer and closer, eyes shut and lashes dark against his wildly flushed cheek, bringing the scattering of freckles there into sharp relief, his beautiful plush lips pinker than the rest as they open to gasp—Bozhe—not Rozanov this time but-

"Ilya!"

"Shane," Ilya breathes back. And then, the floodgates open now, "Shane Shane Shane Shane Shane I- What the fuck?"

Shane's eyes fly open as Ilya's head jerks back at the feel of a sudden needle-sharp pain in the middle of his back. A spider? is his first confused thought. Or maybe some sort of weird, over-sized Canadian snow bug? Maybe one that has somehow been trapped in Shane's apartment and fallen from the ceiling, and then decided to bite him? He freezes in place as he feels something scuttling further up his back, onto his shoulder, and then there's that small, stinging pain again and…

There's something soft against his ear???

"Meeeeow!" says Shane's kitten from its precarious perch on Ilya's shoulder, tiny claws digging into his bare skin.

Beneath him, Shane looks up, utterly bewildered at first, then incredulous for a moment, and then he starts to laugh.

"This is not funny!" Ilya protests.

"Oh yes, it is," Shane says, barely getting the words out. He bites down on his lip, but the corners of his mouth are curled up in amusement.

"Perhaps you could stop laughing long enough to get your kitten off me," Ilya suggests in what he feels is a very reasonable tone of voice, all things considered. He tilts his shoulder down towards the mattress, encouraging the kitten to part ways with him, but she digs her claws in harder, scrabbling as she starts to slide…

"Don't let her fall!" Shane reaches up to grab her as her claws drag down Ilya's shoulder. "Come here, baby. It's all right."

"You are reassuring her?"

"She's just a baby!" Shane says, settling the kitten on his chest and stroking along her back.

"She just wounded me," Ilya says, reaching around to touch the claw marks smarting on his shoulder. His fingers come away with a smear of blood on their tips. He holds his hand, palm out, in front of Shane's face like an accusation. "See, she has drawn blood!"

"You did your best to tip her off your shoulder. Of course she tried to hang on!"

Ilya regards the kitten with disfavour.

The kitten blinks sleepily up at him, all innocence, and she starts to purr.

Privately, Ilya thinks that that kitten has never been innocent for a moment of its very short life, but he already knows better than to suggest that to Shane.

"How did she get out?" he asks instead. "Is she escape artist as well as hockey player wrangler now?"

"I don't know. I'm sure I closed the d- Oh!"

"Oh?" Ilya asks.

"I found the guestroom door ajar the day I rescued her, after I shut her in there. I thought I just hadn't closed it properly, but now I think I'd better get someone in to take a look at the latch."

"Good idea, if perhaps just a few days late," Ilya says, with feeling, lifting himself up and balancing on one hand. The mood has been thoroughly killed, enough that even Shane's erection is flagging against Ilya's belly, and he can feel his own cock starting to get soft, still clenched deep inside Shane. He slips out and off, and gets up. "Do you want me to take her back to the guestroom, and maybe block the door with something?" he suggests, trying not to sound too eager.

"No, I'll do it," Shane says, sitting up. He reaches out and catches Ilya's hand, presses a kiss to his knuckles. "And hey, I'm sorry. That wasn't how it was supposed to go."

"No shit," says Ilya. Though of course it wasn't supposed to go at all. Ilya was meant to stay in Ottawa tonight. He was never supposed to set foot in this apartment.

"I'll take her back, and then we'll…" Shane shrugs, and gives a rueful grin that for some reason has Ilya smiling back just a little.

"Make sure that you block the door," Ilya says.

Shane gets up off the bed, kitten clutched carefully against his chest. It looks smug, if such an expression can really be said to exist on a face so lethally cute and soft and furry. "I'll make sure the door is properly shut," he says, which is not nearly the same thing as barricading that little menace inside, but Ilya will take what he can get.

Shane turns toward the door and… Yes! The look on that kitten's face is definitely smug. Maybe it's just as well that Ilya will most likely never be invited back here, if the kitten is going to be in residence. How long do cats live for, anyway? Far longer than this thing with Hollander is likely to last, that much is certain.

