Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Farah Jalali, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Post-Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Hollander is Traded, Warning: Dallas Kent, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Timeline What Timeline, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Author ignores aspects of IRL CBA

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-29 Updated: 2026-10-10 Words: 34,745 Chapters: 6/8

Headlines

Summary

“I’m not sure of the exact reasons Montreal has, but the League needs a distraction from the bad press.” Laurenti’s face twists with disapproval. “Crowell’s known to be friendly with the Morin family, they own the Metros. Crowell must have asked for a favor and who knows what he’s promised them in return. Who better to distract from a scandal than Canada’s favorite son?”

The realization hits Ilya like a punch to the solar plexus.

“They’re trading Shane fucking Hollander?” Reilly questions with utter disbelief. It takes a half second more before he follows the question with another. “We’re signing him?”

-

News that Dallas Kent, up and coming star center for the Toronto Guardians, is wanted for murder breaks during the Sochi Olympics.

Neither Shane nor Ilya have any idea that it will change their lives.

Notes

First time playing in the HR sandbox and I’m so excited! To provide ya’ll with some context, this takes place in the scant space of the Olympic break after Sochi. Dallas Kent ended up killing someone and is a bit older here than in cannon. Like a year or so younger than Shane and Ilya.

I don’t really know where I am going with this, I’m just having fun. I know nothing about hockey other than how to do some google searching. I have not read the books, just looked at fandom info pages, so names are pulled from the TV show unless they weren’t included in the TV show and then I used what I could find from the book. UPDATE: The coach of Boston name changed recently as I have read on the google and I like it more so I changed that. I think I caught all of the old name in the edit but if I didn’t I apologize for the confusion it was Desjourney(s)? And is now Reilly.

*The implied/referenced sexual assault tag is only for the mention of Dallas Kent’s crimes which will not be described in any detail other than a reference to them.

UPDATE: Someone correctly pointed out that neither Shane nor Ilya should have a NTC in their contract because IRL per the CBA a player must either be 27 years of age or older or played in the NHL for seven years to have an NTC in their contract. I threw that particular rule out while writing this because I wanted to utilize the NTC as a way to show how highly valued both Shane and Ilya are by their teams as players and also specifically in Shane’s case some other things that are discussed in later chapters. Hope this is fair warning that I break some hockey rules.

Chapter 1: Distract

The rhythm of Ilya’s bouncing leg creates a quiet, rapid pulse in Coach Reilly’s office. The man himself is staring at his computer screen, but his eyes flick to Ilya here and there. After playing for the man for four seasons, he can see the ratcheting tension in his jaw, but Ilya can’t make his leg stop.

The phone in his pocket buzzes, but Ilya doesn’t reach for it. Mostly likely it is another message in the team chat. Whoever it is shouldn’t be on their phone, but they’re no doubt taking advantage of the fact the captain and the head coach are together.

Ilya’s leg bounces faster.

He should be on the ice as well or reviewing tape for their upcoming game against Carolina. He would much rather be doing either thing instead of sitting in Reilly’s office waiting for the GM to arrive like a naughty school child. He doesn’t know why he’s here. Reilly summoned him this morning via text. Upon arriving, they’d exchanged pleasantries and Reilly asked about his journey back from Russia as they wait for the Raider’s GM to arrive.

Anxiety continues to drive his leg’s involuntary movement. He knows the poor performance from Russia’s Olympic team wasn’t solely on his shoulders despite being captain. He knows that. He knows hockey people know that, but he hasn’t shaken his father’s voice out of his head. He hasn’t forgotten the disappointed looks on his countrymen’s faces. He hasn’t forgiven himself.

The performance shouldn’t affect his role on the Raiders. His no trade clause is iron clad. But the C on his chest, that’s new and it’s fragile.

He’d been shocked when Reilly sat him down at the beginning of the season and told him that they were giving him the C this year. He‘d known it was coming eventually, but he didn’t think he’d get it this season. Since Ilya was a rookie the C had belonged to Leo Zadonsky, who is playing his tenth season for the Raiders this year. Seasoned and steady, Zadonsky, or Zsky as most of the team called him, had stepped down, feeling unable to take on the role of captain this year and recommended Ilya for the job.

He’s not in uniform at the moment, but he can feel the letter’s weight on his chest. Is he going to lose it?

Ilya forces his brain to come up with alternatives to why he is meeting with Reilly and the GM. He supposes the trade deadline is approaching, but Ilya is still relatively young in his career. He may be the face of Raiders as the star center and his notoriety thanks to the rivalry with Hollander, but he doubts they are coming to him for an opinion on possible movement on the team.

His mind turns to the only other possibility. Dallas Kent.

While Ilya was embarrassing Russia on home ice, Dallas Kent, the mediocre center for Toronto was making headlines and not in a good way. The news that Kent was missing and wanted for murder broke the same day as the Russian Olympic team’s catastrophic loss to Latvia. Other than the loss it was the buzz of the Olympic village and created some interesting conversations around why Kent hadn’t been invited to join the American team.

Ilya himself hadn’t payed much attention to the coverage, too caught up in his own troubles. His father’s ailing health is becoming more and more apparent and he spent the rest of his time in Russia researching options for care, speaking with doctors and trying to get Alexei and his stepmother Polina to see reason.

His return to Boston was a welcome change despite the unease and worry he feels for the way things were left in Moscow. Before Reilly pulled him into this meeting Ilya had been chomping at the bit with all the energy Svetlana’s prediction for the remainder of this season sparked in him.

Now he feels like an animal being led to slaughter.

His patience with not knowing why he hear is cracking, tongue already prepared to spill questions at his coach, when Gio Laurenti, the Raiders’ GM, enters the office with his phone still held to his ear.

He forces his leg to still.

“Rick,” Ilya recognizes the Raiders’ owner’s name, “let me have this conversation, Hollander and his agent are waiting on me and I don’t want to give them too much time to overthink this.”

Ilya’s lungs freeze. Why would Laurenti have Hollander and his agent waiting on him?

He suddenly wishes he looked at his phone to see if any of those buzzes he has ignored are messages from Hollander. Hollander texted him last night, but it hadn’t been anything other than telling Ilya he wanted to speak. Ilya figured it was about Sochi and talking about Sochi is the last thing Ilya wants to do. He’d almost sent a congratulatory text when Canada won gold over Sweden but his own loss still felt too raw at the time. He’s sure perfect Shane Hollander would have sent him a message if their roles were reversed.

Laurenti folds all 6 feet of himself into the chair next to Ilya.

“What the fuck Gio?” Reilly starts.

Ilya blinks in surprise. Perhaps, Reilly is just as much in the dark as he is. Tension creeps up his spine.

Laurenti sighs as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. “What we are going to discuss does not leave this room. I’d be out of my job if they knew I was being this transparent with the two of you, but fuck, I want a Cup and we have a chance now, more than we did before and I don’t care about the politics or the League as a whole.”

Laurenti was hired as GM last season. The man was a decent a player in his prime, but he was much more suited to the role of a GM in Ilya’s opinion. He has an eye for talent and even better business sense. Ilya respects him a lot more than the last GM, but he doesn’t know him well and can’t read where this is going.

What does this have to do with Hollander? Why is Ilya in the room? Had someone found out about them? Gotten pictures somehow?

Ilya forces himself to breathe.

The last time they had been together was Hollander’s apartment. Hollander had been so careful, forcing Ilya to meet him at an emergency exit door. When he left, he had his taxi pick him up a block and a half away, in front of another apartment building. There had been almost no one on the street, no one that Ilya had thought payed him any particular interest to him. If Ilya were being honest though he wasn’t paying much attention at that time to anything else around him.

His thoughts were still full of Hollander; the smell of warm skin and sex that Ilya’s lungs greedily sucked in with each breath, the smooth planes of muscle and flesh that Ilya’s hands worshipped, the decadent sounds that poured onto Ilya’s ears like honey.

A sweet press of lips against his brow that was too intimate and too perfect.

Breathe.

“I’m sure you are both aware of the absolute shit show going on in Toronto.”

The rush of relief Ilya feels at the new direction the statement brings is dizzying. If he wasn’t gripping the armrests of his char as if his life depends on it he’d have fallen over.

Reilly snorts. “You’d have to be living on the moon to not have be aware of it. Heard this morning that they still haven’t found Kent. But, what the fuck does that have to do with Shane Hollander?”

Again, Reilly asks the important question. Ilya really likes his coach.

Laurenti grimaces. “That shit show is about to get worse.”

“Worse?” Ilya repeats. The man is still, presumably in a country not his own and even if he is innocent or found innocent he’ll never set foot on the ice again. What could be worse?

“Multiple allegations of sexual assault on top of the murder and a paper trail and a witness that show the Guardians’ administration was made aware of the allegations months prior,” Laurenti pauses for a moment before continuing, “and so was the MLH.”

“Holy fuck,” escapes Ilya’s mouth and his arm twitches in an aborted motion to silence himself. That is certainly worse. Laurenti shakes his head in either dismay or disgust. Reilly is quiet for a moment but Ilya can’t hold back though. “Sorry, Hollander? How is he part of this?”

“I’m not sure of the exact reasons Montreal has, but the League needs a distraction from the bad press.” Laurenti’s face twists with disapproval. “Crowell’s known to be friendly with the Morin family, they own the Metros. He must have asked for a favor and who knows what he’s promised them in return. Who better to distract from a scandal than Canada’s favorite son?”

The realization hits Ilya like a punch to the solar plexus.

“They’re trading Shane fucking Hollander?” Reilly questions with utter disbelief. It takes a half second more before he follows the question with another. “We’re signing him?”

Ilya’s head no longer feels attached to his body, but luckily Laurenti doesn’t let them wallow in their suspense. “He hasn’t yet, but he doesn’t have much of a choice, again nothing here leaves the room.” His eyes are on Ilya who quickly nods. “Unlike you, his contract had a modified NTC, not a full one but he does have a final veto clause that his agent must have fought tooth and nail for. There weren’t many teams on his list.”

But Boston is. Ilya ignores the warmth in his chest.

Laurenti turns completely in his chair to Ilya. “Crowell wants you two on the same team for the headlines and he isn’t being shy about it. He’s paved the way for this trade to happen. He wants a spectacle, something to distract from this shit show.” Laurenti leans forward into Ilya’s space and clearly says, “I don’t give a flying fuck what he wants. I want a Cup. Can you work with Hollander?”

Can he work with Hollander?

Ilya’s mind stalls on the question, not knowing how to answer it so he asks, “How are we staying under the salary cap?”

Laurenti and Reilly both give him less than pleased looks, no doubt clearly seeing his avoidance, but Laurenti humors him. “Zadonsky wants to go out west.” Ilya nods, knowing this to be true. The reason Zadonsky gave up captaincy was because of his wife’s complex pregnancy. The baby, a girl, was born in November and continues to suffer with health issues. His wife’s family lives somewhere in the Bay Area from what he remembers and Zadonsky hasn't been quiet about how he is hoping to end up there next season. Despite it being what the man wants, the thought of his captain since he was a rookie being traded now doesn’t sit right with Ilya.

Laurenti looks at Reilly to deliver the news, “San Francisco is in, I worked with their GM last night with Zadonsky and his agent. He’s happy about what the move will mean for his family.”

Ilya watches Reilly mouth tighten at the news, but the man doesn’t allow any other show of emotion. He wonders if his coach is thinking the same thing he is. This will be a loss for the team. Many of the veterans still see Zadonsky as their captain, even if they have been welcoming to Ilya taking the postion. He’s also a versatile player, being able to play wing along with center and his defensive stats are unmatched on the forward line even when compared to Ilya. Losing him will be a blow, even if it means gaining Hollander.

“This opens the second line center position for Hollander as well,” Ilya comments, mind whirring at the thought. Ilya is confident in his abilities. He belongs on the first line, but so does Hollander. He can’t help but feel territorial. The Raiders are his team. He handpicked Marleau and Hammersmith as his wings.

Reilly must pick up on where Ilya’s thoughts have taken him. “The first line stays as is. I’m not going to fuck up two lines to experiment this deep into the season. I know San Francisco is young and could use Zadonsky’s experience but I didn’t think they needed any help on their forward line.”

Laurenti’s mouth twists like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Crowell had a hand in incentivizing San Francisco to take him. When we spoke on the phone, I mentioned that I wouldn’t let Zadonsky go unless I knew he was going where he wanted.”

Reilly hisses out a breath. “What a fuckin’ conspiracy.” The coach shakes his head before turning his eyes back to Ilya. “So, are you going to ruin it all by telling us that you and Hollander are a no go? I don’t want this to mess up the team’s chemistry, Rozanov.”

Ilya swallows down a snappy retort. Of course this will fuck up the team’s chemistry. But beyond that, he doesn’t know if he wants Hollander on the same team as him. He fucking loves playing against him. He won’t admit it, even with a gun to his head, but facing off against Hollander is the most fun he has on the ice. Every victory against him is sweeter than ten others that are not.

The phenomenal sex they have afterwards is just icing on the cake.

Ilya has no doubt that Hollander will eventually win a Stanley Cup, but he wants to beat him to it, not win it with him.

He fingers twitch, wanting to fiddle with his ear but he doesn’t allow the pacifying motion. He also recognizes that this situation isn’t really in his control. No matter what Laurenti or Reilly says, look at what strings Crowell has already pulled to get this far. Fuck. Montreal is going to riot when they find out Hollander is being traded. Perhaps that is the point.

As he turns the almost unbelievable idea of Hollander being traded over in his mind, Ilya realizes he doesn’t want Hollander to go to another team when he could join Boston.

After years of playing against each other and whatever they were doing in hotel rooms across North America, Ilya knows Hollander. He’s loyal to his core. It’s one of the things that makes him boring. He never would have left Montreal willingly. Ilya isn’t nearly as attached to the Raiders. Sure, they made him 1st round draft pick, but even that win was only as sweet as it was because he beat Hollander. He doesn’t feel loyalty to the Raiders for making the choice. It was just good business. They looked at his stats, perhaps his on ice persona and decided he could give them something they wanted.

Reilly takes his continued silence as a negative. “I get why the League wants this Gio. Hollander is a phenomenal player, but-”

“Yes,” Ilya answers steadily. “I can work with him. We won’t fight. Hollander is machine on ice. You know this.”

Reilly looks conflicted. Laurenti stares him down but then breaks into a grin. “That’s what I want to hear.” He looks down at his phone and frowns. “Fuck, Hollander’s agent must have reached out to some of the other pre-approved teams. They’re balking.”

“Hollander is here, in Boston?”

Laurenti nods, “Yes, I wanted to speak with him myself, get his measure.”

Ilya isn’t exactly sure what the phrase means. “Let me speak with him.”

They both look at him as if he’s insane and they might not be wrong. “Trust me.”

Laurenti turns to Reilly who sighs. “This is a terrible idea.”

Shane’s life turns into a nightmare the day after he returns to Ottawa from Russia with a gold medal around his neck. The Hollander’s sit down to dinner, which is more like a late breakfast for Shane, when his phone rings. He isn’t going to answer it, just check it to see who he has to call back later, but the name on the screen catches his attention. Farah, his agent, isn’t one to call for no reason.

When she tells him he is being traded he thinks he must have misheard her. She repeats it.

He is dimly aware of his mother taking the phone from his hand and putting it on speaker.

He doesn’t want to hear his mother argue with Farah. A very nasty part of him wants to lash out at his mom. She was the one who insisted on the modified no trade agreement. He’d wanted to get rid of it, secure a full no trade agreement after he resigned following the end of his rookie contract. Now look where he’s at. Being traded.

“Boston?” his mom spits out as if the city’s name is poison.

The mention of Rozanov’s team slams Shane back to the present. Boston. The team that had been Shane’s request on the approved trade list. Never in his wildest dreams could he ever imagine being traded to Boston of all places by the Metros no less.

“They’re still working on the loose ends but, Shane, they want you in Boston tomorrow morning. I am flying from Montreal tomorrow morning. There’s a flight from Ottawa that gets in pretty much at the same time. I want to be with you for this.”

“Wait, the way you’re talking makes it sound like a done deal already,” his mom starts.

“It isn’t. Shane, you can say no. I’m expecting other teams will start reaching out soon. Shane hasn’t been officially put up for trade.”

Shane inhales sharply. “Then maybe there’s some sort of mistake? Are you sure?”

“I’m sorry. I spoke with Rousseau myself. It’s going to happen Shane. I’m not sure how Boston got this information. If this were anyone other than Montreal and Boston, I’d have believed some sort of collusion.”

The spark of hope that this all was some terrible mistake dies. He tunes out the rest of the conversation as his mom continues to try and dig out more information from Farah. Eventually he heads to his room and packs. While he’s methodically refilling toiletries his dad pokes his head into the bathroom. His father is trying to catch his eye in the mirror.

“I’m fine.” Shane lies with a steady voice. “Players get traded, it’s part of the sport.” It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. He’s being ridiculous.

His dad nods. “It is, but I don’t think anyone saw this coming, Bud. You’re allowed to be upset about it.”

Shane pauses as he watches his face wash drain into the travel container. “I am upset. I can be upset and still keep moving.”

His dad makes a sound of agreement. “But it’s okay to be upset and not move for a little while. It’s okay to be upset and be loud about it too.”

They both can still hear his mom in the kitchen. Shane taps the bottle on the counter to force the liquid to settle without air bubbles. “I think mom is being loud enough for the both of us at the moment.”

His dad snorts. He turns around to leave the bathroom doorway, but pauses halfway. “This isn’t personal Shane. Don’t take it to heart.” Shane swallows down bitter words that it feels fucking personal to him and nods his head. He can spiral and torture himself over the why of this situation later. He needs to pack and then make decisions about what he’s going to do with his apartment (and the other unit on that floor) in Montreal.

He’s on the first morning flight to Boston the next morning and he hasn’t slept in 19 hours and only manages to drink a Gatorade when his mom looks like she’s going to shove a protein bar down his throat.

His mom wants to fly down with him to Boston, but Shane vetoes that plan. He doesn’t want her in his ear or her eyes on him while he goes through this. He loves his mom, but sometimes her presence is just too much and his nerves are already scraped raw. He wishes his dad could have accompanied him, but it would have hurt his mom to ask.

Shane checks his phone obsessively while he travels. He tries calling Rozanov one last time before he takes off, although he’s not even sure why. What would he say to him? Is he looking for permission to join Boston? He doesn’t need Rozanov’s permission. He swears off looking at his phone again when his call goes to the rudest and funniest voicemail message he’s ever heard.

So the asshole is set on ignoring him. Nothing new.

We are not anything.

Point fucking taken.

Why is he going to Boston? Why is he even entertaining this offer? Others will come, they have to.

His contract is put up for trade on the official channels just as his flight is pulling into Boston Logan.

Farah meets him at the airport in a skirt suit with her dark hair neatly braided down her back. He wonders if she slept last night. As they walk to meet whoever from the Raiders is picking them up, she explains what she knows.

The entire flight he’d been turning it over in his head. Why was he being traded? What had he done wrong? How could he have given any more to the team than he had the past 3 and a half years? Fuck, he’d just resigned with them. Where had this come from?

He stops dead in his tracks when Farah gets to the why of it all.

To learn that his career was being upended for a publicity stunt is almost worse than the Metros management deciding he’s a player worth cutting loose. Shane knows morally he should have more disgust for Dallas Kent’s actions than the MLH’s but it’s the League’s that has his stomach churning with betrayal.

“So they want us to crash and burn? Destroy an entire team’s chances at the Cup?” he asks, filling in the blanks that Farah is dancing around. It’s all so unfair and so wrong. Shane has kept an eye on the Raiders’ standings, just like every other team in the Eastern conference. They are in excellent shape and even with a lot of season left to play they will no doubt comfortably secure one of the three regular playoff spots.

If he and Rozanov were as adversarial as everyone thought, this trade could ruin that. It is infuriating for Shane to think about faceless men sitting in corporate offices somewhere pulling the strings to this farce.

Farah grimaces. “They want you to make headlines. They want a spectacle to point at while they as quietly as possible throw whoever is expendable under the bus.”

Shane realizes with stinging clarity that he or at least his career is considered expendable to the League. Sure, even after this he’ll still be a top player, but who knows what will happen to him on a new team. Whether it be Boston or one of the other teams on his list. If Miitka wasn’t nursing an injury and their back-up goalie wasn’t complete trash the Metros would have a decent run at the Cup this year and with some adjustments a potentially excellent run next year. It is what he’s been building towards for the last four years. Next year could have been his year, with a C on his chest to boot since Couillard announced his retirement and all but told Shane the position would be his next season.

All of it now up in smoke.

Farah is looking at him with concern and Shane shakes his head and motions for them to set off again.

He can be upset and move at the same time.

They are picked up by a Raiders’ staff member as they cross through the point of no return. Carl, as he much to enthusiastically introduces himself, has an a thick Bostonian accent and enough missing teeth that suggests he played hockey himself when he was a younger man.

Carl plays tour guide as he drives them from the airport. It’s a welcome distraction from Shane’s thoughts and he responds to show Carl that someone in the car is listening to him, because Farah is not. She is typing away on her phone, no doubt drafting multiple emails to be ready for whatever decision Shane is about to make.

He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

Before walking into the Raiders’ practice facility, Farah pulls him aside.

“We need a minute,” she tells Carl with a smile. The man nods and gives them a respectful amount of space.

“Your trade was posted an hour or so ago and I’ve reached out to the other teams on your approved list. Listen to me Shane, Boston was given an unfair advantage here, now that it’s out there other teams are going to offer. The MLH can’t force you to sign with Boston.”

But the MLH did force the Metros to put him up for trade. He wonders if they even put up a fight.

