Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Whump, Forced Outing, Coming Out, Homophobia, Fake Marriage, Situationships, Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Anxious Shane Hollander, Jealous Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Closeted Character, Pining While Fucking, Mutual Pining, Denial of Feelings, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slut Shaming, Eventual Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-29 Updated: 2026-10-10 Words: 66,682 Chapters: 7/16

a soft place to fall

Summary

Ilya clenches his fists, jaw tensing and loosening around the words he wishes he could say. His brain is far too jumbled for basic English right now, let alone the words to explain just how much he needs to bury himself in the arms of the one person who understands. He can deal with the fallout tomorrow. He just needs…

A soft place to land.

LeClaire doubles down, shifting his stance to block Ilya’s path. “Your personal life is your own, Rozanov, but right now, your personal life is under a microscope. It’s not right, or fair, but think about that before you do something that lands you in even hotter water.”

“You mean the team,” Ilya grits.

“No.” His coach’s face softens. “No, that’s not important. I’ve known you for nearly a decade, Ilya. Take the bench for once. We’ll take care of you.”

But who will take care of Shane?

-

OR: Ilya gets outed, Shane comes up with a solution to keep him safe, and neither of them are happy.

Chapter 1: Tower | башня

Chapter Notes

Hello, hello! This is my first HR fic, and it’s gonna be a long one. This fic contains bits of book and TV canon and ofc will be canon divergent as stated in the tags. I do what I want.

NOTE: This fic is only about a quarter finished. I have a full time job and am a grad student, which means updates will likely be inconsistent and have wide stretches in between. If anyone hounds me in the comments asking when this will be updated or begging for more - the sentiment is appreciated, but just know I WILL be ignoring and deleting your comments. I don't need that additional stress and pressure in my life.

Some optional notes before we begin

Huge huge huge thanks to my friend Sabrina for beta’ing this fic. Every 5 years or so our hyperfixations align and magic like this happens. It’s a beautiful thing.

No AI was used in creating this fic. We are anti-AI in this household. Me and my creative writing degree will fucking punch anyone in the face who suggests I used it.

The title is from the song “Runaway” by AURORA and is basically the theme song for this entire fic. The whump tag should be taken very seriously. As I always say, it’s gotta get worse before it gets better! Like resetting a bone.

This chapter is a whopping 15k. Enjoy! :)

IMPORTANT NOTE: If you hover over the Russian text, it will automatically translate. I also wanted to give another HUGE thank you to Nadia, who helped me with a huge portion of double checking Russian translations and cultural tidbits!
[tw for homophobic language]

DECEMBER 2014

“Way to go, Rozy! Fuck yeah!” Marley shakes Ilya’s shoulder and thumps his back twice, jostling his spine enough to make his teeth rattle. “That was one hell of a fucking play. We gotta celebrate!”

Ilya grins. The Bears have been on a tear the past few weeks, and tonight’s game was no exception. Ilya’s entire career has been built on impossible plays; on breaking and setting records. He’s the fastest player on the ice at any given time, with a five point lead in the scoring race this season. Stealing the puck from under Pike’s nose and sinking a tiebreaking shot in the last thirty seconds of the game is proof enough that his winning streak can’t be broken.

It had been electric, in the same way that games against Montreal often are, but amplified. Hollander had checked him against the boards at least once, pressing so close that Ilya could practically taste the sweat from his skin. Anywhere he had gone, Hollander had never been far behind, each individual cut into the ice and panted breath its own symphony.

He had risked a glance in Hollander’s direction, after, and couldn’t help but smirk at that petulant frown. If anything, Hollander should be thanking him for keeping them from running into overtime.

It leaves more time for…other things.

Better things.

It has been far too long since he’s had Hollander beneath him, writhing and panting and begging for it like he’ll die if Ilya doesn’t give him exactly what he needs.

Maybe tonight's the night he sets a new record on how fast he can make Hollander come.

Ilya shakes the thought away, clapping Marley on the shoulder. “I have a trophy waiting for me already.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Marley nods, as if he knows exactly who is waiting for Ilya, which is as laughable as it is nervewracking. “Your Montreal girl must be hot and heavy for you after that one. Hell, even I’d kiss you.”

He breathes out a laugh. Marley is a good guy. A friend — or, probably the closest thing Ilya has to one on the team. He is the only one who tries to get to know Ilya any deeper than vodka, clubs, and girls. But even so, Ilya keeps him at arm’s length.

“Don’t even try,” he pushes Marley’s face away. “You’re not my type. Too scruffy.”

This kind of joke is safe territory. A deliberate truth disguised as a chirp. His teammates take it in stride, too busy laughing and jeering at Marley to pay attention to any hidden implications. Ilya is content to let them think he’s joking.

It’s better this way.

He takes advantage of their distraction to check his phone, unsurprised to find a new text from Hollander.

Jane [9:25pm]: Lucky shot

Ilya can’t help but smile. It must have cost at least a little bit of Hollander’s ego to send that text. Ilya will be sure to reward him for his good sportsmanship. Later.

He’s in the middle of drafting a witty response when the team’s coach, LeClaire, enters the locker room. “Rozanov.”

Ilya sighs. Right, he still has to talk to the press. He shoves his phone and the remaining bits of his gear into his cubby. “Will be two minutes.”

“No, Rozanov.” LeClaire’s voice sounds strange, and Ilya must not be the only one who notices, because the rest of the team falls silent at the tone. It reminds Ilya of the silences from his childhood, and nothing good ever came from those. “No press. Marleau will be covering you. Marleau, you’re not to say shit about anything unrelated to the game, you hear me? Kathy will be there to help.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Marley is clearly confused, and he’s not the only one. His gaze shifts back towards Ilya, brown eyes filled with uncharacteristic concern.

Ilya is well-acquainted with Kathy.

Someone from PR is often present at press conferences, but rarely Kathy. She’s about as high up as you can get in that department, and only steps in when there’s a story to control — and for Ilya, a leash to rein him in whenever he gets a little too loud-mouthed and brash; unable to control his own ego. But even then, she’s only there as damage control. They have never pulled him from the press room entirely.

LeClaire waves for Ilya to follow, but Ilya doesn’t move. “What is wrong?”

“Kid, this really isn’t the place for it. Come on.”

Moments like this often make him feel like a child again, stripped down and trying not to expose how small and frail he truly is. He can practically feel the tension radiating from his coach in waves, and LeClaire may be a good man — better than any of his Russian coaches had been — but that doesn’t stop his body from locking up. Cold dread sinks into the pit of his stomach.

One of his other teammates — St-Simon, he thinks — nudges his arm, and Ilya jolts a little. He blinks a few times, only to find twenty pairs of eyes locked on him.

He forces a wan smile. “Okay.”

Ilya follows.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane paces, bare feet slowly wearing a path into the hardwood floors. He pauses and glances at the door, wondering whether he should wait downstairs, or maybe sit down. What he should really do is go to bed. He should call this whole thing off — just like he should have the first time, and the next, and the time after that.

But he doesn’t. He won’t.

Instead, he keeps moving, despite the fact that it’s already eleven at night and Rozanov had promised he would come to him after.

Shane had assumed that it meant after the game, but Boston had won 3-2 tonight and Rozanov had scored a hat trick. Maybe he had meant after he partied with his team and got up to whatever the fuck else Boston gets up to when they beat Montreal. Which is fine. It’s good, Shane thinks. If Rozanov didn’t make an appearance, there would no doubt be questions.

(Then again, maybe he just wants to make Shane sweat a little. Wouldn’t be the first time.)

Shane stares at his messages. He had sent a single text after the game, but no response yet.

Lucky shot

Fuck.

He’s such a loser.

He had realized as much at the end of last season, feeling stupid and pathetic and used as he finished getting dressed in the middle of a penthouse in Vegas. Alone. Rozanov had stayed in the bedroom, practically throwing Shane out the door with his stoic silence.

They hadn’t kissed once that night, and the fact that Shane had been upset about it had told him all he needed to know. He was in too deep. He was starting to want things he shouldn’t want; expect things he shouldn’t expect.

Shane had promised himself over the summer that he was done. He wasn’t going to do this anymore. But the next time Rozanov texted him, acting as if nothing had happened, Shane folded like a cheap suit.

And here he is. Alone again.

Feeling stupid and pathetic and used.

His phone suddenly rings, cutting through the thick silence, and Shane doesn’t even pause to think. He answers with an all-too-familiar lump in his throat. “Where the fuck are y—”

“It’s me,” Hayden says.

Shane nearly swallows his own tongue, chest aching as a fresh wave of disappointment hits. Right. Rozanov doesn’t call him. Why the fuck would he start now? Shane takes a deep breath to calm his heart; clears away the growing lump in his throat.

“Oh. Hi, Hayds. What’s up?”

“You’re not that active online, so I’m not sure whether you’ve heard, but…” He hesitates, which is a rarity for Hayden. Something inside of Shane freezes.

Instinctual and stupid, like a deer in headlights.

“What happened?” He forces the words out, trying to keep calm. Ignores the voice in his head that says his entire world is about to crash and burn. The news can’t be about Rozanov. There’s no reason for Hayden to call him if it is. Unless…

Unless.

Hayden sighs. “It’s a mess, man. I know we don’t like the guy, but nobody deserves this shit—I mean, god, he must’ve worked so hard to keep it a secret—”

“Hayden, man, what the fuck is going on.”

“Right, sorry, it’s just…” He pauses again and Shane’s throat seizes around the violent urge to scream. “It’s kinda hard to believe, you know? I wouldn’t believe it myself unless I’d seen the video.”

A video.

His panicked thoughts screech to a halt. There’s a roaring in his ears, like a freight train passing a little too close.

“Hayden.”

“Rozanov was outed.” He can practically hear the wince in Hayden’s voice as he drops those three words, ignorant to the way Shane’s world tilts slightly to the left. “The video is everywhere. It’s pretty bad. Fuck. The guy who did it seriously has no shame—”

Shane hangs up.

He paces the length of the living room. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Hayden calls again, and Shane stares at his phone, dread pooling in his stomach. He waits until the screen goes dark before resuming his pacing.

Rozanov was outed. Hayden hadn’t said anything about Shane. If Shane were outed, too, then Hayden would have told him. He would have shown up at Shane’s empty apartment despite the late hour, just to make sure he was alright — but no. No, he had called as a courtesy, because he knows Shane hates being blindsided. He had wanted Shane to hear the news from a friend, but he hadn’t thought it would impact Shane in any way. Because why would it?

Shane is safe. He has to be.

But Rozanov isn’t.