Ilya kicks the side of the bed for no reason at all. The sudden pain as he stubs his big toe against the wooden frame hidden beneath the fabric base feels real in a way that some other things probably aren't.

He half-pulls, half-rolls the unused (in any meaningful way) condom off his cock ungently, ties it off out of habit, and tosses it in the trash basket under the bathroom vanity.

He's still standing there when Shane returns, sans kitten.

Shane looks Ilya up and down, clocks the lack-of-condom immediately, and says, colour flooding into his cheeks, "Oh. Do you not w-"

The rest of the words are lost to Ilya's mouth as he pushes Shane back against the wall and kisses him, hard and demanding, fingers splayed across his cheeks, and thumbs digging in beneath the line of his jaw.

Shane kisses him back with that familiar, captivating mix of pliant and aggressively enthusiastic that Ilya's never found in anybody else, hands sliding up to grip Ilya's shoulders, pulling him clos-

Shane pulls away so suddenly that Ilya is left chasing after his lips like he is the one desperate for it.

"What?!" Ilya demands.

"Your shoulder," Shane says. "I've been reading up on cat scratches. You shouldn't leave that untreated. Cat scratch fever isn't something you want to risk."

"What?" Ilya says again, brows knitting together in a frown as he tries to make sense of what Shane has just said. "Hollander, it is literally just a scratch."

But Shane shakes his head, and Ilya recognises the stubborn light in his eyes all too well. "You don't want to know what sort of microbes live under a cat's claws," he says with a barely repressed shudder, and pushes Ilya away—just like he did downstairs when Ilya first arrived. Ilya wonders if this, too, will end in a confrontation.

At least Shane doesn't offer him a drink this time, like he's just a guest. Instead, he goes through to the bathroom, and returns a moment later with a tube of ointment and a small box of tissues.

"Sit down," he says, pointing to the bed.

It doesn't sound like a suggestion. It's not their usual dynamic in any bedroom, but still, Ilya sits.

Shane kneels on the bed beside him and applies the ointment to the scratches on Ilya's shoulder with careful hands before dabbing with a tissue.

"There. All done. You're safe from cat scratch fever," Shane says with a tiny smile.

"Wait. That is a real thing?" Ilya asks, turning to look at him, slightly horrified. "You're not just making it up?"

"Totally real. It's a bacterial infection. Like I told you, I've been discovering a lot about cats lately."

"You have treated your own scratches?" Ilya asks, sending him a hard look from beneath raised eyebrows.

"Of course," Shane says. "Why? Are you concerned or something?" He gets down off his knees and moves to sit on the side of the bed beside Ilya.

"Of course not," Ilya says, with the barest suggestion of a sniff, and leans in a little closer so that he can properly gauge Shane's response to what he says next. "But when Boston is victorious over Montreal next week, I want to be sure it is a fair fight. Is no fun beating the great Hollander, the second-best hockey player in the entire league, if he is weakened by cat fevers."

"I'm not- And it's cat scratch fever, not cat fevers."

"I know what I said," Ilya says, leaning closer.

They're in each other's faces now.

"And you're not going to beat us." Hollander shoves Ilya, just a little, both hands hard against his chest.

"You wish." Ilya shoves back.

Their hands are on each other's shoulders as their eyes meet and hold.

Ilya's not sure who moves first. Maybe it's both of them at the exact same time. But then Ilya is kissing Shane, and Shane is kissing Ilya, his hands sliding up the sides of Ilya's face to tangle in his curls and it's… soft, gentle, sweet—and no real surprise at all when Shane sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Ilya, takes his dick between his lips, and sucks Ilya to hardness. But he doesn't stop there, and soon it's Ilya whose fingers twist, unbidden, in Shane's hair and then dig in hard against Shane's scalp with each damning moan that escapes his lips, Ilya whose half-broken, raspy voice urges Shane on—"Fuck, Shane, fuck"—as Shane demonstrates exactly how well he's learned the ways of Ilya's body since that night in a Toronto hotel room all those years ago, and Ilya who spends himself deep in Shane's throat while his gaze is locked and lost in the depths of Shane's eyes.

Afterwards, Ilya flops backwards onto the sheets, and Shane crawls up to join him there. They trade lazy kisses for a while, the taste of Ilya heavy on Shane's lips, the kisses becoming progressively less lazy as Ilya's hand slips down to find Shane's dick, until at last the rest of him slips down to join his hand and remind Shane just who is the champion cocksucker around here.