There has to be more that the League has done than just give Boston an inside scoop, which is already unethical and Shane’s no expert but also probably illegal. He’s young, only in his fourth season and on his second contract but his salary isn’t something most teams have readily available. He doubts any other team on his list has the space or can make it as quickly as they need it. The trade deadline is up in a few days, most of the movement has already happened or been planned out at this point.

“Let’s talk to the GM and then let’s take some time to look at who responds to me.”

She reaches out slowly, as if waiting for Shane to indicate her touch won’t be welcome. When Shane doesn’t move, her hand squeezes his upper arm firmly.

“If you don’t want Boston we will figure it out,” Farah promises, but it sounds empty to Shane’s ears. “This isn’t the exact scenario we worked that veto stipulation into your contract for, but we can use it. You have the final say here Shane.”

Shane nods and focuses on moving forward.

He can be upset and still later.

They are shown into a small meeting room where Gio Laurenti, the GM of the Raiders, is waiting for them. He is tall with a wiry build and a good amount of hair for a man his age. “Hollander, good to meet you and thank you for coming on such short notice,” Laurenti greets hand outstretched. His voice is higher than his size suggests, so much so that it’s almost jarring.

Shane shakes it stiffly and hopes the expression on his face is pleasant.

“Now, I’m not going to beat around the bush. You know why you’re here. This is a shit situation and you’re unfortunately caught up in it through no fault of your own.”

The comment stings and soothes in equal measure.

“We would love to have you in Boston, but I want to be sure that the rivalry with Rozanov won’t be a problem.”

Shane wants to laugh or cry, probably both. “Well, I can’t speak for him, but we are both professionals. At the very least, I can promise you I won’t drop gloves first.” His voice sounds off to his own ears and he sees Farah glance at him from his periphery.

The GM doesn’t seem to notice but searches Shane’s face for something and Shane has to fight to hold his gaze and not look away first. He can sense that this is important and as much as he’s not sure he even wants to sign with Boston, he really can’t take the hit of them taking back their offer.

Not after Montreal threw him away.

Fuck Montreal.

He wishes he meant it.

Shane doesn't know what if anything Laurenti finds in his eyes but the man nods and looks away first. “Alright, let me make sure everything is in order. I’ll be back in say 20 minutes, I’m sure you two need to chat and then we’ll get the paperwork in front of us.”

He and Farah are then left alone and she doesn’t waste time. “Brooklyn has responded, they have the cap space and will take you.”

Shane’s stomach flips in disappointment. The Brooklyn Scouts aren’t a terrible team but they aren’t phenomenal. With him and some building and some luck they may be ready to make a Cup run in three years, maybe two years with a lot of luck.

Montreal will be ready next year, his mind traitorously supplies.

“I hate their colors.”

Farah blinks at the response and then lets out an almost startled sounding laugh. “You’re not wrong, orange won’t suit you.”

Shane slips and checks his phone. There are several messages from his mom and his teammates, no doubt about him going up for trade. Hayden and JJ both are included in that. Nothing from Rozanov.

What the hell is he doing here? Yes, it would be a poetic middle finger to Montreal, but seriously? He’s sitting here in Rozanov’s house, about to sign with Rozanov’s team and the man can’t even text him back.

Can he really work with him? He wants the answer to be yes, that he can bear it. For the sake of good hockey and a shot at the Stanley Cup he can take facing Rozanov every day knowing the man doesn’t want him anymore.

Shane’s eyes burn.

Because that really is the crux of it. Rozanov doesn’t want him anymore. And it is fine or was fine before everything, before the Metros decided they don’t want him either.

Fuck, when did he become so pathetic? This is why he can’t be upset and still at the same time.

“Shane?” Farah’s brown eyes are looking at him with open concern.

He licks his lips. “I think coming here was a mistake.”

Farah waits for a moment as if to see if he’ll say more. He doesn’t. “You could get used to the orange,” she offers.

Shane manages a laugh that doesn’t hide the half formed sob that escapes him. “I could.”

His agent stands and makes her way to the door. Shane wonders if she sees how close he is to breaking down and means to give him some privacy. “You wait here, I’ll arrange a ride to the airport or we can look into trains to get us to New York.”

Shane nods and lets his eyes fall closed as the door shuts behind her.

He has a few moments to himself, in which he answers his mother’s texts before the door is opening again and Ilya Rozanov is standing in the room. He catches Farah throwing him a worried look from the hallway before the door shuts and Ilya quietly turns the lock on the handle.

“Are you going to murder me Rozanov?” Shane asks as he comes to his feet. He’s not sure how but he’s glad his voice is firm once again.

The other man snorts and his smile is real.

Shane’s heart doesn’t flutter at the sight of it.

“No. Hockey would be boring without second best player.”

“Asshole” is in his mouth but Shane swallows it down. He turns away from him to look out of the meeting room’s floor to ceiling windows.

“You will sign with us,” Rozanov states. As if the decision is already made

“You don’t know what I’ll do,” Shane objects without turning around.

Rozanov scoffs, “It is best option.”

“You don’t know my options,” Shane returns.

He hates him. He hates that he’s right. He hates that this is the easiest breathing has felt since he learned that Montreal is giving him away.

He feels Rozanov move behind him. “Hollander.”

Almost against his will, Shane turns around. The other man is still an appropriate distance away. Rozanov takes another step forward. Not so appropriate now.

Shane’s eyes skid away, focusing on the bland wall over Rozanov’s left shoulder.

“The Raiders are going all the way this year.”

It’s Shane’s turn to scoff, as his eyes darting to an equally bland wall over Rozanov’s right shoulder. “You don’t know that.”

Rozanov tsks and Shane can’t help the way it draws his gaze to finely shaped lips. “Repetitive, Hollander. Makes me miss ‘fuck you’ and ‘asshole’.” Shane glares, meeting Rozanov’s impossible blue-green eyes. “I do know it. And that big hockey brain of yours knows it too.”

Shane’s eyes return the wall where its safe. “Oh come on,” Rozanov goads. “I know you’ve thought about it. Montreal-” Shane flinches at the name and there is no way Rozanov doesn’t catch it, “-isn’t going very far with goalie hurt-” Shane frowns. Miitka’s injury isn’t one that will put him on IR, which means no one should know about it. “-and without you— no playoffs. Admirals are too inconsistent and they won’t win against New Jersey. New Jersey might be challenge, but with both of us…” Rozanov trails off, lips twisting up into a smile. “And we can handle anyone on the West coast.”

Shane’s gaze drops to the floor as he contemplates the prediction. He has thought about it. If he didn’t know Rozanov would be completely insufferable about it, Shane would admit he thought the Raiders had a very good shot, even without him.

“You could have Olympic gold and Stanley Cup in same year. Makes me so fucking jealous,” Rozanov groans. Shane can’t tell if the thought really pains him or brings him pleasure. It is remarkably similar to how Rozanov sounds when he is feeling pleasure.

Fuck, Shane can feel his cheeks heat and he refuses to get hard in a goddamn conference room with Farah and the GM of the Raiders no doubt outside the door, perhaps even listening, just in case he and Rozanov start swinging at each other.

He licks his lips and nearly groans himself when he sees Rozanov’s eyes hone in on the movement, pupils expanding.

“This is a bad idea.” he whispers.

Shane knows he doesn’t need to explain that “this” is referring to more than just him signing to the Raiders.

Rozanov hums in agreement and Shane feels the vibration of it in his chest. The other man steps closer and Shane stupidly doesn’t push him away. “You are right, is bad idea, but…”

“But?” Shane breathes into the space between their lips.

“I want it.” The quiet words settle over him like a blanket. Shane ducks his head so Rozanov can’t see. Shane will die on the spot if Rozanov somehow realizes from his expression how badly Shane needed to hear that. It makes everything between them clear as mud, but it also bandages whatever cracked in his chest in Sochi.

Rozanov pulls back, trying to catch Shane’s eyes but Shane stubbornly avoids him. He almost expects Rozanov to force him with a hand as he’s done in the past, but perhaps that’s a step farther than even Rozanov is willing to take in such a public setting.

“Okay, okay. You sign with Boston. We win Cup together. We save League from catastrophe that is Dallas Kent.”

“Fuck Dallas Kent,” Shane says on reflex. A beat later he follows it with “Catastrophe?”

Rozanov’s grin is all teeth. “You are not only one with big brain Hollander. And we will make Metros very sorry they gave you up.”

Shane smiles and it hurts less.

“Okay.”

Chapter 2: Divert

Chapter Summary

Zadonsky sighs, “Of course he isn’t himself, right now. Jesus Roz, give the guy a break.” Ilya blinks in surprise at Zadonsky’s words and defense of Hollander. “Players like me, solid but replaceable, we expect to be traded. We understand teams aren’t built around us. We have to make ourselves into whatever is needed and when whatever that is isn’t needed any longer, we know we’ll be traded again. But players like you, like Hollander,” he waves the hand with his beer in a sweeping gesture at Ilya, “ya’ll don’t get traded. When you leave a team it's because you want to. And excuse me for saying it but ya’ll are still so young.”

Chapter Notes

This has been minimally edited, but I wanted to get it out. I feel like I am settling into writing Shane and Ilya a bit more. Hope you enjoy! Continued TW warning for discussion of Kent’s crimes.

Ilya arrives at Zadonsky’s door with a six pack in hand. The man welcomes him in despite the hour. It’s far from the first time he’s been to Zadonsky’s home but it will most likely be the last. The knowledge is heavier than he expects.

Others have been traded before, but Zadonsky was his captain. Even if he’s only had a professional relationship with Ilya, not in the small circle of players Ilya feels connected to, the older man had been there while Ilya was still finding his feet on the team and in a new country.

Zadonsky breaks the silence that has settled after they’re sitting down, beers cracked and small talk already made. “Thanks for checking in Rozy. You’re good people.” Despite the Slavic name, Zadonsky speaks with a slow, southern US drawl. Ilya can’t remember where exactly he’s from, but it’s one of the states the team likes to chirp about for inbreeding.

“Your English is fucked. I am one person.”

The corners of Zadonsky’s lips twitch upwards but he just shakes his head, taking a sip of his beer as he holds his 5 month old daughter to his chest. Even Ilya, who has no great knowledge of babies, can see she is far too small for her age, lacking the pudge that babies are supposed to gain in the months following being born. Zadonsky’s hand seems to cover her entire body.

“I know you wanted this move, but I don’t like it,” Ilya admits.

Zadonsky gives him a wry smile. “I think Shane Hollander more than makes up for losing little, old me.”

Despite his excitement at having Hollander in Boston, Ilya doesn’t quite agree. He thinks of Hollander, who is currently in his house, asleep on his couch.

There was no sexy reason for him being there either. After Hollander and his agent had gotten through the paperwork, Ilya had been charged with taking Hollander around their practice barn and showing him the facilities, then they had lunch with Laurenti, Reilly and some of the other Raiders’ staff. None of them seemed to notice that barely any of Hollander’s food ended up in this mouth.

Afterwards, Hollander and his agent met with other administrative staff to work through other logistics of his transition and his agent had left after that. By the time Ilya had picked him up, Hollander looked like a stiff breeze could have knocked him over. He barely responded to Ilya’s good-natured ribbing and didn’t even protest when Ilya took him back to his home instead of the hotel that one of the managers booked on his behalf.

Ilya came back from a necessary grocery run to find Hollander asleep on his couch, curled up under one of the throws Svetlana insisted on purchasing when they went shopping to furnish his place. It was a pretty picture. So pretty, he had half a mind to do something about it, but Hollander was exhausted and deserved sleep. So feeling a bit foolish, he’d written a note, inviting Hollander to make himself fat home and left it with a glass of water on the end table closest to Hollander’s head and left to see Zadonsky.

“It may not be as good as everyone expects,” Ilya comments. As Ilya experienced recently in Russia, if Hollander doesn’t click on his line, he’ll be handicapped.

Zadonsky raises a questioning eyebrow.

Ilya shrugs. “He was not himself today. Might not really be here to play.” He makes a gesture towards his own head.

His ex-captain gives him an incredulous look. Ilya keeps his face straight, realizing how such a comment might be interpreted. He shouldn’t have any reason to know how Hollander is normally off the ice.

Zadonsky sighs, “Of course he isn’t himself, right now. Jesus Roz, give the guy a break.” Ilya blinks in surprise at Zadonsky’s words and defense of Hollander. “Players like me, solid but replaceable, we expect to be traded. We understand teams aren’t built around us. We have to make ourselves into whatever is needed and when whatever that is isn’t needed any longer, we know we’ll be traded again. But players like you, like Hollander,” he waves the hand with his beer in a sweeping gesture at Ilya, “ya’ll don’t get traded. When you leave a team it's because you want to. And excuse me for saying it but ya’ll are still so young.”

“Okay, grandpa who has never been traded.”

Zadonsky gives him a look that clearly communicates he isn’t impressed. “Until now. I’m the exception not the rule. I thought my time had come when they signed you. But, think about it Rozy. All you get is a phone call from your agent, telling you the Raiders are moving in a new direction and you’re going to be sent to, I dunno Ottawa or somethin’.”

“Would never happen to best hockey player in league,” Ilya denies, mostly out of reflex, but he can imagine the bitterness he would feel easily.

“Well it happened to Shane fuckin’ Hollander. Makes me wonder—”

Ilya frowns. “Wonder what?”

“Well why him and not you?” Zadonsky questions. “I heard Laurenti on the phone with someone when he met me. I only heard half the conversation but this whole thing is about getting you and Hollander on the same team. You moving instead would have accomplished that.”

“I have NTC in my contract,” Ilya answers.

Zadonsky’s lips twist with dark humor. “Come’on Rozy, you’re Russian. You really think if they needed to make you move that they couldn’t get something on you to force your hand? Make you waive the NTC?”

Ilya looks away from him and fights to keep is face neutral. Zadonsky isn’t wrong. “So why do you think it was him and not me? I am immigrant. Visa is an easy button to push.”

Zadonsky nods. “Three reasons. One, Crowell somehow knew the Metros were more likely to let Hollander go. Two, the guy is too damn Canadian for his own good, might even think that he has to fall on this sword for the sake of everyone else.”

“Sword? What sword?”

“Take one for the team.” Ilya opens his mouth. Zadonsky rolls his eyes. “I know you know what that means Roz.” Ilya lets the joke die. “This whole Kent situation is fucked. Media is going to be all over the place digging for more dirt on everyone. Kent’s not the only one with skeletons in the closet.” Zadonsky grimaces as Ilya tries to parse the sentence. “Bad phrasing considering, but I mean teams, the league as a whole, players, the media is going to be looking for more secrets, more scandal, more blood.”

Ilya nods, the unfamiliar phrase must be referring to secrets in general. He himself has a few.

Perfect Hollander, who is an embodiment of some of the more flattering Canadian stereotypes, like his politeness, Ilya can see him feeling obligated to try and help everyone, or at least not putting up the fight he probably could have and should have over this trade.

It’s one of the things Ilya likes most about him. It makes his dry, witty and sometimes even biting humor all the more surprising and delightful. “And the third?”

Zadonsky’s expression flattens. “He isn’t white.” The man tucks his chin and kisses his daughter’s head of dark hair.

Ilya remembers his first game against Montreal. He remembers quietly asking Kovalev, the only other Russian player on the team at the time, what the word was that some of the Raiders were using to refer to Hollander.

He’d gathered on his own that it wasn’t good by the way St. Simon stiffened at the locker next to him.

It’s not that he forgets that Hollander is Asian. His features, his beautiful face makes it impossible, but being Russian and an immigrant himself he doesn’t always remember that Hollander is also seen as an outsider and even more than Ilya himself when it comes to hockey.

“So, he should just be grateful and shut up about it?” Ilya bites out, his chest tight with anger.

Zadonsky nods. “I’m sure Hollander has thought about why it wasn’t you too and come up with similar reasons. I’m sure he feels betrayed and probably furious. Don’t be too hard on him. It’s going to be an adjustment for him and an adjustment for the team.”

Ilya takes a long drink from his now almost lukewarm beer. “You will be missed by them, by me.”

Zadonsky smiles. “Aww Rozy, that's sweet of you.”

“I am sweet, that’s why the ladies love me.”

The other man laughs. “Come on, Sarah will be back soon and we’ve got a full day ahead of us tomorrow. The other WAGs are coming over to help pack up the house and I’m sure some of the boys will come over now that word has spread.”

Zadonsky sees him to the door and Ilya turns to him one last time. “Take care Zsky. I’ll see you at final for Cup. Too bad you will be on losing team.”

His ex-captain’s brow lifts in surprise. “That’s quite a prediction, Roz. Should I put money on it?”

“Definitely,” Ilya tosses over his shoulder.

Ilya returns to his home, tossing his keys onto the side table and slipping off his shoes and jacket as he makes his way to his living room. Hollander isn’t there. He frowns, glancing back to the entryway to see Hollander’s shoes haven’t moved from where he slipped them off when he came in. Ilya climbs the stairs to the second floor that has two master suites, one of the reasons he bought the place.

He hears a shower running and it isn’t coming from the master suite that Svetlana usually claims as her own whenever she visits and doesn’t want to share Ilya’s bed. Heat licks down his spine as he remembers the last time he shared a shower with Hollander.

Ilya is silent as he makes his way through his bedroom to the en-suite. Hollander hasn’t bothered closing the bathroom door and he is greeted with the sight of endless smooth skin, made rosy with the heat.

He strips off his shirt but leaves his pants on as he leans against the frame of the bathroom door. Ilya doesn’t announce his presence, instead he lets his eyes drink their fill as Hollander tips his head back and rinses product from his hair.

“Room for one more?”

Hollander doesn’t startle as he expects. He tilts his gaze towards Ilya and out of the spray of water. Those bottomless brown eyes track up and down Ilya’s body and pretty pink lips part, but Hollander doesn’t speak, he just breathes. For a moment both of them feast with their eyes, taking the other in, letting the tension and expectation build until Ilya can practically taste it in the air.

Ilya is about to speak again, make the first move, but Hollander moves boldly and in a wholly unexpected way.

Hollander’s arm reaches up, crosses his own body to place a palm against his neck.

Words die a sweet death in Ilya’s mouth as he swallows and watches as the hand drifts south, fingertips grazing against a dark nipple.

“Teasing isn’t very nice of you, Hollander,” Ilya breathes out through the swell of arousal that crests in his belly.

The corners of Hollander’s mouth twitch and his tongue pokes out. He doesn’t respond but lets his hand continue its path downward and Ilya’s mouth is dry. It’s perhaps even more arousing because Hollander hasn’t turned square to face him. His torso twists, highlighting the hard planes of his stomach, in order to hold Ilya in his gaze and let him see the path that his hand is taking.

“Fuck,” he hisses. The curse escapes in Russian as Hollander’s hand wraps around himself and begins a slow rhythm. The tension of the day, the loss of Zadonsky, the anticipation of sharing ice with his rival, fuck, just being in Hollander’s orbit all day without once being able to put a hand on him after their disastrous meeting in Sochi is all coalescing into burning need to touch, to taste, to consume and be consumed in return. “Tell me I can join,” he begs. He meant for it to come out as a command, but it most certainly doesn’t.

It is Hollander who started this game and Ilya will follow his lead as he always has.

Pearly white teeth sink into Hollander’s ridiculously full bottom lip and his eyes flutter shut as his wrist twists in a movement Ilya knows he likes. He can barely make out the moan that slips out of Hollander’s throat over the sound of water hitting tile.

Control slips. “You look like a dream, please Hollander.” The Russian pours from him too easily. Everything is too easy with Hollander. The other man was right when he said this, them is dangerous. “Look at me.” Ilya walks forward, and he almost repeats the command, but when he’s only a foot away from the glass that separates them, Hollander’s eyes open. His cheeks are flushed a deeper red than the shower is responsible. The color makes the smattering of freckles across his nose and under his eyes stand out all the more.

“Do you want?” Ilya barely recognizes his own voice.

It’s only because he’s this close that he can see the flicker of something in Hollander’s eyes before he tucks it away. If most of his blood wasn’t much further south than his brain he might have been able to discern what it was exactly.

“I want.”

Ilya doesn’t remember anything that comes between those words and getting his lips on Hollander’s lips. The desire he drinks from Hollander’s mouth is the sweetest thing Ilya’s ever tasted.

-

Shane listens to the quiet sounds of Rozanov puttering around his kitchen and wonders how he ended up here. He knows, it’s not like he lost time yesterday, but really, how did he go from barely being acknowledged by Rozanov to being in the man’s bed? How did he go from sitting on a plane with a gold medal around his neck, mourning a connection he didn’t know he cared about to basically spending an entire day with the man hovering over him.

While Shane had put his mental efforts into learning names, filling out paperwork, fielding increasingly hysterical texts from Hayden, he’d also kept note of Rozanov throughout the day. It was the most time he’d spent in the other man’s company ever and Shane had made use of it by collecting bits and pieces of his rival, making a mental list of Rozanov.

He adds early riser to this list. It’s a surprise, one that Shane wonders at. Despite popular belief, Shane himself isn’t an early riser. He’s trained his body to wake at an optimal time for him to complete his morning routine and go about the business of the day, but left to his own devices and without an alarm set, Shane would happily sleep until well after the sun is up. There was no alarm this morning, which means Ilya naturally wakes even before light begins to brighten his bedroom.

They’re both due back at the practice barn today, but Reilly had told Shane to take his time this morning and get some sleep. Shane wonders if it was obvious how out of it he was yesterday. Rozanov’s hovering was a blessing, because Shane isn’t sure if he’d have made it through the day otherwise.