His career is on the line now — and who knows what would happen to him if he ends up being deported back to Russia. After the Olympics last winter, Shane had researched far more than he’d ever thought he would about Russia. About their laws, specifically. It’s not just same-sex marriage, but there’s an entire piece of legislation that prohibits anything considered ‘same-sex propaganda.’ The wording is vague on purpose, and Shane isn’t so oblivious that he can’t read between the lines. Anyone who engages in anything even seemingly homosexual could be punished.

Shane has never let himself fully contemplate what might happen if he and Rozanov were caught. He’s been so focused on their careers that he’d never stopped to think about physical safety. If he had, it might have been easier to end this thing between them. He could have pushed Rozanov out of his life because it was the safest choice for both of them, but especially for Rozanov.

He stares at his phone. He wants Ilya to call him.

It’s probably best if he doesn’t.

They aren’t…

Shane can’t give Rozanov any comfort about this. That’s not what they are to each other — which has been made clear many times — and Shane is far too freaked out himself right now to be a pillar of support. Besides, Rozanov is probably being bombarded enough by his coach, his team, and their PR managers. They’re probably working on finding a way to shut this down. Spin the story. Ease the damage.

But, fuck. Hayden had said it was pretty bad. How damning is the evidence? Is there any way to salvage the wreckage, or is Rozanov well and truly fucked?

He snatches his phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

Shane doesn’t want to watch the video.

He doesn’t.

But he needs to know. He needs to see what they’re dealing with. He needs to figure out a game plan. Was Rozanov hacked, or had someone filmed him without his consent? If someone hacked Rozanov’s phone, all they would need to do is read their messages to know that ‘Jane’ isn’t really a woman. Shane knows Rozanov often neglects to delete their more explicit texts, no matter how much he tells him to. There’s still a chance this could blow up in his face, too.

He googles ‘Ilya Rozanov sex tape,’ stomach sinking at the sheer volume of results that appear. It’s only been an hour or so since the leak was discovered, apparently, but there are thousands of posts and even news articles dissecting the story. As if Rozanov’s most intimate parts are fair game.

It’s practically a fucking bloodbath.

Shane clicks on the first post, which leads him to a random account on Twitter. There’s nothing but a video attached to the tweet. The profile picture is a gray blob of anonymity. The preview is dark and blurry. It’s not even two hours old, and there are thousands of reactions already.

His thumb trembles. He inhales through his nose and presses play.

Immediately, there’s the wet sound of skin slapping, but the video remains too dark to capture anything else. A low moan echoes in the quiet room and immediately all of the hairs on the back of Shane’s neck stand up.

To anyone else, they wouldn’t be able to tell. Not from that. Not by a single moan. But god, after so long, Shane knows what Ilya sounds like in bed.

He forces himself to keep watching, trying to figure out how anyone else would know this is Ilya Rozanov. He doesn’t tease, or mutter Russian phrases under his breath; not like he does with Shane. Rozanov just grunts and moans in that guttural, animalistic way he sometimes does when he’s more focused on chasing his own pleasure than anything else.

Shane can tell Rozanov is close, and it’s fucking humiliating how Pavlovian his body’s response is. He mentally kicks himself. This isn’t hot. This is Rozanov’s fucking nightmare.

This is his nightmare.

“Fuck, Ilya,” a disembodied voice grunts. American, by the sound of it. Shane’s brain glitches at the deep timbre, so clearly masculine.

It’s not that he didn’t know Rozanov sleeps around. Shane has had dozens of ridiculous headlines and pap shots shoved in his face for as long as he can remember. A different girl in Rozanov’s bed every other night. The guy has built up enough of a reputation in the League that some players worship him as a god, while others spit the word slut with poorly disguised envy.

But, Shane never thought…

What he and Rozanov do is dangerous, even with the knowledge that they wouldn’t spill each other’s secrets. There’s always the risk of being caught, or slipping up, or getting hacked.

He just never thought that Rozanov would risk it with other men, which is absurd, because Rozanov had told him when they first met that he’d been with other men before. Shane isn’t his first, and won’t be his last, but to see the evidence so clearly laid out in front of him makes his stomach turn.

The video shifts, catching the low light illuminating the bedroom. Rozanov’s naked body is bathed in a soft yellow glow — and again, if Shane weren’t so attuned to it, he might not be able to tell. However, Shane’s stayed in enough hotels in his life that the layout is immediately familiar, and the realization makes something in his chest loosen, just a little.

At least Rozanov hadn’t brought the guy home.

It’s only when Rozanov speaks, voice hoarse but clearly familiar, that Shane sucks in a ragged breath. His Russian accent blurs the consonants in a way that Shane has always found ridiculously, unfairly hot — but right now, he feels sick with nerves at the sound.

“Fuck, so good, Ho—”

He cuts himself off just in time, but Shane’s vision swims regardless.

Oh, god.

Had he nearly…?

Shane drops the phone, heart thrumming.

As if attuned to his panic, an incoming call from Lily appears on the screen, replacing the video. Vibrations rattle against the hardwood floors and tickle the skin of his bare feet. Acid crawls up his throat, breath lodging behind his Adam’s apple, and Shane barely has enough time to sprint to the bathroom before he’s vomiting onto the freshly-scrubbed tiles, right next to the toilet bowl. Barely missing the goal. Just like he had earlier tonight.

He groans, pressing his forehead to the cool porcelain, as the vibrations continue to echo through the empty condo. Rozanov calls again, and again, and again, until finally — it stops.

Shane can’t decide whether the silence is better, or worse.

⋆⁺₊❅.

It’s still early in Moscow when the news hits. Ilya takes this as a saving grace, small as it may be. It should be a few more hours, at least, until he has to deal with his brother’s incessant phone calls; his petty vindication at having been right thrown in Ilya’s face, paired with his rage at sharing the same blood. At the embarrassment Ilya turned out to be.

He twists a loose thread around his finger and thinks of the snowbanks Alexei used to shove him into when they were children. The way his thick fingers would press Ilya’s face into the cold snow until he was on the verge of passing out. The slurs he would throw. Alexei had known without needing to be told exactly how different Ilya was.

A cocksucker. A faggot.

And now the entire world knows, too.

He should be more afraid, he thinks. The Bears’ PR team and his coach certainly are, if the pinched expressions on their faces are any indication. He’d been pushed into the lone armchair in LeClaire’s hotel room over an hour ago and ordered not to move while at least six other people fluttered anxiously around him. He’s too tired to try and keep track of the rapidfire conversations happening in English. They barely acknowledge Ilya’s presence anyway, let alone try to talk to him, because his side of the story doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is how quickly they can bury the evidence. No matter how damning.

He should be afraid, but mostly, Ilya finds himself numbly thinking of home. He recalls the last time he had caught a sunrise over the city, a familiar gentle pink giving way to harsh reds. Soft rays illuminating Soviet-era buildings, making him forget the darkness, just for a little while.

Nowhere else in the world has sunrises like Moscow. He should have appreciated them more when he had the chance.

Ilya knows with bone-deep clarity that he will never be allowed back into Russia. Not with a stain like this on his name. Not if he wants to remain a free man. Regardless of how well they cover this up, it’s already out there.

Part of him is devastated at the realization. His father is sick and dying, and while Ilya despises him most days, he can’t stand the thought of not being there. It’s already hard enough, funneling money into Alexei’s account and hoping and praying that he doesn’t waste it away on booze and coke and gambling. Both him and Polina still refuse to admit how bad Grigori’s condition is, while Ilya isn’t there. And now he never will be again.

If he had known the last time he had visited would be the last time he saw his father, he would have…he would have…

He doesn’t know what he would have done differently, but he would have done something.

Ilya hadn’t been allowed to say goodbye to his mother, either, and it feels like a cruel twist of fate that both his parents will leave this earth without giving him the chance to say goodbye.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Russia has never been kind to him.

But it had been home.

Now, Ilya has nothing but a work visa and his penthouse in Boston to keep him anchored, but with the way everyone is acting, he’s not even sure he will have those to fall back on. He knows the League is homophobic. Most professional sports are. Ilya had been content not to test how deep the rot spread.

Still, another part of him — a bigger part, maybe — is relieved. His big gay secret is finally out, and he barely had to pull the trigger. He’s always despised the idea of coming out. All Ilya wants is to live his life in peace, fuck whoever he wants to fuck, and fuck what others have to say about it.

They seem to have plenty to say, regardless.

Ilya glances at his phone, which hasn’t stopped vibrating since the news hit. He’s half-tempted to turn it off. The constant influx of texts sets his teeth on edge. Most of the messages are from his team’s group chat, but Ilya doesn’t have the courage to face them right now. He doesn’t want to know their reactions.

Svetlana’s name has appeared more than once, too. He feels bad for ignoring her, but every name that pops up that’s not the name he’s hoping for makes his uneasiness worsen.

Hollander is probably still waiting for him at the condo. Ilya doesn’t even know whether he’s heard the news. Hollander might refuse to use social media, but gossip travels fast. God knows the Voyageurs must be having a field day with this. If Hollander hasn’t found out on his own, then someone must have told him by now.

Ilya frowns at the thought. He doesn’t want Hollander anywhere near this shitshow; and he can’t stand the thought of him finding out from anyone else. The poor guy is wound so tightly, Ilya knows he’ll send himself into a panic attack without proper intervention.

He scrolls down his list of contacts, staring at Jane’s number for all of two seconds before pressing the call button.

He’s never actually called Hollander before. Never had any valid reason to.

Until now.

“Rozanov—” LeClaire starts, cutting himself off when Ilya glances his way. He’s not sure what expression he’s making, but it must be raw enough for the man to back off.

Nobody picks up.

He calls again. And again, and again, and again.

“ебатьFuck,” Ilya swears. Hollander never ignores him when they have plans to meet up. He must have found out.

And he’s probably freaking out more than Ilya is.

He stands up. LeClaire stands with him. “I have to go.”

“Like hell you do,” LeClaire says, bushy eyebrows drawing together. “You’re not going anywhere, Rozanov. It’s a fucking circus out there. We need you right here where we can see you. Whoever it is, they can wait.”

Ilya clenches his fists, jaw tensing around what he wishes he could say. His brain is far too jumbled for basic English right now, let alone the words to explain just how much he needs to bury himself in the arms of the one person who understands. He can deal with the fallout tomorrow. He just needs…

A soft place to land.

LeClaire doubles down, shifting his stance to block Ilya’s path. “Your personal life is your own, Rozanov, but right now, your personal life is under a microscope. It’s not right, or fair, but think about that before you do something that lands you in even hotter water.”

“You mean the team,” Ilya grits.

