Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Characters Watching the Show, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Goes to Therapy, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Little Shit, no beta we die like scott hunter soon

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Words: 23,720 Chapters: 1/6

Yesterday is History

Summary

Ilya wakes up confused. He’s pretty sure he fell asleep at home, in bed, with Shane fast asleep in his arms, but he wakes up on a flat surface with a pinch in his lower back. Had he fallen off the bed in the middle of the night? Neither he nor Shane move much in their sleep, but he supposes it isn’t impossible.

He levers himself up on one hand, stretching out his back slightly as he sits up. He’s definitely not in his bedroom anymore. The room he’s in is large and full of bulky hockey players spread out across the floor. Their soft groans and quiet questions begin to filter in his ears as they wake up as well. He sees some players he knows are on the Voyageurs, some of his own teammates, some coaching staff, and even some WAGs like Jackie Pike and Cassie Boodram. But the most important person in the room is laid out next to him, face slack and peaceful with sleep.

“Shane,” Ilya urges, shaking him. “Shane, wake up.”

- or

The obligatory characters watch their own show fic.

Notes

Hello!! This work takes place after The Long Game so SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

This draws on mostly show canon, but book canon for after the last episode. Also I use Bears/Voyageurs instead of Raiders/Metros which is probably annoying, sorry. I just got Bears/Voyageurs stuck in my head whenever I read or write anything about it! I can watch the show, and it doesn't annoy me, but I can't write Raiders/Metros.

A great majority of this work is a transcription of the show I made while rewatching, and I obviously do not claim ownership over any of it whatsoever! The dialogue and actions of the characters "on screen" is directly taken from the show and not my own original work. The reactions of the other characters to the show is.

It took me forever to write this one chapter, so don't expect an update anytime soon! I just wanted to put this out there! I'm a full-time student (a senior in college ah help) and have a ton going on, but I'll write when I can and have the motivation.

Hope you enjoy!

P.S. This is not proofread at all, so please have mercy on me for any mistakes I made. I don't have the time to read it over again (crying).

Ilya wakes up confused. He’s pretty sure he fell asleep at home, in bed, with Shane fast asleep in his arms, but he wakes up on a flat surface with a pinch in his lower back. Had he fallen off the bed in the middle of the night? Neither he nor Shane move much in their sleep, but he supposes it isn’t impossible.

He levers himself up on one hand, stretching out his back slightly as he sits up. He’s definitely not in his bedroom anymore. The room he’s in is large and full of bulky hockey players spread out across the floor. Their soft groans and quiet questions begin to filter in his ears as they wake up as well. He sees some players he knows are on the Voyageurs, some of his own teammates, some coaching staff, and even some WAGs like Jackie Pike and Cassie Boodram. But the most important person in the room is laid out next to him, face slack and peaceful with sleep.

“Shane,” Ilya urges, shaking him. “Shane, wake up.”

Shane stirs, his nose scrunching up adorably and stretching the freckles that dot the bridge of his nose. He takes a big breath as his big, beautiful brown eyes blink up at Ilya.

“Ilya?” he says, voice raspy and deep in a way that would have Ilya immediately jumping on top of him if they were in their bedroom at home. Shane sits up as well, Ilya gently guiding him with firm hands. “Where are we?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Ilya responds.

They both take a moment to take in the rest of the room. The noise level has risen as almost everyone has woken up. People are grouped together, finding their teammates and families among the crowd and sticking together. Everyone looks panicked, so Ilya is going to assume none of them fell asleep on the floor of this random room either.

He spots some of his fellow Centaurs heading his way, gravitating toward their captain. Shane’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension under Ilya’s firm hand as their teammates converge on them. Even after only one season with the Centaurs, Shane is so much more comfortable and free. The guys and all the staff had welcomed him with open arms, giving Shane a new sort of freedom that Ilya was so sure he’d only ever see in a secluded cottage, far far away from the rest of the world.

“Roz!” Wyatt Hayes says, offering him a hand to stand up. He takes up and levers himself up, accepting the quick bro-hug from his favorite goalie. Next to him, Troy Barrett does the same for Shane. “Do you know what’s happening?” Hazy asks. His wife, Lisa, stands behind him, looking nervous but relieved to see some familiar faces.

“No,” he says. “I do not think anyone does.”

They all share an anxious look as the rest of their teammates converge. Coach Wiebe is here, as well as Harris, who is clinging to Troy’s arm. Ilya takes the opportunity to grab Shane’s hand in his own, squeezing tightly. His husband meets his gaze, and Ilya can see the panic creeping in, the way tension forms around his eyes, and shoulders. Ilya takes a deep breath, and Shane copies him, smiling gratefully, but it struggles to meet his eyes.

The room begins to quiet down in waves, and the Centaurs all perk their heads up to see what caused it. As the room slowly silences, they hear a loud voice taking command on the other side of the room.

“Quiet now, please. I understand you’re all scared. We are too. Let’s just quiet up and see what we can find out, okay?” It’s Roger Crowell, commissioner of the NHL and Ilya’s sworn enemy, even if he doesn’t know it. He shares a loaded look with his husband before stepping closer with the rest of his team, joining the crowd of other players. 

The group ahead of them mainly consists of Voyageurs players and staff, which makes it a little awkward. That is, until J.J. Boiziau, Hayden Pike, and Jackie Pike push their way through the crowd, greeting Ilya and Shane with grateful but nervous hugs.

“Okay, everyone,” Crowell starts, “I know you’re all probably scared and wondering how you got here, and we’re wondering the same thing. It appears there are no ways to leave this room, but please, let’s all remain calm.” A ripple goes through the crowd, and people hang on to their friends and family. 

Crowell holds up a piece of paper and a remote. “This is all we could find to explain why we’re here,” he says. “I’ll read the note to you now. It says: Sit and watch. I’m sure you’ll find it all quite interesting. You will not leave until it's over.” 

Once again, ripples travel through the crowd, louder and more panicked this time. Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand so tight that their fingers turn white, but Ilya is squeezing back just as hard, so he says nothing.

“Now, after searching this room and determining that there is no other way out, my vote is that we follow along and watch whatever video this is.” At this, there is uproar, players shouting, wives sobbing, coaches swearing. 

“Quiet!” Crowell shouts, repeating himself until the noise dies down. “I know it's not ideal,” Crowell states. “But we have no idea what this person or these people are capable of. The Centaurs were home tonight. The Voyageurs were in San Jose. The Admirals in Florida. The Bears in Toronto. And so on. That’s not even counting all the loved ones I see in the room here today.”

The room is quiet with the weight of what Crowell is saying. Shane shoots Ilya a panicked glance. How did they all get here? How did no one get hurt? How did they all wake up at the same time? Ilya swallows, looking back at Crowell.

“So, we will watch the video and determine further action based on what we see,” he says. “We have no reason to believe anyone will be hurt if we follow these instructions. Let’s try our best to all get home safe.” He motions everyone over to a bunch of chairs and couches laid out behind him, covered in comfy looking pillows and blankets. Shane and Ilya share another look.

Ilya nudges his husband. “That was almost inspirational,” he says. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”

Shane huffs out a tense laugh from his nose. “Come on,” he leads Ilya by the hand. “Let’s sit.”

The players, staff, and families all migrate to the couches and chairs, generally sticking with their teams. It looks like all the Centaurs are there, likely all the Voyageurs. Most of the Bears are there as well, and Ilya sends a friendly nod toward Marlow when they lock eyes. Some of the Admirals seem to be wandering about as well, and Ilya catches a glance of Scott and Kip. Oddly enough, all of their Irina Foundation Camp coaches seem to be there as well. He sees Leah and Max, and that hulking body attempting to melt into the corner looks a lot like Ryan Price. Once again, Ilya finds his husband’s gaze and finds the same apprehension on Shane’s face that he feels.

Eventually, the group settles into an uncomfortable silence. The Centaurs all got pushed toward the middle, forming a loose group by filling in whatever chairs and couches were available, but the groups are the least defined in this area. Ilya sits on the far end of a cozy blue couch. Shane sits next to him, and Hayden is next to Shane with Jackie at the other end of the couch. Luca Haas is in the single arm chair next to Ilya’s side of the couch, Scott and Kip sit on a nearby loveseat. Cassie, Bood, and (oddly) J.J. share another, slightly smaller couch. Wyatt, Lisa, Troy, and Harris share the couch in front of them, and Wiebe settles uncertainly in a nearby arm chair, and the rest of the team and their friends settle around them.

“All right,” Crowell says, standing up in front of his armchair near the front of the room. He points the remote toward the giant screen and presses play. “Here goes nothing.”

For a tense moment, nothing happens. Then, in the darkness, a loud clicking noise is heard. To Ilya, it sounds like the repeated clicking of a well-worn lighter. The picture fades in, and Ilya finds himself looking at his own back, over a decade ago. He remembers this moment so clearly. It’s when he met the love of his life. On screen, Young Ilya turns, showing the rest of the room his face. 

Murmurs travel across the room, many players looking around for Ilya. Coach Wiebe meets his gaze questioningly, and he just shrugs, at a loss.

“Ilya Rozanov?” comes his perfect husband’s voice. But not from next to him on the couch. The voice is younger, higher. Next to him, Shane hugs Ilya’s arm to his chest, and Ilya leans into his husband, brow furrowed in confusion. 

The camera pans to Shane. He looks so cute and little, Ilya could just die. “Shane Hollander,” he says, holding out his hand. “I– I wanted to introduce myself.”

Ilya on screen says nothing, looking Hollander up and down with a stern, vaguely annoyed expression on his face. It’s weird for Ilya to see himself from this perspective because he knows at the time he was just trying really hard to translate the English words in his head. He leans over and tells his husband so, and Shane giggles quietly. 

“Oh,” Shane on screen says when Ilya resumes attempting to light his cigarette, “I’m– I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here.” 

Young Ilya takes a long drag from his newly lit cigarette, blows it out and replies simply, “Okay.”

The tension breaks a little as everyone around the room laughs. Some people near the two of them shove them or clap a firm hand on Ilya’s shoulder. 

Troy turns around to look at them. “Damn Rozy,” he says. “Savage.”

Ilya laughs good-naturedly. “I did not know much English,” he says. “Little Canadian boy speaks so fast.”

People around him giggle, relieved to experience some familiar banter in an unsure situation. Shane melts a little more into his side, and Ilya shifts to accommodate him.

“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Young Shane says. 

“Yes,” Young Ilya says. More laughs. 

Hayden gently shoves Shane. “A real charmer, huh? Oh, I totally get it now.”

Young Shane leans up against the wall, and they stand for a moment in the cold together. He finally says, “Anyways, I–I should go. They’re waiting for me. But, um, good luck in the tournament.” He holds out his hand again, and Young Ilya takes it.

Hayden chuckles softly. “You’re so awkward, buddy,” he says fondly.

Young Shane starts to walk away, only for Young Ilya to call out after him. “You will not be so nice when we beat you,” he says, his accent much thicker than it is now.

Young Shane turns around with a big, goofy smile on his face. “That’s not happening,” he says.

“Wow,” Ilya whispers to his husband. “You were already so gone for me. Look at your little face.”

Shane shoves him, but he doesn’t pull away. “You were too, asshole,” he whispers back.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I was.”

Someone fake gags behind them, and Ilya a middle finger back at them.

“See you in final,” Young Ilya says, and Young Shane walks away, waving. He smirks as he takes another drag from his cigarette.

Music begins playing and text pops up on the screen: “December 2008” and then “Regina, Saskatchewan” and eventually “International Prospect Cup.”

An announcer’s voice plays over the video, saying, “It may be cold in Saskatchewan, but here at the International Prospect Cup, fans are hoping for something hot on the ice.”

The video shifts to show a montage of the Canada Juniors team practicing on the ice, zooming in on Young Shane’s back.

“A Canada-Russia final,” the announcer continues as the video switches to the Russian team practicing, “showcasing the two most talked about prospects in the world: Canada’s Shane Hollander and Russia’s Ilya Rozanov.”

The video switches between the two practices, getting close and closer to the two prospects in question.

“First, you’ve got Ottawa’s own Shane Hollander. From everything we’ve seen and heard, he may not be the most sociable,” more laughs and shoves from friends, “but this is the kid with the highest hockey IQ out there. Incredibly smart, incredibly dedicated to the game and incredibly fast.” 

The video shows a montage of Young Shane’s plays in practice, and Ilya can’t help but be endeared by the smaller silhouette of his husband and the way he skates circles around his teammates. He squeezes Shane’s hand. “And that shot!” the announcer says as he shoots and scores.

The camera follows Young Shane’s gaze up into the stands where Young Ilya sits alone, watching the practice while slumped in his seat, chewing on his hoodie string.

“Okay,” Hazy says. “If I didn’t get it before, I do now.” He flails his arms around. “This whole rivalry was just sexual tension! This whole time!” Hazy wasn’t being quiet, so the entire room reacts. Most laugh, but as Ilya looks towards some of the Voyageurs, he sees some sour faces. Ilya scowls.

“Then you’ve got Russia’s Ilya Rozanov.” The camera switches to a montage of Young Ilya in practice next. Everyone winces as he checks a teammate roughly into the boards.

“Never change, Roz,” Bood says.

The announcer continues, “Strong on the puck and a strong skater. And from everything we’ve heard, he really gets under other players’ skins.” The video shows him antagonizing a teammate.

“That’s an understatement,” Hayden says.

“Good in his own room, not exactly liked in his opponent’s room.”

The other announcer says, “My kind of player.”

“Boston’s kind of player too.”

The camera follows Young Ilya’s gaze this time, showing Young Shane and Yuna sitting alone together in the stands watching the game. Shane sits up on the back of the chair. 

Hazy gestures wildly at the screen, as if saying “See??”

Young Ilya gazes off into the stands before his coach yells at him in Russian. Captions on the bottom of the screen read: “Rozanov! Is there something more important going on?” Young Ilya shakes his head. 

The screen blacks, and the text “One Week Later” dominates the screen before showing the final buzzer after the finals round of the 2008 International Prospect Cup. The Russians celebrate, throwing their gloves in the air as a devastated Young Shane skates hunched over in front of the camera.

The announcer says, “A heartbreaking loss for a young Canadian team still searching for an identity despite an incredible showing from the teenage phenom Shane Hollander. He just couldn’t get past that elite Russian defense.”

The two teams skate up to shake hands with each other. 

“And more importantly, Ilya Rozanov kept getting past theirs.”

Shane nudges him, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Harris says.

Ilya gasps dramatically, hand on his heart. “Harris!” he says. 

When Young Ilya reaches Young Shane in line, he leans over with a smirk on his face. “See you at the draft,” he says. Shane looks annoyed.

“You little shit,” Scott says.

“You old shit,” Ilya says back.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Scott replies, and Ilya shrugs.

Over the rest of the handshaking, a title card appears, reading “Heated Rivalry.” If Ilya wasn’t sure that this whole thing was about them, he’s damn well sure now. He turns to Shane and finds panic on his face. He pulls his husband in for a quick peck and smooths his free hand over the back of his head and neck, squeezing his next gently but firmly.

“It’ll be okay,” he says. “We’re good. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I know,” Shane whispers. “But…”

“I know,” Ilya says. Shane is so private, this has got to be killing him. He pulls him, tucking Shane’s head under his chin, so that Shane is resting more on top of Ilya than not. He smooths his hand gently up and down Shane’s back as Shane releases a shaky breath. Ilya can feel eyes on them, but he pointedly doesn’t meet their eyes. 