Ilya has to kiss him afterwards. "It was worth the wait, yes?" he murmurs against Shane's lips. "No thanks to your kitten," he can't resist adding, and then wishes that he'd left the words unsaid.

"I can't believe you're still jealous," Shane says, rolling his eyes, but there's a smile in his voice.

"I? I am Russian. I am not jealous of anyone—or anything."

"You turned up outside my apartment at 1:30 in the morning, after getting the address under false pretences, to confront me about-"

"Yes, yes. There is no need to go over it again. We were both there."

"Ilya, you were jealous of a kitten. Do you really think I'm going to just let that go?"

Ilya can feel the heat flushing swiftly up his neck and into his cheeks. He suspects that protesting that Russians do not blush will not help this time. Not with Shane lying so close to Ilya that he could lick the skin in question if he wanted to.

He probably doesn't want to. He seems intent on talking about… things.

"I should go," Ilya says, in an almost certainly futile attempt at redirecting the conversation.

"Go? Where are you going to go?" Shane lifts himself up on one elbow, apparently just so that he can look down at Ilya and frown that judgy little frown at him. "It's the middle of the goddamn night, and you don't have a hotel room. At least, you don't have one in Montreal."

Or maybe not such a futile attempt.

“Marly will pick me up, if I call.”

“Marlow’s probably getting some well-deserved sleep.” Shane reaches out, gently strokes Ilya’s temple and along the rise of his cheekbone. “Stay,” he says, very softly.

Ilya freezes. That’s another echo, but not one from earlier tonight. Ilya said ‘stay’ to Shane once before, and it broke them apart.

“You know what you’re asking,” he says at last. It’s not quite a question.

“Yes,” Shane says. The expression on his face is utterly serious, his lips set in a firm, determined line. There's no quiet, unexpected humour lurking in the background, no kitten to distract. There's just… them. The two of them. Together. “Stay here, with me, for the rest of the night, and in the morning we’ll get up and have breakfast together like… like people do. You can call Marlow and he can… I dunno, drive the two of you to the airport.”

"Do you really want me to be seen leaving your apartment first thing in the morning?"

"Not first thing. That would make it look like you spent the night here."

"It wouldn't just make it look like it, Ilya points out.

"Later than that," Shane continues, undeterred. "Then maybe you just… dropped by. Briefly. For some reason."

"Yes, I dropped by to f- talk to my great rival in Montreal while on my way from Ottawa to Boston. A very obvious thing for me to do."

"I don't see why you're arguing against this so hard. It's not like you have anywhere to go right now," Shane says with a huff.

Ilya eyes him. "Fine," he says flatly. "I will stay. But only because the alternative is probably freezing on park bench somewhere."

"Naturally," Shane says, with a bitchy little eyeroll that has Ilya suppressing a smile. "I'm glad that's settled." He sits up. "I'm going to take a shower."

He doesn't invite Ilya to join him, but he also doesn't not invite him either.

Ilya joins him.

Afterwards, they get into bed together. They've been in, or at least on, countless beds over the years, mostly in hotel rooms. They've rarely done this with intent before, though. Not with intent to share more than their bodies, and never with intent to spend (what remains of) the night.

It's surprisingly easy. Ilya has already observed that Shane sleeps on the left hand side of the bed, so Ilya takes the right. After Shane turns off the lamp, they lie there on their sides a moment, facing each other, before coming together in unspoken agreement, arms wrapping around each other as their legs tangle below. Ilya ends up with his face tucked in against Shane's neck. He takes the opportunity to press a trail of kisses there, and soon he has Shane arching his neck, pushing his head back against the pillow.

"I'm sorry," Shane says on a breathy little moan, as if confiding a secret to the dark.

"For what?" Ilya says, voice muffled against Shane's neck. But the rest of him goes still.

"I know you like my neck."

"You do not need to apologise to me for making it so alluring," Ilya says, punctuating his statement with another small kiss.

"What?" Shane's voice suddenly sounds sharper. "I'm not apologising for that. And don't call it alluring."

"Why not?"