“No.” His coach’s face softens. “No, that’s not important. I’ve known you for nearly a decade, Ilya. Take the bench for once. We’ll take care of you.”

And who will take care of Shane?

Ilya suddenly feels an intense need to explain himself. The video is over two years old at this point, and Ilya hasn’t touched another man besides Shane since then. He doesn’t want Shane to misunderstand — which is insane, because it’s not like they are exclusive. He shouldn’t feel the need to explain.

But he does.

He collapses back into the chair, legs draped over the arm as he sinks as far into the ugly beige cushions as he can. He tosses his phone from hand to hand, content to ignore the continuing onslaught of messages as he attempts to organize his scattered thoughts.

He wishes Hollander would look at his phone and call him back, but that ship has probably sailed. He’s either in bed and pissed that Ilya never showed, unaware of the earth shattering news, or he’s already driving himself into a frenzy over worst case scenarios.

Ilya taps a finger against his thigh. He can’t decide which option he would prefer.

LeClaire’s gaze is heavy, watching Ilya like a hawk from across the room. Ilya ignores the silent warning. If he doesn’t say something now, he’s afraid the damage will just get worse.

You [11:45pm]: I am safe. So are you.

You [11:45pm]: Do not worry

You [11:46pm]: I’m sorry I did not come

He blows out a breath. It’s not enough. He wishes he could just talk to Hollander. Hear his voice. Taste his skin. God, he really wishes he could fuck all of this excess adrenaline out of his body and force his brain to go quiet, like so often happens when he’s with Hollander. It feels good to leave his worries behind for a while; to seek sanctuary in someone else’s body. And it’s cruel that just when he needs it the most, the option is ripped away from him.

At the very least, his real secrets — the important ones — are safe.

It’s up to Hollander whether those secrets will continue, or fade into distant memories. Ilya would never deign to dream that he wants any part of this mess, and with how paranoid the guy is, Ilya will be lucky if Shane ever speaks to him again, let alone fucks him.

The thought is suddenly so terrifying that Ilya sends one last desperate text.

You [11:47pm]: Next time, I will eat you out as apology

He thinks of Shane kissing his forehead and gently running his fingers through his hair. He wants that so bad right now, probably more than the sex. And even more than that, he wants Shane to tell him everything will be alright. He knows how precarious this thing between them is, and Ilya finds himself terrified at the prospect of losing those stolen moments on top of everything else.

But he can barely admit that to himself, let alone Hollander.

He tosses his phone onto LeClaire’s bed and stares morosely at the glittering skyline below. It is much safer to keep those thoughts locked up and hidden from view. He shouldn’t be entertaining them at all.

Apparently, Ilya really sucks at playing it safe these days.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane wakes up with a headache.

He groans, tugging a pillow over his head as he curls in on himself. The shaft of yellow light that had woken him up disappears and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’d forgotten to close the curtains last night — barely even made it to the bedroom — after spending over an hour clutching the toilet bowl, all because…

Fuck.

Shane jolts upright and scrambles for his phone, wincing as the pain in his head spreads to the base of his neck. He has another missed call from Hayden, plus a text letting him know that he’ll be around this morning in case Shane wants to grab breakfast.

There are four texts from Rozanov, and about a million missed calls from him, too.

Lily [11:45pm]: I am safe. So are you.

Lily [11:45pm]: Do not worry

Lily [11:46pm]: I’m sorry I did not come

Lily [11:47pm]: Next time, I will eat you out as apology

Fuck.

Bile crawls up his throat as he rereads the texts. It’s…nice that Rozanov had thought of Shane and tried to assuage his worries as best as he knew how, despite the fact that it’s not Shane’s reputation on the chopping block. It’s not Shane’s livelihood that’s currently in jeopardy. He doesn’t understand why Rozanov feels the need to apologize. It’s not like he asked for this to happen. It’s not his fault some asshole decided to fuck him over.

If anything, Shane would have been pissed if Rozanov had shown up here last night, rather than listen to the advice his PR team had likely given him. Laying low and staying put is standard protocol for a story like this. Shane would never hold any of this against him.

Another, less rational part of himself wishes that Rozanov had come, anyway.

God, he really should have answered the phone.

Maybe he could call now? Based on previous experience, he knows that the Bears’ flight shouldn’t leave until noon, so Rozanov must still be at the hotel. Shane hopes he’s still sleeping. He hopes the rest of the team isn’t reacting poorly. He hopes there’s at least one person in his corner.

Before he can second guess himself, his phone is already against his ear, the dial tone ringing as he gnaws on his thumbnail. Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two. Breathe in. Three—

“Hi.”

Shane briefly forgets how to exhale. “Hi.”

Rozanov huffs a breath. “I am sorry—I did not mean for—sorry. My English is not so good right now.”

“Why are you apologizing? It’s not your fault.”

“It is.”

“It’s not. That asshole—he violated your trust and recorded you without your consent, which I’m pretty sure is illegal. Have you spoken to a lawyer? I think I could probably connect you with one. My mom knows more about this stuff than me, but maybe—”

Rozanov groans. “Too much English, too fast.”

“Sorry.” Shane winces, chest aching at the way Rozanov’s voice croaks around each syllable. “Where are you? How is…everything?”

There’s a long pause on the other end.

“Rozanov?”

“I am…outside your condo.”

His heart kicks against his ribs. “What?”

His initial reaction is to be pissed. Rozanov knows how fucking risky it is to show up here unannounced, and if somebody saw him lurking around this building on the morning after being outed and a game with Montreal, there would no doubt be questions.

His less-immediate reaction is…something alarmingly close to concern. Rozanov usually tells him when he’s on his way, sends him an ETA and everything, so why hadn’t he this time? He had to have known how much Shane would freak out about this.

“I sneak out, but I forgot…” He huffs again. “You are not here, yes?”

“Actually…” Shane runs a hand through his hair and fights the urge to pace. Fuck. This is a terrible idea. A terrible, stupid idea that will almost certainly backfire. But if Rozanov is already here, Shane can't possibly turn him away. “I’m here. Just—shit, just wait around the back. I’ll come get you.”

“Okay.”

He hangs up without another word, taking a moment to steady himself. This is fine. The condo is safe. It’s okay if Rozanov comes up, just like he has a hundred times before, so long as nobody spots both of them. Shane will simply have to be extra careful not to be spotted when he leaves later. This is just like any other time they’ve hooked up.

Except it’s not.

Shane shoves his sneakers on and practically leaps down three flights of stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. God, he needs to keep his cool. He can’t freak out right now. He can’t.

As soon as he opens the door, he finds Rozanov crouched against the brick wall with a half-finished cigarette dangling between his fingers. There’s a pile of at least six more at his feet, arranged in what appears to be a small house. A puff of white smoke billows in the air before Rozanov stubs the cigarette out, black ash mixing into the slush.

“How long have you been sitting here?”

He tries and fails to hide the alarm in his voice. Purple bruises rest beneath blue eyes — probably from a lack of sleep — and his curly hair hangs limp, half-drenched from the ongoing sleet. Small ice crystals have started forming along his lashes. Clearly, he’s been here for a while, but hadn’t even thought to call Shane until Shane called him first.

“I don’t know,” Rozanov admits, cutting a glance towards him.

“Get in.”

Rozanov shakes the accumulated ice from his jacket before stepping under the threshold. Shane glances around the empty parking lot before pulling the door shut and pushing Rozanov gently towards the staircase. He moves slowly, as if it hurts to walk — his limbs probably stiff from the cold — but eventually, they make it inside.

Safe.

For now.

Shane immediately heads for the bedroom, sorting through the few spare outfits he’d made sure to keep here, just in case. When he returns to the living room, Rozanov hasn’t budged from the entryway, and he’s still wearing his coat and shoes. He’s got a faraway look in his eyes that Shane’s never seen before.

He hands over a plain black t-shirt, gray sweats, and a fresh pair of briefs. All in Rozanov’s size. “Take a shower, then we can talk.”

Rozanov stares at the folded clothes, shoulders tense and drawn. His jaw flexes a few times before speaking. “I have been gone too long. They will know soon.”

“Then you better hurry.”

The words carry a hint of bite to them, remnants of the cold outside, and Shane presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t know what Rozanov needs from him. Shane never knows what he’s thinking, like, ever. And Rozanov never tells.

A moment later, Rozanov’s mouth ticks upwards, just a fraction; barely enough to classify as a smile, but it’s so dazzling — so much closer to his usual self — that Shane could cry.

Rozanov takes a step forward, gaze zeroing in on Shane’s mouth. “But I’m so cold. I need help.”

“You have two hands. You can shower alone.”

“Oh, but they might fall off, they are so cold. See?” Rozanov presses his frozen hands against Shane’s cheeks, forcing Shane to stay put even as he attempts to pull away. “Help me, Hollander.”

Somehow, despite his best efforts, Shane can’t help but smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

Rozanov shrugs. “Maybe.”

The scent of smoke lingers between them as calloused thumbs brush over his cheekbones, which shouldn’t be appealing, but Shane can’t help the way his body leans into the familiarity of it. A pull so magnetic he hardly ever recognizes what’s happening until it’s too late.

Another Pavlovian response, maybe.

“I want you to know that—I would never—”

Rozanov shushes him, one thumb slowly tracing the outline of his mouth, before coming to a rest on his bottom lip. He presses down gently, asking permission. “I know.”

Shane’s eyelids flutter. “Good.”

Hot breath ghosts over his lips, the reassuring weight of Rozanov’s thumb slipping into his mouth and pressing against his tongue. Shane whimpers as the taste of salt and smoke and something wholly Ilya overpowers everything else.

“Fuck, Ho—”

Rozanov cuts himself off as a series of sudden vibrations come from his coat pocket. Shane is suddenly forced back inside his own body as the thumb retreats. A cold shiver runs down his spine, the memory of the video returning to the forefront of his mind. The blurred edges of a toned body and the wet slap of skin. A dimly lit hotel room. Rozanov fucking some other guy.

Fucking some other guy, but nearly calling out Shane’s name.

What is he supposed to think about that? Is he supposed to think about it at all? It feels like he shouldn’t. Watching the video had been a mistake, and now Shane feels dirty from the inside out. He should be outraged and sickened on Rozanov’s behalf—and he is—but another part of him just feels smug at the fact that Rozanov still thinks about him when he has sex with other people.

And isn’t that awful? Doesn’t that make him an awful person?

Rozanov stares at his phone for a while as the vibrations continue, frowning like he’s unsure what to do, before turning it off altogether.

Shane blinks. “Was that your coach—?”