The screen blacks out, and the title card is soon replaced by “Six Months Later.” The video shows a big open space with tall tables where nicely dressed adults stand talking politely in small groups. More text pops up on screen, reading “Los Angeles.” Young Shane can be seen in the back.

The video shifts to show Young Shane, Young Ilya, and the third overall draft pick in a press room in their nice suits. Cameras flash, and text on screen reads “National Hockey League Draft.” 

The three draftees hold up their new jerseys, and a camera man offscreen says, “All right, boys, looking over here. Flash me those numbers.” They flip their jerseys around. “Ha! Number three’s excited.” The boys hold up fingers to show where they were picked in the draft. Ilya holds up a one with a broad, shit-eating smile on his face. Shane, looking much less enthused, brings his hand up slowly and forces a smile. “There’s one. Where’s number two? There we go. Can I get a smile please? Yeah, that’s better! All right.”

Hayden quickly loses the battle with holding in his laughter and cracks up. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he tells Shane. “You’re so serious, and Rozanov was just–” he dissolves into chuckles again, and many players join him. Ilya relaxes when Shane huffs out a laugh, melting into Ilya’s chest. Perhaps Hayden’s not that bad. Maybe.

The video shifts to the room from before, but closer this time, showing Young Shane, David, and Yuna talking to a Voyageurs representative at a table. Young Shane stares off into space.

The man across the table speaks as the camera zooms in on Young Shane. “I can’t tell you how excited Montreal is about all this,” he says. “We don’t care that he came in number two.”

“Shut up,” Shane whispers to him.

“I didn’t say anything,” Ilya responds, but he can feel the grin stretching across his cheeks.

Shane just huffs and directs an angry-kitten glare at him. He looks away when Ilya’s grin only grows.

“People are popping champagne all over Quebec,” the man continues. “Oh, and uh, just to be clear, uh, we are thrilled that Shane is Asian, or Asian-Canadian. Very thrilled”

“Oh,” Luca breathes out from next to Ilya, and Ilya thinks he sees a bunch of other people around the room cringe as well.

“Was a different time, Haasy,” Ilya says. “You wouldn’t know since you were like 4 months old.” 

“I wasn’t 4 months old!... I was 9.”

“Oh my god,” Scott says.

 The man on screen continues to dig his grave as Yuna Hollander’s face becomes more and more politely controlled. “I mean, we’ve historically broken barriers, and we’re doing it again, so nothing to worry about there.” 

Yuna laughs politely. “Oh, you certainly have,” she says.

“Why are they not here?” Shane whispers to him. “My parents.”

It would make sense. Everyone else important in their life is, for the most part. Except Svetlana and Rose, maybe.

“I don’t know,” Ilya answers honestly.

On screen, Yuna continues. “And, I mean, to be a part of the most legendary franchise in hockey, right? Oh my!” She looks at Young Shane who is zoning out hard, not paying attention in the slightest. There are a few short laughs heard around the room.

Young Shane finally shakes himself to reality and says, “It’s, uh. I’m still in shock, but, uh, I- I’m so excited.” 

Hayden laughs at Shane and nudges him again. Jackie reaches across Hayden to squeeze Shane’s leg. She says, “You’re so cute I could just eat you up, Shane.”

They laugh at that, but Jackie and Hayden still look a little tense. Although, Ilya figures he, too, would be tense if he ended up in a room with a bunch of other kidnapped hockey players and hockey-adjacent people with no idea where/how his kids were. He hopes the little Pikes are safe and okay.

Yuna says, “I know this came up in Shane’s interview, but I am the world’s biggest Voyageurs fan.”

“Really?” the man replies.

“It’s part of how I came to feel Canadian.”

The conversation fades out under the dim of the rest of the room, and on screen, Young Shane smiles at Yuna before looking up. The camera switches to show Young Ilya looking down at him from the balcony, locked in his own conversation with his father and a member of the Bears’ ownership. The camera switches between Young Shane and Young Ilya’s point of view as they look at each other.

“Sexual tension!” Wyatt exclaims. 

“Hayes, if you do that every time they have sexual tension, you’re going to lose your voice,” Troy chirps.

The group around them laughs, but the rest of the room is mostly unamused. From what Ilya has gathered, most of the other players are carefully schooling their reactions to appear neutral, whether or not it would have been negative or positive, while their wives and girlfriends are looser, allowing a laugh here and there. Overall, the room is tense. And why wouldn’t it be with how they’ve all ended up here? Hell, Ilya is tense. He may not be as private as Shane, but he has things he prefers to keep close to his chest, and he has a feeling it is all about to blow up in his face.

The video switches to show the conversation on the balcony with Young Ilya. The Bears’ staff says, “We’re not passing on a kid this strong with those hands, not in Boston, Mr. Rozanov.” A few people cringe at the pronunciation of his last name, butchered from the already incorrect, Americanized way most of the rest of the NHL pronounces it. “He’s a very natural number one pick. Congratulations again, Ilya.”

Young Ilya smiles politely and sips his drink, looking down at Young Shane again.

The voice of his father comes through the scene, and although Ilya knew he would hear it, it still feels like a gut punch. His English is thickly accented, but it carries the same cold, derisive tone that Ilya remembers. He squeezes Shane tighter to his chest as his father speaks. “He is strong,” the ghost of Grigori Rozanov says, “but he needs discipline. He can be, how you say, lazy.”

Shane squeezes him back tighter, and Ilya lets out a deep breath. Troy barks a sharp laugh. “Lazy?” Troy says, laughing again. “Ilya Rozanov. Lazy.”

The rest of the Centaurs players and staff, their families, and many of the Bears all laugh along at that.

On screen, Young Ilya’s face drops into something more serious. Sadder. 

After a beat, the other man says, “I find that hard to believe, the way he plays.”

Hayden scoffs. “In what world is he lazy?” he murmurs, but Ilya hears him anyway.

“I promise to work very hard for you,” Young Ilya says seriously. 

“I have no doubt you will, son,” the man replies.

Ilya’s father speaks again, this time in Russian, and Ilya has to close his eyes. It’s so familiar and so far away. He feels it in his chest as the words reverberate throughout the room. He never thought he’d grieve his father as much as he does his mother. And he doesn’t really. He feels it differently, but every now and then it hits in the same place. He never expects it.

He peeks his eyes open as the captions at the bottom disappear, reading: “You listen. Don’t speak. You understand?” Great, now everyone will know about him. About his father. He breathes out in a controlled exhale. The Ilya on screen looks so small, so young compared to him. He looks so sad and so so hurt. 

Shane squeezes him again. Ilya knows his husband wants to turn and crush him into a more intimate embrace, but neither of them want to draw more attention to themselves right now. He settles for squeezing Shane back firmly three times, hoping he understands. I love you. Shane responds with three squeezes.

Young Ilya responds in Russian, and captions appear at the bottom of the screen again, reading: “Yes.” As he nods his head, obviously used to being spoken to that way.

The room is quieter now. He’s sure many players are just now considering the fact that maybe Ilya Rozanov had a reason to be such an asshole. They’re creating this story in their heads already about how his father treated him, and how that affected the way he treats others. Shane rubs his thumb gently back and forth on Ilya’s arm, and Ilya tries to relax.

The video switches to Young Shane in his hotel room, laying awake and staring at the ceiling. He sighs and checks his phone before climbing out of bed and pulling on work out clothes. The shot switches quickly again, showing Shane entering a gym, presumably in the hotel. He puts wired headphones in, puts on some music, and begins using the stationary bike.

“Wait, I’m lost,” Bood says. “When are we?”

“Still the night of the draft,” Ilya says, and because the room is so quiet after the appearance of Ilya’s father and the attention has been on Ilya and Shane since the video started, it sends a ripple across the room.

“Long night,” JJ says.

Ilya laughs to himself. “Tell me about it,” he says, and Shane swats at his chest, the tips of his ears bright red. Hayden looks horrified next to him.

Shane continues using the bike, and the camera pans across his body. The only sound is the whirring of the bike, the music, and Shane’s heavy breathing, and Ilya bites his lip hard to avoid making this worse for his poor, poor husband. But it is oh so tempting.

The sound of a door opening and closing breaks the trance, and suddenly Young Ilya is on the bike next to Young Shane. Ilya looks on fondly as they begin to speed up, racing each other on screen. Shane even lets out a huff of a breath that would be a chuckle if he weren’t so tense.

“Oh, so you guys have always been this competitive,” Dykstra says from somewhere behind them.

“I feel like they’re worse now,” Bood says. “At least they’re not yelling at each other here.”

“Too much sexual tension,” Wyatt says, and Lisa smacks him.

Eventually, both Young Shane and Young Ilya slow down, breathing heavily as they begin to cool down, putting their hands on their heads.

The video switches to after the workout. Young Shane sits against a rack, next to the mirrors, and Young Ilya plops himself down across from him, barely leaving enough room for their feet to stretch out in the space between. They’re both drenched in sweat and breathing heavily.

“Whoo!” Young Ilya exclaims, and it echoes in the mostly empty gym. “What a fucking day, huh?”

“Yeah totally,” Young Shane says. Young Ilya hums and drinks from his water bottle.

Already the room around them is quieter. It seems everyone else can also feel the spark between them that builds throughout this conversation. A peek around the room reveals everyone on the edge of their seats.

“Is everything you dreamed of?” Young Ilya asks.

“Almost,” Young Shane says.

Young Ilya makes a face at that, a poor attempt at benevolence. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Young Shane smiles, “No you’re not.” He sounds a little breathless already, and to Ilya’s surprise he finds that his eyes burn a bit. He’s not crying, but with a very small push he could be. They’re so young here. Thinking it's the end of everything when it's really only the beginning. It’s the start of that spark between them that ended up becoming the best thing in Ilya’s life. 

“Montreal is… It’s nice, yes?” Young Ilya says.

“Yeah, it’s awesome.”

“Boston is nice too?”

“I think so,” Young Shane says.

“Are you… being nice?” JJ asks, sounding appalled.

“Very cute boy,” Ilya responds, winking. “I wanted to make a good impression.”

“People like it there,” Young Shane continues.

“We will, uh… we will be seeing each other a lot,” Young Ilya says.

“ARE YOU FLIRTING???” JJ shouts before realizing his volume and murmuring an apology. Ilya just laughs heartily, and even Shane manages a few chuckles.

“Yeah, Boston and Montreal play against each other often,” Young Shane says. The camera pans down Young Ilya’s body to his spread legs.

“Shane, you dog,” Hayden says, smacking Shane’s leg.

The camera pans back and forth a few times in the silence as they just breathe heavily and look at each other. A few people squirm uncomfortably. Jackie has a hand over her mouth, but her eyes give away the devilish grin underneath. “Oh my god,” she says with a breath that sounds like a giggle.

Eventually, Young Ilya wordlessly offers Young Shane his water. Young Shane waves it away at first until Young Ilya brings it closer, shaking it back and forth so that the water sloshes around. Young Shane acquiesces, grabbing the water bottle, and Young Ilya purposefully drags his hand over Young Shane’s as he hands it over.

“HE IS FLIRTING! YOU’RE FLIRTING.” Dykstra shouts.

Ilya just shrugs with a shit-eating smile on his face, and a lot of the guys reach over to punch him playfully.

“Damn, putting in the work from day one,” Chouinard says

“Playing the long game,” Boyle agrees, and Ilya turns to Shane who is already looking at him with wide eyes. It’s Shane who breaks first, barking out a loud laugh.

“Oh god. What?” Harris asks, sounding afraid of the answer.

“You will see,” Ilya says simply through his chuckles. He squeezes Shane thrice, and Shane squeezes back.

Young Shane drinks the water, and the camera pans down Young Ilya’s sweaty neck as he watches. Young Ilya whispers, “More,” and Young Shane complies.

Luca squeaks audibly beside Ilya, and when Ilya looks over, the poor boy is bright red all the way down to his neck, wide eyes glued to the screen. He chuckles and locks eyes with Troy who rolls his eyes when Ilya points discretely at Luca.

When Young Shane passes the bottle back, Young Ilya drags his fingers across Young Shane’s hand again. Wyatt makes an exasperated noise from his seat. “Are we going to have to watch years of just this?”

“No, probably not,” Ilya says.

Young Ilya drinks the water, and winks at Shane. 

“Oh, come on!” Wyatt says, arms flailing.

The screen turns black, and text pops up reading: “Six Months Later” (much to the satisfaction of one Wyatt Hayes), then “Ottawa, Ontario.” The video shifts to show the inside of Young Ilya’s hotel room as he watches TV, and more text pops up, reading: “International Prospect Cup.”

Young Ilya watches the New Years broadcast, and his phone showcases three missed calls from a contact listed in Russian, but the captions at the bottom of the screen reveal it to say “The Colonel” before another contact, this time in English, reading “Alexei” pops up with an incoming call.

Young Ilya answers with a sigh, speaking in Russian. The captions at the bottom translate, as always, for the stupid non-Russian speakers.

“What the fuck is going on?” Young Ilya asks. “Why is Dad calling me?”

“Baby brother, happy New Year for you, right?” a mocking voice replies through the phone.

“Happy New Year, Alexei, but–”

“How’s it going, handsome boy?” Alexei cuts him off. The camera switches to show Alexei in his apartment in Russia. He’s smoking, hosting some kind of party with thumping music, drugs, and scantily clothed women. Typical.

“What’s going on with Dad?” Young Ilya asks through the phone.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Dad is fine.”

“He keeps calling me.”

“‘Cause you lost a fucking hockey game, idiot,” Alexei says, laughing with his “friends”.

“What a nice fella,” Troy mutters.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Alexei?” Young Ilya asks, pacing in his hotel room.

“Let me think about it,” Alexei responds. “Can I have more money? Please.” The constant cuts from the bumping party in Moscow to Ilya’s sad hotel room paint the kind of picture of Ilya’s life that he was trying to dissuade by his playboy, partygoer reputation. And now they all see it.

“I have no more money, Alexei!” Young Ilya says, looking agitated. “My bonus is done, man. You snorted most of it!”

“Shit, Roz,” Bood says.

“Wah-wah, you whiny faggot,” Alexei says, and the whole room sucks in a sharp breath. Shane tenses in Ilya’s arms, so Ilya rubs his bicep with a warm arm.

“Ilya…” Shane says.

“Is okay,” he replies.

“It’s not.”

“Aw, fuck,” Hayden says.

“Not cool,” Holmberg says. Similar murmurs travel through the room, but some of the players look too neutral. The Voyageur’s Comeau even looks like he’s holding back a smile, the bastard.

“Go fuck yourself,” Young Ilya says, hanging up the phone.

“Go fuck yourself, bitch.” Alexei responds, rejoining the party.

Young Ilya’s phone rings again, and the room tenses up again. They must be thinking, What now? Yes, Ilya asked himself that a lot back then too.

Young Ilya sits on the bed and curls up on himself before answering the phone with, “Hello, Father.”

“And so he answers!” his father replies.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Apologize to Russia,” Grigori replies, as loving as ever (which is to say, not at all). “Losing to the Czechs. Disgusting.”

“We will beat Sweden, Father.”

“Beat Sweden? You will have to! Otherwise, you will–”

“Not play for gold,” Young Ilya interrupts. “I know, Father. We are all trying.”

“I don’t care about ‘we’! You! You will not lose to him.”

The video abruptly cuts to the end of the Prospect Cup Finals game, with a celebrating Team Canada, and a devastated Team Russia. Ilya can’t help but burst out laughing.

“Ilya…” Shane says.

“No, Shane, really. Is funny.” Ilya laughs. He does his best impression of his father speaking English, “‘You will not lose to him.’ Cut to me losing. I mean, it’s pretty funny.”