He isn’t sure if it was a directive from team management or not, but Rozanov stuck to him like glue the entire day, showing him around, introducing him to staff and then sitting next to him during their late lunch. They were watched carefully by both the Raiders’ GM and the coaching staff during the meal. It was grating to be monitored like a child, but Shane supposes they only know the story the League has put out. Rivals who can barely stand each other.

Rozanov had been mostly quiet while listening to conversations happening around him, which goes on the list. Shane had figured he’d be as loud as he is on the ice or as vibrant as he is in interviews. But if there is one thing Rozanov is serious about it is hockey and Shane observed and listened as the Raiders’ staff discussed line adjustments and caught Shane up to speed on plays. Rozanov offered his opinion only when asked for it, not interrupting even when Shane catches expressions that suggest Rozanov disagreed with what was being said.

He thought Rozanov would drop him at a hotel after Reilly dismissed them, but the man refused. He insisted that Shane stay with him at his home for night. It’s very much like Rozanov to command rather than ask and usually Shane didn’t mind Rozanov’s pushiness but Shane was exhausted and couldn’t help but be pissed off at the heavy handedness of it. He was damn near at his breaking point, words sharp and ready to launch when he saw the concerned look Rozanov threw at him and it shocked him enough to stave off the eruption.

Rozanov’s home also goes on the list of surprises. It’s all sleek and clean lines, and there is a blankness to the space that makes it feel empty of life. It doesn’t suit a man whose personality fills up every space he enters.

The couch is phenomenal though.

It’s easier to contemplate the list of surprising facts that he has gathered about Ilya Rozanov than address the trade or the fact he is now officially a Raider.

He presses the back of his hand to his forehead hard, as if he could push the thoughts out of his head.

Shane is wholly unsuccessful in this.

His resigned contract with the Metros was fresh, which means the Raiders have him, unless they also trade him, for the next four seasons. The thought of being traded again is terrible. He remembers his dad’s words, that it isn’t personal, but that doesn’t help that it still feels like a hard check to the boards. He knows the purpose behind this trade, but for the Metros to willingly give him to the Raiders of all teams?

Shane never thought much of the historic rivalry. He is from Ottawa after all and at the end of the day hockey is hockey. He goes out on the ice to win every time no matter who he plays against. And sure, when he gets to beat Rozanov it does make the win sweeter, but it's because of Rozanov, not because of Boston. For the Metros to decide that this publicity stunt is more important than handing him, who is undeniably stats wise the best player on the team over to their enemy, it makes Shane think there had to be other reasons.

Based on his mother’s texts yesterday she is already working damage control with the sponsors and brands he works with. They had discussed it, or rather his mom had talked at him while Shane had attempted to not freak out on the way to the airport yesterday morning. Canadian hockey fans, Metros fans especially, were going to be pissed he was going to an American team. He was going to lose some of his following on socials, which made his value as a brand ambassador decrease. His mom did finish on an optimistic note, that playing for an American team could provide him with more exposure to the American market and brands.

Shane is sure she’s already got a working document shared between the two of them to keep him updated on her progress.

All Shane can think about is how the Metroes didn’t want him enough to try and keep him. Rozanov could have been the one to be traded but he wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

Shane was.

Why does that fucking hurt so much?

He wouldn’t have even wanted Rozanov to join the Metros.

The thought makes him nauseous actually, which is why he has such a hard time believing Rozanov is happy with the current situation.

Why is he here in Rozanov’s bed?

Sure they had sex and it was…amazing. In the safety of his own head Shane can call it life-changing but he can fucking hear how smug Rozanov would be if he ever found out.

But this is, being in Rozanov’s home, staying the night, sleeping next to him.

‘Is just sex, Hollander. Stop being boring.’

Is it still just sex?

We are not anything.

Shane bites down hard on the inside of his bottom lip. Why is he even bothering thinking about this when his career derailed off a cliff?

His phone buzzes on the night stand next to him, his morning do not disturb must have expired. He glances at the message, ignoring the multitude of unread messages from his mother. This one is from Farah.

He quickly gets out of bed and snags the sweats he left out. He makes his way down the upper floor hallway and to the stairs.

The wall of windows that line one half of the home let in the morning light and Shane sees there is a completely private yard, surrounded by the home itself and high walls. They’re not out of the city but the piece of land is sizable and feels secluded. Rozanov must have spent all of his resigning bonus on this place. He pads down the stairs and sees his rival in the kitchen, paused in motion with ingredients for what Shane guesses will be omelettes laid out in front of him.

He hears the TV before he can see it nestled into the wall that the giant fireplace is set into which divides the dining space from a sitting room.

“And now we bring you more information on the developing story regarding a Major League Hockey star in Toronto. Here is David Jones with your update.”

“Thank you Pam, a little over a week ago, the Toronto Police Service released that Dallas Kent, who plays hockey for the Toronto Guardians is wanted for arrest. Kent, is a 21 year-old, US citizen who began his hockey career after being drafted by the Guardians three years ago. He was set to play for the US during this year’s recently concluded Winter Olympics in Sochi, however an injury kept him from the games.”

“Could you imagine? If he had been there on the ice when this story broke?” Shane asks, leaning against the absurdly long kitchen island.

“If so, he would have been arrested by now.”

Shane makes a noise in agreement.

“Now, the details of the murder he is suspected of have not yet been released, but new information has been brought forward that has been verified by the police. Internal documents from both the Toronto Guardians and the MLH were shared with multiple news agencies and which depict that Kent has a history of violence against women, including multiple allegations of sexual and physical assault that are and have been known to both his team’s management and the MLH as an organization.” Images of documents are shown on screen with redactions and highlights.

“Fuck,” Rozanov says flatly.

Shane feels ill. Farah hadn’t mentioned this. He glances at Rozanov, who doesn’t look surprised. “You knew?”

Rozanov’s eyes meet his. “You will not say anything?”

“Of course not.”

“Laurenti told me and Reilly, yesterday. I didn’t think,” he pauses, fiddling with the knife he must have been using before Shane came down. “I didn’t think about it, how bad it would be, but hearing it on national news…” he trails off.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Fuck, he’s 21. He was drafted in 2011. He’s an asshole on the ice, more than most—” Shane had almost dropped gloves the first time they’d shared ice. He’d been more prepared every time since. “—but this…this is psychopathic.”

“I know psycho, but what?”

Shane sits on one of the island stools. “Psychopath, someone who doesn’t care about the harm they do others, like they don’t have normal human feelings.”

Rozanov nods. “He is still missing.” They’ve been talking over the broadcast, but Rozanov has closed captioning turned on.

“They’ll find him eventually. There’s no way he’s going to be able to cross the border,” Shane states. The news hasn’t said that’s what the police think Kent must be trying to do, but it makes sense. Even if Kent does, Shane is sure the US would extradite him back.

“Maybe, lots of border, he could just walk,” Rozanov counters.

Shane shakes his head. Kent would have to be crazy to do that. “It’s winter, that’s risky, he’d have to get off the road, cross on foot and then walk to civilization on the US side.”

“If he does, I hope mudak dies trying.”

Shane doesn’t voice his agreement, but he feels the sentiment. He wonders if that is something Kent’s victims would want, for him to die cold and alone or if they’d rather he face the law’s justice instead.

“They’re going to announce my trade this morning. I think they were waiting for this to break before they did.” Shane throws out. He feels Rozanov’s eyes on the side of his head, but he keeps his eyes on the TV. The segment on Kent is over but staring at the screen is easier than facing Rozanov at the moment.

The other man hums and then Shane hears him resume his chopping. “What do you like in omelette?”

Shane head snaps around so quickly his neck twinges. He’s thrown, not only by the question but also the change in topic.

“What?”

Rozanov gives him an unimpressed look. He gestures at the assorted vegetables in front of him with a knife still in his hand. “You are guest, Hollander. You think I’m going to cook and not feed you?” Shane isn’t sure what his face is doing, but his thoughts are caught up in how much this is not something they do.

He and Rozanov are hotel hookups and texts that range from acerbic to sexual in nature. They don’t do mornings after, they don’t do meals together.

But, now he isn’t a Metro. They are no longer on rival teams.

“World to Hollander?”

“It’s ‘Earth to Hollander,’” he corrects automatically.

Rozanov mutters something in Russian before he asks, “You eat eggs, yes? I saw Men’s Health interview, you talk about your diet. It’s how you say, plant diet?”

“Plant-based,” he corrects again. “I eat eggs. The diet is mostly plant-based but it’s really about finding what works for your body and limiting rather than total exclusion.” He’s about to explain more about it, but then his brain processes what Rozanov said. “Wait, you were watching an interview of mine?”

“You were asked about me. Wanted to see what you said.”

Shane knows he isn’t the best at reading people, but the narcissistic words feel like a diversion. Still, he can’t help himself and asks, “And what did I say?”

Rozanov’s smirks at him and Shane tries not to find it attractive. He fails. “You said I am best hockey player in league and you would love chance to play on my line.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck later. Omelette now. Tell me what you like.”

Chapter End Notes

Hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 3: Confuse

Chapter Summary

The flinch is barely a flicker in Hollander’s otherwise bland expression, but Ilya sees it. He hates it. Even though he enjoys the fact that Hollander being funny is almost a secret that he gets to keep to himself, like all of the other pieces of Hollander he has collected over the years, he hates that this reputation of him being an unsociable hockey robot hurts him.

“No, no. That is not right.” Ilya wags a finger at him. “You would absolutely not win. You would be distracted. One look at my big d—”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hollander says flatly, adding a middle finger for good measure.

Chapter Notes

I’m having a ton of fun with this! Fair warning for this chapter, I do my best to write about hockey as someone who really does not know hockey. If that is going to trigger you, I recommend stepping away. If you feel like venting at me about it, feel free.

Also if you are a previous reader, please be aware I changed the Boston’s coach’s name to Reilly and also that I have heavily edited chapters 1 and 2 since they were posted. I am prone to do that, its just the way I roll.

“We’re fuckin’ gonna win a Cup,” Cliff Marleau crows, as he punches Ilya on the shoulder.

“Shut yer’ fuckin’ mouth, yer gonna jinx us,” Brad Hammersmith says from Ilya’s other side. Despite the censure he’s grinning from ear to ear as they watch the second line push forward through the defense with more flow and coordination then they have any right to have with an unfamiliar center.

“Didn’t know you were going out for goalie, Hammy.”

“Fuck off, Marly.”

Ilya tunes out his wingers’ bickering, keeping his focus on the ice. Ilya hates to admit it, but he is impressed. He didn’t know Hollander was capable of this. Hollander isn’t playing like Hollander. He’s playing like a better version of Zadonsky, blending near seamlessly into the line with St. Simon and Connors.

What the actual fuck?

Reilly sees it too, he can tell by the way the man hasn’t written a single note on his clipboard the last three runs.

Ilya tamps down his own excitement. It’s just practice, he reminds himself. No one is going full steam, watching the force of their body checks, not wanting to risk an injury, but the potential for what could be is plain for all to see.

It didn’t happen all at once either, but most of the adjustments are on Hollander’s end. He’s still adjusting, but he’s also subtly pushing his wings to adjust too. Forcing Connors to be a bit faster to keep up with him, leading St. Simon into better positions through feedback and well-placed passes.

Now, he understands why Hollander’s face was buried in his laptop during breakfast. Ilya had been annoyed when they didn’t actually get to the after omelette fucking he thought was on the menu.

He’s not annoyed now.

Ilya doesn’t know what he finds more beautiful, Hollander on the ice in a Raiders’ practice sweater or Hollander in his bed, asleep with morning light breaking across his face.

The former is definitely the safer option of the two.

“Alright boys! Hit the showers, good work, I’ll send out my notes by three o’clock. Hollander, stick around to go over some notes in person with me after you get cleaned up.” Ilya doesn’t leave the ice with the rest of the team, knowing Reilly will want to speak with him as well. He glides over to where Reilly is conferring with Stephens, the penalty kill coach.

“Rozy,” Stephens acknowledges when Ilya catches himself against the boards.

Reilly is looking over the diagrams. “We’ve got three days, then the home game against Carolina, then we hit the road. It’ll be announced later today but we’re going to lose Kovalev as part of the Hollander deal.”

Ilya grimaces. Kovalev is a good defender.

“Long term wise, Laurenti thought we might trade Ryan Price, but Stephens thinks with some more time to develop chemistry with the team, he’ll do well and advocated to keep him. Lord knows the guy has been bounced around the league enough.”

Ilya nods in agreement at Stephens. He likes Price, the man is quiet and he’s not the type to take up space in the room despite his large size. He was a surprise at the beginning of the season, his reputation as an unstoppable enforcer did not prepare the team for the literal ghost that no one notices off the ice.

“We want you on the penalty kill.”

Ilya mulls that over. It isn’t like he’d never been on the penalty kill, but it isn’t his specialty. Zadonsky had been the main defensive forward on the team. Also, he was less likely than Ilya to end up in the box and therefore could be on the ice.

Stephens excuses himself, citing that he needs to connect with their remaining defenseman about the changes.

Ilya waits for the other man to be out of earshot before voicing his concern. “But I’m still on power play.”

Reilly gives him a look that says Ilya is being stupid. “Of course. And we want Hollander on the power play as well, but let’s leave that for alone for now. We need to keep our defense solid. We’ll run everything tomorrow, I’ll send an email with the practice agenda, but send something in the group text that everyone is expected tomorrow. We’ll address the power play when we’re on the road.” Reilly leans back on the bench and looks out on the ice. “I was ready to kill Laurenti for not giving me a heads up on Leo’s trade.”

Ilya blinks in surprise. “I thought you knew that at least.”

His coach shook his head. “Not even a text. I wanted to reach across my desk and strangle the man.” He rests the edge of his clipboard into his thigh. “I don’t think I need to tell you we have a real shot this year. We had one with Leo, but it might be even better now.” Reilly smacks the clipboard against his thigh. “Damn shame we are losing him this season.”

Ilya nods. “I spoke to him yesterday. He is not upset at all.” Ilya sniffs. “He said they already found new doctors for baby in California. Is first thing they did before even place to live.” Ilya’s mood sours with guilt. Zadonsky might have been his captain before, but Ilya is now and he didn’t see how much his teammate was struggling.

Reilly sighs. “I know they’ve had a rough go of it. Can’t say I’ve ever experienced anything like that.” His coach’s face is contemplative. “You get to a certain point in your career and in life when you realize that as much as you love the game, other things in life come first, especially family.” Reilly huffs a laugh. “You’re probably too young yet to see it.”

Ilya thinks about his father’s lapses in memory and his confusion. He forces his mouth into a shape that he hopes conveys amusement. “Maybe after a Cup or two I will feel this way.”

Reilly stands and taps Ilya’s chest with the clipboard. “Good man. I know you were worried about Hollander, I could see it yesterday, but I hope today showed you that this can work. I need you focused on your own line and game. You may be captain, but give Hollander some room to breathe. You said it yourself. He’s a playmaker. If you need something to preoccupy yourself, keep an eye on team camaraderie and morale, especially the defensive line and the kid we’re calling up, Kane. He’s done well in the AHL this season and he looked great in the mid-season development camp.” Ilya nods. “He’ll start with us tomorrow at the full team practice.” Reilly waves at him in dismissal. “Go do your conditioning. I have a coaches’ meeting and then I’ll speak with Hollander.”

Once he’s done with his post-practice cardio and strength routine Ilya returns to the locker room and there is only Cliff left, sitting on the bench and hunched his phone.

“Was sweet of you to wait for me Marly.”

Cliff’s mouth quirks and shakes his head. “Hollander is in the showers.”

Ilya blinks, ignoring the idea of wet and soapy Hollander a few feet away and focusing on his teammate. He’s not sure why Cliff would mention this to him. “Okay.”

Despite the brevity of his reply, his tone must convey his confusion because Cliff rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Some of the others were worried about you two being alone together.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You mean you were.”

“And some others!” Cliff insists.

“You know, I spent whole day yesterday with Hollander, yes?” Ilya doesn’t mention the night and morning also shared with Hollander.

“But there were others,” Cliff protests. Again, Ilya doesn’t mention just how much he enjoys being alone with their new teammate. “And I didn’t want him feeling uncomfortable in the locker room.”

“What? You think I attack him in showers?” It’s cute and ridiculous. “You think this is some bullshit Russian gangster film?”

“Hey, Eastern Promises was absolute cinema! You even said Viggo’s accent was great.”

Ilya raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Lies. I never said great. I said, ‘was not bad’.”

“‘Not bad’ is Ilya Rozanov for ‘great’,” Cliff retorts.

Ilya laughs, full and genuine. “You want to see Hollander and I wrestle naked. Just say it, Marly.”

“Fuck off, Roz,” Cliff snaps off, but he’s chuckling as well.

Feeding on the energy, Ilya continues, “We could make it event, sell tickets, place bets.”

“I would win.”

Ilya whips around to see Hollander step into the room from the hallway that led to the shower area with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ilya can’t help the way his eyes drag on that perfect skin and defined muscle on display. Hollander’s words were spoken in his usual monotone, his face blank as ever. Ilya’s cheeks hurt with how wide his smile pulls at them.

Cliff, next to him, looks poleaxed for a moment before he laughs harder than before. “Damn Hollander! And people say you don’t have a sense of humor.”

The flinch is barely a flicker in Hollander’s otherwise bland expression, but Ilya sees it. He hates it. Even though he enjoys the fact that Hollander being funny is almost a secret that he gets to keep to himself, like all of the other pieces of Hollander he has collected since they were seventeen, he hates that this reputation of him being an unsociable hockey robot hurts him.

“No, no. Is not right.” Ilya wags a finger at him. “You would absolutely not win. You would be distracted. One look at my big d—”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hollander says flatly, adding a middle finger for good measure. He turns to his locker, but not before Ilya glimpses the flush starting under his freckles. Ilya tears his eyes away from the back of Hollander’s neck as the other man begins to dress.

Oh, if the thought of Hollander wet and soapy was bad, this is a new kind of torture.

Hearing Cliff still chuckling on the bench next to Ilya grounds him and he begins to remove his own workout clothes. “Well, now that I’m sure Rozy isn’t going to try and strangle you when no one is looking, I should get over to Zsky’s. You comin’ Roz?”

Ilya shakes his head. “I saw him yesterday. You go.”

Cliff nods and approaches Hollander, who has put on a pair of fresh sweats and holds out hand. “Glad to have you here Holly, even if you were Metro.”

Hollander’s smile is more painful than anything else, but he takes Cliff’s hand and gives a solid pump. “Holly?”

Cliff smirks. “You hate it?”

Hollander shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”

“You sure?” Cliff asks, his brow twisting with disbelief.

Hollander shrugs. “Yes?” comes his response but it sounds like a question.

Ilya snorts. “Hollander, you are terrible liar. If you hate it, team will find something else. Marly will make it personal mission.”

Hollander shrugs again and sits on the bench to put on his socks. “I really don’t hate it, I just wasn’t expecting it. The guys always just called me Hollander. In juniors a couple guys called me Hollzy, but it never really stuck when I started with the Metros.”

Cliff glances at Ilya as Hollander rummages in his bag for socks. Ilya can read the surprise on his face. “Well, if anyone calls you anything you don’t like, let me know. I don’t put up with that in my Room,” Ilya tells him, turning around to grab his shower kit. And that isn’t a lie. Zadonsky was not a bad captain, he had been an alternate for the previous captain who retired the year before Ilya was drafted, but he didn’t own the Room the way Ilya knows he, himself is capable of.

There are still some guys who pop off a little too loudly about things that Ilya is trying to shut down, but the Room is better than it was a year ago.

Cliff claps Hollander on the shoulder, as if to reinforce Ilya’s proclamation. Ilya again reads the subtle shift of Hollander’s face and body. He isn’t uncomfortable with the touch, but there’s a stiffness there. It’s fascinating to see and compare to his own experience of Hollander practically melting as soon as Ilya gets his hands on him.

Cliff tosses a wave at Ilya, “Alright, well, I’m gonna take off. The boys were thinking Smitty’s tonight after everyone’s been through Zsky’s.” Ilya nods in acknowledgement. “You’re welcome to join of course, Hollander.”

Hollander nods and raises a hand to wave at Cliff as he departs the locker room. The door shuts quietly.

“The name really doesn’t bother me,” Hollander repeats after a few moments of quiet.

Ilya turns, now clad only in a towel for his own shower, towards the other man and finds Hollander standing with his arms crossed over his now shirt-covered chest. Shame. “Okay.”

Hollander’s frown deepens and Ilya doesn’t want to cross the room and smooth a thumb across his brow. It strikes him that this is his life now. Hollander, here, in his space, reachable. Hollander being his deadpan type of funny where others can see. Hollander and his pretty freckles and his beautiful body always in view.

“Okay.” Hollander drags out the vowel, as if he doesn’t believe Ilya believes him.

“Okay, Holly.”

Hollander’s face sours immediately and Ilya snorts. “It’s fine really—” Hollander protests, “—it just sounds wrong when you say it.”

“Oh, I am problem?” Ilya gestures to himself dramatically, making it clear that he is not truly upset.

“Always,” Hollander confirms and he’s sporting that boyish smile that Ilya has never seen in an interview or on the ice. His shoulders have relaxed.

Ilya clicks his tongue. “So mean to your captain. Very rude Hollander, especially since I so nicely let you sleep in my bed.”

Hollander’s eyes glance towards the locker room door. There aren’t even voices in the hallway. Most players who attended practice today are at Zsky’s but there are the equipment managers and cleaning staff who still may be in and out. Ilya feels confident in their privacy. Hollander looks tense, but the accusation that he is impolite must get the better of him because he bites back, “You’re the one who insisted he was too tired to make up the guest room.”

Ilya sighs with exaggerated suffering. “I sucked you off in shower after long day. I was tired.”