“No,” Rozanov says. “My brother.”

“Oh.”

Rozanov doesn’t talk about his family. Shane has learned not to push, so he doesn’t, no matter how harshly the words claw at the back of his throat.

I don’t know what they’ve done, but I know how much Russia takes from you. I’m sorry I can’t understand, but I’m here.

Rozanov tosses the phone on the coffee table, staring blankly at the screen as if expecting his brother’s name to appear again.

“What if your coach calls?”

Rozanov blinks, turning towards Shane slowly, as if he’s just remembered where he is. A smirk settles on his lips, but Shane’s not convinced. “I’m already in trouble.”

Shane’s stomach sinks. That sounds…not great. “How has it been? With your team?”

He’s pushing again. He knows.

Rozanov is already shaking his head before Shane finishes his sentence, stalking closer until he’s crowding him against the nearest wall. Lips trace the outline of his jugular. One hand slips past his heather-gray sweatpants and boxer-briefs to grope the meat of his ass while the other rucks his t-shirt up to explore the soft planes of his stomach.

It’s scary, sometimes, how easily Shane is distracted by this. How quickly everything else drops away. How, for a moment, nothing else matters except for Rozanov’s hands and mouth on him, targeting the sensitive parts of his body with pinpoint precision and leaving him vulnerable and open in ways he’s not used to being.

But here, in these moments, Shane doesn’t need to think about being. He just is.

He wonders if it’s the same for Rozanov, too.

“What do you need?” Shane gasps, fingers carding through still-damp curls, gripping his roots and pulling him close.

Rozanov snorts, nipping at his earlobe. “What do you think?”

Shane bumps his nose against the sharp point of Rozanov’s faintly stubbled chin, where one of his favorite moles lives, pressing a kiss to the same spot a moment later. A small shiver runs through Rozanov’s body, and Shane distantly wonders about the risk of hypothermia. They really should get him under some warm water. Thaw him out.

Shane wishes they had more time. He thinks Ilya needs that, but he’s also historically bad at guessing what Rozanov needs.

“Come on, tell me.”

Rozanov’s eyelids flutter as soon as Shane pulls away, a low groan emitting from deep within his chest. “Fine. I need…”

“Yeah?”

“I need you, Hollander.”

Fuck.

All of his blood rushes south so quickly that Shane sways, unbalanced.

Rozanov pulls back, blue eyes shining with an emotion Shane can’t even begin to decipher. “I mean, I need to keep my promise, yes? I said I will eat you out next time. I am man of my word.”

Shane smiles and shoves him lightly. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Mmm, yes.”

The hand on Shane’s ass squeezes hard enough to leave a bruise. He kind of hopes it does. Their foreheads knock together as he lurches forward, pushing the sopping jacket from Rozanov’s shoulders. It lands with a wet thwap. Shane distantly notes that he’ll have to clean his hardwood floors after this. He is surprised to find how little he cares.

They stumble towards the bedroom, a trail of clothing in their wake, because for once, Shane can’t imagine stopping to fold his stupid pants. Rozanov licks into his mouth like he’s starving for a taste, and who is Shane to deny him?

Especially when he finally admitted to needing this; needing Shane.

Shane pushes Rozanov onto the bed, whose gaze widens, ever so slightly, as Shane practically crawls into his lap. He leaves a messy trail of open-mouthed kisses down Rozanov’s chest, paying special attention to the purpling bruises he’d earned from last night’s game: one below his pectoral muscle where Comeau had elbowed him, and one wrapping around one side of his ribcage, where J.J. had checked him against the boards.

Rozanov sinks into the mattress with a sigh, one hand carding through Shane’s hair, the other tilting his chin up. Blue eyes sear into him, past the skin and straight to the core. Shane stares back. Commits the moment to memory.

“You prepped last night?”

He flushes. “Yeah, but…”

Technically he should probably prep again, but he’s never done that with Rozanov in the next room. He’s always made sure to be clean beforehand. It saves a whole lot of time and embarrassment for both of them.

As if reading his mind, Rozanov’s smile sharpens. “It will be fine. Turn over.”

Shane turns over. Whatever Rozanov asks of him, he usually obeys without question. He’s learned over the years that there’s very little — sexually — that he’s not willing to do. At least with Rozanov. It’s always been different with him.

Maybe because Rozanov was his first time with a man. Maybe because Rozanov is just…so good at sex, and he has an uncanny way of knowing exactly what Shane needs to turn off his brain and simply exist for a while.

But he tries not to dwell on the why of it all, especially when there’s no point.

Rozanov’s tongue prods his rim. Slowly at first, just to ease him into the sensation, before gradually adding pressure. His fingers knead at Shane’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart and burying his entire face between them like he can’t get deep enough. Shane hides his own face in the crook of his arm, trying and failing to stifle the embarrassing whine that escapes his throat.

“Such pretty noises.” Rozanov hums, the vibrations sending a jolt of electricity down Shane’s spine. He moans, pushing back against Rozanov’s mouth. “Can you come like this, Hollander?”

Asshole.

He already knows the answer. The slurping noises are obscene as a finger joins alongside his tongue, rubbing at his prostrate with criminal precision and Shane is so fucking hard it hurts.

So, yeah. He could probably come like this, and embarrassingly quick. But he refuses to give Rozanov the satisfaction. “No, I’m g-goo—fucking hell—oh god.”

Rozanov’s body shakes with laughter, sending another jolt through Shane’s spine and nearly tipping him over the edge. He’s so close. Fuck. Has it really only been a few minutes?

“любимыйMy lover, come here. I have idea.”

A hand slaps at his ass, cueing him to move. Shane bites back another moan as he rises on shaky arms, turning over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow. He’s immediately overwhelmed by the sinful picture Rozanov paints, his curls in disarray and pinkened mouth slick with spit.

The urge to kiss him nearly bowls Shane over.

Instead, he stares.

“Sex makes you stupid.” Rozanov presses his pointer finger into the middle of Shane’s forehead, pushing slightly. “Get up. If you do not want to come so quickly, you need something to do, yes?”

His entire face heats up. Shane can’t even dignify the comment with a response, because it’s as true as it isn’t. Sometimes, he gets close just from sucking Rozanov off and lacks the capacity to be embarrassed — not when Rozanov looks at him like he’s a prize — but other times, yeah. It helps to have something to do. A distraction to keep him from finishing as quickly as he knows he can.

Rozanov flops onto his back, grinning up at Shane, who awkwardly shuffles onto his knees. The phantom press of Rozanov’s tongue in his ass is still there. God, he wants it back inside him so badly, but he’s not quite to the point of begging yet.

“Turn around.”

Shane follows the command with a hint of confusion. His feet end up near the headboard and pillows, face pointing towards the bedroom door. One of Rozanov’s hands grips at his ankle, the mattress dipping as he shuffles close enough to press a kiss to the bone. Part of Shane melts at the touch. He shoves the feeling down.

“Now sit on my face.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf now, too?”

Shane stares at him. “Seriously?”

A big toe nudges at his shoulder. “Yes, seriously. You want my tongue in your ass and I want your mouth on my dick. This is best way. Now, move.”

His jaw clenches as he swings one leg over Rozanov’s body. He wonders how many other men Rozanov has asked to sit on his face. He doesn’t even want to think about how many women. The number must be astronomical. Which is fine. Really. It’s fine. Like he said, it’s convenient. And Rozanov can use whatever position he wants with whoever he wants. Shane isn’t his keeper.

This is definitely not something they have ever done. Like, ever. Something about this position feels too intimate, like he’s exposing too much — but what does Shane know?

Maybe he is building it up to be a bigger deal than it actually is.

Shane releases a breath, willing himself to relax. He focuses on the hard curve of Rozanov’s erection bobbing against his stomach. He’s never said this aloud, but Rozanov’s dick is beautiful. Not that Shane has many to compare it to. But. Still.

It’s thick enough to burn whenever it stretches him open, no matter how much they prep, and to make his jaw ache pleasantly after a blowjob; and there’s a thick vein down the middle, which Shane loves running his tongue along, because it makes Rozanov’s thighs tremble every time; and it’s uncut — as Shane is almost certain most Russian men are — but the novelty has yet to wear off. He doubts it ever will.

Shane could probably sit here and stare at Rozanov’s dick for hours, but that’s weird, and he absolutely would not do that. The point is: he could.

“Okay?” Rozanov kisses both cheeks, hands smoothing up his thighs, around the curve of his ass, and towards the base of his spine. He continues the rhythmic motion as he licks and bites at the sensitive skin, mouth trailing closer and closer towards its destination.

A soft kiss presses against his hole and Shane gasps, back arching as he practically shoves his entire ass in Rozanov’s face. God, yes. He wants nothing more than to bury himself in that mound of blonde hair, to take Rozanov deeper than he ever has, to have his throat and ass fucked at the same time until every thought outside of Rozanov and yes and more disappears.

“Yeah, okay.”

⋆⁺₊❅.

After they have made a thorough mess of each other and the sheets, Shane collapses into a boneless heap. His brain is too fucked out to think of anything coherent to say, but for once, he finds that he doesn’t mind the quiet, especially as Ilya’s hands rub at his bicep in soothing circles, pressing kisses to the back of his neck like he cares enough to stay.

For now, this is nice.

Like clockwork, Rozanov’s body heat disappears as he rolls away. Shane listens to the sounds of him moving about the condo. The soft slap of his bare feet as he meanders through the living room. The muted echo of the shower running.

He lays across the filthy sheets and catches his breath. He has no idea how long he stays there, head thoroughly empty and body pleasantly sore, but it’s long enough that Rozanov finishes his shower.

He should probably rinse off, too. He had wanted to offer to take a shower together. Rozanov had been too quick for him, which isn’t unusual, but Shane has been the first one to pull away the last few times.

Ever since Vegas.

The footsteps are heavier now. Less relaxed than they had been only minutes before. Shane tracks Rozanov’s movements as he collects his discarded clothing. He’s wearing the fresh clothes Shane had loaned him (a perfect fit, he notes). His hair probably smells like Shane’s eucalyptus shampoo. His cheeks have a bit more color to them, too, which is good. He looks better.

Even if Shane knows he’s not.

But what can he do? What can he say? All he can offer is his bed and body. Maybe a place to exist for a while without having to worry about the outside world, because everything that happens in this room is nonexistent to everyone but the two of them.

Nothing he does can fix the hellfire that’s about to rain down on Rozanov’s life. Shane doesn’t have access to any part of him outside of these four walls. That’s how this arrangement works. In fact, Shane thinks that if he were to do anything, it would only make matters worse.