Some of the other guys laugh along, but most just look uncomfortable.

Over the slo-mo celebrations, the announcer says, “What a comeback for Canada! A huge win for the hometown boys tonight, who were determined to not lose to Russia on home ice two years in a row.”

The focus shifts to show Ilya skate dejectedly across the screen, a mirror of Shane a year prior. 

The two teams shake hands, and this time as they reach each other, Young Shane is the one to chirp at Young Ilya. “See you in October,” he says, a confident and satisfied smirk on his face. Young Ilya somehow looks both annoyed and fond at the same time.

“Oh, you already got it bad, Roz!” Holmberg chirps, slapping him on the back.

“What?” some other player from San Jose or something asks. “He looks the same.”

“No, no,” Young jumps in. “That’s Roz’s ‘I want to be annoyed, but I really like you and am fond of you’ face.”

People across the room look bewildered.

The screen goes black again and more text pops up, reading: “Six Months Later.” The camera shows a rink set up for a photo shoot, with Young Shane and Young Ilya shooting together for their joint CCM campaign. More text pops up: “Toronto.”

“Okay, that looks good,” the director says. “Camera, you’re happy with that? All right, that's perfect. Give us a second. We’ll be good to go, okay? Just stay there. Hold please. Thank you.” 

Young Ilya leans in. “You look pretty,” he says.

“FLIRTING,” someone shouts.

“You’re wearing makeup too,” Young Shane says, also skating closer.

“Yeah, but I don’t look pretty.”

The director cuts in again, “Great can we do that again? Can you guys try to hit those marks at the same time? Just skate out and skate in with a lot of intensity, all right?”

“Okay,” Young Ilya says.

“Action!”

The boys on screen skate toward each other in a face-off position, the bright studio lights behind them outlining their silhouettes.

“Good. Okay, let’s do that one more time.” 

They do it again, and the camera is close to their faces, inches apart.

“Great. Okay, one more time.”

The boys skate in again.

“Great. Okay,” the director says. “Guys, just hold there for a second. We’re gonna make a little tweak over here with the camera. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”

They skate in again.

“In 3, 2, 1, and go ahead.”

“Jesus,” Hayden mutters.

Young Ilya bursts out laughing that time, making Young Shane laugh as well.

“I get it, guys. It’s been a long day,” the director says. “I know.”

“Sorry,” Young Ilya replies.

“Try it with a lot of intensity, though, okay?” the director says, and that makes a lot of the people in the viewing room laugh as well.

“Okay,” Young Ilya says again. 

This time, they manage to school themselves a little more by not laughing, but they can’t tame their giddy grins.

“Wait, this is so cute,” Cassie says.

“Ok. One more time, guys. The more serious we can do, the quicker we go home. Go.”

“Sorry,” Young Shane says.

This time, before they even skate up, they can all hear Young Ilya’s cackling. He doesn’t even try to pull himself together anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says through chuckles, and that sets Young Shane off as well.

“Ok,” the director says, and most of the room is at least chuckling softly along as well.

“Oh, I can do it. I promise,” Young Ilya says.

“And 3, 2 ,1, go ahead.”

Young Ilya immediately proves himself wrong by cackling immediately, not even trying to stop himself anymore. Both boys laugh together, breathless and innocent.

“Ok,” the director finally says. “I think we have what we’re gonna get here. Thanks, guys!”

By now, nearly everyone is laughing.

“That poor director,” Wiebe laments, shaking his head and wiping tears from his eyes.

“You guys need those pictures!” Lisa says.

“We have them,” Shane pipes up for the first time in a while, taking Ilya by surprise. He looks down at his husband to see a sweet smile break across his face. “Ilya found them. One of them is framed in our house.” 

Many of the WAGs and Centaurs staff aww at them, and Ilya uses the commotion to lean down and whisper to Shane. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too,” he whispers back.

The video switches to show Young Shane and Young Ilya talking by the boards. Young Ilya sits on the bench, while Young Shane leans against the boards toward him, kicking his skate every now and then.

“Oh my god,” Hayden says. “Shane, buddy, you’re like a schoolgirl with a crush.”

Shane blushes. He’s been getting tenser and tenser the closer they get to their first night together, unsure of what will be shown. Ilya’s been trying to calm his husband down, but he is not a stupid man. He knows there is only so much he can do in a situation like this. He squeezes Shane thrice, and Shane squeezes back.

“When they tell you you do commercial with me and not just alone?” Young Ilya asks.

“I don’t know, like uh, two days ago?” Young Shane responds. Young Ilya nods. “Why? When did they tell you?”

Young Ilya shakes his head. “No, they tell me nothing,” he says. “It was my idea.”

“Down bad!” Bood chirps.

“Shane!” The director’s voice calls from off screen, and it cuts to Yuna Hollander calling the same thing as Young Shane watches Young Ilya skate from above.

“Shane, are you listening to me?” she asks.

“What?” Young Shane startles. “Yeah.”

“You were not listening, capitaine,” JJ says. “Don’t lie to your maman.”

Shane grumbles, still blushing.

“Ok, so what did I just say?” Yuna asks, and many players ooh and ahh jokingly.

“Sneakers, I heard,” Young Shane says.

“Ok, you have to be seen in your Reeboks.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Because you cannot be seen in anything else.”

“Mom, I’m always wearing skates.”

“But in case you’re not,” Yuna says.

“Wow, Shane,” Jackie says. “You were so young.”

“Yeah,” Kip says. “How old were you here?”

“Nineteen,” Shane mutters.

“Yes, Kip,” Ilya says. “It is good for you to see a person so young after spending so much time with the elderly.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Scott says, shaking his head.

“This is a lot of money, Shane,” Yuna continues. “You’re the youngest hockey player they’ve ever signed to a deal. And remember what else this means.”

“I remember,” Young Shane says.

“A whole lot of kids are gonna be looking up to you, kids that don’t see themselves here a lot.” Young Shane scoffs, but Ilya makes sure to hold his Shane even tighter. Little did nineteen year old Shane know just how much he would mean to so many kids all across the world.

“I get it, Mom,” Young Shane says. He watches Ilya skate for a moment before the video switches to Shane alone in the locker room showers.

“Oh my god, no.” Shane says. He turns and buries his head in Ilya’s chest and makes a distressed little groan. It sounds breathless as he struggles to take in a full breath.

“It’s okay, Shane,” Ilya tries to comfort.

“I can’t watch,” Shane says. “Oh my god, Ilya. I cannot watch this.”

“Maybe… maybe they won’t even show it?” Ilya tries. Shane just looks up at him with a lethal stink-eye, and Ilya cringes. Okay, so maybe they will. 

He’s getting nervous now too. He’s not embarrassed because this moment is what brought him his husband, but he is… apprehensive. Getting accosted in the showers is one of the stereotypical, homophobic reasons straight men give to be scared of gay guys sharing a locker room with them. He didn’t want anyone to think he was doing this kind of stuff all the time. Only for Shane. And only ever in an empty locker room.

So, he let Shane hide his face in his chest and even reached up to cover his ears. He ignored most of the concerned and horrified looks around them as Shane did his best to disappear between his husband's large pectorals. He knew this meekness was a side of Shane most of them didn’t often see, but in his panic, Shane was too worried to maintain his captain persona (not that it was all a persona, just that it usually obscured moments such as these from the common eye).

Hayden looked especially nervous next to him, and he had been pretty tolerable today, all things considered, so Ilya leaned over and whispered to him. “Nothing bad, really,” he said. “Just embarrassing. Especially for Shane. Very embarrassing.”

“I can hear you, asshole,” Shane said, and it came out muffled since he still wouldn’t unbury his head from between Ilya’s pecs. Ilya squeezed lightly on the sides of his head where he was covering Shane’s ears in retaliation, and Shane relaxed as Ilya blocked more of the world out.

On screen, Young Ilya enters the shower and hangs up his towel. He grabs a spot a few showers down from Young Shane and begins to clean himself, glancing over at Shane. The shot opens up, showing them both from the back, and giving everyone a great view of both of their butts. Good butts. Ilya is glad Shane is not looking. He would be mortified.

Light music plays as they wash themselves in the shower, glancing over at each other occasionally. The looks get more and more heated as time passes. Shane tenses more under Ilya’s hand as the seconds tick by and Ilya doesn’t give him an all-clear.

Eventually, Young Shane and Young Ilya lock eyes, and Young Ilya glances down Shane’s body, wiggling his eyebrows. It’s clear what he is referring to.

“Fuck off,” Young Shane says, turning away.

Hayden cringes and whispers, “Oh, Shane.”

Young Ilya continues to wash himself, openly ogling Young Shane now. The music picks up and Young Shane looks over, and the arm movement of Young Ilya, even though his bottom half is out of frame, makes it clear that he’s stroking his cock for Young Shane to see. 

Okay, so maybe Ilya is a little embarrassed. Shane must be rubbing off on him (well, he has definitely rubbed off on him plenty). He feels his own ears and cheeks get hot, and he kind of wishes he could cover his face with his hands, but he doesn’t want to uncover Shane’s ears, so he just ducks his head a little. Every murmur he hears from across the room feels like damnation. 

Young Shane watches Young Ilya as the music picks up. After a moment, he turns around again and says, “Not here.”

“Not here?” Harris says, before remembering himself and whispering, “Sorry.”

The camera cuts to show Young Shane in the main part of the locker room.

Ilya removes his hands from Shane’s ears. They’re burning up, flushed a deep red. “Shane,” he says.

“Is it over yet?” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s chest.

“Not completely, no,” Ilya says. “But I think you can watch now, if you want.”

Shane peeks over his shoulder at the screen to see the locker room, and exhales loudly before turning back around to face the screen. He is so flushed it is nearly impossible to see his freckles, and his shoulders are by his ears.

“This is so embarrassing,” he says through gritted teeth.

Coach Wiebe crouches down in front of them, and Ilya can feel the eyes of the entire room on them.

“How you doing, boys?” he asks.

“Been better, I think,” Ilya says.

“Yeah,” Shane says.

“I went up to Crowell while that was playing,” Ilya can’t help but take a panicked breath in, and he feels Shane do the same, tensing. Wiebe continues, “and there’s no pause, stop, or even volume button on that remote. Just a play button, and it doesn’t do anything when pressed again. Some of the guys are still looking for a way out, but no luck. I’m sorry this is happening to you, but no one is gonna blame you for anything you guys have done in private, okay? This is sick and twisted, but you got all of us with you right now.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, “No offense, but I- I kinda wish you weren’t.”

Wiebe laughs, clapping him on the shoulder in a fatherly gesture, “I’m sure, bud. But we got your back. Always.”

Hayden nudges Shane. “Always,” he says.

Ilya looks up to see solemn and respectful nods from all the players around them. Many outside of their inner circle avert their eyes awkwardly, but some of the WAGs and support staff offer awkward nods of support.

Shane groans. “Oh god this is so embarrassing.”

“You think it is bad for you, sweetheart?” Ilya asks. “I am the shower predator. I flirt with and come onto poor golden Canadian boy, perfect Shane Hollander and corrupt him. Crowell probably wants to call police on me for public indecency.”

He hears Crowell choke from further up where he (and everyone else) was not-so-discretely listening in on his conversation.

Shane laughs, loudly and full of breath, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. “You are not the shower predator,” he manages through giggles.

Troy guffaws from his seat, gripping Harris’s hand. “The shower predator!” he wheezes, and soon the rest of the guys around them are also breaking down in giggles.

“What the fuck is funny about that?” one of Shane’s old teammates asks. Drapeau.

Bood speaks up before Shane or Ilya or anyone else can. “Because Cap is so not like that.”

“We just saw him come onto Shane in the shower,” another old teammate chimes in. Comeau.

“Yeah,” Luca, of all people, says, “but Cap is always making sure we’re comfortable, and stuff. He’s like, the spokesperson of consent.”

“I am the captain of consent!” Ilya says.

“Ilya,” Shane scolds, but it sounds more like a whine at this point.

“Kidding, sweetheart,” Ilya says. “But seriously. The only person I accost in the shower is Shane. And only when we’re alone. And never again in a communal shower. Was a bit weird. But I had to make the oblivious Canadian boy notice me!”

Their friends all laugh again, and most of the others remain weirded out, but it’s not really like they can do anything right now, so whatever. Ilya hugs Shane tight and turns to the screen as it starts playing again. He’s surprised Shane isn’t back off completely and demanding to sit on another couch to compensate for all the others have seen and are going to see, but Ilya is certainly not going to complain about it. He squeezes Shane thrice, rubbing his thumb in little circles on his arm, trying to dispel some of the tension.

Young Shane is getting dressed in the locker room, and Ilya notices that he doesn’t start putting his shoe on until Young Ilya rounds the corner. Cute.

“So, uh,” Young Shane starts, “look, we can forget that happened in there, okay?”

“Is what you want?” Young Ilya asks.

“Consent king!” Wyatt yells, and a bunch of the guys giggle.

“Yeah, for sure,” Young Shane replies, and Ilya can’t help but giggle at how bad of a liar his Shane is.

“Shut up,” Shane mutters.

“Didn’t say anything,” Ilya responds.

On screen, Young Ilya laughs as well and says, “Uh, wow. You are a really bad liar.” He looks at Young Shane and walks over to him, towel swung low across his hips. And yeah, Ilya definitely knew what he was doing. He looks good. Still wet from the shower. A V-line of sculpted muscle pointing directly at the place Young Shane Hollander was thinking so hard about.

“What is your room number?” Young Ilya asks.

Young Shane pauses for just a moment, looking up at Young Ilya. “1410,” he says.

Hayden gasps. “Shane, get up buddy!”

“Folded under zero pressure, capitaine,” JJ chimes in.

“Thanks guys,” Shane mutters from where he’s buried his head in his sweatshirt.

“Is Rozanov’s dick that big?” he hears someone mutter.

“Well,” Young Ilya says, “if I come to 1410 tonight at nine o’clock.”

“I might open,” Young Shane says.

“I might knock.”

“Stand up, Shane!” Troy jokes.

“You both have got it bad already,” Kip says.

Upbeat music starts playing as Young Ilya walks away, and the video cuts to Young Shane in his hotel room (room 1410, to be precise). He’s fixing the tie of a suit and looks in the mirror before asking himself, “What are you doing, dude?”

Ilya can’t help himself, he bursts out laughing. Shane buries his head in his hands and starts smacking Ilya all over.

“Stop laughing, asshole!” Shane scolds.

Ilya tries to speak, but he just ends up doubled over, wheezing. 

“Ilya!” Shane yells.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Ilya says, collecting himself. He sobers more when he sees Shane’s pouty face and some genuine hurt and embarrassment in his eyes. “It’s cute, Shane.”

“It’s fucking embarassing,” Shane murmurs.

“No, no. Is perfect. Always perfect.” He grabs Shane’s face and pulls him in for a quick peck. “Is like you are already getting ready for our wedding. Foreshadowing!” Ilya cheers, and Shane shoves him away, yelling and smacking at him again, but even Shane can’t help the little grin that peeks through. Before turning back to the screen, Ilya makes sure to shoot a quick glare around the room to make sure no one else thinks of making fun of his Shane.

Young Shane sits in the dark in his hotel room with the TV on, visibly nervous as he rubs his palms on his thighs. Ilya tries to soothe his Shane by rubbing his hands back and forth gently but firmly on his arms and chest. Shane takes a deep breath. All things considered, Shane is doing remarkably well for having so much of his personal life shown in explicit detail on a screen in front of what might as well be the whole NHL and their support staff and WAGs.