"Because…" Shane makes an impatient sound. "It doesn't matter."

"But you just said you were sorry. It sounds like it does matter somehow."

"How do we end up in these sorts of conversations?"

Ilya can feel Shane tensing in his arms, less and less relaxed with every passing second. He reaches up to find the tight knot that lives between Shane's shoulderblades, and rubs his hand there in slow, soothing circles.

"Because you start by saying sorry, but not what for," Ilya says. Possibly his words are less soothing than his touch, because if anything Shane gets tenser.

"Okay then. I'm sorry I got weird about that picture you sent."

"Which picture would that be? I send you many pictures," Ilya says, and really it's only the truth.

"You know which one, asshole."

"Tell me anyway. Maybe I have forgotten."

Shane sighs a long-suffering sort of sigh.

Ilya grins in the darkness, and presses another kiss into Shane's neck.

"The one of my neck, where my head's fallen back, and even though you can't see my face, or much of anything else, it's clear that I'm… you know."

"Oh, yes. I know," Ilya purrs.

"You're not making this easy. You know that, right?" Shane says, irritated. "Anyway, it might have been a bit of an overreaction, the other day, when I said not to send any more pictures."

"It might have? You think so?"

"Fine. It definitely was. But that picture was so…"

"Yes. That is why it is moy lyubimyy."

"What does that mean?" Shane asks.

"It means 'my favourite'," Ilya says, and it's not a lie, but he wonders if it qualifies as a sin of omission not to mention the other meaning of that word. Not to admit that that picture is his favourite of his… favourite.

"You really do like my neck, huh?" Shane asks, and Ilya can hear the sudden blush in his voice. "God, you're weird."

"I am weird? What about when you t-"

"Why don't we just try going to sleep," Shane cuts in loudly, or at least louder. Too loud for a conversation conducted when they're wrapped in darkness and each other. He seems to realise this, because his voice is softer when he adds, "It must be… god knows what time by now."

"God knows," Ilya agrees, completely failing to suppress a yawn. Well, not actually trying to suppress it at all. It's been a long, long day. Perhaps the longest of his life. "Good night, Shane." He knows it's another echo, but this time it's a good one. One that says they're on the same page, like they were by the time they left Tampa.

"Good night, Ilya." Shane shifts, finds Ilya's nose and chin and finally his mouth in the dark. It's a soft kiss, a good night kiss, over in not much more than an instant.

Ilya is still feeling the echo of it on his lips when he drifts off to sleep.

If he hears the unhappy cries of an imprisoned kitten in the distance, he's too tired to care.

~*~

Ilya wakes with the dawn, to find Shane propped up on one elbow, watching him.

"What?" Ilya asks, still more asleep than waking.

"It's just… nice to have company for once." Shane shrugs.

A name hovers on the tip of Ilya's tongue. He does not give it voice. "Now you have a kitten, you can have company every night that you are home," he observes, propping himself up on one elbow, mirroring Shane.

"A pet isn't the same. I can talk to it, but it can't talk back."

"You want me to talk back?"

"Can I stop you?"

Ilya shrugs. "Maybe even a slow fucking hockey player can find a way."

Quick as a flash, or maybe just as quick as the fastest skater in the league, Shane grabs Ilya and pulls him close. There's a brief tussle as they roll across the sheets, and Ilya winds up on top.

"I can think of better things you could be doing with that mouth than talking," Ilya says honestly, and leans down to kiss him.

There's no more talking for a long time.

~*~

Ilya wakes again to bright sunlight streaming in through the slats of the blind.

He's alone.

He checks his phone. It's just after 8:00 in the morning.

He fires off a quick text.

Ilya: good morning

Marly: how are you awake?
Marly: relieved to see that your alive tho.
Marly: I don't wanna think what coach would do to me if came back without you

Ilya: of course I am alive

Marly: and?

Ilya: And what?

Marly: any other news???

Ilya: No Marly. Nobody proposed

Marly: really? I was pretty sure. But things are OK now???

Ilya: Yes Cliff, things are okay between me and Jane

Marly: Thank Christ. No offense Ilya, but the team likes you better when janes on the scene

Ilya: I do not know how you can tell the difference
Ilya: But thank you for coming with me last night. You're a good friend

Marly: you'd do the same for me

Ilya: let's hope we never need to
💯
Ilya: Can you pick me up outside Jane's building an hour from now?