Every time he tries talking to Ilya, it blows up in his face.

And yet he keeps trying.

“Hey,” he says.

Rozanov pauses at the bedroom door, arms laden with wet clothes—should Shane offer to have them laundered?—and stares at him with an unreadable expression. His phone, now turned back on, is vibrating like crazy in his hand. “Yes?”

“If you need a lawyer, or like—I don’t know, just anything—you can ask. I’ll try to help.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

That’s as good as a denial, coming from Rozanov. Shane rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and wonders why it stings, even after the hundred and first time.

Rozanov keeps standing there, hand clenched around his phone, wearing Shane’s clothes — or, clothes Shane had bought for him, he supposes — looking like he has something else to say. Shane lays there and waits. He’s almost afraid to breathe.

“...Thank you.”

Shane rises to his elbows with an incredulous laugh. If anything, Rozanov had given more than he’d taken today. Shane tries not to keep score outside of the rink, but he certainly hadn’t done as much as Rozanov had. He feels kind of bad.

He has no idea why he should be thanked.

“You’re welcome?”

“No, I mean—” Rozanov clucks his tongue and looks away. “Nothing. See you next time, Hollander.”

Shane has no time to respond. Rozanov rushes out of the condo a moment later, his voice echoing down the stairwell as he finally answers his phone. Shane thinks he hears a slew of clipped, angry bursts of Russian, but he’s not entirely sure.

He falls back against the bed, cringing internally at the mess. His thumbs press against his eyelids as his headache returns. The worst part about Rozanov leaving is that reality comes crashing back. Every time.

Next time, Rozanov had said. He’d said that in one of his texts, too. Next time. Almost like he’s seeking reassurance, hoping that this thing between them will continue on as normal; like he’s afraid that it won’t.

He hadn’t given Shane a chance to respond.

And Shane isn’t sure what his answer would be, if he had.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Ilya adjusts his tie in the reflection of the elevator panel. Flattens his hands over the lapels of his suit. Twists the black and gold watch on his wrist and glances at the time, only to find the minute hand hasn’t moved.

This is the longest fucking elevator ride of his life.

Instead of flying to Toronto with the team, Ilya had been shunted onto the first available flight to New York City. He had been scratched from the game tonight — for the first time in his entire career — because the Commissioner wants to meet with him.

Ilya’s palms sweat. He wipes them against his suit again. The other guy in the elevator glances at him, and Ilya smiles awkwardly before looking away. He doesn’t want to see whether or not the guy recognizes him. If he saw the video. If he knows exactly who and what Ilya is.

He’d gotten enough of that at the Montreal airport.

To make matters worse, the League had tried putting him in economy — and Ilya had been forced to buy his own first-class ticket for some semblance of privacy.

The elevator dings as it comes to a stop on the twenty-seventh floor. Ilya stands there, eyes fixed on the number, for a moment too long. The guy clears his throat, arm reaching out to hold the doors open before they can close again, and Ilya mutters a brief ‘thank you’ before stepping out.

He’s never been to the MLH Headquarters. Never had any reason to be invited, since it’s mostly just the executives who work here, and they tend not to give a fuck about anything so long as their pockets are full.

Except, apparently, when one of their highest-ranked hockey players gets outed.

That’s enough to earn an invite.

A woman appears out of thin air — or maybe Ilya’s too lost in his thoughts to notice her approach. He startles a bit when he sees her. She smiles at him, close-lipped and sympathetic, before tilting her head in silent gesture for him to follow.

“Uh, I have a meeting with—”

“Mr. Crowell, yes. I’m aware.” She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him, again. She has strawberry blonde hair and a mid-length haircut that frames her face and warm brown eyes that make him think of another pair of brown eyes.

Ilya wonders if she’s seen the video, too.

His stomach hardens.

“Through here, Mr. Rozanov,” she says, pointing towards the opaque glass door at the end of the hall.

He nods and says ‘thank you’, though he’s not sure. He can hardly hear himself over the blood roaring in his ears. But she smiles again, so he must have.

After that, he finds himself seated in a black suede chair across from another one just like it. The Commissioner is staring at him with his fist under his chin like Ilya is a puzzle he can’t figure out how to solve. The east-facing wall is made entirely of windows, and Ilya can see the midday sun glinting off the nearby skyscrapers.

He doesn’t even remember knocking on the door, or walking into the office, or shaking Crowell’s hand. Had Crowell even offered? Or is he too disgusted with Ilya to touch him?

“So, how was last night’s game? You scored a hat trick, right?”

He blinks. “What?”

Crowell shakes his head and sighs, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, as if Ilya’s disappointed him somehow. “Look, Rozanov, you’re a great player. The MLH loves you, the fans love you. Hell, you’re even my daughter’s favorite. She asks me if I can get her an autograph all the damn time. Ah, but you know how girls can be.”

Ilya is exhausted. Practically running on fumes at this point. He’d barely slept at all last night, and had expended most of his remaining energy standing out in the freezing rain and fucking Hollander this morning. He’s not in the mood for cryptic-ass English.

It makes him particularly bitchy.

He raises a brow, trailing his eyes down Crowell’s very unimpressive chest. “Do you call all of your star players to your office for an…autograph?”

Crowell stares at him for so long that Ilya nearly starts fidgeting in his seat. But he doesn’t. Ilya grew up in Russia with an old-fashioned, Soviet-bred, military father with a mean backhand and an even meaner mouth. He knows how to wait out a storm, no matter how much the foundation shakes.

The Commissioner doesn’t frighten him. LeClaire had already told him that Crowell has no power to actually kick Ilya out of the League, unless he wants a giant ass lawsuit on his hands — and the Bears aren’t going to freeze him out.

At least, not yet. LeClaire had sounded a bit uncertain when he’d said it. It’s up to the owners. But they care more about performance than anything else, and you’re our top player.

“You’re from Russia, yes?”

The question startles him as much as it doesn’t. “I am, yes. Moscow.”

“Any plans to go home soon?”

Ilya’s jaw ticks. “No.”

“Why not?”

They both know why. Ilya refuses to give him the satisfaction. “It is early in the season.”

The Commissioner sighs — again — before twisting in his stupid fucking chair. He stands up and walks across the room until he’s standing in front of the window with his hands behind his back. His father used to do the same thing, except his tower had been a house, and his kingdom: Irina, Ilya, and Alexei.

“It’s bad press, Rozanov,” he finally says, probably satisfied at the idea of making Ilya sweat. Men like that will always try to make themselves bigger to make you feel small. “The gay thing is whatever, but a sex tape? We try to be family friendly, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“Family friendly,” he echoes. The concept is laughable. Not that he’s laughing.

What he wishes he could say is: I am bisexual. Not gay. I have not changed. I am still the same fucking person. I will still score the same and play the same and fight the same on the ice. What more do you fucking want from me?

The words sit in the back of his throat a bit too long, turning sour. The Commissioner, of all people, is not the person he wants to properly come out to for the first time. The old fuck probably doesn’t even fucking know the term, nor does he care about the difference.

That’s the worst part of all of this. Ilya’s entire identity has been decided for him, his history with women erased or dismissed like some sort of shoehorned footnote. People that don’t even fucking know him are saying that he didn’t actually want to be with any of those women. That he was just using them to cover up the fact that he likes cock.

It’s as insulting as it is baffling. Ilya Rozanov doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do — especially when it comes to sex.

“Exactly.” Crowell raises a finger at Ilya. A gunman lining up his target. “We’ve been getting a lot of complaints since the leak happened. People are upset, and rightfully so.”

What about me?

Don’t I get to be upset?

Maybe he doesn’t. It’s his own fault that any of this happened to begin with. He should have been more careful. He should have checked for a camera. Should have, should have, should have. He should have done a lot of things differently, but he hadn’t, and now he has to pay the fucking price.

Part of the price, apparently, includes sitting in the Commissioner’s office while being vaguely threatened and not being able to do anything about it.

Not without being charged with assault.

And maybe elder abuse.

“LeClaire and Kathy are working on it. I was told not to say anything.”

It’s only when Crowell turns around that Ilya realizes he’s stepped right into a trap. “The matter has officially been passed to our hands. The team has already drafted a statement. We just need you to read it at the press conference this afternoon.”

Bullshit.

Ilya refuses to believe that his coach just passed the issue to Crowell, but if Crowell had forced his hand…well, that’s far more believable.

“But—”

“I want you to think carefully, Rozanov. I am offering you the only option that will save your career and the reputation of this league. If you choose to flaunt your…lifestyle…you’ll become a joke. Your legacy will be tarnished. I won’t be able to help you.”

He wants to say something, anything, but Ilya’s thoughts have reduced to static.

As if sensing his advantage, Crowell goes in for the kill. “Russia isn’t so kind to…homosexuals, are they? We would hate for you to be sent back there under such…volatile conditions.”

There it is.

The final nail to the coffin Crowell has slowly been pushing Ilya into.

It’s such a blatant threat. The old fuck isn’t even trying to hide it anymore. Ilya wishes he had thought to record this conversation. He wishes he had never stepped on that plane. He wishes he had never left Shane’s condo this morning. He had wanted to stay. He should have stayed.

Every move Ilya makes is wrong, somehow.

And now, he’s here. Completely and utterly alone.

Ilya swallows hard, throat clicking in the silent room. He tries to remind himself that Crowell holds no power over him. The Bears are the ones who sign his visa renewal, which isn’t due for another six months. There’s no way that it can be revoked on a whim like this.

He also knows that powerful men don’t play above board. If Crowell wants Ilya gone, then he will find a way to make it happen.

“Okay.”

What else can he say?

Ilya leaves the office feeling colder than he had this morning, wishing — not for the first time — that he could simply disappear.

⋆⁺₊❅.

The Voyageurs keep talking shit about Rozanov. Before practice. During practice. After practice. About Rozanov taking it up the ass. About how many cocks Rozanov has had in his mouth. About all the women Rozanov has fucked and how it all makes sense now, because obviously, only a gay man would overcompensate.

It’s nothing Shane hasn’t heard before, but usually just in snippets. In one-off comments, or a particularly rude chirp. He’s never heard them say shit this relentlessly awful. It makes Shane want to crawl out of his skin and maybe never speak to any of them ever again.

But he can’t do that, because he’s the fucking captain, and this is his team.

Fuck.

Shane is well-aware that he has a responsibility here. The tone of the locker room rests on his shoulders. He knows that he should say something, tell them to knock it off, but every time he gets close, his muscles lock up and his tongue goes heavy in his mouth. If he were to confront them, Shane isn’t sure he could without throwing up.