Young Shane shakes his head, and says to himself. “No, stop it. Just stop it.” He turns the TV off and then turns the lamp next to him on, looking tense.

The camera switches to show Young Ilya going up in the elevator. It beeps as it passes each floor. He also looks nervous to those who are looking for it. The doors open on floor six, and Young Ilya is met with the sight of Yuna Hollander. 

Shane gasps and turns to Ilya. “You never told me this happened,” he says.

“Ah, yes,” Ilya replies, shrugging.

“Oh, hello there,” Yuna says. “Oh, I’m trying to go down.”

In the mirror, Young Ilya points upwards. “Uh, this is going up.”

“Right.”

“So…”

“Yeah, okay,” Yuna says. She sticks out her hand for him to shake before the doors close on her and she’s forced to pull her arm out. “Well, I’m– Ah!”

“Oh,” Young Ilya says half-heartedly. “Ah.” As the camera pans back to him, his polite smile drops and he lets out a heavy breath, looking up at the ceiling. Most of the room is cracking up at this point.

“Only you, Roz!” he hears Marly shout from a few couches over. A few of his other old teammates from the Bears laugh along.

The elevator eventually reaches the fourteenth floor, a knock is heard, and suddenly Young Ilya’s hands are closing the hotel room door behind him as he steps into room 1410. The music cuts out suddenly, and the boys are alone in the room.

“I thought you might chicken out,” Young Ilya says.

“I’m not. I’m not a chicken,” Young Shane replies.

Young Ilya begins walking around Young Shane, further into the room, putting Young Shane between himself and the door.

“But I think we should talk,” Young Shane says.

“All business, Hollander,” Ilya purrs into his husband’s ear.

“Do you want to sit?” Young Shane asks, and Young Ilya steps forward into his space, forcing him to step back. He puts his hands on Young Shane’s hips and guides him backwards and slightly to the right so that he doesn’t hit the door handle when Young Ilya walks him all the way back until his back gently hits the wall.

“Mmm, not really.”

“This is such a bad idea,” Young Shane says, but he’s smirking a little as Young Ilya gets closer and closer.

“What is?”

Young Ilya reaches his hand up, grabbing Young Shane’s face and leans in slowly, giving Young Shane enough time to back away if he wanted to. He does not, and they meet in the middle for their first kiss.

Once again, Ilya finds himself weirdly choked up, getting to watch this all again. Seeing a younger version of himself fall so desperately in love with a younger version of his husband and the love of his life. He squeezes Shane thrice, and Shane squeezes back.

Young Shane and Ilya kiss on screen, and Ilya can admit there are no holds barred. The sound of their heavy breathing and lips smacking fills the room. He takes a deep breath and tries not to get hard, but his pulse is racing. The adrenaline, the thrill and the danger of that first time with Shane comes rushing back to him, and it's heady.

He takes the chance to glance around the room as Young Ilya sheds his coat. Most of their friends and teammates are either watching, grossly fascinated (like watching a car wreck), looking a little too interested, or respectfully averting their eyes. Some of the players on other teams look very uncomfortable, and Ilya almost wants to laugh. Some are just watching, neutrally. But some… well, Ilya thinks he sees a few players try and discretely readjust themselves hoping no one (god forbid, their WAGs) notice.

Young Shane and Ilya go back to making out on screen, and Young Ilya places his hand on the wall next to Young Shane’s head.

“Damn,” Hayden breathes, seemingly unconsciously. Jackie doesn’t say anything, but mostly because she looks similarly enthralled.

“Shit, guys,” Kip breathes, and Scott looks over at him incredulously, to which Kip just shrugs.

Young Ilya starts to ruck Young Shane’s shirt up over his head, while Young Shane goes for Young Ilya’s pants, unbuttoning them.

“Damn, Hollzy. Wasting no time,” Boyle teases, and Shane groans and melts further into Ilya. Ilya would have thought his husband would have been hiding away among Ilya’s pecs again by this point, but he seems transfixed as well. His mouth hangs open a little bit, and he’s flushed. It’s hard to tell in the dark of the room, but his pupils look blown wide.

Oh my god. Is Canadian golden boy Shane Hollander turned on by this? Ilya has to hide a giddy grin behind his hand. 

Young Ilya pulls Young Shane’s shirt over his head, finally. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says as Young Shane pulls him in by his waist. He sheds his shirt next and sticks his thumb in Young Shane’s mouth, who proceeds to promptly suck on it like a lollipop.

“Fuuuuckkk,” someone says. The room is mostly silent except for the heavy breathing of the two men on screen and most of the people watching them as well.

Young Shane drops to his knees and present-time Shane tries to bury his head in his sweatshirt even further. Ilya thinks he may be muttering “Please fade to black,” over and over again.

The screen only shows Young Ilya’s top half and the very top of Young Shane’s hair, but they can all hear the noises of Young Shane’s sucking and see the motion of Young Ilya’s hips. It’s kind of weird. Like he has to watch porn of himself with all his coworkers, but Ilya’s also desperately trying to hide his boner from the rest of the room, and proferably, his husband as well.

Eventually, Young Ilya pulls Young Shane back up, saying, “Oh, stop, stop, stop.”

“Was that bad?” Young Shane asks. Ilya hopes that now that Shane knows him better, he can see just how quickly he was able to unravel Ilya from the very first moment they spent together.

“Ah, no, opposite,” Young Ilya says, wiping Young Shane’s mouth quickly with his thumb. “Was too much, too good.” They kiss again quickly before Young Ilya asks, “Is your first time with a man?”

Young Shane nods. “You?”

“Ah, no.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Who? Another player?”

“Shane, you gossip,” Hayden teases.

“You’re curious too,” the lump of sweatshirt that Ilya’s husband has become mutters.

“Ah, no. My coach’s son back in Russia,” Young Ilya says.

“Roz, you dog!” Marly shouts again from across the room, accompanied by some wolf whistles. 

Young Ilya leans in toward Young Shane. “I like trouble,” he says.

“Weren’t you scared of getting caught?” Young Shane asks.

“Mmm, no. It was nothing serious, and we had same secret, so…” Young Ilya says, rubbing his hand up and down Young Shane’s bicep.

“Curious?” Young Shane mutters.

Young Ilya nods. “Curious,” he says. “And you make me curious.” He kisses Young Shane’s jaw, and Young Shane tilts his head to give Young Ilya better access to his neck. Young Ilya uses the chance to murmur into the sensitive skin of his neck, “Do I make you curious?” before leaning in to kiss it.

“Obviously,” Young Shane murmurs, and present Shane squirms a bit against Ilya, still hiding in his sweatshirt so that only his eyes are really peeking out, but Ilya can still see the flush that takes over his whole body and feel the heat radiating from him. Ilya, too, feels hot. He might have to lose his sweatshirt after this. He’s sweating. He rolls up his sleeves.

“Did you like sucking my cock?” Young Ilya asks.

“Jesus,” Scott says, and Kip laughs softly next to him.

“Wow. Those English words just roll off your tongue,” Young Shane says.

“Chirping doesn’t end in the bedroom, I guess,” Chouinard jokes. 

“We already knew that, though,” Bood laughs.

“Wait, what?” Luca says.

“Oh, kid,” Dykstra says solemnly.

Troy grumbles, “Anyone who’s roomed next to them in the hotel knows.” And a bunch of the Centaurs start cracking up again, cracking jokes about what they’ve overheard through thin hotel walls or accidentally walked in on. It breaks some of the heavy tension in the room, and people seem to breathe a sign of relief.

“Yes?” Young Ilya asks.

“Yes.” Young Shane says. Someone wolf whistles.

“You want me to, uh, lie on the bed and let you do it some more?”

Young Shane smirks and Young Ilya reaches up to massage his shoulders. “Let me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Young Ilya says, smirking right back.

Young Shane grabs Young Ilya’s shoulders and pushes him back until he falls down onto the bed where he proceeds to lose the rest of his clothing with haste, toeing off his shoes and yanking his pants and underwear the rest of the way off.

“Uh, not fair,” he says. “Come on, I want to see you.”

“You saw me in the showers,” Young Shane says.

“Yeah, I want more.”

Young Ilya lays back on the bed as Young Shane begins to strip, folding each item of clothing carefully as he sheds it. Young Ilya huffs out a breath and smiles, fondly amused at Young Shane’s antics.

“So cute, moy pomidor.” Ilya mutters to his sweatshirt-husband.

Troy meets Ilya’s eyes and whispers, “Whipped.” Ilya rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but smile. Of course he’s whipped for Shane Hollander. Who wouldn't be?

Young Ilya is breathing heavily on the bed as Young Shane finishes undressing, and under his breath, Ilya hears Luca mutter, “He wants that cookie so fucking bad.” Ilya doesn’t know that that means, really, but he thinks he gets the gist. He does want Shane Hollander. Really fucking bad. 

He wonders if there are bathrooms here or some other sort of smaller room. Just, you know, in case he has to pee. Or in case Hollander is panicking and needs privacy. No other reasons.

“Ok,” Young Shane says, once he’s undressed.

“Come here,” Young Ilya says, patting the bed next to him. He scooches over on the bed, moving one of the pillows out from under his head, and Young Shane lays down next to him, both on their back. It’s silent for a moment. A little awkward, but the air is heavy with anticipation.

“So,” Young Ilya says, “what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Young Shane says.

Young Ilya turns over and begins kissing down Young Shane’s body, showcasing his back muscles. Someone wolf whistles again. Their bodies block their genitals from sight, but by Young Ilya’s arm motion it's clear that he’s stroking Shane’s cock.

“Is this okay?” Young Ilya asks. Young Shane throws his head back and nods. After a little bit, he pushes Young Ilya back over onto the other side of the bed and kisses down Young Ilya’s body, all the way down to his dick. Again, no dick or balls are actually shown on screen, barely blocked by Young Ilya’s propped leg, but Young Shane’s head bobs up and down as Young Ilya cradles his head, moaning softly.

“Da, like that, Hollander,” he says.

Young Ilya’s moaning intensifies. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says, and then he’s pulling Young Shane off his cock and stroking himself to completion, pulling Young Shane in for a filthy open-mouthed kiss afterward.

“I never wanted to know what your o-face looked like, Cap,” Holmberg says, and Young and Boyle both slap him upside the head.

“Ew, what the fuck is wrong with you, Holmes?” Dykstra says.

“You didn’t have to look,” Chouinard chimes in.

“You looked too!” Holmberg says, and Chouinard sputters.

On screen, Young Shane and Young Ilya lay back, catching their breath.

“Not bad for first time,” Young Ilya remarks.

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Young Shane says.

“Oh my god, what a dick,” Hayden mutters, but Ilya can tell he sounds reluctantly fond. 

“Ok. It was fun,” Young Ilya says, turning over and wiping his hand with a tissue from the bedside table, and there is a cacophony of noise as the guys protest, outraged at Young Ilya.

“Woah, wait, what?” Young says.

“Oh, Roz. Tell me you didn’t leave,” Bood begs.

JJ swears incomprehensibly in French.

“Are you serious?” Young Shane asks.

“Motherfucker!” Hayden says.

“Oh, you big bitch, Ilya Rozanov,” Troy says with a smirk. He probably knows Ilya was only joking. Probably.

“What?” Young Ilya asks. “What? You need something?”

Young Shane turns his face to the ceiling and scoffs, and Young Ilya looks back over at him with a smirk, climbing on top of him and settling between the cradle of his spread legs, leaving them face to face.

“You think I am asshole?” Young Ilya says.

“I know you’re an asshole,” Young Shane responds, but gazing up into Young Ilya’s eyes and holding on gently to his bicep, his admonishment lacks heat.

“Oh. I would not leave you like that,” Young Ilya says.

“No?”

“No,” Young Ilya says, matter-of-fact. “Let me show you how to do this, kid.” He kisses Young Shane again, trailing kisses to his neck, chest, stomach, and all the way down to his dick. He’s also obscured by Shane’s leg as he sucks his cock, but it’s clear that he bobs his head up and down with fervor.

“Holy shit, Rozanov,” Young Shane says. “Oh, fuck.” The sounds of heavy breathing and wet sucking fill the room until Young Shane says, “Holy shit, Rozanov, you better get off. I’m… I can’t stop.” And just like that, he’s cumming. “Oh, fuck. Rozanov, fuck, fuck fuck. Oh my god. Oh, fuck. Oh my god.”

Young Ilya slaps Young Shane’s belly as he rises up and lays back down next to Young Shane, where he was before.

“Oh my god,” Young Shane says. “I’m so sorry. I- I didn't think.”

“What? That you would come so quick?”

“Fuck you.”

Young Ilya laughs.

“You didn’t have to,” Young Shane says.

“I don’t mind.”

“Yeah! My captain swallows! He ain't no quitter,” Dykstra shouts. 

“Jesus, Dykstra! The fuck is wrong with you?” Bood laughs.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but sometimes I think this team can be too goddamn supportive,” Troy says. Harris laughs.

Young Shane sits up in bed, and the both of them laugh for a minute. “This is, uh…” Young Shane says before laughing.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” Young Ilya says. “God I want a cigarette.”

“Smoking is bad for you.”

“Oh, is it?”

“And there they are,” Hayden says.

“So…” Young Shane says. “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?”

“Me?” Young Ilya points to himself. “Yes, Hollander, I’m going to tell everyone.”

“‘Cause no one can know.”

Young Ilya speaks Russian, and the captions don’t provide a translation.

“What did that mean?” Luca asks.

“Kinda like ‘No shit.’” Shane responds from deep in his hoodie.

Ilya sees when Young Ilya clocks just how nervous Young Shane actually is, and he jumps to reassure him. “Hollander, look, I’m not going to tell anyone. Okay?”

Young Shane nods, obviously freaking out. “Okay,” he says.

Ilya watches himself on screen decide he doesn’t know how to comfort Young Shane and that it’s not his problem anyway, and Young Ilya says, “I, uh, I have early flight tomorrow, so…”

“Yeah, me too,” Young Shane says, but it’s obvious now that his heart wasn’t in it. Ilya holds his Shane closer to make up for it.

Young Ilya gets up, gathering his clothes and getting dressed as Young Shane props himself up on the headboard of the bed, watching.

“Goodnight,” Young Ilya says.

“Night,” Young Shane replies.

Young Ilya turns around and heads out the door. It closes heavily behind him, and Young Shane bangs his head back against the headboard, putting his hands behind his head and breathing heavily to himself. “Holy shit,” he mutters.

“Holy shit,” Ilya says. His husband’s biceps look huge there. Ilya wants to lick them.

“Ilya,” Shane says, finally poking his head out from its hoodie prison.

“What?” he says very innocently.

The screen goes black, and text pops up, reading: “Three Months Later,” then “Montreal.”

Young Shane’s hand is on screen holding a phone and watching a video of one of Young Ilya’s post-game interviews. He’s shirtless and confident, as per usual.

“How are you feeling about finally getting to Montreal tomorrow?” a reporter asks.

“Uh, good. About time.” Young Ilya responds.

“Are you looking forward to beating Shane Hollander?”

“Uh, he is goalie now, yes?” Young Ilya chirps, and a bunch of the people in the room giggle.

Scott says, “With the extra context, that chirp is actually funny.”

“Is good for you to see an example of good chirp, grandpa,” Ilya says. “I hear humor is the first thing to go. Too bad for Kip, you lost it long ago.”

The video changes to show Young Shane sitting at the island in his kitchen, shaking his head, amused.

Another reporter asks, “Hey, Ilya, at the beginning of the season you said you would score 40 goals your rookie season. You still feeling like that’s gonna happen?”