Hollander scoffs.

“You could return the favor,” Ilya suggests, tilting his head towards the hallway that led to the showers. Hollander frowns, his eyes once again flickering to the locker room door. “It can be locked, Hollander.”

It is a very bad idea. But they are very good at bad ideas.

Ilya’s eyes watch as a pink tongue darts out of Hollander’s mouth and wets his lips. Ilya can’t even help the step forward he takes. Hollander shakes his head. “I already showered.”

Ilya rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling. It is just such a Hollander thing to say. “So many excuses when we both know you love getting on your knees for me.”

“Fuck—”

“Oh, which one, Hollander? ‘Fuck off’, ‘fuck you’ —” Ilya’s smirk widens, “— or my favorite, ‘fuck me’?” He makes his voice breathy and slightly higher as he says it. Hollander has never said those words to him, much less like that, but Ilya has definitely imagined them.

Hollander’s face flushes brightly and Ilya knows, by the tightening around the other man’s mouth, that he’s pushed too far. “Not here.”

Ilya steps back and the pressure building between them begins to drain. “So, you come back to my place?” he asks. Hollander didn’t bring his suitcase with them today, but it doesn’t hurt to confirm the plan.

Hollander nods jerkily and Ilya can’t help but want more. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Hollander breathes out.

Ilya can practically see the nerves creeping back in, the spell of their proximity and tension breaking. “Coach is waiting in office for you,” Ilya reminds him, providing Hollander with an easy escape.

Hollander curses under his breath and grabs his backpack, avoiding brushing against Ilya as he hastily exits. In the silence left behind Ilya breathes. He takes a single step towards the showers when Hollander crashes back through the door with none of the grace he shows on the ice. He rubs the back of his neck and is sporting an embarrassed flush under his freckles. “Um, how do I get there again?”

Shane finishes clearing up from his dinner in silence. Other than when he woke up in bed alone this morning, it’s the first time he’s been alone other than the short time he was awake between his nap on Rozanov’s couch and Rozanov returning and finding Shane in his shower last night.

It hasn’t been terrible, Rozanov has proven to be an equally pleasurable and annoying distraction from everything else.

His Blackberry vibrates on the counter and Shane doesn’t let out his sigh. He really can’t put off talking to his mom any longer and with Rozanov gone for the next couple hours if not longer, now is as good a time as any.

His mom picks up on the first ring. “Shane,” she greets with deliberate calm. Shane feels himself tense. That is her, ‘I think Shane is two seconds away from a breakdown’ voice.

“Mom,” he answers, keeping his voice as level as possible.

The silence hangs. His mom allows it for a few moments, letting the quiet be an invitation for Shane to speak if he wants to. Shane doesn’t. What does he have to say?

“How did the first practice go?”

Hockey he can handle. He knows she is opening with it on purpose versus talking about brand deals and endorsements, or worse yet, feelings. “Better than I expected. They are putting me on the second line as center. Zadonsky is going to San Francisco.”

His mother hums in acknowledgement before voicing her frustration. “You should be on the first line.”

Shane agrees, but also isn’t sure what that would look like. Rozanov is just as good as he is. Different, but just as good. Shane’s stats might be slightly higher, but higher stats aren’t everything. Afterall, Rozanov was made captain of his team this season where Shane was just an alternate when he was traded. It had burned a bit to hear Rozanov was made captain this season and Shane was still wearing an A.

Jokes on him. Now he doesn’t have a letter.

“Rozanov is a star center and the team’s captain, Mom. They are never going to replace him in that position. Boston would riot.”

“Montreal is rioting, Shane!” his mother returns.

Shane frowns and pulls his laptop from his backpack. “What do you mean?”

“There are protests outside the Bell Centre. I saw posters with Rousseau’s face on them. They had the eyes gouged out.”

Shane grimaces. He’s never loved just how rabid some of the die hard Montreal fans were. Even now, when it’s for his benefit, it feels a bit too far.

He realizes suddenly he can’t handle hearing about this. He feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin looking at the headlines with his name and the Metros and words like betrayal. The League is definitely getting what it wants, because when he googles just hockey, his name and his trade appear before the news story about Kent.

Shane doesn’t know whether he feels more disgusted or bitter.

He needs to find something else to focus on, needs to keep moving. “I should probably start looking at places to rent down here.”

The suggestion does exactly what he wants it to. His mom is completely derailed from the previous topic and between the two of them they build a list of properties for Shane to more thoroughly look through.

They discuss other logistics of his move and decide it makes sense to leave Shane’s car in Montreal for now. The Raiders upcoming roadie is the longest of the season, they’ll be gone for almost two weeks. His car and shipping more of his things can wait till then. His mom then fills him in on her correspondence with some of the brands he works with. Only the Canada specific companies have reached out with concern so far. Some of them are even excited about the trade his mother admits with distaste in her voice. More visibility for him means more engagement potentially for the brands he represents.

Eventually, his mom must sense by his shortening responses that he’s at his limit and they say good night.

Shane moves from the kitchen counter and settles on the living room couch, with his laptop to click through the property listings they’d found. He locates the remote and turns on the TV, fumbling through the channels until he finds his way to a live broadcast of a sports program. Shane gathers quickly that the panel of commentators are discussing baseball and mutes the sound.

He’s not sure how much time passes as he steadily takes notes on each listing that he gets through, pros and cons that will help his future real estate agent narrow down options for him. Shane looks towards the kitchen when he hears the garage open.

“Honey, I’m home!” Rozanov calls out as he enters the house.

Shane snorts and shakes his head. “Welcome back, asshole!”

He hears Rozanov’s huff of laughter and listens as the other man drops his keys and a duller thud that must be his wallet onto the side table in the entryway. More noise signals the removal of shoes, followed by soft, but solid footsteps, until Rozanov appears around the wall that divides the TV area from the more formal sitting room.

Rozanov collapses on the other end of the couch from Shane with his usual flair. Shane watches as the other man focuses on him. “You wear glasses?” Shane automatically reaches up to take them off. “Don’t.”

He freezes with the command, eyes wide at the almost sharp tone. He did not just get turned on from a single word. “They’re just for reading,” he states, breathing out slowly with the words, trying to calm his racing heart.

“But you can wear them when you aren’t?” Rozanov asks. Shane nods. “Good, is good look for you. Want you to wear them while you ride my cock.”

Shane’s face burns and he kicks at Rozanov’s feet. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Yes, I can. I just did.”

Ignoring the frisson of heat that goes straight to his groin, Shane changes the subject. “How was the team?”

One of Rozanov’s eyebrows quirks, communicating to Shane that the other man is aware of just how much Shane liked his idea. “They are fine. Is just hockey.”

Shane’s mouth turns down. “Players getting traded for a PR stunt isn’t hockey.”

“True, but what can any of us do about it? The League says skate…” Rozanov shrugs.

“Jump,” Shane corrects.

Rozanov frowns, “Jump?” Shane nods. “Why would League tell us to jump? We play hockey.” Shane wipes a hand down his face, keeping it over his mouth to hide his smile. Rozanov continues as if he wasn’t interrupted, “And really, it could have been worse for everyone. For a Russian, Kovalev is a little bitch about winter. He’s going to love Miami.”

“Was he there tonight?” Shane asks, curious. Trades are usually sudden, with almost no notice. The ones he’s seen on the Metros there isn’t even time for the player to say goodbye to anyone before they are on a flight to whatever city their new team needs them in.

Rozanov shakes his head. “He’s probably already in Miami. The others said Zadonsky flew out this evening as well.”

“He went to San Francisco, right? Long move.”

“Same country still.” Rozanov’s eyes search his face and Shane glances at the muted TV that is now showing something related to basketball. Rozanov’s foot brushes against his own. “You know it's not your fault right?”

“What isn’t?”

“Zadonsky and Kovalev.” Rozanov makes a sweeping gesture. “This whole mess, Metros trading you.”

Shane grimaces. “Of course I know that.”

“But, still bothers you,” Rozanov determines.

Shane shrugs. “I guess.” Rozanov raises an expectant eyebrow. Shane sighs before continuing, “I heard the guys talking in the locker room. Zadonsky seems like he’s a good guy. He’s been with the team a long time and he was captain before you.”

Rozanov nods. “Yes, he is a good man. He was a good captain and player. It is too bad we lose him, but he is happy with this move.”

Happy? How can he be happy? Shane, not a captain, not with his team for as many years, is furious.

Rozanov must read the question on his face because he explains, “Is good others didn’t mention it in locker room. Is not locker room talk. Lyla, his daughter was born this year. She is sick, born sick. Zsky’s wife’s family is from around San Francisco. Is good for them to be with family.”

Shane heart twists at the expression on Rozanov’s face. There is concern there, real and unguarded. “That’s sad.” It’s wholly inadequate a statement, but Shane doesn’t know what else to say. “I hope everything turns out okay for them.”

Rozanov’s expression becomes softer. “Yes, me too.”

There is something contemplative in his face, a furrowing in his brow as his eyes lose their focus. Shane’s never been good at reading people, not like his dad, who can look at someone and know what to ask or what to say. Shane knocks his toes against Rozanov’s again. “What are you thinking about?”

Blue-green eyes look up at him. “You, naked, in my lap with glasses on.”

Shane glares. He knows that isn’t what Rozanov’s thinking, but he doesn’t push. It’s not like he has a right to Rozanov’s thoughts.

The mention of sex and Rozanov’s proximity is infectious. Shane can’t shake the idea of himself in Rozanov’s lap, Rozanov’s hands cradling his ass and hips, Rozanov’s mouth biting into his chest while Shane controls the pace—

Shane feels heat burn his cheeks.

They haven’t had penetrative sex since the first time. It’s not that Shane doesn’t want to, but the conversation in Sochi still haunts his thoughts.

We are not anything.

Last night proved that at least Rozanov still wanted him, at least for sex. Still wants him now if the way his pupils are blown wide is any indication, not that Shane’s in better shape. With a hungry grin, Rozanov moves, crawling forward until he can reach Shane’s foot and stopping there, rearranging his limbs so he sits leaning into the back of the couch with a strong hand wrapped around Shane’s ankle gently squeezing. “Okay?”

Shane’s heart flutters and his body goes hot at the single word. It reminds him of their night in his apartment, the way Rozanov would check in with him before doing something new. He swallows, wanting his voice to come out strong, stronger than he feels. “Okay.”

The moment settles and it is comfortable in its expectation. The feel of Rozanov's hand on his ankle, his thumb gliding across taut skin and bone. Heat builds in Shane’s gut. The look in the other man’s eye is too heavy, too wanting for Shane to tolerate and he glances away, his gaze catching on the TV where his name is in the closed-captions.

Shane grabs at the remote and hits the mute button again, ignoring Rozanov’s child-like whine of, “Hollander!”

“You are hearing the name Hollander, Steve and you are going to keep hearing it. Because this is big.” Shane recognizes Chris Macaulay or as the hockey world knew him Big Mac or Mackie. He was old school enforcer with two Cups to his name, who somehow is still considered a nice guy after the number of hockey players he sent to the dentist. “Since you guys aren’t hockey people, I’ll try to give you a reference point. Wayne Gretzky, greatest of all time, you’re familiar right?”

The other commentators laugh. “I may have heard of him,” someone Shane doesn’t know, but going by the size of him Shane assumes he is on the panel to comment on football, quips.

“Right, kind of a household name. Anyway, he was traded from Edmonton to LA late in his career. It was absolutely shocking, to the point that Canada’s government—,” Mackie pauses here for effect, “Canada people!—, almost stepped in. Now Hollander isn’t Gretzky, but give him time and he probably won’t end his career far off. Hollander just came back from Sochi, where he captained Team Canada to a gold medal. He was the second pick in the first round of his draft year. He won rookie of the year in 2011. More impressive, he’s been nominated for the regular season MVP every year since! He’s been in the top 5 for most goals scored in a season also every year he’s played since—”

One of the panelists shakes his head and interrupts, “Okay Mackie, we get the picture, the kid is good.”

“Then let’s check your memory, was Hollander first overall in his draft year?”

The football guy raises his hand. “Pick me teach!”

“Anders!”

The man gives an emphatic, “No! You said he was second.”

Mackie looks exaggeratedly proud of his student. “Correct, he was second. Ilya Rozanov was first.”

Shane doesn’t need to look at Rozanov to know he is smirking.

“Now Rozanov is another name you have no doubt been hearing, because when someone mentions Hollander, you can’t not talk about Rozanov and vice versa. Rozanov, despite having similar stats to Hollander, hasn’t collected quite as many accolades.”

“Is crime,” Rozanov adds. “Prejudice against me for being so sexy.”

Shane shushes him and Rozanov pinches his ankle, which results in Shane kicking him in the thigh.

“I’m not even a hockey guy and I’ve heard of Hollander and Rozanov,” one of the commentators offers. It’s an asinine thing for someone who gets paid to talk about sports to say in Shane’s opinion.

“Exactly, their rivalry has practically been the face or faces of the MLH since they started. Not just because of their history at the junior level, their performance as players or even just how much the camera loves both of them—” This triggered more laughter from the peanut gallery.

“See! I told you, am sexy,” Rozanov grouches.

“—But also because they were drafted into the most intense rivalry in hockey, the Boston Raiders and the Montreal Metros. Now again, for a comparison think the Yankees and the Red Sox.”

“Have we even gotten to the point of this story?” Anders asks, looking through his cue cards and directly into the camera with an excessively confused expression.

“I am getting there!” Mackie says, reaching over his neighbor to smack Anders with his own cue cards. “I was setting the stage. The point is, yesterday, Hollander was traded from the Metros to the Raiders.”

One of the commentators whistles low, while another says “And as you’ve just explained, that's a big deal.”

“The biggest!” Mackie agrees. “Hockey might not be as big here in America, but you can imagine that Canada,” Mackie shakes his head, “just like with Gretzky, well, she ain’t happy about this.”

“So why did the Metros give up the second coming of Gretzky to their biggest rival?” Anders asks.

“Especially when they have a player of similar caliber?” the only panelist who hasn’t spoken yet adds.

Shane tenses as Mackie begins to answer, “No one can say for sure—”

“Whatever is going to come out of this man’s mouth will be bullshit,” Rozanov predicts and Shane feels the other man’s fingers which have been stroking up his calf, underneath the leg of his sweatpants, begin to kneed at the thick muscle there.

“—but stats aren’t everything. Hollander was definitely drafted during a rebuilding period for Montreal, but it's been three seasons since they’ve had him and while the team has made it to the playoffs every year since, they’ve only gotten to the first round.”

“That’s not a ton of time,” comments one of the men.

Mackie nods at the point. “It isn’t, but it does show that one player can’t carry a team.”

“Okay, maybe he’s not so dumb,” Rozanov allows.

“But sometimes it only takes one player to disrupt the chemistry of a team.”

“Nevermind,” Rozanov snears. He grabs the remote from Shane’s loose grip and shuts off the TV. There is only the soft glow of wall sconces lighting the room as the sun had set. Rozanov squeezes Shane’s thigh and Shane barely feels it, his head still ringing with the damning confirmation of something he already knew.

He’d overheard it in the locker rooms, when he’d come in, or when he’d been quiet and guys hadn’t noticed he was there immediately.

Great on the ice, but doesn’t click well with the team.

Amazing player, but awkward to talk to.

Totally obsessed with the game, but too obsessed.

Shane’s always existed on the edges. The ice is the only place he’s ever felt comfortable in the center. Now even in that he’s failed at the highest level.

“Shane!” Shane’s eyes snap to Rozanov. Rozanov leans towards him and slowly brings his hand to cup his face, giving Shane more than enough time to refuse the touch. “Mackie is saying what League wants him to say. That's all. Anyone who knows hockey knows this is all because of Kent. Fuck they didn’t even talk about Kent. Is so obvious.”

Shane shivers and pushes against Rozanov’s hand. The pressure helps him focus. “He’s not really wrong though.”

Rozanov scowls and gently shakes Shane’s head using his grip on Shane’s jaw. It makes Shane feel like a child, but it also makes him feel safe. “Of course he is wrong. I saw you today. You were Zsky. You dumped pucks under pressure more often to Vicky’s side because Vicky is quicker. When Connors’ cleared puck from boards blind you were always in position he expected you to be in because it’s where Zsky would have been. It took you what, maybe a day to figure them out?”

Shane lets out a shuddering breath, because there was that and so much more that he was doing intentionally and it was noticed. Rozanov noticed it. “It was just practice.”

“Yes, and you only get better.” Rozanov’s thump caresses the cheek bone under the frame of Shane’s glasses and Shane knows he’s brushing over freckled skin. He’s noticed Rozanov has a thing for them. “Do not make me repeat all good things stupid man said about you. My big head will become so sad and small.” The corners of Shane’s lips twitch upwards and Rozanov clicks his tongue. “Good.”

And it’s too much. Rozanov’s kindness, his confidence, his acceptance of Shane into his space, his bed, his team, it's too much.

If their roles were reversed, Shane would not be this good to him. It’s far more than Shane and his selfish thoughts, his anger and his bitterness deserves. Shane needs to stop thinking about it and how it makes his heart ache in a way that doesn’t hurt.

Shane grasps at what action he can take, right now, in this moment to distract himself and distract Rozanov from this unacceptable vulnerability. He gently pushes Rozanov’s hand away and forces the other man back out of his space as he sits up. He moves slow, the way Rozanov does for him. Taking one of the cushions from the couch and drops it in front of Rozanov’s feet.

Rozanov’s sharp in-take of breath sounds like a gun shot in the otherwise quiet house. “Hollander.”

How the man can make his last name sound both filthy and reverent is a mystery Shane does not have the capacity to understand, but it sends a fluttering heat through him that settles into something heavy and sharp, something that promises to build.

Shane lands between Rozanov’s legs on his knees, the other man obligingly spreading a bit more to accommodate him. “You wanted me to repay the favor, right?” he asks, reaching for Rozanov’s belt.

One of Rozanov’s hands closes around his wrist and Shane freezes, not daring to look up. Had he done something wrong?

“Look at me,” Rozanov demands.

Shane’s heart, already going a mile a minute, trips over itself. He’s not sure how he’ll survive if Rozanov rejects him. He doesn’t know why the other man would stop him, but to reject him. Shane can’t face that. He can’t look up and see anything other than unabashed desire on Rozanov’s face. Anything else will crush him.

But of course Rozanov won’t let him hide. Rozanov’s other hand, the one not holding his right wrist, comes to cradle underneath his chin, fingers wrapping around the side of his face and neck, thumb splaying across his cheek. He gently forces Shane’s gaze upwards until their eyes meet.

Rozanov’s thumb taps against his cheekbone. “I get on my knees for you, suck your cock because I want to. I enjoy and I enjoy giving you pleasure. Is same for you, yes?”

Shane swallows his fear and breathes out. “Yes,” he answers.

Rozanov nods and his expression lightens. “In this, we do not keep score.” He emphasizes the point with a gentle squeeze to Shane’s jaw. “I tease you. Is just talk. Is always your choice, yes?”

Shane feels he’d be collapsed face first into Rozanov’s lap between his embarrassment and the sharp and sudden arousal currently making him lightheaded if it weren’t Rozanov’s hand on him. He can’t find his voice this time, but he manages to jerk his head in acknowledgement of Rozanov’s question.

Rozanov mutters something in Russian that Shane can’t hope to comprehend. Then the man continues in English, “We do what we want. Only what we want.” Rozanov’s thumb trails a path, nudging against the bottom of his glasses before glancing against the corner of his mouth. “Now, do you want?”

Shane wants to chase that thumb with his lips and tongue, but he knows Rozanov wants words, wants his voice. In this, Rozanov is direct and demands Shane be as well. “Yes,” he manages, desire making his tongue heavy and clumsy. “I want.”

Chapter End Notes

Let me know what you think! I’m really new to this fandom and have only seen the TV series so, I would love to hear from ya’ll and what you think of how I’m doing with Shane and Ilya’s characters.

Chapter 4: Avoid

Chapter Summary

Shane feels the world tilt sideways as his heart plummets. It’s not even close to the worst shit he’s heard in locker rooms since he was in middle school, but coming from Hayden, from his best friend, it's a slap in the face.

Normally, Shane would let such a comment wash over him like water. It wasn’t even directed at him, but it feels like it was. Hayden’s voice continues to talk at him, but Shane can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears.

He doesn’t even notice how his breathing has changed to gasping but there’s no air left in the car for his lungs to take in. He’s dimly aware of Rozanov calling his name, and his phone slipping through his fingers to land somewhere at his feet as he leans forward trying to draw in air.

Chapter Notes

So, not gonna lie when I started this fic, I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going with it, but I now have an end goal! Yay! Thanks for all of the comments and kudos, they really make my day when I see them!

Shane focuses on his breath as he’s led down the hallway by Ashleigh, the Raiders’ media liaison. Despite the clamor of the media room ahead of them, Shane can hear the voice of his favorite yoga instructor in his mind, telling him to inhale. Rozanov’s presence at his back helps.

They just won against Carolina, and he contributed a goal and an assist for St. Simon. It is the best showing he could have hoped for, for his first game as a Raider.

And now he has to get through a gauntlet far more daunting than skating on to MHL ice not as a Metro.

The arena went absolutely silent when Shane got on the ice for warm-ups. It was a noticeable quiet before a thundering roar, an approving roar lit up the stands. Rozanov skated up to him and leaned in close so that he could be heard over the cheering and his mouth couldn’t be read by the cameras. “You see! They know. They know they’ve been given a gift. Montreal gave you to them. Gave you to me. They will never thank Montreal, but they will love you.”

Shane heard a ghost of words over the crowd that Rozanov most certainly did not say. He shook them out of his head and focused on opening his hips.