Marly: sure thing
Marly: and in the meantime Ill see when I can book us on a flight back to boston

Ilya: yes. Thank you. Do that.
Ilya: see you in an hour
👍

Ilya: no, two hours
Ilya: actually make it noon

Marly: are you sure you dont want to propose?

Ilya: Fuck off

Marly: pretty sure thats what your going to be up to
🖕

Ilya puts down his phone and gets up. He uses the bathroom and dresses quickly in last night's clothes since his gear bag is still by the front door.

He finds the guestroom door wide open when he emerges from the bedroom; there's no sign of the kitten. But Ilya can hear Shane's voice floating up from downstairs.

"Baby, no!"

Ilya grins as he hurries down the stairs. It's clear that Shane is only now starting to realise what he's gotten himself into with that little hellspawn.

He finds Shane in the act of removing the kitten from the curtain beside what, now he can see it clearly in the light of day, is obviously an insanely large cat tree. It's big enough for half a dozen full-grown cats to share, probably.

"Good morning," Ilya says.

Shane finally manages to unhook all of the kitten's claws from the curtain, and turns around. There's a smile on his face, a sight that is only slightly detracted from by the fact that there's a kitten in his arms.

"Good morning," Shane says back.

They stand there and stare at each other for a moment. Should they kiss good morning like they kissed good night last night? Ilya doesn't know. It feels like the rules have changed, but no one has bothered to inform him of exactly how.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Shane asks, just as Ilya says: "That is a very large cat tree."

Shane sighs. "Yeah. I got the biggest one they had. It took me an entire evening to put together. But she prefers the curtain, at least so far."

In Shane's arms, the kitten purrs. Loudly. Of course she prefers the curtain, or anything that brings her Shane's immediate attention.

"So, breakfast," Shane continues. He crouches to set the kitten gently down on the floor, and then leads the way to the kitchen. "I'm making a protein shake for myself, but I've got cereal, fruit, eggs and wholemeal bread from the German bakery round the corner. I can make you some toast."

"Thank you," Ilya says, but he's only half listening, his attention drawn like a magnet to the stack of small cans on the far end of the kitchen island. "The tuna is for your kitten?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

"Uh, yeah." Shane grabs a knife and gets back to work on the half-sliced banana lying on the board in front of him. "She only gets a little bit as a treat, but she really likes it. It's how I lured her out when I found her hiding in the parking garage." He finishes chopping up the banana and looks up. "I had a whole lot of tuna just taking up space in the pantry. I didn't want to eat it so… it's good that she does."

"You didn't want to eat it," Ilya repeats.

"No, I didn't." Just three words, but the look on Shane's face speaks volumes.

"Past tense," Ilya notes. He takes a deep breath. "Do you think you might want to eat it now? If someone were to make you a tuna melt, say?" It feels like the last echo of things past, like Shane's response will close the circle and then they can move on. Assuming that he makes the right response.

"I guess I could eat a tuna melt," Shane says, with a tentative smile. "I-"

There's a crash from over by the window, and the tinkle of broken glass.

"How did she-" Ilya begins, staring at the floor lamp lying on its side.

"Baby! Where did you go?" Shane is already running across the room.

"Under the sofa, I think," Ilya says.

"I really need to decide on a name," Shane says, crouching down to take a look. "She just ignores me when I call her 'baby'."

"You really think she will respond to anything else you call her?"

"Maybe not, but she still needs a- There you are! Come on, come out. It's safe."

Ilya gets down on his stomach beside Shane and peers under the sofa. A pair of small, shining eyes peer back. The kitten does not budge from its hiding place, beyond the reach of Shane's arm.

Ilya gets back to his feet, leaving Shane to his doomed attempts to reason with a cat. He grabs a can of tuna, opens it, and takes it back over to the sofa.

"Move out of the way," he tells Shane.

Shane raises his eyebrows, about to object, but when he sees the can in Ilya's hand he just says, "Okay," and does what he's told.

Ilya sets the can of tuna down on the floor, just far enough away from the sofa that the kitten will have to come out into the open to reach the food.