The video changes to the raw footage of the interview, so everyone can see the smirk on Young Ilya’s face as he says, “No, no. I never said 40 goals. Is lie. Liar told you that. I said 50.” He winks and walks off, and the camera shows Young Shane again, in the same spot.

“What a fucking asshole,” Young Shane says, but it’s clear that he’s amused.

The scene changes again to show Young Shane walking into a restaurant to meet his parents. 

“Ah!” David Hollander says when Shane approaches the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” Young Shane says.

David responds, “It’s 15 minutes. Don’t even worry about it.”

Yuna says, “We don’t care. It’s just that you’re usually on time.”

“My workout went longer than expected,” Young Shane says, “and then I got lost down this YouTube rabbit hole.”

“It’s fine,” Yuna says. “I ordered for you. Salmon, brown rice. Ok”

“Thanks,” Shane mutters.

“So,” Yuna continues, “I have very exciting news.”

“What’s YouTube?” David asks, and everyone chuckles. It really puts into perspective how long Shane and Ilya have been dancing around each other. Or, Ilya supposes, dancing around with each other. In secret. Sexily.

“Rolex is in,” Yuna says.

“Wow,” Young Shane responds.

“Look a little excited, Hollzy!” Bood chirps.

“Let me pull up the email,” Yuna says, putting on glasses and pulling out her phone. “And I quote, ‘Shane is exactly the kind of young athlete and young man that Rolex wants to be associated with. He’s smart, he’s serious, he’s handsome.’ That’s an understatement.”

“God, Mom,” Young Shane says.

“She’s right, you know,” Ilya whispers to Shane. “Massive understatement. You are the most handsome.”

“No you.”

Yuna continues to read out the email, “‘And we believe he will be hockey’s most significant ambassador in a generation.’”

“Is Rolex on YouTube?” David asks, gaining more laughs around the room.

Yuna sighs, and Young Shane says, “YouTube is like a video portal site.”

David shakes his head. “I’m not convinced I know what any of those words mean.”

Young Shane says, “So, a rabbit hole is where you watch a video, and it keeps recommending other videos, and you keep clicking them.”

“Sounds dangerous,” David says.

“Oh yeah, I go down those rabbit holes all the time,” Yuna says.

“Of course you do, Mom,” Young Shane says.

“What was yours about?” Yuna asks.

“Fancy watches?” David asks.

“David!” Yuna scolds.

“What?” David says. “I’m just keeping up.”

“Unlikely animals becoming friends,” Young Shane says finally. “Like a tiger and a bear, a cow and a duck.”

“Come on!” David says.

“Yeah,” Young Shane laughs. “A snake and a baby.”

“Wait, that's like a perfect metaphor for you and Roz, Hollzy!” Boyle says.

“I’d watch that,” David says.

Yuna says, “Well, what you should be watching are the ones about hockey.”

“Oh, there she is,” Ilya says. “Yuna Hollander, hockey’s number one greatest fan.”

“I think keeping up with that snake and baby sounds pretty important,” David says. “Relationship could go sideways pretty fast.”

“And there’s Dad,” Shane says, and they laugh together.

“Oh,” Yuna says. “I saw a link today about Ilya Rozanov. So I click on it, and he says– Well, first of all, do you remember at the beginning of the season, he told someone, I can’t remember who… Anyway, he told them that he was gonna score 40 goals.” She turns to David. “Do you remember that?”

“I remember you yelling something about Rozanov turning 40 and me trying to match your level of outrage,” David replies.

The camera zooms in on Young Shane’s face, focusing just on his reaction to his parents’ words. He can’t seem to help the amused and slightly giddy grin. So, so cute. Ilya squeezes the Shane in his arms and feels him shaking. He looks down at Shane in alarm. Is something wrong?

To his surprise, when he sees Shane’s face, he is matching the grin of his younger self on screen, shaking with little silent giggles. Ilya feels a wide smile cut across his cheeks.

“Well, yesterday in Boston, he said he meant 50,” Yuna says. “50 goals!”

“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” Young Shane says.

People are audibly laughing along now.

“Yeah, the nerve,” Yuna says. “Fuck him! I’m sorry, but I mean it.” Ilya laughs. He loves his mother in law and her mildly concerning hockey obsession. “Ok, imagining he’s better than you?” Yuna scoffs. “Fuck him. Right up the butt.”

“Yuna!” David scolds.

“I’m sorry, but I said it.”

“Honestly!”

Ilya can’t help but cackle uproariously at that, and he hears Shane laugh aloud a little as well.

“I love your mama,” he says to Shane.

“She loves you too,” Shane replies.

“Ah, you couldn’t tell by the way she was talking about me,” Ilya says, and they laugh together some more. Their friends are all giggling at the conversation as well, mostly probably at Young Shane’s face on screen. He seems to be trying his absolute best to school his expression, but it is not at all working.

“I am better than you, though,” Ilya says.

“No you’re not,” Shane can’t help but bark back.

“I am.”

“You’re literally not!” Shane turns his torso so that he can glare at Ilya right in the eyes. He’s so cute and so hot, Ilya could just die right here. “Plus, this season I won Rookie of the Year, and you didn’t, so.”

“Ah, Hollander,” Ilya says. “You know I am sensitive about this. You cannot tease me.”

“You lost fair and square.”

“Eh, it was a toss up. Could’ve been either of us.”

“No it couldn’t have! I won! You lost!” Shane is a little flushed now.

“Oh my god, you too. Stop it,” Hayden groans, and many of their Centaurs teammates echo the sentiment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Troy says. “We get it, you’re both good. Equally good, in fact.”

“No, I am better,” Ilya says, smiling.

Shane’s brows furrow as he prepares his comeback, some logical argument, probably. With graphs and pie charts and real game statistics. Ilya loves this man so much. Before he can witness the beauty of his husband’s nerdy competitiveness, Shane is cut off by more of their teammates yelling and telling them to stop bickering. Ilya and Shane both huff and settle back into their comfy cuddling position to watch the show.

Before they can get back to watching, they are interrupted. “What the fuck?” Comeau asks. Everyone turns to face him, and he sputters. “Sorry,” he says, and it looks painful for him. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. It’s just…”

When he trails off, another Voyageurs player Ilya doesn’t know the name of picks up where he left off. “Are you guys, like, not… concerned?” he asks.

There’s silence for a moment.

“...About what?” Bood asks.

“They were just fighting,” someone says, and after a beat, the entire Centaurs roster and staff as well as all their friends crack up.

“Oh, that’s funny,” Dykstra says, wiping his eyes.

“Oh, buddy,” Hayden says. “If you thought that was them fighting, you don’t want to see an actual argument between these guys.”

“What?” someone else says, but it’s hard to determine who over all the jeering.

Harris giggles and says, “That’s how they talk to each other. I think bickering might be their love language.”

“Foreplay,” Holmberg says with a solemn nod, and Boyle smacks him.

“Ew,” Boyle says.

Shane is blushing now even more than he was when he was arguing with Ilya. Ilya is not embarrassed, so he just smiles wide and says, “It’s true. Shane is so cute when he’s angry. Like a little kitten. Every time, I want to just–”

“Ilya!” Shane shouts, recognizing Ilya’s mischievous tone and cutting off the wonderful things Ilya was going to tell everyone about how pretty Shane looks when flushed red with anger or pleasure, how it makes Ilya want to push Shane against the nearest wall and shove his tongue down Shane’s throat.

“I want to pinch your cheeks! All I was going to say, sweetheart,” Ilya says. Shane glares, and Ilya knows the shit eating grin on his face gives away his lie, but he just can’t help himself. He leans down to whisper in Shane’s ear, stoking the freckles on Shane’s cheek gently with his thumb. “Not these ones, though.”

Shane blushes and buries his head in his hands, groaning. Apparently Ilya was not as quiet as he thought because everyone sitting near them blows up again, gagging and telling them to get a room.

“If only,” Ilya mutters.

“Okay,” Coach Wiebe says, chuckling. “Let’s keep watching, boys. We’re getting distracted.”

After a moment, the room settles, and they all turn back toward the screen to keep watching.

The video shows broadcast footage now of one of the Boston v. Montreal games. It’s right before the face-off, and the footage shows the players on both benches as the announcers speak.

“Desjardins talking to McCann and St. Pierre,” one announcer says. “It’s probably the last face-off of the game. Who are they sending in?” In the background, they can hear the crowd chanting for Young Ilya. 

“This crowd seems to have ideas,” the second announcer says.

“Are they gonna do this? Are they gonna give the people what they want?” Young Shane skates towards the face-off circle.

“Desjardins is gonna give it to them. Is Reilly gonna do this too? Are we gonna see…?” On screen, one of Young Ilya’s coaches taps his shoulder, and he immediately hops the boards. Ilya will give it to his younger self, his poker face is impressive, but Ilya remembers in this moment being giddy, so excited to play with Shane.

“Listen to that crowd,” the announcer says. “And there you have it! It’s Ilya Rozanov versus…”

The video switches suddenly, and now instead of broadcast footage, they’re watching just Young Shane and Ilya close up, away from the announcers and the shouting of the crowd. They bend down, heads together, waiting for the puck to drop.

“Shane Hollander,” Young Ilya says, teasing. “Will you disappoint them?”

Young Shane smirks, chewing on his mouthguard. “Nope,” he says, shaking his head. Then, the sound of a whistle, and the puck drops.

The footage cuts away again, showing video footage of Young Shane’s post game interview on a TV. Ilya pouts. He wants to see some hockey, but this show keeps cutting away from it. He guesses it makes sense, since everyone in this room has seen them play before and not seen the rest of it, but he’s still annoyed. Shane is so hot when he plays.

The reporter speaks to Young Shane in French, but like with Russian, captions are provided at the bottom of the screen, reading: “But a goal off the face-off? Your first against Rozanov? That had to have felt pretty good?”

Young Shane smirks, not very good at hiding how pleased he is with himself. He answers back in French as well, and the captions read, “I’m happy with any goal I can get.”

“But one off of Rozanov?” Ilya doesn’t really like how this woman is pronouncing his last name. It’s somehow even worse than how the English speakers do.

“Again,” Young Shane says, still in French, “I’m happy with any goal.”

“And the face-offs?”

“I’m here for the team. I’m here to win. I don’t care about the details.”

The reporter keeps hounding him, trying to get him to break his perfect player, good sport performance. She asks, “And what do you think about being compared to Tiger Woods and Serena Williams? Do you think you share any of the same challenges” Damn. Young Shane’s face drops, looking more serious and a little sick/nervous. That’s a lot to put on the shoulders of little baby Shane Hollander. Ilya hadn’t really considered that much at the time, but in hindsight, they were both so young.

“I don’t really think about stuff like that,” Young Shane says. “I’m just super happy to play for the Voyageurs.” He’s so cute and little Ilya wishes he could reach through the screen and pinch his perfect, freckled cheeks.

The video switches to show Young Ilya alone in his hotel room, playing with the remote as he watches Young Shane’s interview. He speaks in Russian, and the captions read, “Mr. Hollander. How does it feel to be perfect? Fucking perfect. Thanks for asking. In fucking French.” 

He turns off the TV and throws the remote on the bed, and then the video switches rapidly to Young Ilya pacing his room, in a heated conversation with Alexei on the phone. Wow. The whole fucking NHL is really getting to see his entire fucking sob story, Ilya guesses. At least it’s not just Shane getting his boundaries tested by whatever magic or science or whatever brought them all here.

Still in Russian, Young Ilya says, “Twenty thousand dollars?”

Alexei’s voice comes through the phone, “Yes, twenty thousand dollars.” The video switches to show him in Moscow. It’s morning there, but where Young Ilya is, it's late at night. There’s the sound of a baby crying. Ilya’s niece. His heart pangs for a moment. He wonders how she is doing, if Alexei is a good dad, if she’ll ever get her trust fund. He remembers holding her when she was just about a year old. She was so little, Ilya was afraid that just by holding her in his giant, calloused hands he would break her. “I’m glad your hearing is okay,” Alexei says.

“For what this time?” Young Ilya asks.

“For fuck you.”

“This is the last fucking time,” Young Ilya says.

“Yeah, fine.”

“And I’m not sending it tonight.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Young Ilya, already obviously at the end of his rope, stutters in affront. “It’s– It’s midnight here, Alexei.”

“You always have some bullshit excuse, Ilya.”

Shane turns his head to whisper to him. He says, “I know you told me all about your brother, but seeing it is something else.”

“Yes,” Ilya whispers back. “He is an asshole.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane says. “He’s something else.”

On screen, Young Ilya violently rubs his hand down his face, rubbing his eyes. “How’s Dad?” he asks.

“What the fuck is up with you and Dad?” Alexei asks. “Jesus fucking Christ! He is fine! We can all live without you. Go fuck yourself, Ilya.” Ilya’s niece is sobbing now, and her mother is attempting to soothe her. Likely all the yelling. Ilya’s heart clenches again. He wonders how common a thing that is in Alexei’s home.

Young Ilya takes a beat, collecting himself. “On the phone yesterday,” he says, “he asked me to bring home some bread.”

There’s silence for a moment as the room takes this in, and some people audibly suck in a sympathetic breath.

“Shit, dude,” Hayden says, and Ilya doesn’t really have it in him to tease Hayden Pike right now, so he pretends he didn’t hear anything.

Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s squeezing three times.

Alexei pauses for a moment, looking at his own daughter for seemingly the first time. “Well, he is stupid,” he says.

Young Ilya nods, pain and sadness and loneliness plain on his face for everyone to see. “Goodnight, Alexei,” he says.

“First thing in the morning, Ilya,” Alexei replies. And that’s it. A pretty typical conversation between the two of them, all things considered, but still too revealing for Ilya’s tastes.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Hayden says again, and this one Ilya cannot let go.

“I knew you cared about me, Pike,” Ilya teases. 

“That sucked, dude,” Hayden says earnestly, and shit. Ilya knew that one was weak, but the least Hayden could do was play along like usual and divert sympathy away from Ilya by reminding everyone how much of an asshole he is. But no, Hayden just looks at him over Shane’s shoulder with his stupid, big, earnest green eyes.

Ilya clears his throat. “Yes,” he says. “Was typical, though. I did not expect any love from him, so it was never surprising.” Shit again. Too honest. Ilya was so worried for Shane when this whole thing started, since it is his literal nightmare, but he didn’t think it would be getting to him this much. He offers Hayden a weak attempt at a cheeky grin and decides to leave it there, knowing anything else he says will only add to the Ilya-pity-party.

He’s beginning to worry what else this stupid screen will show. 

Shane squeezes his hand again, firmer this time. He stretches his head up and places a few light kisses on the place where Ilya’s jaw meets his neck, obviously trying to be discreet and not draw anymore attention to Ilya while still comforting him. It’s sweet, but with this many eyes on them both, it’s impossible for others not to notice. Thankfully no one points it out. Inexplicably, Ilya feels his face heating, almost like he’s blushing. Which is just ridiculous. Russians do not blush.

The screen goes black, and more words pop up on screen, reading: “Four Months Later.” The video switches to show the background of a presser during the All-Star Games. Ilya sees where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. More text pops up, reading “Nashville,” and camera flashes and the chatter of reporters is heard. The video switches again, showing Young Shane and Young Ilya at the table, getting mic-ed up and settled in. More text: “All-Star Game.”

An announcer speaks over the video. “Here we are at the NHL All-Star Game,” he says, “and the theme this year is Team Hollander versus Team Rozanov.”