He can still hear the echo of unspoken words as Ashleigh leads them to the table and he and Rozanov both find seats. Shane instantly reaches for the water bottle set out for him and cracks it open, taking a sip. He isn’t really thirsty, but his hands need something to do.

For a moment all he can think about is that the lights are too hot, the collar on his shirt feels too stiff, the suit jacket too restrictive and the backs of his shoes rub through his dress socks.

He wishes he could just go back to Rozanov’s house and they could continue the semi comfortable routine they’ve settled into the last few nights. And if Shane ends up in Rozanov’s bed again, the guest bed still unmade, neither one of them is going to point it out.

The din of the media personnel increases with their entrance. This will be the first interview he’s done since his trade. Of course there had been requests, but his mother and Farah agreed that it would be better to wait for a few days, let the fervor die a bit, let Shane settle in and see what comes out. While post-game media of non-consequential game like this one was usually in the scrum format, the Raiders management decided a more formal interview would be appropriate given the high amount of interest and to allow for more control.

Immediately following the game, they had been put through an abbreviated version of a post-game shower, cool-down and shower, before arriving here.

Rozanov exchanges words with Ashleigh before he nods, waves her away and claps his hands together calling everyone’s attention. “Let’s do this, yes? I have celebrating to do.” The Boston media, well-versed in Rozanov’s noise and demeanor, let out a few chuckles. “Before you start, I want to say, Boston Raiders are very excited about new player. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him. We rescued him like puppy from cardboard box.” Shane can see Ashleigh off to the side of the room, close her eyes and shake her head. Rozanov’s antics are familiar to him and he can’t help the way the tension, that has been ratcheting higher since he stepped off the ice, begins to bleed out of his shoulders. “Matthew Kane will make excellent Raider.”

Shane can’t help the actual snort of laughter that escapes him before he can smother it with a hand.

The media are now laughing fully.

Rozanov clicks his tongue at them. “Why are you laughing?” He turns to Shane and in a mock whisper says, “These people are terrible, laughing at our new rookie.”

Shane does not have to fake his suffering sigh as he turns to the cameras. “If you’re wondering how it's been going,” he gestures at Rozanov, “it’s been like this so far. By the way, hi, I’m Shane Hollander. I play for the Boston Raiders. I’m the other new player on the team.”

Rozanov who had turned his body to Shane looked back at the media and snaps his fingers together. “Oh, yes, I forgot. We also got new kitten to go with puppy.” Rozanov makes a face, “Not as exciting, I’m more dog person.”

Shane shakes his head and gives the media a pointed look as if to say “you see”. More laughter takes hold of the room.

Following that, it’s nothing that Shane didn’t expect or practice for. How he feels about the trade. How the rivalry has changed since they are now on the same team. When asked about how he’s settling in to the team, the new line, he feels Rozanov’s foot press into his. Shane smiles, the one he’s practiced for the media and photoshoots. “I think my performance tonight speaks for itself. St. Simon, Connors and I have put in work together on the ice to build that rapport and familiarity. Of course we still need more time, there were some missed opportunities tonight that we’ll look at and learn from.”

“Is shame you only got one goal to my two,” Rozanov gloats next to him.

Shane closes his eyes and exaggerates a sigh. “And people were worried that our rivalry would die with this trade.”

Rozanov’s smirk is devastatingly attractive. “Yes, very silly of them.”

The media laughs and the questions keep coming. Shane can tell the scrum is winding down when a question that brings his brain to a screeching halt is asked.

“Can you repeat your question?” He does not tack a please on to the end as he usually would.

“The question was for Ilya,” the reporter responds.

Shane can feel his face grow colder at the audacity of this asshole, calling Rozanov by his first name for the second time like he knows him. “Yes, that’s why I unfortunately missed some of the question. Selective hearing when Rozanov is being spoken about.” The joke gets a titter of humor from the crowd, but nothing like earlier. “So, please, repeat it.” Shane’s smile is nothing but polite but his eyes probably give away that he knows exactly what he is doing.

Shane isn’t familiar enough with the media that regularly frequent the Raiders’ stadium. He’d bet money that this isn’t a sports journalist and might not be based in Boston at all. A regular wouldn’t want to jeopardize their access to the press room. The man opens his mouth again, but Shane interrupts him, “Oh and if you could say your name and the organization you represent again, that’d be great.”

Between the lights and the distance, Shane can’t make out the man’s face clearly but he imagines the man looks irritated. “Winston Radtke, Boston Globe. Ilya—” Shane allows the name once more, because it is not his place to police what other people call Rozanov. “—how will the recent scandal in Toronto affect you and the Raiders off the ice?”

Shane let his tongue wipe across his front teeth. It hadn’t been “and the Raiders” before. The question had been for Rozanov and about Rozanov. As if someone with Rozanov’s reputation, known for partying, known for walking out of clubs with more than one woman, needed to think about his behavior. As if Rozanov might have similar allegations against him that the Raiders are keeping quiet.

He’s not sure if Rozanov is reading into the question as far as he is and feels Rozanov sit forward to answer. Underneath the table, Shane presses his foot firmly against Rozanov’s and the other man stills, keeping his mouth shut.

Shane leans forward. “I’m new to Boston, so forgive my ignorance. That doesn’t sound like a sports publication.”

The journalist looks amused. “It’s not, it’s a newspaper, primarily for Boston and the New England area.”

Shane nods. “Given your profession, you undoubtedly understand that words are important. That they have power.”

Winston is frowning now and the air in the room vibrates. “Well, yes.”

Shane adjusts the microphone in front of him. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. It’s going against all of his mother’s training, but fuck it. If they’re too busy writing about the blunder Shane is about to cause, at least they won’t be writing pieces that contemplate if Ilya Rozanov abuses women.

“Of course. So you know specificity is important. So let’s be specific. What happened in Toronto is not a scandal. Dallas Kent, who is missing, is wanted for questioning in relation to an open murder investigation. On top of this, Dallas Kent is facing multiple allegations of sexual assault. This is not a scandal. These are alleged crimes. Let’s not minimize the situation with the language we are using.”

The room is dead silent, even the camera clicks have slowed. Shane keeps his eyes on the Globe journalist, pointedly not looking towards Ashleigh, who is probably doing everything she can to signal him to stop talking.

“So, Winston, are you asking, how do these alleged crimes affect us off the ice?” Winston looks like he’s swallowed a lemon but nods in answer. “I’ve only been a Raider for five days, so I can’t speak for the team as a whole. But, as a professional athlete, I’ve learned to hold myself accountable, for my performance on the ice and for my conduct off of it. I expect my teammates to do the same.” He has more to say but he keeps the rest of it too himself. He’s already said more than enough and expects to hear about it later.

Another reporter jumps in. “Tiffany Nguyen, Women’s Health. While the investigation into Dallas Kent is on going, verified documents from the Toronto Guardians and the MLH have been released that show the allegations of sexual assault were known to both organizations. What would you say to fans, especially female fans who are disappointed and angered by what has happened and the implication that the Guardians and the MLH failed to act?”

Shane takes a breath. He’s been over this with both Farah and his mom. He even ran it by Ashleigh. It still scares the shit out of him, because what he’s about to do flies in the face of the unofficial guidance the MLH had teams disseminate. But what’s the worst that could happen now? Get traded? Every team on his list had eventually reached out to Farah, even those that hadn’t been able to make the cap space in time. They all wanted him. The knowledge had gone a long way to make him feel like he could speak out on this issue. And he wants to. “I’d say I’m right there with them. I am angry and disappointed at this situation as well.” He leaves it at that, swallowing down more words.

While he was speaking Ashleigh must have moved to stand between them and she leans forward so her voice is picked up by the mics. “I’m sorry, but we are out of time.”

The sudden clamor of voices hits like an unexpected crash against the boards. For a moment Shane is frozen as the possible consequences of what he just did, no matter if it was planned on, presses down on him. A familiar hand squeezes the back of his neck and part of his shoulder and Shane moves with the pressure. He and Rozanov are ushered down the hallway, past a security checkpoint and into what looks like a breakroom.

Shane finally looks at Ashleigh, or at least at a spot over her shoulder. “Sorry, about taking that question, I should have deflected more.”

He’s met with Ashleigh a few times, but he doesn’t know her well. He can’t tell if her tense expression is due to being stressed at the situation or angry with him. She waves a hand in front of herself and the knot his stomach releases a bit. “It was going to come up. We discussed it, your answers were in line with what we planned. The League might reach out and chastise us, but what you said won’t hurt the Raiders.” She seems confident in her words. “I know who Radtke is. He isn’t a sports reporter, his specialty is investigative journalism. He worked with the team that uncovered the sexual abuse in Boston’s Archdiocese. He was fishing for a flat out denial of any misconduct, probably in the hopes of unearthing something later.”

Shane’s eyes go wide at the information. So, he didn't overreact to a potentially innocuous question. “I didn’t make it worse did I?”

Ashleigh shrugs. “No, if anything your response was good, but I’m not going to lie to you, either of you. This Kent thing is going to put all players under a microscope for a while. I know HR has already given you boys a talk, and we’ve spoken about it, but as more and more comes out, this is going to keep happening. Radtke and those like him are going to keep digging.”

Shane glances at Rozanov whose face is doing a damn good imitation of stone.

“We’ll do more prep next time. Tonight, keep off your socials, let people talk. You’ve heard the warnings about social media use already, but you two in particular have larger followings than anyone else on the team. Shane, I know we’ve spoken about the angle you and your agent have discussed, but my two cents, you can’t go radio silent on this, especially after you aligned yourself with the fans rather than the League tonight.”

Her phone, which has been buzzing the entire time, rings. She glances at it. “I have to take this. You guys are done for tonight as far as I’m concerned. I’ll need you two at least on a call tomorrow to go over our strategy for upcoming press events.”

He and Rozanov don’t speak other than to acknowledge staff as they return to the locker room, gather their things and eventually make it to Rozanov’s car.

While Rozanov drives them back to his, Shane answers texts in the group chat between himself, Farah and his mother. They both reassure him that he hadn’t gone outside the bounds of what they discussed, but his mom does remark on his interference on Rozanov’s behalf.

He’s still trying to decide how to respond when his phone notifies him that Hayden is calling.

“Hey, Hayds,” he greets, his voice tired even to his own ears.

“That asshole called you a fucking kitten?!”

Rozanov, who can obviously hear Hayden, snorts. Shane sighs. “You don’t need to scream into the phone Hayden. And, yes, he did. He called Kane a puppy too.”

“Well, Kane looks like a golden retriever.”

Shane thinks Hayden had similar golden retriever energy, but doesn’t comment on it. “I guess so. And I guess Rozanov thinks I look like a kitten. Not the worst animal someone’s compared me to.”

Rozanov’s head whips around to look at him, but he quickly returns his eyes to the road.

“Still,” Hayden grumbles, “he’s so fucking arrogant and smug. I don’t know how you are dealing with that. You did a good job in the interview though. If I didn’t know you hated the guy, I’d be convinced you’re friendly with him.”

Shane frowns. “I don’t hate Rozanov.”

Hayden scoffs, “Yes, you do.”

“No I don’t,” Shane counters.

“Since when?”

Shane blinks. Did Hayden truly not know? He understood fans and maybe the League, other players, media not realizing the rivalry, while competitive wasn’t ever truly personal, but Hayden? “Since I met him?”

“You mean the draft? Shane, I watched your draft. You looked pissed.”

Shane doesn’t correct Hayden’s assumption that the draft was the first time he ever spoke to Rozanov. “I was pissed. My stats were better than his, but Boston had the first pick that year. I knew I wasn’t the type of player they wanted, but—”. Shane cuts himself off. Sure, he had been upset, angry even. His stats had been better going into the draft, but Russia had just won the Prospect Cup with Rozanov as captain and at the time Rozanov was a much better fit for the Boston team of the time.

Coming in second wasn’t the only thing fueling the anger or really frustration he felt that night.

“But?” Hayden questions.

“That wasn’t all about Rozanov, no matter how irritating he was about being first pick.” He can feel Rozanov’s eyes boring into the side of his head, as if he stares long enough and hard enough he’ll read Shane’s thoughts. “I’ve never hated Rozanov. Sure, he can be an ass, but he’s funny. And he knows how to not take it too far. Plus, he’s got a reason to be arrogant. He’s very good.”

“You’re better and not arrogant about it.”

Shane nods, but silently disagrees. He is arrogant. He’s just been trained not to outwardly show it. “Seriously Hayden, it hasn’t been that bad. I miss Montreal, I miss you, JJ, Jackie and the kids, but the team’s been great so far.”

“Really? The Raiders have been great?”

Shane can hear the disbelief in his voice and can’t help but be annoyed by it. “What? Did you think they’d be awful? I’m part of their team now.”

“Well, with the way they worship Rozanov, they’d do whatever he says. I bet they’d all be happy to bend over for him—”

Shane feels the world tilt sideways as his heart plummets. It’s not even close to the worst shit he’s heard in locker rooms since he was in middle school, but coming from Hayden, from his best friend, it's a slap in the face.

Normally, Shane would let such a comment wash over him like water. It wasn’t even directed at him, but it feels like it was. Hayden’s voice continues to talk at him, but Shane can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears.

He doesn’t even notice how his breathing has changed to gasping but there’s no air left in the car for his lungs to take in. He’s dimly aware of Rozanov calling his name, and his phone slipping through his fingers to land somewhere at his feet as he leans forward trying to draw in air.

Shane comes back to himself with his feet on the solid concrete of Rozanov’s garage. The man himself is crouched in front of him, not touching him but his hands are twitching betraying the desire to do so.

“I’m okay,” Shane tries.

“No,” Rozanov responds steadily, gently. “I don’t think you are.”

Shane doesn’t bother trying to convince him otherwise. He doesn’t feel okay. The pressure of the first game as a Raider and facing the press for the first time since the trade, it had been weighing him down, but it had also been holding him together. Now there is nothing.

“My phone?”

Rozanov holds it up to show him. “I hung up on Pike, texted him as you. Said you had to take call from your mom.”

Shane nods. It is a totally plausible explanation.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” Rozanov suggests as he stands.

“I’m not weak.”

Rozanov freezes. Shane can see his jaw muscles jump under his skin. Rozanov sinks back into his crouch and Shane wonders if his legs are burning with the effort after the night’s exertion. The garage light bounces off his dirty blonde curls and Shane is momentarily distracted by how fluffy they look fully dry and free of product. A hand comes up slowly, giving Shane time to pull away, to indicate he doesn’t want to be touched. When no signal is given, Rozanov’s hand cradles his jaw, touch warm against Shane’s cool skin. “I have never thought you weak. Not now. Not ever.”

Shane swallows through the lump in his throat, his eyes burning.

“Come,” Rozanov repeats, his hand sliding to cup Shane’s shoulder and squeeze it. “I ordered food to be delivered soon. We have time for shower, then we eat, then we sleep.”

It’s a testament to how tired he is that Shane doesn’t argue or ask what food was ordered. He wonders how he’s supposed to keep ignoring how good Ilya is to him. “Okay.”

They’re both laying awake, pretending to be asleep later in the night when Ilya can’t resist asking.

“Why did you take the question?” It’s one of many questions he wants to ask Hollander. It’s not even the one he wants to ask the most, but he’s scared to send Hollander spiraling again and fighting for air. Hollander going unresponsive, struggling to breathe while right next to him is not something he wants to repeat any time soon.

Hollander is facing away from him in the bed. Ilya waits so long for a response that he begins to think Hollander won’t answer him when he sees Hollander’s shoulders shrug in the darkness. “It was rude. He was implying you have something to hide. That you are like Kent or have done something like him.”

Ilya contemplates this. It had taken him a little longer to process the question but, he’d arrived at a similar conclusion. He wonders at Hollander’s actions and his words about them. It appeared that Hollander had been offended on Ilya’s behalf and him taking the question had felt protective in the moment and now. It has been a long time since someone protected Ilya. “And you are sure I haven’t?”

Hollander turns over and his brow is furrowed , he looks upset, not unlike an angry kitten with his scrunched up face. “Of course I’m sure.”

The words send a rush of warmth straight through him.

Ilya swallows. “Is not strange idea about me. I am Russian bad boy. Is part of image, of brand.”

“That’s not synonymous with sexual abuser and murderer, Ilya.”

He ignores the flutter of his heart that Shane used his first name, that it rolled off his tongue as if he was born saying it. “Synon-what?”

“Synonymous, it means two words that mean the same or similar. Just because you have the ‘bad boy’ or ‘party boy’ image doesn’t mean you hurt women.”

Does Shane even realize he said Ilya’s name?

“It shouldn’t,” Ilya agrees. “But most people think I am asshole to them.”

“You are an asshole, but not like that.”

“How do you know?”

Shane looks confused now. “Because I’ve had sex with you?”

“Oh yes,” Ilya nods, “I remember now, I made you come without touching your dick.” He isn’t sure if Shane is referring to the one time they had penetrative sex, but it feels that way.

He receives a shove for that but Hollander looks more relaxed now. “See, asshole. But also, you checked in on me like a thousand times that night. You always do. I doubt that changes with anyone you have sex with.”

Ilya can almost see Hollander’s distaste for thinking about him having sex with other people. His traitorous heart flutters again and he wants to poke at him. See if it bugs Shane as much as the thought of Shane having sex with other people bugs Ilya, but there’s another question he’s been wanting to ask that is more important to him to get an answer for. One that he’s afraid to hear the answer to, but can’t keep himself from asking any longer.

“You have not wanted to do it again.”

Shane’s eyes widen and he looks away. The confirmation that Ilya hasn’t been imagining Shane shying away from the idea of penetrative sex is like knife in his chest, but Ilya is used to being in pain and pushing through it.

“Shane, if I did something—”

“No!” The response is quick and firm but then Hollander freezes. “Well, not that night.”

“But, I did do something,” Ilya states with confidence that makes him sick.

Shane doesn’t answer his unasked question, but Ilya doesn’t need him to. He remembers the cruel words he threw at Shane and the other man obviously did as well.

“I am sorry.” The apology isn’t hollow. Ilya isn’t in the business of apologies, its Canadian Shane that has a monopoly on those words, but when he does say them, he means them.

Shane turns his face into the pillow and Ilya hopes he isn’t hiding tears. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” The question is muffled but Ilya hears it clearly.

“Yes, I told you we weren’t anything. I told you to go in the worst way I knew how.”

Shane turns his face back and he looks surprised, as if Ilya hasn’t been replaying that interaction in his mind since Sochi. Shane’s mouth purses. “I shouldn’t have approached you. I knew Russia isn’t safe—”

“No.” It’s Ilya’s turn to cut Shane off. He can’t let Shane blame himself for Ilya’s cruelty. Yes, part of the reason he sent Shane away so vehemently in Sochi was because it wasn’t safe, but there hadn’t been anyone around in the rafters of that ice arena. And even if there was what would they see? Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov’s MLH enemy, possibly gloating over his loss, or more likely, the polite Canadian, being the bigger person and checking on his rival. The truth was he couldn’t take Shane’s kindness, couldn’t take his concern or his tenderness. He couldn’t let Shane comfort him because that would tear down the walls he kept around himself while he was home. The walls he needed to survive his father’s never ending disappointment and his brother’s acidic hatred.

“Is true Russia isn’t safe, but… is more than that. Is hard for me. Is home but is hard. Russia makes me into a person I don’t like. I don’t know how to say. English is too hard.”

He closes his eyes against the sting of tears and flinches only slightly when he feels Shane’s fingers graze the skin beneath his eyes. Shane’s touch is too soft, too soothing. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Still, I shouldn’t have let it get to me like I did. I just didn’t realize.”

Perhaps Ilya likes pain, because he asks, voice rough, “Didn’t realize what?”

Shane’s teeth dig into full lower lip and Ilya’s fingers itch to save it from such abuse, but he doesn’t. “I didn’t realize you could hurt me like that.” The admission is barely a whisper but it drives the breath from Ilya’s lungs. His face must betray some emotion that Shane can see because he hastens to lessen the blow, or save face. “I understood why you did it, at least a bit of it anyway, but, yeah it didn’t feel great timing wise. That was the first time I’d seen you since I brought you to my place and we had sex like that. If we do it again and you treat me like that…”

Shane’s eyes, those sweet brown depths that tug at Ilya’s chest whenever Ilya let’s himself sink into them are wet with unshed tears.

Ilya’s hand twitches, the urge to comfort now even stronger, but how can he? He can’t promise Shane that he won’t do it again, that he won’t put distance between them if he needs to. In fact, he was planning on doing it very soon.

The road trip coming up was the last push for standings to qualify for playoffs. The Raiders are currently ranked second behind Tampa Bay, with Montreal close behind and Detroit not far off either.

Montreal will tank without Shane. They played like shit against Ottawa tonight, winning with only a 2 point lead.

Detroit just listed their third forward linesman on IR. It is bad luck, but also means the team won’t be a possible threat. As long as the Raiders keep playing at the level they are, a playoff spot is theirs. But Ilya doesn’t want just second place. He wants to dominate. He knows the Raiders are capable of it. He doesn’t want this thing, they are dancing around, this thing they can’t really have to weigh either of them down. Or worse, be noticed by the wrong people.

As much as he wants Shane in his bed every night, in his home in lounge wear, at his kitchen island in the morning, hair mussed and mouth soft, he knows that this isn’t sustainable. He’s already caught some looks from players when he and Shane have been noticed arriving and leaving in the same vehicle.

He doesn’t think anyone’s guessed at the truth, not even the team’s managers who know Shane is staying with him. It’s a much more plausible that he’s just being a good captain and helping a fellow teammate out, rival or not, through a transition than an illicit gay relationship between two players who are supposedly rivals on and off the ice.