"Tuna," Ilya calls softly, and takes a step back.

There's a rustling sound under the sofa, and then the kitten's head pops out, her nose sniffing the air. She leaps on the can of tuna, and sticks her face right into it, eating fast, as if she's afraid the food might be taken away from her at any moment, while she makes a weird little purr-growl noise, half satisfaction, half warning.

Shane sits down beside the kitten, petting her gently and murmuring to her softly.

"Well, there is one word she responds to," Ilya says.

"Hmmn?" Shane asks, looking up.

"Tuna. She came running when I called."

"I think maybe that was just the smell." Shane frowns slightly, considering. "I have been saying the word most times when I give it to her. Maybe she's starting to recognise it." A few days is probably too soon, and the kitten's also likely way too young to have any idea of what a name means, but… "Tuna," Shane says, in the way one does when calling a pet or a small child.

The kitten looks up, very briefly, and then returns to the important business of eating.

"I think," Ilya says slowly, "that you don't need to name her. It looks like she has already found her name."

Shane looks down at the kitten. "I think you could be right." He strokes her from the top of her head down to the base of her tail. "Is that your name, Tuna?" he asks her. The purring, growling noise grows louder.

"That sounds like a yes," Ilya says.

"Well, I'm glad you've finally got a name, Tuna, but you've had enough tuna," Shane tells the kitten firmly, lifting her up and away. Tuna struggles in his arms, all of her attention on the can of tuna. "You're such a little piglet." Shane smiles down at her fondly, and gets to his feet.

Then, to Ilya's complete surprise, Shane holds out Tuna to him.

"Can you hang on to her while I clean up the broken glass?" he asks. And then, ducking his head and looking almost shy, he adds, "After that maybe we could have those tuna melts?"

"Of course, lyubimyy," Ilya says, as he takes the wriggling, squirming kitten from Shane.

Shane looks at him, brows creased in mild puzzlement. "You're calling me 'favourite'?" he asks.

"My favourite Metro," Ilya says quickly, which is true, so far as it goes. "What, you think it would be Pike?"

"No, of course not. It's just…"

"Go clean up the glass. I will look after Tuna."

"Yeah, okay," Shane says, but he smiles in a way that has Ilya grinning back.

It's just as well that no one but Shane can see whatever expression is on his face right now. He sort of wishes that even Shane couldn't see it.

Ilya makes himself look down at the kitten in his arms. "Come, Tuna, we will play while your papa makes the floor safe for you," he tells her, and takes her over to the sofa.

He sets her down on the seat beside him and pulls the sleeve of his hoodie down over his hand, waving his arm in front of Tuna enticingly. She watches with wide eyes, her head jerking this way and that as she follows the snake-like movements.

And then she unleashes her offensive strategy, leaping straight at the Enemy, teeth and claws sinking through the fabric just enough for Ilya to feel them like pinpricks on his skin as she wraps her front legs around his arm and bunny kicks his elbow.

He pets her with care while making little, provocative growls deep in his throat. He grins as she kicks even harder and makes tiny, frustrated squeaks when she tries to redirect her attack and he moves his bare hand out of harm's way.

It's the first time he's really looked at Tuna properly, and now he takes a moment to study her. She's no oil painting, as Marly would probably say, but she's full of passion and determination, which makes her much more interesting than some conventionally pretty, docile pet—just so long as Shane keeps her out of the bedroom when Ilya is here. There's no pattern to her colouring, but the random mix of black and white and pale gold that makes up her coat is more than familiar: the black and gold of Boston's uniform, plus the white of their away game kit.

Tuna is a loud, demanding menace with blue-green eyes, wearing Boston colours, who is only truly happy when being touched by Shane.

Sounds familiar, somehow.

Shane Hollander has a type.

He probably already knows. It's pretty fucking obvious.

Ilya's going to have so much fun pointing it out. He can already see the angry kitten face that Shane will make when he does.

~*~

In memory of Jessie <3

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos ALWAYS welcome.

 

Russian:

Babushka - grandmother
Pomidor - tomato
Bozhe - Christ
Oskorblenyy - affronted
Dorogoy - sweetheart
moy lyubimyy - my favourite, but also my beloved, my darling

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cover: Angry Kitten by Luthien by nomsy