“I think they’re playing for the same team,” Troy says, deadpan, and Ilya laughs.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the announcer continues. “I read that wrong. It’s Team North America versus Team Europe.”

Another announcer pipes up, laughing lightly. “It’s not subtle,” he says. “Anytime the league can figure out a way to get these two kids in each other’s faces, they’re gonna do it.” The camera pans down to show their feet under the table, and that’s when Ilya knows that no detail of their relationship over the years will remain undiscovered. He’s beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable. He’s not ashamed by any means, but after so many years keeping it all secret, there are many things Ilya wants to share with the world, yelling from the rooftops, but there are just as many he wants to hold close to his chest, living safely tucked away in his heart where only Shane can ever access it. He can only imagine how his husband is feeling now.

The press conference starts. A report asks, “Ilya, you’re having a legendary rookie season. Both of you are. You said you’d hit 50 goals this year. You’ve had 28 so far, and we’re in the middle of February. You still thinking about a 50-goal campaign?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. This isn’t even the worst one from the press conference, but Ilya can’t help but wonder what these reporters were thinking, asking him such long, quickly spoken questions as a 19 year-old rookie, barely off the plane from Russia. He remembers trying to piece together the English words, nervousness about speaking in his second language already messing with his comprehension. He would only understand every other word, or even less than that. Now, with over a decade more of living in English-speaking countries under his belt, Ilya can understand it all, and it only makes it more ridiculous in hindsight that they were asking him this.

But, to be fair, he would’ve been pissed if anyone had talked down to him or babied him. So maybe it was for the best. Young Shane was there for him, after all.

The camera shows Young Ilya knock his foot against Young Shane’s under the table, taking a deep breath before leaning into the mic and saying, “Yes.”

“Tell me you guys weren’t playing footsie under the table at a press conference,” Harris says, looking a little green and very glad in hindsight that he was way too young to be their social media at this point in their lives.

Shane giggles a little and shrugs, a sheepish but happy smile on his face. He’s looking at the screen with a faint blush and a soft look, which surprises Ilya. He figured if this was freaking him out so much, his husband must be in much worse shape. As if feeling his confusion, Shane turns to him.

“What?” he asks.

Ilya furrows his brow and squints, trying to figure out if this is some new tactic Shane has developed to make Ilya think he’s fine when he’s not. Maybe he started taking secret acting lessons from Rose. Eventually, he asks, “You are okay?”

“Yes, Ilya,” Shane says, fond. “I’m just…” he trails off. “The worst has been shown already. And it’s kind of nice. Showing these parts of our early relationship to the world. Or at least to everyone in this room. Showing them it wasn’t all scandal and lust and hotel rooms and blowjobs. It was… sweet. In hindsight.” He laughs softly under his breath, and his voice drops into a softer tone, not quite a whisper, but just on the edge of it. “We were both so gone for each other, so much earlier than I remember. I was just lying to myself, I think. About my feelings. About your feelings. It’s nice to see it all now and see how my love for you has grown.”

Ilya could just die. His heart unclenches, and he releases a shaky, wet breath. “Yes,” he says. “It is very nice.”

On screen, another report asks, “Shane, kind of the same to you. You scored 31 goals. Any chance you want to speculate as to how this season will end up for you guys?”

Young Shane leans forward, a small smirk on his face. “No chance at all,” he says, shaking his head.

“Question for Ilya first, but it’ll be the same for Shane,” a reporter says. “Boston is an original six legendary team that has struggled to get to the playoffs for the past three seasons. How much pressure do you feel from the fans, from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory? And how much of that do you take on personally?” Young Ilya looks increasingly lost as the question goes on and on and on.

There’s silence in the video except for the click of cameras as Young Ilya pulls on his collar and adjusts his tie, fidgeting nervously as he visibly tries to pull together a response from what little he understood. Ilya remembers at that moment being completely lost. Lights shining directly in his face, and a tie tied so tight it felt like it was strangling him. Alone on a stage in front of a bunch of people who don’t know his language and whose language he barely understands on a good day. Well, not completely alone.

“Um… Uh…” Young Ilya stutters embarrassingly. “Um…”

Young Shane looks over at him. “Uh, sorry,” he says. “Not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov’s permission…” Under the table, he taps Young Ilya’s foot with his own, and Young Ilya nods his head at him, embarrassed but grateful. “I know it’s only been two seasons since Montreal’s made the playoffs, but I think I get the idea. So, look, my mom is the world’s biggest Voyageurs fan. She’s obsessed.” The crowd of reporters laughs. “And like all Voyageurs fans, she wants us to be back in the playoffs regularly, and she wants us to win some cups. And I want the same thing. I want to be in the playoffs, and I want to win some cups. I feel pretty aligned with the fans, ‘cause we want the same thing. And at this point, it’s my job to take that personally.” 

Ilya feels a smile stretch across his face as he watches the younger version of himself on screen begrudgingly relax the longer Young Shane talks. At the time, he was still grateful, but too frustrated in the moment to be properly appreciative. After, though, he remembers lying in bed in his hotel room, before Shane came over, smiling giddily to himself. Who was he fooling, pretending he wasn’t Shane Hollander’s from the moment he laid eyes on him that cold winter day in Saskatchewan?

“Ilya?” A reporter asks.

Young Ilya leans toward the mic again, deadpan, and says, “What he said.” The room laughs again, and Young Ilya is off the hook.

Under the table, Young Ilya moves his foot to touch Young Shane’s, and Young Shane moves his closer until the sides of their feet are completely pressed up against one another.

“That is so goddamn cute,” Eric Bennet says, loud enough for mostly everyone to hear. Ilya hadn’t seen him or Kyle much, except for a glimpse of him through the crowd earlier, and he cranes his neck to see them where they sit, not too far from Scott and Kip.

“I know,” Wyatt says. “I’m about to tear up, bro. They were just babies.”

“That was so sweet of you, Shane,” Jackie says.

Shane just shrugs, modest as always, so Ilya takes their joined hands and brings them up to his mouth for a kiss. “Yes,” Ilya says. “My Shane is so sweet to me.”

Shane blushes and whines, “Ilya.” He covers his face with his free hand, but Ilya can’t have that, so he grabs it with his other hand and intertwines it with his own. So, now Ilya has both of Shane’s hands in his as he wraps his arms around him in a tame, but tender hug. Shane huffs cutely, putting up a poor show up being fed up with his husband despite the beaming smile and cute blush.

Ilya leans down and kisses the side of Shane’s neck, burying his face there and taking a strong inhale. Shane twitches, ticklish, and immediately rips his hands from Ilya’s grasp to shove at him. “Stop it,” he says. Ah, Ilya pushed him too far, but he just couldn’t help it. Shane is so beautiful it takes his breath away.

He tells him this. Or, well, close enough.

“You are so sexy, Shane. I cannot help myself,” he says.

“Shut the fuck up, idiot,” Shane says, huffing, but he settle back against Ilya to watch the rest of the video, and Ilya settles his arms back around Shane’s waist. Shane places his hands over Ilya’s, running a gentle finger over his knuckles.

They both know they’re being watched, but it feels like they’re both, for the first time, choosing to ignore it. In Ilya’s mind, the people here are about to see so much more of their relationship. And in the near future, it’ll only be from their early, messier years. They might as well show everyone how that flaming passion has transformed into something real (well, he supposes, it was already real to them) and domestic and sweet.

“And here’s the shot accuracy competition,” an announcer reports on screen. 

The video shows the footage of the All-Star skills competition broadcast, showing footage of the rink overlaid with graphics of Young Shane and Young Ilya’s photos, as well as a tiny Scott Hunter in the corner with the words, “Current Leader: Scott Hunter. 8.03 seconds” next to his picture.

“Featuring, gasp, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov,” the announcer continues.

As the screen shows Young Ilya performing the shot accuracy competition on the ice, the other one says, “The record for this event, currently held by the New York Admirals’ Scott Hunter, is 4 takedowns in 8 seconds.” 

When Young Ilya hits the last target, a horn blasts, and he pumps his fist, yelling, “Davai!” The captions helpfully translate it once again.

“And Rozanov breaks the record. There you go!”

Ilya can’t help but tease Scott. “So sad to see an old man already falling behind. And he still hasn’t retired years later. It’s like a race between one of my sports cars and one of Shane’s old mom soccer vans.” Ha. Two-for-one.

“Very funny, Rozanov,” Scott says.

“I don’t own a van,” Shane says, pouting.

“Close enough,” Ilya says.

“It’s practical. It snows a lot in Ottawa. And you sold all your sports cars anyway,” Shane says.

“Shh, my love,” Ilya says. “You are exposing me. I only did it for charity. Otherwise I would be racing around every day. Leaving you in the dust on the way to practice because you insist on driving a car from the last century.”

“Alright,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.

The video shows Young Shane looking pretty on the bench as the announcer continues, “He’s a big kid with a big shot.”

“Oh, yes, I am,” Ilya whispers to his husband who smacks his arm lightly.

Young Shane skates up for his turn, hitting each target in quick succession. The horn blares as the announcer says, “That was something else, I’ll tell you that!”

Young Shane throws up his arm, smiling cutely when he sees his time. “Let’s go!” he says. Oh my god. He is so cute.

“Shane Hollander just shaved over a second off the record that Ilya Rozanov just set,” the announcer says, and Ilya is too occupied with smiling dopily at the screen to tease Shane this time. 

The other one says, “If that isn’t a good night and good luck, I don’t know what is.”

The screen shows Young Shane heading back to his bench, getting pats and noogies from his teammates. It also shows Young Ilya on his bench, his eyes locked on Young Shane, never straying.

They settle on their benches, both on the very edge so that the only thing separating them is the barrier between the different teams’ benches.

“Good job,” Young Ilya calls across to Young Shane. 

“Thanks,” Young Shane replies, looking away.

“You have fun last night?” Young Ilya asks, drawing Young Shane’s attention again.

“Last night?” Young Shane asks.

“With your team,” Young Ilya explains, gesturing with his hand. “Get dinner, get drunk?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I had fun, but I didn’t get drunk.” Young Shane is so cute, Ilya thinks if he has to watch much more he will just melt into a puddle beneath his husband. He was so innocent and earnest. Ilya may have corrupted him.

He knows that throughout this entire section he’s just been staring at the screen with the most sappiest expression, and it’s probably ruining his image. But he figures this video will do enough ruining his image for him anyway, so why not admire his adorable husband openly? This section of the video, specifically, is killing him. Shane looks especially soft and cute, for some reason. Young Ilya took it for granted. Present Ilya will not.

Young Ilya blows a raspberry at Young Shane, teasing. He is obviously trying to keep his cool as he flirts, but Young Shane smiles openly at him. How did no one catch them for so many years?

“How did no one notice this?” Dykstra echoes his thoughts. “You guys are making the most obvious heart eyes I’ve ever seen, and Cap is flirting crazy style.”

Ilya figures “crazy style” is some sort of internet slang he hasn’t come across yet, somehow. Despite his love of social media that has only grown with the ability to freely share his love with Shane to the world. He thinks he gets the gist.

“I know,” Bood laughs loudly. “Hollzy looks like a kid with a crush.”

“He is, though,” Luca says. He stutters a bit when everyone looks at him, but he feels more at place rooms full of much older, more established players, now that he has a good team, a good season, and the points to back it up under his belt. He barely falters before continuing. “He’s younger than me, here. By, like, two years.”

Ilya blanches at the thought. Luca is like a baby to him. So little. Like a duckling. Or a baby. And logically, he knows that Luca is a respectable, fierce player and competitor, but with his baby face and sweet demeanor, it can be easy to forget that. When he’s alone with Shane, he jokingly calls Luca their son, sometimes, since he tends to seek the two of them out over any of the others for advice, hockey or otherwise. He’s been trying to find a way to slip it into conversation with Luca without scaring him off, because he really does care for the boy.

But, woah. They really were so young.

“Damn,” Wyatt says. “Shit, kid. You’re making me feel old. And feel really paternal for Cap and Hollzy. Which is kinda weird.”

Ilya laughs out loud, and Shane scrunches up his nose like he doesn’t know whether to be offended or flattered.

“Man, I was still in school at that age,” Chouinard says. “That’s wild. You guys had so much pressure on your shoulders.”

Ilya shrugs. They did. “Yes,” he says.

Everyone turns back to the screen, a little softer than before.

“You?” Young Shane asks.

“Yeah, it was great,” Young Ilya says. “No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans.”

“So, what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?” Young Shane chirps.

“Sorry,” present Shane mutters as a bunch of the guys, including many of the Finnish guys, laugh at the unexpected roast from golden boy Shane Hollander.

Young Ilya smiles at Young Shane, and it looks so much sweeter than Ilya remembers trying to make it. He thinks he was going for something more smug, but he just looks fond. “Think I’m going to bed early tonight,” he says, standing up and leaving the bench.

“Oh, yeah?”

Young Ilya leans in close to Young Shane as he skates by and says, “1221.”

“Oh my god, Roz!” he hears Marly laugh from further across the room. “You bold mother fucker.” 

Many others agree with the statement, laughing along. The yells increase in volume and fervor as a slightly younger (but not by much) Scott Hunter leans into frame. Shane laughs a little hysterically.

“Nice shooting, rook,” the slightly less old Scott says. 

“Thanks,” baby pookie Shane says.

“Glad to see Rozanov didn’t hold my record for more than a minute,” the Scott with a wrinkle or two less says. “What did he want by the way?”

“Oh, nothing,” Young Shane says, and he is a bad liar. As always. It really is a wonder no one found them out. “Just shit-talking.”

“He’s an asshole, right,” younger but still elderly Scott says.

“I mean, yeah, basically.”

“Lucky me. I’m in the room next door to him at the hotel.”

Young Shane’s face drops dramatically, but he doesn’t have time to dwell as he is called off the bench when someone yells his name.

“Oh my god!” Kip says, grinning. “Oh my god, babe. Did you know?”

Present day (old) Scott smiles sheepishly and says, “I had, like, a tiny suspicion. But I couldn’t tell if I was just seeing gay everywhere because I was trying so hard to hide it. It was all I thought about, so I figured I was projecting, but I thought telling Hollander his hotel room number was a weird chirp. I didn’t actually think they were hooking up, but I figured just in case, I’d say that to let Hollander know to be more careful. I guess I could’ve been a little subtler.”

“Ya think?” Shane said, deadpan, and Ilya’s head flung back with the force of his cackle.

“Sorry, man,” Scott says.

“You kept saying stuff that could’ve just been a weird comment, and I couldn’t tell if you knew! You had me freaking out every time I talked to you for, like, years,” Shane complains.

Kip and Ilya just laugh at their respective significant others.

“I didn’t really know, to be fair. And I didn’t want you to think I was, like, homophobic, whether it was true or not,” Scott says, and Ilya can’t help but laugh harder at that.

“Homotron 3000 was worried about being thought of as homophobic,” he says, chuckling, and that sets everyone off into a fit.

Kip is bent over at the waist, gasping for air and wiping tears from his eyes. “Homotron 3000!” he wheezes.

Even Shane is cracking up. “Where did you learn that?” he asks Ilya.

“The internet,” he says simply, smiling. He leans in for a quick peck while everyone is distracted because he can’t help it, and watching this video is making him feel very sentimental about his husband. Shane’s amused smile melts into a softer, more loving one. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane whispers back.

Eventually, everyone calms down, and they continue watching.

The video switches, showing Young Ilya sitting in a chair in his hotel room, waiting, when there’s a knock at the door. He gets up and walks over to the door, glancing through the peephole before opening the door and letting Young Shane in. Young Shane squeezes himself through the door and shuts it quickly. He turns around slowly, and present Ilya laughs at his angry kitten face.