So. He stays quiet. Too freaked out to put his foot down, because putting his foot down could lead to scrutiny, which Shane can’t afford. Anyone who looks too closely would be able to see the truth.

He removes his gear with shaky hands. If they notice his dour mood, they don’t say shit. Instead, they continue laughing and making jokes, because Shane’s team is filled with grade-A assholes and bigots and he never even knew.

Or, maybe he just hadn’t wanted to know.

“Shit, did you see that Rozanov is scratched from the Toronto game tonight?” Berkes asks, scrolling through his phone. Shane hates the way his ears immediately zero back on the conversation each time Rozanov’s name is uttered. He’s received no news yet — and it’s not like Shane expects to be kept updated, especially since they had seen each other a few hours ago and Rozanov is no doubt still busy trying to deal with this entire fucking mess and checking in is not part of their arrangement — but the lack of knowledge sets his teeth on edge. Shane hates not knowing.

He hates that his teammates are more updated than he is.

Renaud laughs. “Yeah? Think we’ll get lucky and they kick him out altogether?”

Another player chimes in from across the room. “Think he was too much of a pussy to face Kent on the ice?”

Berkes shrugs. “It says he was spotted at JFK. What the fuck is he doing in New York?”

“Probably got called to the Commissioner’s office…” J.J. joins in, and part of Shane’s stomach shrivels up and dies. “Crowell is one scary dude. I don’t envy Rozanov at all.”

Comeau snorts. “How much you wanna bet Rozanov tries to whore his way out of it?”

“No way, dude.”

“Ugh! Man, with fucking Crowell?”

“Fuck, Comeau, why’d you have to say that? Now the image is gonna fucking haunt me!”

“Come on, guys.” Hayden tries. He really does. This is probably the third time he’s attempted to rein the team in. “I don’t like Rozanov, either, but don’t be fucking assholes.”

At the very least, Shane is glad that he doesn’t have to worry about his best friend being a giant homophobe, even if he isn’t ready to tell him anything yet. He’s pretty sure that Hayden would be cool about the whole sleeping with men thing. Maybe not so much about the Ilya Rozanov aspect of it all. But. It’s something.

Shane can’t say the same for the rest of his team.

Especially Comeau.

Fuck that guy.

“I don’t think we’re the ones fucking assholes, Pike.” Comeau laughs. Actually fucking laughs. And half the team follows suit.

Shane bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

Hayden glances at him and Shane forces himself to continue removing his gear. Piece by piece. Clip by clip. The conversation dulls to a buzz, drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

He can’t shower here. Not today. Not now. He can’t stand in a stall surrounded by men who wouldn’t hesitate to put him in the fucking ground if they knew he is the one taking it up the ass instead of Rozanov; and that it’s Rozanov’s dick in his ass, specifically.

He needs to leave before he does something stupid.

Like cry, or scream.

Or punch out Comeau’s remaining teeth.

He makes an excuse. Shane doesn’t know what he says, but he gets the hell out of there before anyone can respond.

It probably looks worse, leaving like this. He’s probably giving too much of himself away. If they failed to notice before, they will definitely realize something is wrong now. Something more than a distant concern for a fellow hockey player. Something hidden and private and deeply personal up until it’s not anymore and suddenly everyone can see his heart on his fucking sleeve, so exposed and vulnerable that it hurts—

A hand clasps his shoulder and Shane sucks in a breath of cold air, shocked to find himself crouched outside, trembling hands pressed to the sides of his head. His scalp stings from where he had started tugging at the strands. Hayden is kneeling in front him, and he’s saying something, but Shane can’t make out the words. The roaring is louder than ever.

“I can’t—” He shakes his head as his eyes fill with stupid fucking tears.

“Shane, buddy. Breathe.” Hayden’s voice sounds faraway, but it’s something to hold onto, at the very least. “You’re okay. We’re okay. Just breathe.”

Easier said than done.

He hates when people see him like this. Not only does it make it harder to actually get his breathing back under control, but there’s the inevitable embarrassment that follows. Hayden, in all fairness, has witnessed this happen at least once, and he was actually pretty good at calming Shane down then, but even so. The last thing he wants is to be perceived right now, and Hayden’s gaze cuts like a knife to skin.

“Come on, deep breaths.” Hayden motions up with his hands as he draws in one breath, before puffing his cheeks out to release it, pushing his hands down as he does so. “Do it with me.”

“That‘s—” Shane coughs as his breath stutters again. “Stupid.”

“Oh, it’s very stupid. Try it.”

He tries, because Hayden’s eyebrows are furrowed, and Shane has probably freaked him out enough over the past twenty-four hours. And it does work, eventually, even if it still feels like there’s an anvil on his chest. At least he can breathe again.

He stares at a point beyond Hayden’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Right. Where did you even learn that?”

Hayden smirks. “Lamaze classes, obviously.”

The parking lot falls silent. Shane continues to catch his breath. Hayden stays where he is, squatting in front of Shane like some sort of body guard. When Shane eventually feels steady enough to stand, Hayden stands with him, hands shoved into his coat pockets. When Shane begins walking towards his car, Hayden walks with him, eyes trained forward.

“So…I dropped by your place this morning. You weren’t there.”

His heart rate picks up again. “Why’d you drop by?”

“You seemed really freaked out about—you know, Rozanov—so I thought I’d check on you. Take you out for breakfast. Where were you?”

Right. He had forgotten about that text. Too preoccupied with…

Well.

Of course Hayden would try to make him feel better — even without knowing why Shane had reacted so poorly — because he’s just…a good friend. Sometimes he wonders if he even deserves a friend like Hayden, who takes care of him far more than Shane thinks he can ever repay; who notices the little things, even when Shane really wishes he wouldn’t.

Hayden is the type of friend that deserves the truth.

But Shane can’t exactly explain the fact that he’d spent the night at his condo. Which he had purchased without anyone knowing. To have sex with a man. With Ilya Rozanov.

Who was just outed in the most horrifyingly public way possible.

Who was just scratched from tonight’s game.

And who may or may not be at the Commissioner’s office because of it.

Bile rises in the back of his throat. Shane hates to think about it, but his abundance of caution really doesn’t feel all that abundant anymore. So, no. As much as Hayden deserves the truth, he can never know. Nobody can.

Shane swallows the bile. Closes his eyes. Reminds himself to breathe. “I, uh, went for a morning run. Couldn’t sleep.”

He hates how easy it’s become to sidestep the questions. How easy it is for him to lie to the people he cares about most.

“Yeah,” Hayden sighs. “Me either.”

“Really?”

That’s…surprising. It’s no secret that Hayden doesn’t like Rozanov. Shane should know. He’s had to sit there and listen to Hayden talk shit about him for years, which is fine, really. All part of the game. The rivalry.

“Hey! I’m not a fucking monster. Of course I’m not gonna kick him while he’s down, especially about something like that. I can talk about how much of an asshole he is any other time.”

“Yeah,” Shane scoffs. “If only everyone were like you.”

Hayden frowns. “You’re the captain, you know. You could shut them down.”

“I, uh…” Shane swallows, eyes glued to a small crack in the pavement. “I guess I just didn’t expect that reaction from them? It made me feel…awful, listening to what they were saying. Like you said, nobody deserves that shit. Not even Rozanov. And I, uh, I couldn’t take it anymore, I guess. And I know I should do better as captain—”

“No, hey, that’s not what I meant!” Hayden flicks his forehead and Shane frowns at the toe of his navy blue Reebok sneakers. Rozanov had poked the same spot this morning. “If you want me to help, that’s what I’m here for, both as your best friend and Assistant Captain. You know that, right? I have your back, no matter what.”

You might not, if you knew the truth.

It’s an unfair thought, but the worry gnaws at him nonetheless. Half the time, he feels shitty for doubting how well Hayden would take the whole truth, if he knew. But Shane doubts anyone in his life would take it well, so it’s a pretty low fucking bar.

Shane nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

And I don’t deserve it.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Boston loses.

Ilya is not surprised, and he doubts his team is, either. He hasn’t seen any of them since the leak, which has undoubtedly had an impact. Ilya is the captain; it’s his responsibility to hold the team’s morale together. Marley had probably tried his best, but Marley’s a bit too much of a clown for the others to take him seriously.

Will they take Ilya seriously anymore? Or will they push for Marley to replace him?

He doesn’t know, and the prospect terrifies him.

The press conference had been a joke. The questions he’d been given had been generic and bland and so clearly scripted. Ilya had offered his response verbatim, tone flat. Anyone who watched would be able to tell that he was deflecting.

Ilya could have tried harder, he supposes — especially since he has everything to lose. He should be making more of an effort to go along with whatever PR shit they want him to do to diffuse the situation.

Another part of him wants to watch it all burn.

He lands in Toronto with a lump in his throat. LeClaire had offered to find him a hotel in New York, but Ilya hadn’t been able to stand the thought of staying any longer than necessary. After the hellish press conference, he’d bought the last available seat and gotten the hell out of dodge.

Except now, instead of the Commissioner and a bunch of reporters, he has to literally enter the Bear’s den.

Ilya likes to think that he knows his team well, but at the end of the day, they’re athletes. Ilya has lived his entire life in locker rooms. He knows the kind of atmosphere it breeds. He had worked pretty hard to shut down that environment after becoming captain, but that does nothing to fix any latent beliefs or attitudes his team might have. They might not say anything to his face — but this revelation could fuck up the team dynamics, and if that happens, why would the Bears choose to keep him?

It’s nearly midnight when he arrives at the hotel. The past twenty-four hours have been hellish in more ways than one, but the bone-deep exhaustion sits at the very top of the list. Ilya’s surprised he’s been able to speak English at all today, and the thought of facing more invasive questions makes his head ache preemptively.

LeClaire meets him in the lobby, handing a room key to Ilya without a word.

“Thank you.”

He means it. Not just for the room key, but for…well, everything. LeClaire looks about as well-rested as Ilya feels. He can hardly imagine just how much work this whole shitshow has been to manage, and the sudden pang of guilt pressing against his rib cage is too strong to ignore.

“And…sorry.”

LeClaire raises a brow. “I never blamed you, son.”

Son.

No matter how often his coach says it, the word takes some getting used to. And right now, all that word does is make him think of his own father, and what he would think of Ilya. He wonders if Alexei had bothered to share the news with him, or if Polina had. Or if his father had somehow found out on his own. If he found out, would he forget tomorrow?

Would he remember to be angry?

Or would he still call Ilya as if nothing is wrong? Would he ask Ilya to bring home a loaf of bread?