But like Ashleigh said tonight, they’ll be under intense scrutiny from the media, especially if they perform as well as Ilya wants them to and knows they can.

He wants to say it’s just sex, but he knows it isn’t. He wants Shane under him again desperately, but he also wants to hold him through the night.

And he can’t lie to Shane. Not anymore. So he goes with his next most used play. Avoidance.

“Is probably smart.”

“What?”

“Not fucking your ass. Wouldn’t want second best player to not perform because he couldn’t handle my nine-inch—”

Shane kicks him hard underneath the blankets but they’re both laughing now. “You’re such an asshole,” Shane huffs and they continue to shove each other back and forth before settling, closer than they had been before, still facing each other, but the tension broken just as Ilya intended. Shane speaks again into the space between them, “After this road trip I should find my own place.”

Ilya mouth flickers, wanting to show his disapproval but he holds it in place. “Probably is good idea,” he admits.

Shane licks his lips. “I’m kind of picky about where I live. It might take me a while. If that’s okay?”

Ilya’s heart squeezes. He forces himself to stay still, to not pull Shane to him. “Yes, is okay,” he promises.

Chapter End Notes

I think this was like two steps forward and one step back. Like they are talking about feelings, but also not talking about them.

Also I’m not trying to put penetrative sex on this like pedestal, but holy shit their first time in Shane’s condo felt extremely intimate in a way that I think took them both by surprise and they walked out of that very much not on the same page. Ilya ran for the hills and Shane was left with an impression (somewhat rightfully so) that they were something that they hadn’t established.

So in Shane’s mind he’s equating that act of intimacy with Ilya running and scary feelings. Even if they are literally sleeping next to each other and living together in a totally not platonic way.

Also the sex condo. I have gathered from online content that in the books Shane apparently bought the condo/building to have a private space to hook up with Ilya. This was not what I got from the show, so I assumed they eliminated that. Within this fic the condo was Shane’s apartment, but he bought the other unit on the floor for extra privacy.

Chapter 5: Redirect

Chapter Summary

“Did your coach hear this? Did you go to management?”

“Coach made it clear from the time I was drafted that it would be up to me to deal with things like this.” Ilya thinks a knife to the heart would have hurt less than that sentence. They were barely eighteen when they were drafted. Nineteen when they started playing. Ilya remembers a Shane with more baby fat in his cheeks and that same serious scowl, imagines him facing down this abuse from teammates that were supposed to support him and is almost sick with anger.

Chapter Notes

Weeeeeeeee. Sorry I was on a long vacation and then I was having post vacation blues.

CW: We get into some weeds about some of the racism Shane has faced while playing hockey. Also there are some non explicit/indirect things regarding Shane’s diet and possible ED. I don’t go in depth into it, just Shane’s a bit preoccupied about it in his internal monologue and if that is not something you want to read, maybe skip.

With the racism, I do my best here to represent something I have no equivalent experience with. I really feel like given real life accounts there is no way a character like Shane wouldn’t have dealt with some form of racism while playing hockey. I do find myself disappointed that this wasn’t shown more in the show. (Again I did not read the books so I can’t speak to what is or isn’t there).

As always this is not beta read. I don’t do as much editing as I should. If you see an error that really breaks your enjoyment of the read, I do not mind it being pointed out.

It’s some kind of twisted fate that they end up facing Montreal in the first round of the playoffs.

The Metros somehow scrape by with a wildcard spot that reeks of intervention at the highest level and just so happens to coincide with the leaked news that it’s believed that Dallas Kent somehow crossed the border back into the United States.

While another wave of outrage sweeps through the media, the League doubles down on promoting the historic rivalry between the Raiders and the Metros with the added twist of Hollander’s “betrayal”.

It’s a dirty tactic and Ilya wants to break something every time he sees Shane flinch when it is mentioned.

The interference from the League does not stop with the media spin.

While normally the host rotation for the playoffs is decided by the seed position of the team, the MLH handed down a directive that for the division games, the games would have a different hosting pattern, with the higher seed hosting games 1, 4, 6, and 7 and the lower seed hosting 2, 3 and 5.

Ilya is certain this is supposed to maximize tension, and possibly sales of tickets between Boston and Montreal, maybe even give Montreal a fighting chance against the team that Boston has shaped itself into since acquiring Shane. While the format does increase the tension, it does absolutely nothing for the Metros performance.

It does make Ilya alarmingly aware of the effect and influence Shane Hollander has over the city.

The Metros fanbase has split down the middle, with one side expressing mostly grief and latent anger at the franchise for letting go of Shane Hollander and the other half, directing their anger at Shane for leaving, as if Shane had a choice in the matter. This anger is expressed mostly through burning merchandise with Shane’s name on it and property destruction.

It’s an absolute circus and the Raiders’ staff in coordination with local police and the MLH decide it's safer for the team to stay an hour outside of Montreal and Quebec in the neighboring province of Ontario, Shane’s home province that welcomes him with open arms despite his defection to Boston.

The bus ride and more provincial accommodations are worth it to see the way Shane’s shoulders fall from his ears when they leave the island after winning the second game in the series. They don’t stay after winning the third game, instead, the team charters a flight, leaving Montreal as soon as possible.

To add insult to Montreal’s injury, the fourth and final game of the shut out series is also a shut out. Despite the team celebrating on the ice, Ilya notices that Shane barely cracks a smile. It drives Ilya a little insane. Shane’s performance during the series was vicious in its perfection. Every pass, every interception, every goal, every check, done with such precision it almost seemed preordained.

Despite Ilya’s nagging for Shane to celebrate with the team, which wouldn’t have been out of his way, considering Ilya is hosting, Shane insists on going out for dinner with Pike and Boiziau.

Which explains why Ilya’s home is full of semi-drunken hockey players minus Shane Hollander. Well, no longer full, Carl, one of the team drivers has returned to take another load away. Only the first two forward lines, Johansson their goalie and Carmichael, Ilya’s favorite defensemen remain.

Cliff collapses onto the couch next to him. “So, is Hollander hiding somewhere upstairs?”

Ilya blinks at him. “What?”

“Well, he’s been living here hasn’t he? Since he was traded?”

Ilya’s mind is moving through fatigue and too much vodka. Shane is still living in his home. The plan for him to find a place to live failed, but not for lack of trying. When Shane said he was picky, he was perhaps underexaggerating. He had looked at Ilya apologetically every time he returned from a trip with his realtor and inevitably orgasms followed. Ilya was secretly pleased with both outcomes.

Towards the end of the regular season Shane stopped trying and Ilya didn’t bring attention to it.

There was plenty to keep them busy. The road to the playoffs while not going as smooth as Ilya had hoped, had led to the domination he had been hoping for.

Prior to leaving for their first roadtrip since Shane’s trade, Hammersmith decided to do sexual gymnastics with his girlfriend and pulled his hamstring. The chirps at practice were relentless. Hammy pulled a hammy. Very creative. The team doctor and PT gave him 6 weeks of recovery. It was a blow to the team morale and the last thing they needed.

Reilly leaned on both Ilya and Shane and they both answered. Ilya always thought that he and Shane on the same line would be devastating. There was no way they could have the insane chemistry in the bedroom that they did and not have something equally as special on the ice.

He was right.

They both pushed themselves, playing more ice-time than was probably advised to cover the hole, along with spending time to train up Dubek, a rookie from the fourth line with serious potential to be comfortable playing as Shane’s or Ilya’s wing depending on the line up that was needed.

But Shane and Ilya’s performance on the ice was what really cemented their place in the standings. It was as if they both found another gear. Hockey commentators theorized that playing together also caused them to adopt some of the key aspects of each other’s game. Ilya focused in, contained some of his power and improved his positioning and timing. While Shane let go of some of his restraint, used more force to make plays happen rather than striking when he saw or anticipated opportunity.

Ilya grunts in acknowledgement of Marleau’s question before answering with some disgust. “He’s out with Pike and Boiziau tonight.”

“Wiping their tears for them?” St. Simon asks from an arm chair, his amusement at the thought hidden from view by his wine glass.

Ilya shrugs. He had been more than a bit irritated when Shane told him. He wanted Shane here, celebrating with their team. Marleau kicks his foot. “What’s the deal with that anyway?”

Ilya’s lips curl. “With Hollander having friends? You need me to explain friends to you, Marly?”

Marleau rolls his eyes like a teenage girl. “No you dick, Hollander living here. He’s loaded. Not like he needs to billet.”

Sober Ilya knows he should steer them away from this topic. Buzzed Ilya doesn’t care and doesn’t feel the need to apologize for the fact he likes Shane in his space. “I don’t mind and he has no time to find something during playoffs. Maybe he could have before, but someone gave himself sex injury.”

Hammersmith, sprawled on the floor with a pillow throws his hands up. “It all worked out! We got first seed in the playoffs and just crushed Montreal, get over it.”

“Yes, we got first seed without you. Shows we don’t need your ass,” Connors digs.

“Fuck you, Connie!”

Cliff continues as if this aside didn’t occur, “Maybe that’s why you two are so in sync on the ice.”

“You think we should all move in with Roz?” Carmichael chimes in from the sitting room. Ilya really thought he had passed out. The man has an unhealthy love for tequila. “God that dek on Comeau in the third that pulled him to the center. Everyone was expecting Hollander to shoot, but then he passed it back to you and is in perfect position to screen for your goal. Fuck, that was a beaut.”

“You having a moment over there by yourself, Carmy?” Hammersmith chirps through the wall.

“Get fucked, Brad,” Carmichael returns.

“Please, don’t give Hammy ideas, Carmichael. He pulled hamstring having boring sex. If he tries pegging he might die,” Ilya reprimands.

When the chuckles from Ilya’s commentary settle, Cliff makes a noise that can only be described as inquiring and asks, “I’m just surprised, doesn’t it cramp your style to have another dude around here?”

Ilya’s not sure he would have understood the question without alcohol in his bloodstream but he certainly doesn’t understand it with. “Cramp my style? Why would having Hollander here change what I wear? You think his shitty clothing choices is catching, like disease?”

Johansson chimes in, his Swedish accent thicker than normal thanks to the alcohol. “Oh, I know this one. He means, doesn’t having Hollander here cockblock you?”

St. Simon snorts. “Je suis entouré d’imbéciles.” Marleau, being half-French Canadian and speaking some of the language, tosses a decorative pillow at their resident Frenchman.

Ilya grins with all of his teeth. “Is sweet of you to worry about such things, Marly, but no need. My hockey doesn’t depend if I get my dick wet, unlike yours.” He doesn’t feel the need to add his dick is still getting plenty wet thanks to Shane Hollander’s very enthusiastic mouth.

Speaking of, Shane should be back soon and Ilya doesn’t really want these fuckers here when he returns. “Alright, time to go back home to your children, wives, and girlfriends. Carl will be back soon to pick you assholes up. Hammy, no fucking while drunk. We need you healthy for rest of playoffs, yes?”

“Hear that Connors! Cap says I’m needed.”

The good natured bickering and back and forth between them all continues until Carl picks them up. Ilya sighs and flops back down on his couch once they are gone. He’ll just close his eyes for a few minutes until Hollander returns.

Ilya wakes to the sound of birds, sunshine, a throbbing that could be much worse in his temples and a mouth that tastes like something died in it. He’s on his couch, a blanket thrown over him, his shirt, which he doesn’t remember removing, is folded on the ottoman next to him along with his jeans, he does remember kicking off to be more comfortable.

Ilya blinks the sleep from his eyes. Turning his head towards the end table he looks for his phone, which he locates, along with a water bottle, his favorite flavor of electrolyte drink, and a shot glass containing what he knows is a pain reliever and probably a caffeine pill. He looks around his living room which is much cleaner than what he remembers from last night. Shane. He must have gotten home and not been able to rest with the house a mess. Ilya feels slightly guilty for not waking up and helping, but can’t help but feel the warmth in his chest at the signs of Shane’s care.

Despite his stomach protesting it, Ilya downs most of the electrolyte drink with the pills and forces himself up. He showers in the downstairs bathroom of his home gym and grabs one of the spare pairs of sweats he keeps there.

After he’s clean, he returns to the main floor of the house and hears Shane in the living room. The blender canister isn’t rinsed and on the drying pad, so Shane hasn’t made himself a smoothie yet. Ilya makes himself some toast to settle his still queasy stomach and then goes to find Shane.

He isn’t surprised to catch him watching film of Tampa Bay, who has yet to complete their series against Detroit, but Tampa being the victor is looking more and more inevitable. No one expected Detroit to put up this much of a fight though.

“Hollander, we can have day off after shut out series.”

Shane’s lips quirk. “Just preparing.”

Ilya settles on the ottoman so he can see the screen and takes a bite of his buttered toast, then holds it out to Shane who eyes it. Ilya swallows his bite. “Is sourdough you like and tiny teaspoon of stupid expensive butter from sad cows.”

“The cows aren’t sad, they’re grass fed.”

“Is like I said, sad, skinny cows. No oats or grain for them.”

Ilya’s mouth moves without thought as their banter continues and the pieces of toast are eaten between them. Shane’s mouth is fighting a smile when it isn’t occupied by the bread Ilya is feeding him and Ilya’s eyes catch on the shape of it. The morning light is spilling into the room, the sun not high enough to shine in their faces but casting the room in a warm glow and revealing the gold in Shane’s eyes that Ilya has never had the pleasure of seeing in dark hotel rooms during midnight rendezvous.

There are so many pieces of Shane he’s collected over the past few months and he keeps them all.

And Shane lets him.

That’s the part that will break Ilya when this ends.

Shane lets him take, gives himself freely. He let’s Ilya into his space when he’s meal prepping or cleaning or doing his ridiculously long skin care regime. Let’s Ilya put hands on him in ways that in Ilya’s mind are far more intimate than sex.

Like now. With the toast eaten, Ilya sets his plate on the ottoman. He sees Shane eye it, and knows he has only a few moments to distract Shane before Shane gives him a look to clean it up or does it himself. Ilya crawls onto the crouch until he’s laying on top of Shane’s legs and chest, forcing Shane to lift his laptop and place it on Ilya’s chest.

Shane releases a puff of air. “You’re not exactly light, you know.”

“Some English expression about cookware for this, yes?”

“Pot calling the kettle black?” Shane offers.

“Stupid expression, cookware does not speak. Now, show me what your big hockey brain has learned about Tampa.”

They pass half an hour like this. Shane’s hands eventually find Ilya’s curls and Ilya swallows the sound he wants to release as strong fingers massage his scalp. Eventually, Ilya can’t keep his eyes open. When Shane notices he huffs a soft laugh that causes Ilya’s head to bounce and closes his laptop, setting it aside.

“How was the team last night?”

“Good, everyone in good mood of course. We made Montreal look like junior team.”

Shane hums and his hands pause in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya wants to turn and see his face but he doesn’t. “You don’t have to worry, everyone was very responsible. No one got too drunk and we took care of the young ones. How was your night with Metros’ tweedle dum and tweedle dummer?”

Shanes fingers tug on his hair and Ilya has to bite his lip to hold back the groan. If he wasn’t in a drowsy state that would have definitely given him reason to flip over.

“Where do you learn this shit?” Shane questions rhetorically. “Hayden and JJ were as good as they could be considering. Didn’t hold anything against me. Some questions got awkward, but having JJ there was good.”

Ilya blinks, trying to understand what Shane isn’t saying. It’s something he’s learned Shane is very good at, not saying the thing that is actually important. “What do you mean?” he asks and follows it up with, “Why was having JJ there better than Pike on his own?” He wonders if this goes back to the phone call he had back with Pike soon after he was traded.

Shane sighs and Ilya pushes his head gently back into Shane’s hands. Shane’s fingers resume movement automatically. “Hayden asked about why I didn’t have a full NTC.”

Ilya hums. Another question he’s held behind his teeth. “I have wondered this too, why you didn’t.”

“My mom loves the Metros.”

Ilya snorts. He has had the pleasure of meeting Shane’s parents, just once in passing since Shane became a Raider. Even in that short meeting the woman had managed to insult the Raiders at least five times while comparing them to the Metros. Shane had looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“But just because you love something, doesn’t mean you are blind to its faults.”

“Faults?”

“You remember our draft, right?” Ilya smirks and Shane rolls his eyes. “Don’t start, I’m trying to answer your question.” Ilya draws his fingers across his lips and doesn’t say a word. Shane’s chest shakes with quiet laughter. “Rousseau, Montreal’s GM, one of the first things he said to me and my mom that night, I can’t remember the exact words anymore, but he implied Montreal was excited to have a player who looks like me, and what that will do for the team’s image.”

Ilya swallows. He remembers the phone call with Hayden, when Shane admitted he was upset the night of the draft. “So when you said on phone that you weren’t just angry about second place…”

Shane nods. “Yeah, didn’t exactly feel great to know not only was I passed over for first pick, but I might have only been second pick because a team that needed an image update saw my heritage as an asset they could use.”

“You are asset because you are great hockey player.” Ilya tilts his head to look Shane in the eye.

“I am a great Asian hockey player,” Shane corrects gently. When Ilya goes to protest, the other man shakes his head. “Trust me, I’d love to be just a great hockey player, but that’s not how the world works. Anyway, my mom clocked it immediately and when we were in contract negotiations she insisted I have the modified NTC.”

“I do not understand,” Ilya admits.

“If the team became hostile towards me, the modified NTC leaves me a way out and the veto clause gives me more agency, more control. But most importantly, I could be traded without me having to waive a full NTC. Waiving always draws negative attention, it might signal to other teams that I’m ‘difficult’.” The word is steeped in bitterness. “That’s another reason why I keep my image so clean. I have to be as unproblematic as possible because being Asian is already something that has to be managed.”

The idea is there, a dangling thread between them waiting to be pulled. As they both have established themselves in the League, Ilya thought of the future sometimes. While Ilya can never come out, he can not be bisexual and Russian and a professional hockey player, especially with the new law in place, he jealously thought of how Shane could. Shane is Canadian, a citizen of one of the most accepting countries in the world. These thoughts always led to Ilya imagining Shane holding a man’s hand outside of darkly lit hotel rooms, somewhere in the sunshine where people can see.

Ilya had never thought that for Shane, being Asian presented an additional barrier. If Shane were to ever come out, especially as the first out gay player, he’d be the gay Asian hockey player and even Ilya can see the potential issues there.

Pushing those thoughts away, Ilya licks his lips before asking, “But you knew the Metros after three years, yes? You re-signed with them and you still kept it? Was there reason?” Shane hesitates, his eyes straying from Ilya. “Shane?”

Shane shrugs. “It’s hockey, you know. It’s a white man’s sport.”

Ilya nods because he knows it’s true. He’s shared ice with St. Simon for two years. He’s heard and responded to players who think they can throw slurs on the ice and not face repercussions. He’s corrected that assumption.

Ilya remembers the first year St. Simon was traded to the Raiders. Reilly had given everyone a talk about how language in the locker room needed to be cleaned up, that they were professionals and this was their workplace so they needed to act like it. Most of the guys took it pretty well, but not all. Nicholson, a decent winger approaching his twilight years, was on the second line at the time. He’d always had a mouth on him and wasn’t one to shy away from using racial, homophobic or misogynistic slurs on the ice. He’d never directed that kind of language towards teammates. After a particular rough game in Minnesota, the veteran player had laid into St. Simon who was still finding his place on the line.

St. Simon had grit his teeth and took the verbal abuse, then Nicholson had stepped over the line, going from critiquing St. Simon’s play to his skin color and Zadonsky put himself between them. Zadonsky was known for being level-headed, a rarity on the Raiders team at the time, but Ilya thought that the normally collected captain was about to take a swing himself.

Reilly entered the locker room after that and everyone backed down.

Nicholson played out the rest of the season and was traded in the summer.

“St. Simon, he’s faced some issues, but management addressed them. Hasn’t been problem since.”

Not that the Bears were perfect, they were still a hockey team full of emotionally constipated jocks after all, but nothing egregious was said in the Room without it being checked.

“I bet he hears shit on the ice and doesn’t say a word about it.” The words are spoken with such absolute surety that Ilya can’t disagree. It’s something Ilya has been thinking about since his farewell conversation with Zadonsky. “The Metros in particular had a reputation before me and JJ.”

Ilya nods. Montreal was known for being an old school club, but the things he’d heard about Montreal weren’t out of the norm with what he grew up with in Russia. It didn’t make it right, but Ilya had never considered what that might mean for someone like Shane. “Did they live up to reputation?" Ilya questions. The clenching of Shane’s jaw is a subtle thing, but Ilya catches it, helped by the angle he’s observing Shane from. “Tell me,” he implores gently.

Shane shrugs. “It’s nothing I haven’t been hearing my whole life. It’s better now than it ever has been.”

“Please Shane, I want to know it, I need to recognize it if I hear it from Raiders.” God help the poor Raider if he ever catches one of them speaking to or of Shane in a way he doesn’t like.

“It’s never an outright slur, at least not in the Room. And it wasn’t everyone. Just shit like, asking me if my eyes are too small to see the puck if I miss a pass or a goal or if I don’t hear someone on the ice they make cracks like I don’t understand English.” Ilya scoffs at the uncreative school-yard bullshit. Not that he wants to hear that the Metros were worse, but he knows Shane's skin is thicker than such petty comments. He can understand why it would be frustrating though. Shane continues, fingers applying gentle tension to Ilya’s scalp by tugging on his curls. “Then there have been crude comments about my body, like how little body hair I have or the size of my dick.”

Ilya snorts, “And I bet the ones saying this bullshit would be first to call someone gay as insult.”