“Is someone chasing you?” Young Ilya asks.

“I’m standing in the hallway like an idiot,” Young Shane says. “Scott Hunter is right next door.”

“Damn,” Holmberg teases. “You guys were already bickering like a married couple.” 

Young Ilya laughs, and Young Shane watches him, toeing off his shoes. “Fuck,” he murmurs, lunging forward and capturing Young Ilya in a heated kiss.

JJ wolf whistles. “Ay, capitaine!” he cheers. “Wasting no time!”

Young Shane pushes Young Ilya up against the wall, both of them moaning into the kiss. He runs his hands through Young Ilya’s curly hair as Young Ilya grabs his waist.

Young Ilya pulls away after a moment. “Get on your knees,” Young Ilya says. More people whistle and jeer lightheartedly now, more comfortable with teasing them after already watching their first time, arguably the most intimate thing to have had other people watch. Ilya finds he doesn’t mind it much when it's coming from friends.

When Young Shane drops to his knees, it’s obvious by the way Young Ilya raises his arms in pleasure and shock and the way he breathe out a soft “Woah,” that he’s not as nonchalant as he tried to make himself appear, and this fact doesn’t go over their friends’ heads if the teasing he hears tells him anything.

Young Shane goes to town just off screen, and the unzipping of Ilya’s pants and the familiar sounds (to Ilya, at least) of a patented Shane Hollander blowjob are heard. Young Shane runs his hand up Young Ilya’s abs and chest, so he ends up throwing his shirt over his head, taking it off.

“Oh please tell me they’re not gonna show this whole thing,” Shane complains. He is much more relaxed than the last time, but he looks a little pale. His eyes glaze over like he’s seen a ghost. It reminds Ilya of the clips of that player from Vancouver, or maybe Minnesota, that are going viral lately.

After an honestly embarrassingly short time, Young Ilya drags Young Shane back up and into a heated kiss, picking him up and carrying him over to the bed. The whole room gets a nice view of his (beautiful) ass as he does so.

“Damn, Cap!” Boyle yells. 

“That’s hot,” Young agrees.

Young Ilya dumps Young Shane on the bed where he proceeds to try and rid himself of the rest of his clothing. Young Ilya helps him undo and rip off his pants. Damn. Looking at this from an outside perspective, they were so much more comfortable with each other even after one hookup. He knows he had been thinking of Shane the entire time they were apart, and he’d put money on the fact Shane was too. And they sure do kiss a lot for fuckbuddies. They were so stupid. But also so afraid, so he gives his past self some leeway.

Young Ilya climbs back up on top of Young Shane, kissing his chest and abdomen before dropping down toward his cock. Once again, Young Shane’s leg perfectly blocks the actual cock sucking, but with the fervent motion of Young Ilya’s head and the sucking noises, it’s extremely pornographic anyway. And really fucking hot. Like. Woah. 

Shane leans toward him, his eyebrows pulled together like they are whenever he is faced with a particularly vexing mystery. “How are our legs always positioned perfectly to block the view of our… y’know?” he whispers.

“Our dicks?” Ilya says, normal volume, but Shane is so focused that he doesn’t even yell at Ilya for that.

“Yeah…” he says, bringing a hand up to his chin. Now he looks like he’s analyzing their sex tape like game playbacks. He is so adorable.

“Oh my fucking…” Young Shane moans as Ilya blows him, running his large hand across Young Shane’s chest and abdomen. “Fuck, Rozanov.”

“Damn, Rozy!” someone yells. Ilya thinks it was St. Simone over by where most of the Bears are sitting.

Young Ilya pulls off, kissing back up Young Shane’s body as Young Shane moans.

“Get on your stomach,” Young Ilya demands between kisses, patting Young Shane’s side. “On your stomach.”

Young Shane flips around, and the Shane in Ilya’s arms seems to spontaneously remember the rest of their conversation that night because he goes from mostly keeping his cool to groaning and burying his face in Ilya’s chest again.

“Earmuffs,” Shane mumbles, and Ilya chuckles, putting his hand over Shane’s ears to save him from melting into an embarrassed puddle of Shane-goo.

Young Ilya splays his body on top of Young Shane’s, and Ilya knows he was rubbing his crotch up against Shane’s backside here, but it’s kind of hard to see. Young Ilya rubs Young Shane’s side soothingly. “Have you ever?” he asks. Young Shane shakes his head. “Do you want to?” He leans down and kisses Young Shane’s neck before leaning back and looking at Young Shane’s face when his question goes unanswered. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Young Shane lies.

“No, is ok.”

“I’m not scared,” Young Shane repeats.

Young Ilya pulls back a bit and reaches down to rub a finger gently over Young Shane’s hole. Again, none of the dirty details are shown close-up. Young Shane jumps and moans softly.

“Do you ever touch yourself here?” Young Ilya asks, and the room gets awkward again, like it was during the first sex scene, if one can call Ilya’s real, lived experience a “sex scene.” People are beginning to avert their eyes, clearing their throats.

“Jesus Christ,” Young Shane says.

“What? Does touching your ass make you gay?” Young Ilya teases, deadpan.

“Rozanov,” Young Shane scolds.

“‘Cause you know what else makes you gay is sucking my dick.” 

People begin to loosen up a bit more, recognizing the familiar banter they now see as easy intimacy between the two men on screen. Ilya hopes if the people who thought Shane tripped in Shane’s last game with Montreal have to watch moments like these, they at least come to understand that their rivalry was never fake. It’s clear to Ilya, and to their friends too, he thinks, as the teasing and competing never stops, not even in the bedroom. Not even when they’re at their most domestic, most intimate. It’s who they are, how they communicate with each other. What makes them Shane&Ilya.

“Shut up. Fuck,” Young Shane says, and Ilya remembers what comes next, so he looks up and straightens, drawing most of the attention in the room. Without lifting his hands from Shane’s ears, he glares across the room like there are lasers coming out of his eyes and tries to make it very clear what will happen to anyone who ever brings this up in front of Shane, let alone teases him. He sees one of the Toronto rookies shiver in fear. Ha. Still got it. “I’m trying to say I have a thing. Okay?” Young Shane continues.

“A thing?” Young Ilya asks.

Ilya’s murder glare intensifies, and more players shrink back from his gaze. The coaches look away as soon as his eyes land anywhere near them, and most of the WAGs are respectfully looking away with neutral expressions already. 

“A dildo,” Young Shane says, and Ilya sees that process in waves across the room. Some people make eyes at each other, but as soon as a smile crosses their face, it drops, and they glance over at him. Good. They’re scared. He narrows his eyes more.

There is a pause on screen. Until: “What color?” Young Ilya asks

“Fuck you,” Young Shane fires back immediately. And some people let out some stifled laughter. Mostly their friends at the familiar banter. He’s sure some of them recognize by now the way Ilya jokes to get Shane out of his head. Gah, this video is revealing to many of Ilya’s secrets for his liking.

“It’s big?” Young Ilya asks, and Hayden shakes with the force of holding in his laugh enough that Ilya feels the couch shake a bit. Shane peeks an eye out to glare at his best friend, who holds his hands up in surrender.

“I’m leaving,” Young Shane says, getting up.

Young Ilya plasters himself back over Young Shane’s body, holding him there. “No, no, Hollander. I want to fuck you,” he whines, and Young Shane flips over so they’re face to face with a fond grin on his face and a gleam in his big beautiful brown eyes.

Ilya thinks the worst is over, so he removes his hands from Shane’s ears and taps his shoulder. Shane peeks over his shoulder at the screen. 

Young Ilya rests on top of Young Shane, propping himself up to look down at him, their crotches pressed together. Young Shane brings a gentle hand up to rest on Young Ilya’s bicep. 

“Not here,” Young Shane says, and present Shane seems to agree with Ilya’s sentiment that the worst is over, and he turns fully back around, allowing Ilya to wrap his arms back around his husband. “Not with fucking Scott Hunter next door.”

“He is hot,” Young Ilya teases. And, okay, he forgot about that. Only a little embarrassing. Little because he was teasing Shane, and Scott is hot, but he doesn’t really want the others knowing he thinks that. He doesn’t want Kip thinking Ilya actually wants his dinosaur-aged husband. “We should let him listen like mating call.” He drops down to press a kiss to Young Shane’s lips.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Young Shane asks.

“Mm-hmm,” Young Ilya hums. “You probably would too.”

Shane cringes and looks over at Scott and Kip. “Sorry, Scott,” he says, cringing and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Ilya just shrugs. “I am not sorry,” he says.

Scott just flashes him a shit-eating grin, ignoring Shane’s apology. “You said I’m hot,” he teases.

Ilya shrugs. “I was just teasing Shane. We all say things we don’t mean sometimes.”

“But you did. You meant it.” The grin on Hunter’s stupid beautiful face only grows wider, and Ilya huffs.

“Okay,” he relents. “You are not bad looking. For an old man.”

“I’ll take it,” Scott says.

On screen, Young Ilya says, “Okay. So next time.”

“Next time?” Young Shane asks, dodging Young Ilya’s kiss, somehow looking both hopeful and full of dread.

“Yeah,” Young Ilya says. “We play Montreal in two weeks.”

“You guys met up during the season?” Dillon asks incredulously.

“When else would they have met up, dumbfuck?” Holmberg says.

“I don’t know,” Dillon says. He looks sheepish as people stare at him. “I guess I never… thought about it?”

“Yeah,” Young Shane says. “But, um, where would we…” He sounds so scared that Ilya just wants to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him away from the rest of the world forever. He feels a little better remembering that they can love each other freely now. He plays with Shane’s wedding ring on his left ring finger (instead of on a chain like it usually is during games and practices).

“Where would we what?” Young Ilya asks.

“Meet?”

“You are homeless?” Young Ilya jokes, and it seems to catch people off guard because a few people laugh incredulously. He hears someone choke on their spit.

“God, you’re such a dick, Cap” Young says, but it’s fond.

“No,” Young Shane says, bewildered.

“Then we meet at your house,” Young Ilya says.

“It’s an apartment,” Young Shane says. Many people are giggling now, including Shane. Ilya can feel the way his body shakes slightly with the effort to stifle it. He smiles and squeezes his husband three times, and Shane squeezes his arm back.

“Hollander, you are having panic attack,” Young Ilya says. “Is just a plan to fuck.” Young Shane nods, and Young Ilya nods back before diving down to kiss him. Young Shane chases his lips when he pulls away, so Young Ilya dives back in, and they go back to making out.

Probably much to Shane’s relief, the video cuts away there to after their hookup, when Young Shane is getting dressed again. He throws his plain, boring (hot) white shirt over his head while Ilya sits up against the headboard, naked except for a towel around his waist.

“Uh, I know we talked about Montreal in two weeks, but…” Young Shane says, trailing off. He stands awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, and Ilya is so endeared.

There’s a beat before Young Ilya speaks up. “Oh my god, Hollander,” he says. “You are so boring.” He gets up off the bed, crossing over to where Young Shane stands. “Give me your phone,” he says, holding out a hand. When Young Shane hesitates, he says, “You have phone. Give.”

Young Shane gives Young Ilya his phone.

“Stand up, buddy!” Hayden jeers. “You folded like wet cardboard!” 

Shane punches him in the arm before Ilya has the chance.

Young Ilya types in Young Shane’s phone for a bit before handing it over. Young Shane looks at what he has done and laughs softly. “So, what’s my name gonna be?” he asks.

“Jane,” Young Ilya replies.

They smile at each other as the sound of a text sending is heard. A text bubble pops up on screen that reads: “Hey Jane, see you in 2 weeks 😉xo Lily”

“OH MY GOD ROZANOV IS BOSTON LILY,” the Voyageurs goalie, Miitka, says.

“Yes?” Hayden says. “I figured that was kind of obvious, Miity.”

“Wait, wait. Really?” Drapeau asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Shane says.

“Wait, dude. No fucking way,” Drapeau says.

“I’m… confused,” one of the Voyageurs’ younger players says. “What’s the big deal?”

“I mean,” Drapeau says, looking around, “I guess after watching this it’s stupid I didn’t realize earlier, but Hollander has been texting Boston Lily for, like, ever.”

“Uh,” Hayden says. “Yeah, dude. He has.” He gestures to the screen where they watched a younger Shane and Ilya that pretty much any of them have ever known kiss on screen.

“We almost had an intervention for you, Hollander,” Miitka says. “You had been texting this girl, or I guess guy, for so long and you were always smiling at your phone. You were like, in love, and shit, and we thought this girl, guy whatever, was stringing you along.”

“Oh,” Shane says. He thinks for a second. “I guess we were both stringing each other along.” He squints at Ilya. “Neither of us were? I don’t know. It was complicated.”

“Yeah,” Comeau laughs in one heavy exhale, like he’s releasing an evil spirit out of his lungs. “We can see that, Hollander.”

“I still don’t get what the big deal is?” The younger player prods, looking confused.

“You don’t understand, kid,” another one of the older Voyageurs says, and Ilya is losing track of all their names. Oops (he couldn’t care less). “Boston Lily was, like, the Hollander thing. Like, woah. We talked about her so much. My brain is breaking.”

Hayden laughs at them. “I can’t believe you guys didn’t figure it out!” he says. “As soon as Shane came out and I realized he had recently stopped leaving our hotel room in Boston and started doing it in Ottawa, I guessed it.”

“Okay. But you lived with him, dumbass,” another Voyageur says.

“Ok fair,” Hayden concedes. “But still. You should’ve at least figured it out when the FanMail video came out.”

“Yeah I figured out Hollzy was Roz’s ‘Montreal girl,’ like, the second I saw the video,” Marly says.

“I guess,” Miitka mutters under his breath, and everyone turns back to the screens, even though many of the Voyageurs still look like their brains are breaking.

The video fades to black, and text fades in, reading: “Two Weeks Later.” 

Young Ilya sits next to Marly in the airport with some of the other Bears, shaking his knee and checking his phone obsessively. Text on screen reads, “Boston.”

“Hey,” Marly says, pointing. “That’s me!”

Hayden grumbles. “I can’t believe Marlow made it in the video before me.”

Jackie rubs his arm, consoling him teasingly. “I’m sure we’ll see you soon, honey,” she says.

“What’s up with you?” Young Marly asks.

“Nothing,” Young Ilya responds.

“You sure?” Young Marly says, doubtful.

“Fuck you,” Young Ilya says, but it comes out whiny and unbelievable. He’s still shaking his leg with his arms crossed tight. He checks his phone again.

“Hey, sorry, boys,” one of their old assistant coaches says. “No one’s getting into Montreal tonight. Two feet of snow.” 

He’s met with groans from the Bears players, and Young Ilya says, “Fuck. Fuck!”

Some of the other players get up immediately, but Young Marly and Young Ilya sit for a second. Young Marly says, “It’s a night off, boy. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Young Ilya replies, looking pissed and bummed.

“Look, whoever she is, she’s gonna get over it,” Young Marly says.

“So close, Marlow,” St. Simone teases.

Young Marly leaves, and Young Ilya follows a second after.

Shane turns to Ilya, a teasing smile on his face. “You were so upset,” he says.

Ilya scoffs. “I was not.”

Shane’s smile grows. “You were,” he says.

“Was not.”

“Were to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god,” Troy says. “Stop it.”

“Get a room!” Wyatt jeers.

Shane sticks his tongue out at him, and Ilya decides to let that one slide.

The video shows a snowy park and buildings in a city, and the text on screen reads, “Montreal.”