LeClaire watches him the same way he’s been watching him since last night, as if expecting Ilya to break. Ilya has nothing else to say, so he remains quiet, tapping the plain white card against his knuckles. It looks just like any other key card. He thinks the hotel from the video had the same kind, too. It was so long ago. He can’t remember.

He wonders who he’s rooming with tonight. Will they be okay with sharing with Ilya, now that they know? Or will Ilya have to suffer through passive aggressive comments before his head even hits the pillow?

He would much rather pay for his own room, if that’s the case.

Then again, being alone almost sounds worse.

“The team…” LeClaire hedges, eyes bouncing back and forth between Ilya’s, clearly seeking a reaction. Ilya tries to keep his face blank, but he’s unsure whether he pulls it off. “Well, you can decide how you want those conversations to play out. I sorta had to beat them back with a stick. Most of them are worried about you—in their own ways—but I didn’t think you’d appreciate an ambush.”

He misses half of the words and their meanings, but the general gist is there.

Worried. That’s one word he knows.

The team is worried. About him.

Most of them.

He swallows. “Thank you.”

Ilya wishes he had more to say, but even his thoughts — all in Russian — are beginning to slip away. He’s so frayed that even the slightest breeze might snap the string keeping him tethered upright.

LeClaire claps him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Ilya.”

His eyes burn. He nods.

The elevator is blessedly empty and Ilya slumps against the wall as soon as the doors close. The numbers tick upwards. Time distorts, as it has all day. The only time that he had felt fully present was in Hollander’s condo. He finds himself in front of a white door with a gold-embossed number—5221—and taps the card against the sensor.

Only to find the room empty.

Ilya blinks, surprised. It’s not often that he gets a room to himself, despite being the captain. He prefers to run on a rotating system. It’s the fairest way, and keeps his players happy. He can’t remember who was supposed to get the single room this time, but it sure as fuck wasn’t him.

Did nobody want to share with him? Did LeClaire put him here because the others were uncomfortable? Is this his fucking life now? The lump in his throat returns. He drops his overnight bag and kicks it towards the bed, glaring at the white sheets.

Fuck.

He would rather deal with someone else’s bullshit than be alone right now. Being alone is dangerous. It leaves Ilya with nothing and nobody to distract him. Except…

The mini bar is fully stocked. Ilya snags as many bottles as he can and tosses them onto the bed. They don’t have a game tomorrow, so fuck it. Ilya can get drunk by himself and nobody can say shit because nobody will know.

Normally, he would find a club and fuck some girl, but he’s far too close to passing out right now. The last thing he needs is to fall asleep with his dick inside a stranger.

Not that those headlines would be any worse.

Ilya unscrews the cap and chugs. His throat immediately burns with battery acid and he coughs, staring at the offensive label. Ugh, Smirnoff. He tosses the empty bottle across the room, narrowly missing the trash can.

Only then does he notice four, maybe more, hideously designed greeting cards lined up in a neat row. He’s not sure how he missed them. His eyes strain at the garish, bright colors and the loopy English script he could probably barely fucking read on a normal day, let alone now.

His curiosity wins as he drifts closer.

‘Congrats, it’s a boy!’

‘Sending you love because wow what a shit show’

‘You’re #1!’

‘Congrats on coming out! You’re my hero!”

The last one has a cartoon character running with a rainbow cape and nothing else. His breath hitches. He picks up the card.

At least a dozen of his teammates’ names are scrawled along the inside. The same is true for the rest of them. The same names, written over and over again, as if they couldn’t quite decide which card to get and instead bought them all and then signed each one too. Just to cover their bases.

There’s a line written in St-Simon’s awful chicken scratch inside, but still surprisingly legible: Congrats on being the first MLH player to come out!

Ilya sets the card down.

If he didn’t know any better, he would assume that these cards were some asshole attempt to mock him, but players like St-Simon are just so…sincere. They probably thought it was a good idea. A way to keep the atmosphere lighthearted while still showing their support. The words are so carefully crafted. They probably spent an absurd amount of time coming up with what to say.

It’s so fucking stupid.

His heart aches.

Ilya has very carefully avoided his messages all day. After a particularly awful phone call with his brother, he had changed his settings to Do Not Disturb. The only notifications that were allowed through were messages from Hollander or his coach — nobody else, not even Marley.

He had been too busy to check, either way, but it had at least given him some peace of mind.

As soon as he unlocks his phone, a message from Hollander sits at the very top:

Jane [5:34pm]: Call me when you can.

Ah.

He probably found out about Ilya’s little trip to New York.

Ilya gnaws on his lip. Barring this morning—fuck, was it really just this morning?—he and Hollander have never spoken on the phone. Before last night, he had never called Hollander for anything. Calling has always felt too dangerous. He had honestly been surprised when Hollander called him back, and even more surprised when he had still allowed Ilya to have his way with him.

But Ilya had kind of forced his hand there. Part of him had known if he just…showed up…that Hollander would be unable to deny him. The other part of him had got in a cab and given the condo’s address without a second thought.

Distracting Hollander with sex had been easy.

Leaving had not.

Now, alone in the middle of a hotel room in Toronto, the temptation to hear Hollander’s voice is stronger than ever. Ilya thinks he would bury himself in that stupid Canadian accent, if he could.

Which brings him back to his original thought.

Too dangerous.

And maybe he’s afraid of what Hollander will say if Ilya gives him the chance.

He swipes the notification away. He can come back to it later. Hollander will probably interpret his silence as him being too busy with more pressing shit.

And it’s not entirely untrue. He does have more pressing matters. He responds to Svetlana’s frantic string of texts, who is unused to being ignored. He does his best to reassure her that I’m fine, no you don’t have to fly back to the U.S., yes I’ll call you tomorrow. She seems unconvinced. Able to see right through him as always.

He moves onto the next issue.

Despite his coach’s well-meaning intervention, Ilya owes his team an explanation. It’s not something he wants to do over text in the middle of the fucking night, but he figures he can try to return to some sense of normalcy before facing them tomorrow.

A response is the least he can do. For his own sake as well as theirs.

He opens the team’s group chat and immediately scrolls past hundreds of new texts. Partially because he’s too tired to fucking bother, and partially — again — because he’s afraid. He catches glimpses. Some good, some bad. The good seems to outweigh the bad, but he can’t be sure.

At least nobody has called him a cocksucker or a faggot yet. He expresses his gratitude the best way he knows how.

You [11:59pm]: 🖕

Connors [12:00am]: holy shit

Connors [12:00am]: HE’S ALIVE

Carmichael [12:00am]: Hey, cap 🫡

St-Simon [12:01am]: did u get our cards roz?????

You [12:02am]: Yes.

Connors [12:02am]: wow we got an emoji AND a text maybe he’s not as homicidal as I thought

Dubek [12:03am]: why must u test fate

You [12:04am]: Thank you for the cards

Connors [12:04am]: LOVE YOU CAP

St-Simon [12:04am]: 💖💖💖💖

Carmichael [12:04am]: We got your back, cap

Carmichael [12:05am]: Well. Most of us.

Dubek [12:05am]: fucking idiots

You [12:06am]: Meeting @ 9 am

6 people liked your message

Carmichael [12:06am]: 🫡

St-Simon [12:06am]: 🫡🫡

Connors [12:07am]: 🫡🫡🫡

Ilya locks his phone and plugs it into the charger. Only four of his teammates had responded. He knows better than to assume that the rest are asleep, except maybe those that are closer to being fossils than actual players. Johansson, Feller, and Aud come to mind. He doubts they will be showing their support anytime soon. Ilya doesn’t care. So long as they still fucking listen to him on the ice, there shouldn’t be a problem.

There were a few more signatures on the cards, so he supposes there are maybe a dozen players who are, at the very least, trying.

One name remains conspicuously missing.

Marley.

There are no messages in their private chat, either. For all intents and purposes, Marley seems to have gone completely off the fucking grid, a feat so out of character that Ilya can’t help but assume the worst.

That he’s not okay with this. With Ilya.

He shouldn’t make assumptions. He should wait to speak to Marley in person, but Ilya is just so goddamn tired that he’s bordering on manic.

It makes sense, though, if he isn’t. Marley is obsessed with women, probably more than Ilya is. It was one of the first things they bonded over when Marley was drafted. Marley knows everything there is to know about Ilya’s sex life.

Except, of course, a pretty huge fucking part of it.

The rainbow flag stares at him from across the room accusingly and Ilya thinks he might suffocate on the sheer number of emotions that bubble to the surface. He tries to squash them down, but the thread feels dangerously close to snapping.

He grabs a fresh pair of clothes, heading for the shower. If Marley is pissed or hurt because Ilya didn’t tell him about being bisexual, then he could probably cope with that. Marley is more sensitive than people give him credit for, and Ilya is his closest friend on the team. Any betrayal he may feel, while unwarranted, can be understood.

But if Marley is any variation of disgusted at the revelation…Ilya doesn’t know what he would do.

The first MLH player to come out.

He sits in the shower, letting the hot water drum against his skin. The steam helps soothe the exhaustion in his limbs, somewhat. It does nothing to quell the darkness creeping around the edges of his mind.

Ilya turns the dial as high as it can go until his skin turns red.

He barely feels it.

Ilya's entire career has been built on breaking and setting records. But he never, ever wanted to set this record. He didn't want to come first in this. He used to joke about how lonely it was, standing at the top. Of course, that had never been true. Hollander had been right there with him. The constant thorn in his side. The one problem he never wanted to go away.

Беда́ никогда́ не прихо́дит одна́Trouble never comes alone^[1]

He bangs his head against the tiles. The joke is no longer funny.

The first MLH player to come out. The first MLH player to be outed seems like a more apt choice of words. But what does he know? English is his second language.

Ilya stays in the shower long after the hot water runs out. He’s endured the cold so many times. Today. Yesterday. His entire goddamn life. Sometimes he thinks he was born with a permanent chill in his bones.

Pruned fingers dig into his forearms, fighting against a shiver. Ilya thinks of rough hands pressing his face into snow, of his father’s sharp gaze cutting into him, of his mother’s limp hand in his, and he endures.

The cold is the only piece of home he has left.

Chapter End Notes

¹ The closest english saying is "When it rains it pours"^{[return to text]}
Whump there it is

Note that one piece of dialogue in the Commissioner scene is pulled directly from TLG and does not belong to me. I’ve also seen a lot of discourse around the scene in the book and the lack of legal counsel present, etc. and listen, I hear you. But also, hear me out: the DRAMA. So, this is my interpretation on that scene if Ilya had to face the Commissioner alone and like, six years earlier

Chapter 2: 1.5

Chapter Summary

The aftermath.