Shane nods and there’s something about his expression that is off, that speaks of something more but there isn’t time to question it before Shane continues, “Or when Kyle Park, that kid out of Colorado, who was making waves in the juniors last year—,” Shane pauses and Ilya makes a noise to show he’s following. He remembers overhearing coaching staff talking about him and had watched some film on the kid himself. He also remembers how focused the buzz was on comparing Park to Shane. The kid was good for a junior and comparatively with who else was in his age group, but he wasn’t the generational talent that he or Shane were. It had not escaped his notice that no one compared Ilya to Park. “—decided to forgo the draft and go to school instead. I got jokes about how I was lucky my position as the team Asian was safe and teammates asking if I was dumb for my kind and that’s why I didn’t go to school.”

For a moment Ilya doesn’t know how to respond and then words spill from him in indignation. “What the fuck? They said this to you? You, Shane fucking Hollander, highest hockey IQ, 60+ goals every season, carries Metros on your back to playoffs every year. They say this shit to you?”

Shane’s mouth curls and his eyes are warm as they gaze down at Ilya, but it does nothing to curb Ilya’s anger. It’s outrageous. Both the Raiders and the Metros were in rough shape when he and Shane were drafted. Teams don’t get first and second draft pick because they’re doing well. To treat the person who brought life back into their franchise like this?

“Did your coach hear this? Did you go to management?”

“Coach made it clear from the time I was drafted that it would be up to me to deal with things like this.” Ilya thinks a knife to the heart would have hurt less than that sentence. They were barely eighteen when they were drafted. Nineteen when they started playing. Ilya remembers a Shane with more baby fat in his cheeks and that same serious scowl, imagines him facing down this abuse from teammates that were supposed to support him and is almost sick with anger. Shane, not realizing the effect his words are having on Ilya continues, “And I knew if I went above him then at best I’d be mocked for not being able to take a joke and at worst punished for putting personal issues before team cohesion.” Shane shakes his head. There’s an old hurt in his normally bright eyes. Ilya knows what it looks like. The type of wound that doesn’t really cause pain, but simply makes a person tired. “The moment I react, it's always worse. I’ve been dealing with this bullshit since before juniors, Ilya. And what the team says to me is nowhere near what gets thrown at me on the ice.” Shane shrugs.

It’s so fucking wrong, but Ilya can’t fault Shane’s logic or fears. Not after seeing the fall out of the trade and the reasoning that many have swallowed despite Shane’s ability to fit into the Raiders’ roster like he always belonged there. “You’ve never dropped gloves,” Ilya comments.

Shane scoffs, “I would have gotten benched for giving away a power play over being ‘sensitive’ and worse I’d have to answer to my mother over blemishing my image.” Ilya processes that for a moment. Shane’s brand as the perfect golden boy of hockey had always been mildly annoying, somewhat because it’s always used in comparison to himself, to make Ilya look more like a thug, but even more so because it fit Shane so well. He never considered how it must also feel like a cage for Shane. “There was one time I almost did drop gloves. Against Dallas fucking Kent.” Ilya closes his eyes at a particularly forceful tug on his curls, it's not painful and if Ilya wasn’t so relaxed he probably would have a very different bodily response.

Dallas Kent has still remained at large somehow. Fucker. “What did he say?”

Shane shakes his head, “It doesn’t need to be repeated.” Ilya’s nostrils flare and he turns over, arms wrapping around Shane’s waist. “The linesmen heard it and gave him a warning.” Shane scoffs, “I’ve seen guys given penalties for saying shit half as bad.” His fingers resume their gentle carding through Ilya’s curls as he speaks. “I did end up making a formal complaint about that one. Nothing ever came of it. Maybe if he ever goes to trial it’ll turn up in discovery as another thing the League swept under the rug for that dick.”

Ilya barely comprehends the words, too focused on breathing through his anger. “You will tell me if anyone ever speaks to you like this, any Raiders, any other teams.”

“I don’t want you giving up power plays either, Ilya.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Is what my reputation is good for. They expect me to throw punches. And even if I can’t punch the assholes for you, talking about it makes it a little better, yes.”

Shane’s smile is small and warm and perfect. “Yes.”

When Shane falls quiet after the admission, the topic feels closed, but Ilya can’t help but feel Shane never exactly answered his question. “So, you and Pike, boyfriends again?”

“There was never a problem between us,” Shane corrects.

“Oh, he didn’t send you into panic attack on phone?”

Shane’s swallow is audible. “I was overreacting.”

Ilya is about to push his luck and see if he can get Shane to finally tell him how Pike put his foot in his mouth that night when his phone buzzes on the end table. Shane reaches for it, not looking at the screen as he passes it to Ilya.

Ilya bites back a curse when he sees it is his brother calling. Normally he would ignore it, but he’s been ignoring quite a few of Alexei’s calls and the memories of his father’s confusion in Sochi, worse perhaps because it wasn’t over the phone, are still fresh in his mind. “What?”

Shane allows Ilya to put some space between them as he begins arguing with whoever is on the other end of the call in rapid fire Russian.

It is not even close to the first time this has happened. Usually it's late at night when it does, Ilya getting out of bed as quietly as possible and making his way downstairs presumably not to disturb Shane to take calls.

From the bits and pieces of what Ilya has said, the person calling is usually his brother, sometimes his father and it is never a happy thing. Shane doesn’t need to speak Russian to recognize the anger, frustration and rare hurt in Ilya’s voice.

The calls give Shane new understanding to the mood Ilya was in, in Sochi and on that Vegas rooftop years ago when Russia was mentioned. Shane had been too drunk, too young and too high on his own success that night to recognize what Ilya may have been trying to communicate indirectly.

He also didn’t have enough experience with Ilya, enough knowledge of the man and the ways he expresses his emotions through his body and face to really understand. Now he does. They’d been living together for almost three months now, and just like the first few days, Shane has been collecting pieces of Ilya, learning him.

So when Ilya hangs up the phone, where Shane would need space and time to process whatever was upsetting him, Ilya needs distraction or not so much distraction as movement.

Shane scoops up the plate from the ottoman as he passes Ilya who is hurriedly typing out a message. He jumps when Ilya’s hand swats at his butt on his way past. He really should have seen that coming.

“Asshole. Come’on I want to get a run in.”

“There are much better ways to do cardio, Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t need to turn around to see Ilya’s suggestive eyebrow or the tilt of his smirk. Shane ignores it, recognizing it for the deflection it is and continues his way towards the kitchen to put the toast plate into the dishwasher. “It will be good for you, sweat out some of that alcohol.”

Ilya grumbles behind him, catching Shane’s waist with an arm and reeling him back into his solid chest. “Thank you for cleaning up last night.”

Shane hums, but feels warm at the acknowledgement of his efforts. Ilya might not be as meticulous as he is about keeping his house clean, but he isn’t a slob either. Shane had been surprised to find out that Ilya also follows an outdoor shoes off at entryway policy that Shane grew up with. He’d googled it and fell down a rabbit hole of Russian customs regarding the home, wanting to be a respectful guest.

“It wasn’t that bad, mostly just bottles and cans and a few dishes to wash.”

“We are in playoffs, no one drank too much and the team knows if they make a mess you will drill them to death in practice, put skills coach to shame.” Ilya finishes the statement with a kiss to Shane’s cheek and Shane turns his head, Ilya’s lips find his in a chaste kiss.

“Did you kiss each of them in thank you too?” Shane teases.

Ilya huffs a laugh against his neck, his breath tickling the hair there. “Mmmm, not Johansson though, his beard is too much. I prefer this baby face.” Ilya pinches his cheek, gathering the fat that Shane feels self-conscious about.

Shane swats at his hand. “Come on, the treadmill is calling.” Ilya groans but follows him into the basement that is taken up almost entirely by Ilya’s home gym.

Another reason no place he’d looked at in Boston could compare to Ilya’s home. Ilya’s house is a permanent residence, curated for Ilya’s needs that he had time to find and create. Whereas everything Shane had looked at was move-in ready but would need time and attention to become what Shane wanted in a home. The gym takes up most of the space of the lower level. There is also an additional room with a bed, that Shane knows has sheets on it and a ¾ bath, fully stocked for convenient showering after a work out.

Shane grabs a towel from a cabinet and makes his way to the treadmill, while Ilya gets on the spin bike. “You know, I could fit another bike down here. Recreate our draft night with a happier ending.” Ilya’s smile is devious. Shane shakes his head but he can feel the heat bloom under his freckles. “No one would interrupt us here.”

“Start pedaling, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I hope so.”

Shane selects his programming and sets off.

Twenty or so minutes in, Ilya catches Shane’s eye in the mirrored wall and tries to goad him into a race, upping the resistance and pace on the bike. Shane’s lips twitch but he shakes his head. Ilya’s grin is light, the shadows of the phone call out of his eyes as he drops his head between his arms, leaning into the front of the bike and puts his mind to what he’s doing.

Shane lets his mind drift to how else he is going to keep Ilya occupied for the rest of the day.

He runs longer than Ilya cycles, the other man removing his shirt, using it to mop up sweat. Shane’s eyes track his heaving chest as he catches his breath. When he looks back up at Ilya’s face the other man’s eyes are on him with a knowing grin curling across his lips.

Shane forces himself to look at the mirrored wall again, focusing on his own form.

Ilya crosses to the weight bench, moving a bar from the squat rack to a lower rung. He puts on some plates. Shane knows the weight isn’t near his max, probably around his warm up range. Ilya sits on the bench, facing Shane’s back and slightly off to his left side. Ilya’s gaze isn’t on his face in the mirror, but on his body.

Heat prickles across Shane’s skin as Ilya dips back under the bar and begins his set. The room fills with the sounds of their breathing, the whir of the treadmill and the clank of Ilya putting the bar back when he’s finishes his reps. Between each set his eyes meet Shane’s in the mirror before they travel up and down his body.

Ilya’s lain back for his third set when Shane smacks the stop button on the treadmill. He sees Ilya pause after lifting the bar off the rack, readjust as he brings it over his chest and then begins his set. Shane makes his way over, tracking Ilya’s reps, for both aesthetic pleasure and safety. Ilya racks the bar and sits up. “Switch out?” he asks.

Shane shakes his head. “I was actually thinking of calling it quits here.”

Ilya blinks in surprise.

Shane shrugs, “It is a day off, and I looked up that Russian place you’ve been mentioning. It has a brunch service today. If we don’t take too long cleaning up, we could make it.”

The shock and delight on Ilya’s face pushes the corners of his mouth up without permission. There’s something so earnest about Ilya’s expression when he is truly surprised in a good way.

Ilya’s lips morph from a pure smile to a devilish one. “Not too long you say?”

Shane nods. “We’ve got 30 minutes give or take.”

“Plenty of time,” Ilya purrs before yanking Shane forward by his hips.

They barely make it in time to the restaurant, but Ilya is charming and Russian and Shane is pretty sure by the time they are seated the middle aged woman is offering up her clearly embarrassed college aged daughter’s hand in marriage.

“Are you sure about this?” Ilya asks once they are left on their own.

Shane gives him a confused look.

“I mean with your diet, nothing I’m about to order us is on it.”

Shane’s chest cavity feels too tight in the best way. “Yeah, I kind of did some research on what they might serve, and I know it’s going to break my diet but,” Shane shrugs, “everyone gets a cheat day once in a while, right? Plus it looks like Tampa and Detroit are going to be another game or two yet, I have time to reset.”

Ilya watches him and Shane tries not to squirm under his gaze. Ilya doesn’t need to know that Shane hasn’t had a cheat day all season. Not even when the trade happened.

Ilya raises a hand and gains the waitress’ attention. The exchange is longer than an order should be in Shane’s opinion, but it’s all in Russian.

He does notice that Ilya hasn’t even cracked the menu. When he’s done ordering and the waitress has left, he’s practically incandescent with excitement. “I’ve been here once before with Sveta, my Russian friend, for tea only. I’m excited to share real Russian food with you.”

Shane can only manage to smile back at him with his heart beating wildly in his chest. If he opens his mouth right now he’s going to say something stupid. If he has to run ten miles today to make up for whatever he is going to eat, it will be worth the look on Ilya’s face at this moment.

“I asked them to bring us small amounts of all my favorites and they could bill us whatever afterwards.”

When the dishes arrive, any regrets or doubts that have started to form in Shane’s mind over this culinary adventure disappear. It’s like watching a time lapse of a flower unfold. Ilya begins to speak, first sharing what the dishes are and the ingredients that go into them. Then, he’s talking about variations from different parts of Russia and what significance some of the dishes hold for different holidays or customs. Finally, sprinkled here and there come personal stories, glimpses into Ilya’s life before the MLH.

Shane reacts, tastes, comments, but mostly lets Ilya talk uninterrupted.

Because Ilya doesn’t do this. After living with the man for almost four months, he has learned Ilya doesn’t share, not about Russia, not anything truly meaningful.

This is what’s going to break Shane when Ilya finally decides enough is enough. When Shane is told to find his own place. When Ilya starts taking women home from clubs like the team keeps ragging him about. Not having Ilya like this, smiling at him like they’re kids sharing the newest, overpriced, processed junk food they got their hands on at the lunch table, will hurt him far more than Sochi or unanswered texts.

And even while he is eating, sharing stories, gesticulating wildly, Ilya watches, Ilya notices. He puts small amounts on Shane’s plate, doesn’t push for him to eat more of anything.

Shane doesn’t even notice the restaurant slowly empties out as they work their way and eventually it is just Ilya doing the working through the dishes.

The meal ends with tea.

“It is non-negotiable,” Ilya tells him.

Shane grins. “Non-negotiable,” he repeats stupidly. Shane doesn’t protest when Ilya takes over serving him tea. The man explains what he’s doing. “Tea is um, I’m not sure what is word in English, but it is very very strong. You put tea in your cup, then the amount of hot water you like, you like tea, yes?”

Shane nods in understanding. “Just make mine like you would make yours. Next cup, I can try to make it myself.”

Ilya smiles and Shane’s heart skips a beat. Not for the first time, Shane thinks if the trade hadn’t happened he would never have gotten the chance to be with Ilya like this. It had been a bit earthshaking when Shane realized he could go out in public with Ilya without it causing a scandal. Headlines, yes, some tabloids and sports magazine puff pieces about how the “rivals” went from staring each other down from across a red line to getting Dunkin’ together.

But they were teammates now and while there was some outrage over the “betrayal” from Shane and also some speculation that they still truly didn’t get-along, the news wasn’t exactly blowing anyone’s mind.

Shane picks up his cup and goes to blow across the hot surface.

“No, do not blow,” Ilya admonishes.

Shane raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, words I never imagined saying to you.”

Shane can feel his cheeks heat as he hisses, “Ilya!”

His eyes scan around the restaurant but the few patrons left don’t spare them a glance. The brunch crowd has switched to tea and they are all absorbed in their own conversations over their beverages and sweets.

Ilya just smirks and continues to explain how tea must never be drank by itself, gesturing to the small plate of cookies that the waitress had set down after clearing their brunch plates.

Sipping on the admittedly maybe too strong tea, Ilya demands to know what his favorite dish was.

Shane thinks on it and smiles, “The pancake things.”

“With the blueberries and the smetana, sour cream?” Ilya’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”

Shane nods. He really did like them, probably on the same level as the crepe-like wrap with mushrooms or salmon, but Ilya was much more excited for him to try the cheese pancakes.

Ilya takes his word for it and Shane is rewarded for his efforts with a smile that makes Ilya’s eyes crinkle.

When they leave the restaurant, Shane’s chest is as full as his stomach, but neither one of them feels heavy. Ilya nudges him with an elbow. “Careful Hollander, you keep smiling like that and people will think you enjoy spending time with me.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I do for some strange reason.” Ilya’s mouth is soft and his eyes are warm and Shane has never wanted to kiss him more, but keeps a hold on the impulse.

It hits him all at once that he is happy, has been happy, for months. It’s not the satisfaction of a making a goal, or the mutual high of the locker room after a good win. It’s so much more than that.

It’s a shared grocery list that includes his microgreens and Ilya’s Poptarts. It’s Ilya pretending not to be invested in his house-hunting program, while Shane bites his lip to hold reactions to Ilya’s ridiculous house-wives fake reality show. It’s coming home from a game and either ripping each other’s clothes off or collapsing into each other in exhaustion.

On a random street in Cambridge, Shane realizes he’s in love. It doesn’t stop him dead in his tracks. It’s just a puzzle piece that falls perfectly into place, a fact that feels so right and true there is no room to question it. But, it is perhaps the reason he doesn’t notice Ilya has stopped walking ahead of him and Shane knocks into him.

Ilya, who would normally chirp about Shane being anything but graceful off the ice, holds up his smartphone where he is reading a headline. “Dallas Kent the Tip of an Iceberg: Hockey’s culture of misogyny, sexual abuse and domestic violence and the system that protects it.”

Ilya clicks on it and Shane bites his lip as he catches the familiar name in the byline as Ilya scrolls through it. The article is long and Shane can read quickly enough as Ilya swipes to find the end that the article is both detailed and potentially very accurate.

“Well, I don’t think trading me again is going to make this go away,” Shane states blandly.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks as always for reading. As things are shaping up, I might be extending the fic by a chapter or two. Things just aren’t wrapping up at the pace I was hoping for. But it will be a bit.

Hope you all enjoy and let me know what you think!

Chapter 6: Obscure

Chapter Summary

Ilya huffs. “I have read your Wikipedia page, Hollander. You may bleed maple syrup but you grew up in Ottawa. Is capital city, is not like you are out in Canadian wilderness fighting moose.”

Shane laughs. “No, but I have been hunting.”

Ilya blinks in surprise. “For moose?”

Shane nods.

“What the fuck!”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Yes! I expect you to go bird watching or something. Not try and shoot 500 kilo animal.”

Chapter Notes

CW: JJ uses a homophobic slur in his talk with Shane.

Heyyy! So I don’t know what happened but I’ve gotten a load of comments in the last two weeks on the previous chapter. Which has been an awesome surprise, but kind of has left me wondering about the increase in traffic. If you found this fic through a recommended list or something of that nature and wouldn’t mind sharing that with me, please let me know.

Thank you to everyone who is leaving comments and kudos. I do read all my comments and they do make me so happy and I appreciate every single one.

I hope you continue to enjoy. I have also increased the chapter count because as I mentioned in previous notes, it just isn’t wrapping up quickly.

“Hollander, my captain!” JJ immediately greets in French.

Shane smiles despite himself, putting his feet up as he sinks down onto Ilya’s outdoor couch close to the fireplace that is giving off enough heat to make it a comfortable seat in Boston’s chilly April. “Only you’re captain for a few weeks,” Shane responds in kind. He has missed the Quebecuis accent. St. Simon speaks almost exclusively to him in French, but it’s not the same. Marleau chimes in, but his New Brunswick roots shine through and his French isn’t as fluent. JJ’s accent is warm and familiar.

JJ clicks his tongue on the other end. “And we won gold together. Besides, you will always be the captain of my heart.”

Shane huffs a laugh. “Didn’t know you swung that way, JJ. Should I expect a proposal next time I see you?”

“Yes, I’ll get down on one knee for you, Captain. We’d make a handsome couple and have the most beautiful babies together.”

Shane shakes his head, biting his lip in humor. “I’d make pretty babies with anyone.”

“Hah! So you admit you are good-looking. So vain!”

“Well, Calvin Klein doesn’t want me just because I score goals.”

JJ coughs on the other end, as if he’d just taken a drink of something and Shane’s admission had caught him mid swallow. “Fuck you! You’re doing a Calvin Klein campaign?”

Shane sighs but the secret is out now. “Shit, don’t tell anyone. The paperwork was signed before the article—” he does not have to mention which one “came out. My mom is checking on it. The trade did a lot for my socials apparently, and when we put out feelers they responded. I was supposed to shoot for it over the summer, but who knows with the atmosphere around hockey.” Shane still wasn’t sure about shooting an underwear ad, but even he could appreciate the amount of zeros in the contract.

“Fuck Dallas Kent,” JJ curses.

“It’s not just Dallas Kent.” As the article had shown in depth. Winston Radtke and his team, because there was no way one man did all of the legwork that article had required, had gone all in for the throat of the League as a whole, not just Kent and not just the Toronto Guardians. The article came with not only interviews, words of retired players, anonymous current players and League employees who’d moved on from their positions, but also a collection of numbers, data that Shane could appreciate. Two days and it's still the most trending topic on Twitter.

The Raiders did not escape unscathed. The article didn’t uncover any current players, but looked into the past. Shane felt it might have unfairly focused on Boston, considering no crimes were uncovered from any active players. The Raiders put out a statement, not immediately but waiting a day. Ashleigh, in Shane’s opinion, did a great job. The statement didn’t refute any of the allegations, nor did it confirm any, as they legally couldn’t considering the three previous players mentioned were not actually convicted of any crimes, but it did acknowledge that hockey as a whole had an irrefutable problem and promised transparency on what organizational policies would be put in place to ensure what happened in Toronto would never happen in Boston.

Shane is skeptically hopeful it’s not just lip service to protect the Raiders’ bottom line. He considers himself well read on the subject of hockey, not all of the books were about analytics or the formation of the game itself. This isn’t the first time someone has written about the ills of hockey or sports culture in general. But the MLH is still the only major sports league that operates in the US that has no language or policy surrounding players who commit domestic violence specifically. Ratdke’s article had an entire section on how “case-by-case” basis allows for increased tolerance of criminal actions.

He hears JJ sigh over the line. “I know it’s not just Kent. Trust me, I know.”

Shane waits. He knows JJ called for a reason that the man hasn’t gotten to yet. “It’s bad here Shane. It’s worse than it was before, like you getting shipped off to Boston suddenly gave the biggest assholes permission to say the most vile shit. And the coaching staff, management, they’re not doing anything. Honestly, I’m not even upset about being knocked out of the playoffs because I don’t need to see their faces every day now.”