Young Shane is also checking his texts, getting changed in the Montreal Voyageurs locker room with his teammates. The camera pans over to a young, shirtless Hayden Pike just as he is zipping up his pants. Damn it. Why is Hayden kind of hot? All of Ilya’s hockey opps are hot. (The friendly ones, not the homophobic ones. Fuck the Voyageurs.) He scowls. 

“Hey, you, uh, you don’t want to come over to my place for dinner tonight, do you?” Young Hayden asks.

“Hayden Pike, are you asking my husband on a date?” Ilya asks, deadpan.

Hayden sputters. “What, no!” he says. “Not that you’re not great, buddy,” he says to Shane. “I’m not interested in you like that. Not that it would be a bad thing if I was! Well, except for the fact that I’m married. I love gay people!”

Shane laughs in Hayden’s face, hard. “Hayd, it’s okay,” he says. “Ilya’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“No, Shane,” Ilya says. “I am serious. I am concerned about Pike propositioning you in the locker room. Could be a problem.”

“Oh, like you can talk, Cap,” Troy chimes in. Ilya sticks his tongue out at him.

Hayden grumbles to himself as Jackie and Shane laugh at him.

“What?” Young Shane asks on screen.

“Since there’s no game,” Young Hayden says. “Come for dinner. Jackie said it’s cool. Oh, that’s my wife. She can throw on some steaks.”

“I– I’m on a macrobiotic diet,” Young Shane says.

“Buddy,” Young Hayden says, “I don’t even know what that means. But Jackie can cook anything.” Young Shane throws his shirt on, checking his phone again. “You okay?” Young Hayden asks.

“Yeah,” Young Shane says. “I guess.”

“Hey, if you have other plans, that’s– that’s totally cool.”

“No, I want to watch you eat my disgusting food,” Young Shane says, smiling. “Let’s do it.”

“Fuck yes!” Young Hayden cheers. “Jackie’s gonna be so happy. She’s obsessed with being the first WAG to feed you.” He reaches for his phone. “I’m gonna text her right now, actually. ‘Bird food only.’”

Ilya can’t help but grin at the genuine smile on Young Shane’s face as he makes plans with his friend. He knows it's been hard for Shane, with the whole secret gay and secret hooking-up-with-his-rival thing, and Shane wasn’t that social to begin with. He guesses Hayden is a good friend. Or whatever.

The video switches to show Young Ilya going back into his home in Boston as snow falls around him. He unlocks the door with the code and walks in, chucking his bag near the door and checking his phone.

He jumps in surprise when a slightly younger Svetlana jumps in front of him, dressed in just his Bears jersey. They speak in Russian, but the captions translate their conversation.

“Jesus Christ!” Young Ilya shouts in surprise.

“Surrprise!” Young Svetlana says.

“Sventlana” Young Ilya scolds. “I thought you were back in Russia! What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Damn, Roz,” St. Simone says. “That’s cold.”

“Being nice,” Young Svetlana says, “but I already regret it.”

“Sounds like you,” Young Ilya replies.

“Go fuck yourself, Ilya.”

Young Ilya walks up to her, and they see their outlines through his window. Which, all things considered, is really creepy to watch. “Sorry,” Young Ilya says, “I didn’t expect you. How did you know–?”

“That your game was cancelled?” Young Svetlana says, looking unimpressed. “I was announced, asshole.”

“Wait what’s happening, Cap?” Boyle asks. “Is this your girlfriend?”

“Not cool, Cap,” Young says.

“Not my girlfriend, no,” Ilya says, raising his voice so that more people hear it. “A very old friend from Russia. We slept together sometimes, but it was never romantic.” Shane grumbles. Ilya turns to him. “You know it wasn’t, Shane. Isn’t.”

“I know,” Shane says.

Ilya strokes the freckles on his cheeks with his thumb. “You are turning green, my love,” he says, and Shane laughs slightly. “You and Svetlana are friends.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. It’s just weird to see.”

Ilya laughs. “I get it. I imagine I will be a wreck if we get to 2016.”

“Oh god,” Shane says. “I hope not.”

“So… she isn’t your girlfriend?” Bood asks. He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. “Just checking.”

“No,” Ilya laughs. “Never.”

On screen, Young Ilya leans in, and Young Svetlana pushes him back. “You don’t deserve me,” she says. “I should go.”

Young Ilya holds his finger up to halt her when he phone chimes, and a text pops up from Jane, reading, “Next time, I guess?”

Young Svetlana scoffs. “Okay, now I’m really leaving, you piece of shit,” she says. She peeks at his phone screen. “Have fun with Jane.”

Ilya leans down to whisper in Shane’s ear. “See?” he says. “The whole time. All I could think about was you. And even Svetlana knew it.” Shane shivers at the feeling of Ilya’s breath against his ear, but he doesn't say anything.

On screen, Young Ilya play-fights with Young Svetlana for a moment, backing her up to the dining table, and she lays down across it, wrapping her legs around his waist as he leans down over her.

The video cuts to Young Shane at the Pike household for dinner, checking his phone. The same text bubble pops up, showing that Young Shane was checking his texts with Young Ilya at the table. Young Hayden and Young Jackie sit at the table, Young Jackie with one of the kids on her lap.

After some chatter at dinner when Young Shane puts his phone away, the screen goes black. Text pops up, reading, “Four Months Later.” The screen now shows the staircase that is very familiar to probably every person in the room of the venue they use for the NHL Awards. More text pops up, reading, “Las Vegas.”

The screen switches to show the TV broadcast of the awards. The announcer says, “And the nominees for Rookie of the Year are…” Their pictures and names pop up on screen as their names are read. “Shane Hollander, the Montreal Voyageurs. Vincent Lemaire, the Minnesota Nomads. And Ilya Rozanov, the Boston Bears. And the Rookie of the Year is…”

The video switches to Young Shane walking down the stairs with his parents into the after party. The crowd chants, “Rook! Rook! Rook!” until Young Shane holds up his trophy to louder, even more enthusiastic cheers. Young Shane makes his way through the crowd, receiving congratulations and pats on the back as he passes other players.

The camera switches to show Young Shane alone at the bar, drinking ginger ale through a straw like a total nerd, when slightly-less-old Scott Hunter approaches him.

“That better just be ginger ale, rook,” Younger (but still old) Hunter says. Ilya narrows his eyes. How does Hunter know Shane likes ginger ale?

“It is, Mr. Hunter,” Young Shane says. “I wouldn’t indulge in front of you.” Ilya snorts loudly, and Shane smacks him, blushing. His husband was so adorable. Is so adorable. And so, so lame. And boring. 

“Ah,” Scott says. “Miss these days. When you guys respected me.”

“Boo,” Ilya says. “Don’t get it wrong, Hunter. I never respected you.”

“You think I’m hot,” Scott fires back quickly.

Ilya scowls. Scott is never going to let him forget that one.

On screen, the two men shake hands. “Congrats, man,” Mr. Hunter says.

“Thank you,” Young Shane says.

“Uh, what would you say if, uh, me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do some shots with the three rooks? Would you be into that?”

“Hunter! You too! You are hitting on my husband!” Ilya accuses, pointing at him.

“What?” Scott says, affronted. “Ew, no.” He turns to Shane. “No offense, Hollander.”

“None taken,” Shane says.

“No,” Ilya says. “Offense is taken. My husband is so perfect and beautiful. Why do you say ‘ew’?” 

Scott throws his hand up. “What do you want from me?”

“Fuck yes, I would,” Young Shane responds.

“And you!” Ilya points at Shane. “You dirty cheater! Flirting back with old man Hunter. It’s a disgrace to our marriage.”

Shane giggles. “We weren’t married yet, Ilya.”

“Of course I know that,” he says. “You think I don’t know when we got married?” He leans over to Luca and loudly whispers, “When did I get married?”

It’s stupid, but Shane is laughing now, endeared. Their friends roll their eyes, but with smiles on their faces.

“Okay,” stupid hot younger Scott Hunter says on screen, interrupting the moment. “Then where’s your boy Rozanov?”

“My what?” Young Shane says, totally failing to keep it cool.

Mr. Hunter on screen sputters, also failing to keep it cool. “No, I mean, not your boy,” he says. 

“Oh,” Young Shane says, nodding. Ilya giggles.

“Just, like, it’s always, uh, Hollander and Rozanov, right? I just thought–” the younger version of the elderly Scott Hunter says.

Kip facepalms. “Babe,” he says. Scott chuckles, embarrassed.

“I don’t know where he is,” Young Shane says. “We’re not, like, friends or anything.” Multiple people laugh at this. Ilya does too, bringing Shane’s left hand up to his mouth to press a kiss to his wedding ring.

“No worries, man,” Grandpa Hunter (younger version) says. “I’m sure someone else grabbed him.”

They both take awkward sips of their drinks, and by now everyone watching is cracking up.

“Why were you guys playing gay chicken?” Kyle asks through his laughs, and Ilya cracks up. He likes Kyle. Too young and spry and funny for an old geezer like Bennett.

“Gay chicken!” Wyatt laughs. “Oh my god, that’s priceless.”

“Shane was right,” Kip says. “What is wrong with you, babe?” he asks Scott.

“Oh, it gets worse,” Shane says. “Just wait.”

On screen, Young Shane, weird old man who is slightly younger than he is now Hunter, and some other older players take shots together. “Okay, one more!” Mr. Hunter says.

The video changes to show Young Shane, Ilya’s beautiful wallflower, alone in the corner of the room. His parents are occupied talking to other people, and suddenly he’s walking out onto the roof. Ilya sighs as the past version of himself comes into frame, leaning on the railing and smoking.

Shane squeezes Ilya’s arm three times very firmly. He looks down and sees that Shane’s brow is furrowed worriedly. Ah. After Ilya’s struggles with depression and getting on medication, Shane is probably nervous seeing him near the roof, knowing how poor Ilya’s mental health was at this point in his life after he opened up about it to his husband after their wedding.

He squeezes Shane back. “Just looking at the view, Hollander,” he says in the most comforting, genuine voice he can manage, and his husband slowly untenses in his arms. 

Young Shane approaches Young Ilya at the railing. “I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” Young Shane says. Present Shane grimaces, so Ilya squeezes him tight again and drops a kiss to his forehead. No harm done. 

“Party all done?” Young Ilya asks.

“No, I just need some air,” Young Shane says.

Young Ilya looks him up and down. “You are drunk,” he says.

“I’m not,” Young Shane says. Bad liar, as always.

“Good for you,” Young Ilya says, sounding proud and fond and all the things he had been trying to hold back in the moment. “Big night for you.”

“Yeah, well, it could have gone to either one of us,” Young Shane says.

“It went to you,” Young Ilya replies, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“So what?” Young Shane says, and present Shane sighs, sinking back further into Ilya’s embrace. “You’re just up here sulking because, what, you couldn’t take another victory lap around me?”

“Damn, Hollander,” Chouinard says.

“All you do is beat me,” Young Shane continues. “I win one fucking thing, and you can’t even show your face.” Young Ilya is closing off in front of everyone’s eyes. 

Ilya remembers this feeling, and he never wants to feel it again. What Shane had said was fair. He joked, he gloated, he teased. He knew it was hard for Shane to tell what was and wasn’t a joke. He used it to protect himself, hide his feelings. What Shane had said was fair, but it hurt like a motherfucker. There was no way he could’ve known about Ilya’s problems with his family and his mental health.

Young Ilya murmurs to himself, shaking his head.

“What was that?” Young Shane asks.

“Not everything is about you, Hollander!” Young Ilya finally yells. 

“So what is it then?” Young Shane asks, genuine. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Young Ilya asks, arms flailing. 

“Nothing. I just wanted to see the view and get some air, and–”

“And what? Here is fucking view Hollander. Check it out. Fuck!”

Young Ilya takes another drag from his cigarette, looking at the Vegas skyline below them.

“I go home in three days,” Young Ilya says.

“Okay? That must be nice?” Young Shane says, sounding a little confused, and Ilya watches the past version of himself fully close off, steeling his expression. “And I guess I thought maybe we…” Young Shane trails off. He looks at Young Ilya who pointedly doesn’t look back, jaw clenched. “Nevermind.” He shakes his head. “Okay. I’m gonna…” 

Young Shane descends the stairs before turning around and holding out his hand. “I guess I’ll, uh, see you next season,” he says. Always polite. Perfect Shane Hollander. But not Ilya’s Shane.

Young Ilya descends the stairs slowly until he’s gripping Young Shane’s hand and using it to back him up against the wall. He engulfs Young Shane in a desperate, passionate kiss, and Young Shane kisses back with just as much fervor. He grips Young Ilya’s face and hair, pulling him closer, and their tongues visibly meet in the space between their open mouths.

 It makes Ilya’s heart ache to watch it. The kiss is full of love and hurt and longing. Ilya remembers feeling so desperate and hungry for all of Shane’s attention. It was all-consuming, and something he knew (or thought) he could never have. He kissed Shane like it was the last one they would ever get because it felt like the world was ending tomorrow. Little did he know how much more time he would have. He drops a kiss to the top of his husband’s head. Shane sniffles.

The kiss breaks, and Young Shane flinches back when Young Ilya tries to lean in again. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Young Shane asks. “We’re both in tuxedos out in public.”

“No one is looking,” Young Ilya says.

“You don’t know that,” Young Shane argues. When Young Ilya tries to lean in again, Young Shane pushes him back and flips them so that he’s pinning Young Ilya to the wall instead. He walks away, not looking back.

“See you next season!” Young Ilya calls after him. “Hollander,” he tries, but the sound of a door closing is heard as the video switches to a close up of Young Ilya’s face. Ilya can’t even name the emotion that is there. He takes a deep breath and walks back up the steps to the edge of the roof.

The video switches to a black screen, and text pops up. It reads, “Watch Episode Two?” with a big play button underneath.

For a moment everyone sits in silence. Then, the sound of sniffles breaks it.

“Are you crying?” Shane says incredulously, obviously also crying by the sound of his voice. Ilya may or may not wipe a tear or two away. He looks down to see Shane looking next to them at Hayden, who is… Holy shit. Crying.

Hayden sniffles and wipes at his eyes. “That was really sad, okay?”

Bood wipes at his eyes with a tissue provided by Cassie. ‘Yeah, man,” he says. “That was, like, devastating.”

Shane laughs sadly. “Yeah,” he says. “Imagine how we felt.”

“I knew you loved each other for a long time,” Wyatt says, “but seeing it…”

“Yeah,” JJ says. “You guys are so happy now. You bicker obviously, but you’re, like, the picture of marital bliss. I knew in theory it must’ve been hard keeping it a secret all those years, but that was so sad.”

Ilya hugs Shane tightly, breathing in his scent. They just hold each other for a while, and the rest of the room dissolves into chatter around them. After a few minutes, someone speaks up above the crowd.

“Okay, everyone,” Crowell shouts, gaining everyone’s attention. Ilya looks up from where his head is buried in Shane’s neck, but he doesn’t move otherwise. Crowell clears his throat. “I think we’ll take a 15 minute break to stretch and do whatever else you need to do, and then we’ll continue.”

Ilya sighs, and similarly exhausted reactions ripple across the room.

“I know,” Crowell says. “That was… difficult to watch.” Ilya wonders if it was because of the emotional heartbreak or the gay sex that made him say so. “But we still don’t have a way out of here. Our best bet is to keep watching and try and finish this as soon as possible.”

Their friends get up and stretch during the break, forming a sort of protective circle around Shane and Ilya, which he appreciates, but they don’t move. Ilya just reburies his head in Shane’s neck and breathes, listening to their friends’ voices as he waits for 15 minutes to pass.