Shane’s mood plummets. “I’m sorry, JJ.”

“Don’t say sorry. It is not your fault. Going to Boston was not your fault. The pieces of absolute shit on this team are not your fault.” They’re both quiet for a few moments, breathing in the night air in two different countries. “I saw it, you know. Not during our playoff series, but before, during the regular season. You were lighter. It’s better for you, isn’t it? Boston.”

It is, but saying that out loud to JJ feels like a step further than Shane can take. It’s not just being with Ilya all the time, or maybe it is. Even though he wasn’t captain of the Metros, even before he was put on the first line, it always felt like the game rode on him. He’d been their lead scorer since his rookie season. Even before he had an A on his chest due to his performance and popularity amongst the fans he’d been pushed to do press more often than not.

Shane became the face of the Metros before he ever stepped on the ice and it weighed on him, perhaps more than he ever realized.

Boston is different. Boston has Ilya. Shane knows he’s been integral to their performance since he joined, especially with Hammersmith’s injury, but it hasn’t all been on him the way he knows it would have been in Montreal. Other than some general shit the team has given him for playing for Montreal before the trade they haven’t been bad. It’s still a locker room, shit still gets said that makes Shane internally cringe, but it doesn’t feel as directed at him as what flew around the Metros’ Room.

JJ continues and Shane is pulled out of his own head violently by his next words. “Even if you have that cocksucker Rozanov as your captain.” With no one there to see it, Shane doesn’t contain his flinch at the slur. He wonders how JJ would react if he confirmed that Ilya did indeed suck cock and was fucking phenomenal at it. “You don’t have to say it. I see it. Fuck, and the worst part is I’m so fucking jealous.” Shane bites his lip to contain his near hysterical laughter. The thread of the conversation that JJ is on is really not the same as the one in Shane’s head. Would JJ be jealous of Ilya sucking dick or jealous of Shane for getting his dick sucked by Ilya? “Not of Boston of course, but I want this job to not suck again.”

Dragging himself mentally back to what JJ is actually talking about Shane takes a few breaths before speaking. “JJ, I didn’t know. You, you always seemed good.”

“I was, I was, until I wasn’t. I don’t know. It’s not the same without you. I’m friendly with most everyone, except the garbage, but it's not the same.”

“You’ve got Hayden and Mittie,” Shane reminds him. JJ and Miitka had always gotten on well. Shane too liked the Montreal goalie. “Andy, Couillard, Olsson, and Lainey are good guys too.”

JJ makes an affirmative sound. “Yeah they are. But you know what they say, it only takes a few bad apples to ruin the bunch.” There were a few players the article mentioned by name who had actual violent criminal histories or pending charges. Renaud, a Metros’ second line winger was one of them. He was also one of the worst offenders against Shane on the team. Funny how those two things so often went together. “Oh, you might be hearing from Mittie. He bought a ring for Anja so expect a wedding invite in the near future.”

Shane hums. “I’ll have to send him a card when they announce.”

JJ laughs, “You and your cards.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s polite and everyone loves to get nice mail.” Shane licked his lips, grasping onto some determination before speaking again. “I know we just had the series and it sucked for you guys—” JJ snorts. “But is something going on with Hayden? He seemed… distracted.”

“He was.” JJ pauses and Shane takes note of the hesitation. “Jackie’s pregnant again.”

Shane sucks in a breath. Hayden hadn’t said anything. It’s not so much that Shane feels hurt that Hayden didn’t tell him, but there is a sting of grief and worry. Hayden was the first guy on the team that made Shane feel like he actually belonged. Shane doesn’t make friends easily, he knows that. His reserved nature takes more patience to crack than most people have.

“I only found out after you were traded. They were keeping it quiet. After the twins and the complications they weren’t sure, you know, if they should go through with the pregnancy.”

“But they are?” Shane asks. He can’t imagine having to make that kind of decision. The twins' delivery had been dicey. It nearly destroyed Hayden.

“Yeah, she’s close to six months now I think.”

“And she’s been okay, the baby too?”

JJ blew out a breath. “Yeah, yeah, from what Hayden has said so far, so good.”

Shane thinks about the phone call after the Carolina game. Was Hayden going to tell him then? They’re communication in between that call and the playoffs had been sporadic at best, not purposefully, at least not for Shane. He’d been settling into the new team, trying in vain to find a better living situation than the one that fell into his lap and yeah Ilya was…distracting. Again he feels the distance that not seeing someone every day brings.

Swallowing down a bit of guilt he focuses on the friend who is currently on the phone. “I’ll call him, we have two more days before we start the series with Tampa. But, JJ what are you thinking about the Metros? Is there anything I can do?”

“I am thinking… I don’t want to do another season of this.”

Shane sucks in a breath at the unexpected response. “Montreal is your home.”

“No, my mom’s house in Quebec City is my home.”

“You know what I mean.”

JJ sighs. “I do, but I also know it is not like this on other teams. It isn’t perfect anywhere, but it is not like this. The culture in the Room comes from the top and you know how Coach is. Theiarult isn’t going anywhere and as long as he stays nothing will change.”

Yes, Shane knows. Captains and A’s may help reinforce or direct a team’s culture, but without support from coaching staff there was no way to censure players who stepped out of line. “Where are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it would be nice not to freeze my ass off every winter.”

Shane laughs. “You’re thinking down South?”

“Or West coast. I will make it clear to management that I want out.”

“Doesn’t mean they will let you go.” Unfortunately in this, JJ might be a victim of his own success. Even without their performance and gold medal in Sochi, he is a solid defenseman with a sizable contract. The Metros offensive line basically needs to be rebuilt thanks to Shane’s departure. Shane can’t imagine Rousseau wanting to trade JJ.

“I’m not planning on giving them a choice.”

Shane can almost hear JJ’s shit-eating grin. “What did you do?”

“Nothing illegal.”

“JJ.”

“I swear on my papa’s grave!”

Shane blinks. “You hate your dad and he’s alive.”

“Okay, maybe it is a tiny bit illegal, but I think it will all turn out for the best.”

Shane sighs. “Well, if things go sideways or you need anything, call me.”

“And that is why you are my captain.”

“No, that's why I’m your friend,” Shane corrects gently in English.

“Yes, Shane. Same to you.” JJ is quiet for a moment on the other end of the line. “I know things were probably weird for you after the trade and we’d only just really started to be friends soon last season, but you’re a good man and I’d be worse off without you in my life.”

Shane breathes in thickly through his nose. He’s never had many friends, true friends, not just teammates who are friendly. JJ’s words mean more than he wants to admit to even himself. “Damn, are you seeing someone? Where’d this emotional maturity come from?”

“Fuck you. I can be emotionally mature. I was raised in a house of women after all.”

It’s one of the reasons he and JJ had gravitated towards each other beyond both of them not being white. JJ has a twin sister, a younger sister and a mother who brought them all up on her own when his father decided he wanted a different life. Neither Shane nor JJ participated in some of the explicit locker room conversations regarding women.

“What are they saying in the Room JJ?”

“Do you really want to do that to yourself Shane?”

Shane sighed. “I am happy here in Boston. The team is good, winning is good. But, I can’t help but imagine what it would be like if it was the Metros and I…”

“And you had the C.”

Shane rubs a hand down his face. “God, I sound so conceited.”

“A little bit. But, it’s also what makes you the best. So what, you see how trash they are and you convince yourself that you really are better off in Boston.”

“Yes?” It would actually help, Shane thinks.

Shane can hear JJ shifting around on the other end of the phone. Probably getting his computer out. “Alright, I’ll send you the file. It’s password protected, do you have something to write with?”

“File? What the fuck JJ?”

“I’m getting out and I am not going to some team that hasn’t seen the playoffs in five years.” Shane doesn’t point out that Montreal hadn’t seen the playoffs in almost that long when he was drafted to them. “This is how I’m going to do it. Goes without saying, but don’t share this with anyone and better yet, delete it when you are done looking at it.

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, anxiety crawling up his shoulders. “Fuck, okay, I should give you my other email address to send it to then.”

“Oh!” Shane can hear his grin through the phone. “Your porn email account?”

Shane snorts, “Yeah sure, my porn email account.” If he’d used it to order a dildo or some other toys that Ilya thankfully has no idea about, that’s his fucking business.

“Saint Hollander, you are not fooling anyone. I know there is a kinky fucker under that good-boy veneer. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Fuck off,” Shane responds with little heat in his voice but plenty in his cheeks. Shane knows he doesn’t have a ton of sexual experience outside of Ilya, but he knows enough to realize that some of the stuff he likes and imagines isn’t precisely vanilla.

Their conversation comes to a natural end and after he’s hung up Shane’s phone lights up with a notification to his alternate email address.Shane nibbles on his thumb, pondering opening the file now or later.

“What are you doing?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Shane doesn’t jump off the couch but it is a near thing. His head whips around to see Ilya’s smirking face.

“No, is Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

Shane glares at him but Ilya isn’t affected in the least. He collapses onto the sofa and throws his feet onto Shane’s lap sans his outdoor slides.

“How is Svetlana?” Shane asks.

“Good good, we made our plans to return to Russia this summer. It will be good. I will be celebrating the Cup win and she will be celebrating completing her degree.”

Shane’s heart clenches at the mention of Ilya’s upcoming trip. His inner turmoil doesn’t stop him from pinching Ilya’s ankle. “We aren’t close enough to the Cup for you to be talking like that.”

Ilya hisses and waves his concern away with a hand. “So, how did you spend your boring evening?”

Shane can’t help the way his lips curl into a smile and the way Ilya draws out the word “boring”. “Just got off the phone with JJ.” He doesn't mention the issue with the Metros. It’s JJ’s business and he doesn’t know what the file contains. There could be some sensitive information and the less people who know he has it, the better. “And before that I was looking at the drawings of my cottage.” Shane’s hands find Ilya’s calves in his lap and he begins to kneed one of them, working the muscle absent mindedly.

Ilya makes a noise of appreciation before asking, “Cottage? Like kottedzh?”

Shane had begun to pick out individual words that Rozanov would murmur when they were in bed, or not in bed but engaged in such activities. This isn’t one of them but sounded close enough to the English word that it was probably a cognate. “Yeah, if that means like a little house in the woods.”

Ilya nods. “And where will this quaint getaway be?”

“Quaint?” Shane speaks softly to himself.

“Yes, was word of day in Price’s calendar week ago, maybe.”

Shane smiles. Ilya says it non-chalantly, but Shane has seen him look up the words he reads off of Price’s calendar to find more examples of sentences they’re used in. “I was going to buy a piece of land near my parent’s cottage in Lanaudiere, but I pulled out of the purchase when I was traded.” Shane paused. At first he merely wanted more time to make the decision given everything that was going on. But after getting settled in Boston and his parents visiting him to watch Raider home games he realized how nice it was not to worry about his parents dropping by, or surprise texts that one or both of them were in Montreal and wanting to have a meal. He didn’t resent the time he spent with them, but he did wish they were better at letting him know ahead of time.

He imagined if he purchased and built on the land he picked out, a plot that was only twenty minutes from his parent’s own that they would be dropping by unannounced constantly while they were both in residence in the summer.

The thought was the opposite of appealing.

Ilya nudges him with his foot. “And now. Are you looking somewhere else?”

Shane is, he’s looking south of Ottawa, but he’s sure Ilya wouldn’t know the names of any of the areas he is looking at. He nods in response to Ilya’s question and asks his own. “What about you? You have a place in Moscow, right?”

“Yes, I have apartment in the city.”

“City boy.”

Ilya huffs. “I have read your Wikipedia page, Hollander. You may bleed maple syrup but you grew up in Ottawa. Is capital city, is not like you are out in Canadian wilderness fighting moose.”

Shane laughs. “No, but I have been hunting.”

Ilya blinks in surprise. “For moose?”

Shane nods.

“What the fuck!”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Yes! I expect you to go bird watching or something. Not try and shoot 500 kilo animal.”

Shane shrugs. Ilya’s not exactly wrong. The entire trip had been organized by a great uncle on his dad’s side and to his knowledge it was an annual trip. He and his dad had only been invited the one time. “It was only once and I didn’t actually shoot anything. Did see a lot of birds.”

Ilya smiles. “Ah, yes. So you will disappear off to wilderness in off-season to watch birds and live in little house made out of sticks. Is very you, Hollander.

Shane shook his head but the amusement in his chest was warm. “And you Rozanov? Why don’t you own some beach front bachelor pad? Do they not have beaches in Russia?”

Ilya lips twist. “I see, so you are imagining me in speedo.” He waggles his eyebrows and hisses when Shane pinches his ankle. “Yes, we have beaches in Russia. Season is not very long. Something in the states would be better, or Europe.”

Shane cocked his head to the side. “You’d spend some of your off-season not in Russia?”

Ilya purses his lips. “Yes, not now, but someday, maybe. Things are not good in Russia, I think. The government is becoming more…” he searches for the word, “they are making more and more laws saying what people can and can’t do. Is not good.”
Ilya shakes his head. “You were in Sochi, Canada warned you about laws, yes? What may be different from Canada.”

Shane nods. “Yeah, I read all the info they sent us and there were a couple of in person briefings before going over.”

“Of course you read everything. So you know about the anti-gay propaganda law.”

Shane nods again. He knows about it in an abstract way, but admits to himself he never considered what it might mean for Ilya. It wasn’t like Ilya ever openly talked about how his sexual preferences included men. “But, as long as you aren’t promoting homosexulity—”

Ilya snorts and looks at Shane with clear condescension. “Do not be stupid. I am celebrity, maybe not big one but I am most famous hockey player in Russia now, even if I disappointed my country or maybe even more because of it. Hockey is second only to football.”

“You mean soccer.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and retorts with, “Fuck you.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Shane returns.

“You promise?” Ilya asks with a lecherous grin.

“Later, I think it’s important we continue talking.”

Ilya sighs. “Me being in relationship with man, would not matter if is public or not, if I never post about it on social media or am seen out in public being romantic, as long as government knows and they would know, I’d be fucked.”

Shane mind catches on Ilya’s word choice. He said “in relationship” not just “having sex”. He pushes the observation to the back of his mind before asking, “What would happen to you?”

“Could be arrested for no reason and put in prison. Could be attacked by other people and police would do nothing. Could be killed.”

Shane breathes in sharply, feels his nose burn and his eyes prick with tears. He pushes away from Ilya on the couch, scooting back to the other side, putting more distance between them.

His movement is stopped by Ilya reaching forward and grabbing at his leg. “Hey, we are fine here, we are safe.”

Shane shakes his head. “I can’t, Ilya I can’t be the reason something bad happens to you. I won’t.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“You don’t know that,” Shane snaps and he winces at how sharp it comes out.

Ilya’s eyes soften. “Hey, is okay. No one expects Ilya Rozanov who goes home every night with new woman likes to suck dick.”

Shane winces remembering JJ’s earlier insult.

“We haven’t been careful though. People have seen us in public together and if it was known I am living with you that might change.”

“We are not kissing in public. We are just teammates hanging out. Is not strange. Do you think people believe Marly and me are fucking?”

Shane chews his lower lip. “Maybe not, but I should keep trying to get my own place.”

Ilya’s mouth flattens into something he probably thinks is neutral, but Shane knows it isn’t. “If you want.”

If Shane couldn’t read Ilya’s face in this moment all he would have to go on are Ilya’s flippant words. “I don’t want,” Shane admits. He wants to stay, desperately. “But I also want you safe.” Ilya’s expression twists with emotion that Shane had no hope of interpreting. The other man looks out at his courtyard and swipes at his nose with a thumb. “Does anyone else know?”

Ilya’s eyes cut to him. “About us? You think I tell someone?”

Shane shakes his head. “No, not us. About you? I mean, other than that guy, your coach’s son.”

Something like discomfort flashes across Ilya’s face and Shane wants to kick himself for asking, for stepping where he doesn’t belong and isn’t wanted. But, before he can figure out how to course correct, Ilya shrugs. “Sveta knows, we have never talked about it directly, but she knew about Sasha and I. What about you?”

“Me?”

“That you like men?”

Shane shifts. He notices the way Ilya phrases it. He wonders if Ilya assumes that Shane is like him, liking both sexes. Shane hasn’t been with a woman since his first girlfriend, who he broke up with before the draft. After the first time with Ilya, Shane didn’t examine how much better it was than the few sexual experiences he had shared with his girlfriend. He hadn’t wanted to think about why it was so much better. He still doesn’t want to.

“No, no one knows.”

“Your parents?”

Shane raises an eyebrow at him. “You talk about how much you like sucking dick with your parents?”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “No, my father would die of heart attack if he knew. That or, is there a word for kicking you out of family?”

“Disown you?”

“Yes this, probably. He can never know.” Ilya makes another face. “My brother may know, or at least he thinks he does, though not for sure. Sasha was not always as careful as he should have been.”

“And he won’t tell your dad?”

Ilya’s scoffs. “No, he won’t risk my father kicking me out of family. He would miss my money too much.”

Shane frowns. He’s figured out that was what most of the calls were about but this is the first time Ilya’s confirmed it. “He’s blackmailing you? Is paying him to be quiet worth it?” The words are out of his mouth before his brain completely processes what he’s saying. “I mean, sorry, that isn’t really my place to ask.”

Ilya shakes his head and sighs. “It is hard, I tried once to explain to Marly but he didn’t get it. I think is cultural difference.”

Shane waits and he doesn’t take Ilya’s silence for dismissal. Ilya eventually rewards his patience.

“In Russia, there is synovnicheskiye obyazannosti.”

“Bless you,” Shane chips in with a grin, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy air around them.

Ilya rolls his eyes and gives him the finger. “I don’t know how to say in English, but it means children owe parents, they must take care of them in life.” Ilya glances at Shane, eyes flicking from where they’ve been staring into the darkened courtyard.

“Like when they get older,” Shane offers.

Ilya nods. “Yes, yes exactly this. Marly says is same here, but it is not the same. To not take care of your parents, to put them in apartment with other old people and strangers is very bad. Shame.”

“Shameful.”

Ilya sniffs, swiping at this nose with his thumb. “Yes, parents feed you, give you home, help you through life, you must pay it back. But is more than parents. Not as much, but all family, if a person in family needs help you must give. If you are rich, it is expected you will give to your family.”

Shane’s stomach twists. It’s not far off from how he feels. He’d give his parents anything they asked for, but Shane knows they will never ask. His dad has an important job with the government in Ottawa and it paid well, but hockey is an expensive sport. Once he’d hit high school years and it was clear that his skill and love for the game could take him all the way to the NHL his mom quit her job to support his dream.

No matter what they say, Shane knows he owes them so much. But his feeling, his parents lack of expectation. It doesn’t seem the same as the angry calls Ilya receives in the middle of the night and it’s most certainly not what Ilya described his brother was doing to him.

“My father is not well,” Ilya adds.

There’s a finality to the words and Shane has an inkling, but he has misunderstood Ilya before so he asks, “Like something he can get better from or…” He lets the questions trail off. He vaguely remembers Ilya’s father. He remembers thinking how they didn’t look alike at all and how either Ilya’s mom must be much younger than his father or the couple had Ilya late in life.

Ilya hums. “I think no. There is no getting better.” Ilya sniffs again. Shane doesn’t reach out to touch him as Ilya leans forward, setting his elbows onto his knees and letting his head hang between his shoulders, making himself smaller.

Normally, Shane would feel the need to say something, some empty platitude that would be appropriate for this situation, but the silence doesn’t feel expectant. It doesn’t feel like it needs to be filled with words.

“After I lost in Sochi—” Shane bites his lip to stop himself from interrupting Ilya. Shane will correct him later on it. “I talked with my father’s wife, with doctors. Set up what I could, what he let me. But it is not same. It is not me taking care of him.”

Shane again resists the urge to point out the lack of logic, that Ilya is taking care of his father, financially. Shane has witnessed it. Has overheard Ilya on the phone to banks, authorizing wire transfers. “What about your brother?”

Ilya scoffs again and shakes his head. “My brother is too busy spending my money and putting coke up his nose.”

Shane sucks in a breath and Ilya flinches. Shane doubts Ilya meant to say that. Ilya shakes his head and shifts leaning back into the couch. “Isn’t he married with a kid?”

Ilya turns his head and raises a brow. “He is addict before he became husband and father, he is addict now.”

“Are they safe?”

Ilya bites his lip and looks away. “I hope so, but sometimes…” He shakes his head, not finishing his sentence.

“Russia must have some kind of social protection service for kids?”

Ilya’s brow furrows and Shane figures that those words together might be difficult for Ilya to understand, he opens his mouth to explain but Ilya lets out a harsh laugh. “My brother is police. My father is police. Do you understand?” Shane nods, getting the picture by Ilya’s tone and previous derisive laughter. Ilya smiles, dark and ugly. “Is exactly like in shitty American movies. Not that they are any different.”

Shane frowns, trying to parse what Ilya is saying. “What do you mean?”

Ilya waves a hand. “This situation with Kent. The article. America is land of justice they say. Bullshit.”

Shane can’t help but point out, “Well, technically, Kent committed the crimes in Canada, if he committed them,” Shane tacks on at the end.

Ilya gives him a look that clearly communicates he knows Shane thinks Kent is as guilty as sin before responding, “And MLH, who knew, look other way. Do nothing. When news comes out they stay silent, use you to try and make everyone forget. Because money and power matter more. Just like back home.”

Well, Shane can’t argue with that.

Chapter End Notes

Hope you enjoyed! Please comment your thoughts! I am trying my best to balance Shane and Ilya and showing the journey of understanding they are both going through.

Thank you again for reading!