Chapter Notes

So i’ve done the whole coding thing for social media before and i decided not to go that route with this fic, but doing it this way is also still so much work?? I have such a love-hate relationship with social media in fic ugh. Love to read it, but man, writing it is a bitch.

Anyway, enjoy this half chapter!

Mary 🐻🐻🐻 @threelittlebears • 2h

Replied to @ifuckedr0zan0v2012

uhhhhhh holy shit am i seeing what i think im seeing?

↩️301 🔁88 ⭐521

Sarah Lee Witt(aker) @sinnerzaloft • 2h

Replied to @threelittlebears

Yup, that’s Rozanov. I’d know that body anywhere. I still dream about it sometimes. No way he’s gay though. The guy eats pussy too well for it to be a front. So……bi???

↩️13 🔁9 ⭐55

Miss Karma <3 @b0stonbabe4111 • 1h

Replied to @sinnerzaloft

I second that!! Hes too good to be a fake..but i AM surprised. roz isnt someone youd expect..

↩️8 🔁4 ⭐26

RIP ROZANOV @charlatine_8oo8 • 20m

Replied to @sinnerzaloft

HE HAD HIS DICK IN A DUDE’S ASS THATS GAY

↩️17 🔁42 ⭐74

3-2 BEARS ARE AT IT AGAIN @misssyilya • 2h

Replied to @ifuckedr0zan0v2012

no way what the fuck is this????!!!?? that man is STRAIGHT and this shit is FAKE everyone knows roz loves PUSSY

↩️53 🔁156 ⭐419

Derrick @voyageinghollz • 1h

Replied to @ifuckedr0zan0v2012

Fucking rozanov is queer???? What has the world fucking come to??? So glad I’m not a fucking Bears fan otherwise he’d have lost me tonight

↩️200 🔁230 ⭐502

FFUUUUUCCCCKKKKK @SAILTATUM • 30m

Replied to @voyageinghollz

AS IF YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE LMAO THE GUY’S A MILLIONAIRE AND THE HIGHEST RANKED MLH PLAYER AND YOURE A FUCKING HOLLANDER FAN THAT DUDES AS QUEER AS THEY COME

↩️153 🔁179 ⭐487

MTL #1 Fan @mongetoutttt3 • 30m

Replied to @SAILTATUM

WOAH WTF??? G et hollander’s name outta ur uflgy fckin mouth u dipshit!!!! Just bc ur fave is gay dont mean u gotta drag others down w u

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Rozy puck bunny @rozyozypozy • 1h

@b0stonbabe4111 @sinnerzaloft i’m with my people!!! god how many women has that man hooked up with in boston ALONE?? we should form a support group lol.

↩️498 🔁386 ⭐1k

Josh @admirals109837 • 1h

Replied to @rozyozypozy

sorry to tell u this but that video looks pretty gay to me rozanov’s been overcompensating and ur all his victims

↩️67 🔁22 ⭐78

Rozy puck bunny @rozyozypozy • 1h

Replied to @admirals109837

how about you gtfo

↩️99 🔁13 ⭐50

Sarah Lee Witt(aker) @sinnerzaloft • 1h

Replied to @rozyozypozy

OMG HI NICE TO MEET YOU!!! Fr we should form a group. And HATERS GONNA HATE I repeat: ROZANOV IS TOO GOOD AT EATING PUSSY TO SWING FOR THE OTHER TEAM. The most I'll concede is bi, which…kinda hot.

↩️80 🔁36 ⭐101

Rozy puck bunny @rozyozypozy • 35m

honestly??? makes sense if he’s bi. he seems like an equal opportunity kinda lover he just loves getting his dick wet lol doesn’t matter who or where. hottest man slut I know

↩️102 🔁93 ⭐235

💅Samuel 💅 @mistercouth • 1h

Ok hi i’m a gay man from Dallas and idk how i even got to the hockey side of twitter but i ABSOLUTELY gave that guy a blowjob at a club a few years back. His ass is unforgettable

↩️2.2k 🔁1.5k ⭐3k

EVERYONE STFU @BOSTONCUT1ES • 1h

Replied to @mistercouth

DO U HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE CAN EVERYONE JUST STFU AND LET THE MAN HAVE HIS PRIVACY???? WHERE TF HAS COMMON DECENCY GONE

↩️573 🔁695 ⭐904

Alexa play it’s raining men @PoPsTARTs_7 • 1h

Replied to @mistercouth

Oh god it’s growing…….

↩️11 🔁3 ⭐46

Hey it’s Sarah 🥰 @sarahjanemathers • 1h

Replied to @mistercouth

Ur so pathetic that u have to LIE about sleeping with Rozanov?? Who tf even are u?? Ugly ass fag

↩️116 🔁28 ⭐407

💅Samuel 💅 @mistercouth • 1h

Replied to @sarahjanemathers

Lol what motive do I have to lie? I don’t give 2 shits about hockey. I didn’t even know he was “famous” until now

↩️527 🔁209 ⭐486

My moon, my man @feistymoonshit • 1h

Replied to @sarahjanemathers

DING DING DING WE HAVE A HOMOPHOBE!! GET ER GIRLS!!

↩️299 🔁123 ⭐355

SMFH @clean_get4way_ • 40m

Replied to @ifuckedr0zan0v2012

I hope yall know that yall just RUINED a mans life. Ilya Rozanov is from RUSSIA.,,,RUSSIA!!!!! THERE IS A REASON HE WAS CLOSETED

↩️1.2k 🔁1.1k ⭐2.7k

;)))))) @d0ntknownuttin • 1h

Replied to @ifuckedr0zan0v2012

ngl this video is fuckin hot ive watched it like 30 times and bust a nut like 3 times

↩️348 🔁400 ⭐1k

SHANE HOLLANDER ILY @hollandeartome • 25m

Oh my god we’re all going to hell

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FOX Sports ✔ @FOXSports

BREAKING: Ilya Rozanov faces allegations of being featured in an illicit video, which was posted anonymously to Twitter earlier this evening. No confirmation or comment from the Boston Bears or Rozanov since the leak.

TMZ Sports ✔ @TMZSports

Has hockey’s HOTTEST player been hiding his sexuality? An inside look into Ilya Rozanov’s string of women and his most recent scandal: a sex tape with an unidentified MAN!

New England Hockey Journal @NEHJOfficial

Boston Bears’ star player, Ilya Rozanov, makes a tiebreaking shot against the Montreal Voyageurs in the final 30 seconds of tonight’s game. Stay tuned for a play-by-play breakdown.

Puck News ✔ @PuckNews

Ilya Rozanov SHOCKS the MLH world with explicit gay sex tape. Keep an eye out for our next podcast covering this most recent SCANDAL. Coming this Sunday @ 4pm EST

The Hockey News ✔ @TheHockeyNews

BREAKING: Boston Bears’ A.C., Cliff Marley, nearly throws hands to defend his Captain, Ilya Rozanov, in post-game media scrum regarding gay allegations.

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Rozanov’s Girls 😝💋

34 online

Sarah L [10:45pm]: This is crazy! So many of us already! We should’ve done this aaaaages ago

Karmen [10:47pm]: im sure more will come out of the woodwork soon! the story is getting so big its actually scary.

Sarah L [10:48pm]: I know! I’m scared for him. I love hockey, but the culture is toxic as HELL! My brother plays in the AHL and I swear I’ve given him multiple concussions from how many times I need to slap him for the shit he says

Mary [10:48pm]: u actually believe its Roz…???

Sarah L [10:48pm]: I mean….we watched the same video, right? I feel like if you’ve hooked up with Roz, it’s easy to tell. Accent is a dead giveaway, at the VERY least.

Mary [10:49pm]: i guess i was pretty drunk when we hooked up lol but ur right… that ass…

Yasmin [10:49pm]: sooooo how many of us are his regulars and how many have just hooked up with him once? i see him whenever he’s in LA

Yasmin [10:49pm]: which is like, neverrrr

Yasmin [10:49pm]: but boy is it worth the wait

Sarah L [10:50pm]: I’ll be honest it was just twice. I live in Boston, and I think he tends to avoid regular hookups with Boston girls. Probably makes things too messy.

Karmen [10:51pm]: same.

Bianca [10:52pm]: OMG my people. Hi hi yall!

Bianca [10:52pm]: I see Roz anytime he’s in Nashville lol. He likes to say Nashville girls are the most exciting part about playing here!

Natalie [10:52pm]: hello! i’m from Cleveland. only hooked up with Roz once but he’s the only 10 i’ve ever had

Sara B [10:53pm]: Chicago here! What i wouldn’t give for a repeat performance

Hillary [10:53pm]: LMAO this is amaaaaazing. Houston. I hooked up with him 3 times before he dropped me. 10/10 no notes. The man is a pussy eating machine

Sarah L [10:53pm]: THIS IS WHAT I’M SAYING!

Sarah L [10:53pm]: Like I’m sorry but the gay allegations are crazy. Bisexual people exist. I should know.

Bianca [10:54pm]: Dammmnn wait Hillary he DROPPED you?!?! That’s cold.

Hillary [10:54pm]: Eh I mean not really?? Roz has a reputation for his 3 hookup limit. I’ve met quite a few other girls who are the same!

Sarah L [10:55pm]: OH! That makes me feel…better. Lol

Bianca [10:55pm]: WELL NOW I’M TERRIFIED!! Who’s gonna make me cum three times in an hour now 😫😫😫

Haley [10:56pm]: wait so are we just blowing past the literal video of him banging a dude??

Karmen [10:56pm]: no.

Natalie [10:56pm]: NO

Sara B [10:56pm]: no way

Bianca [10:56pm]: NOT AT ALL!!

Yasmin [10:57]: i mean like, maybe its bc im from LA but i always assumed he swung both ways. he saw my poster of josh hutcherson in my room and called him pretty

Tahlea [10:57pm]: Omg so do you think he likes pretty boys? Why does that make so much sense…

Sarah L [10:57pm]: I’m not here to speculate further than him being bi so that people can stop erasing the fact that he’s very explicitly shown an interest in women over the years. Fucking men and fucking women isn’t mutually exclusive

Hannah [10:58pm]: yesssss go off sis 👏

Haley [10:59pm]: so u guys are just okay with him liking men??

Sarah L [10:59pm]: If you’re here to be homophobic I will kick you from this chat so fast

Haley [11:00pm]: 🤮

Haley was removed from the chat

Karmen [11:00pm]: well.

Karmen [11:00pm]: you did warn her.

⋆⁺₊❅.

TMZ Sports ✔ @TMZSports • 2h

BREAKING: Ilya Rozanov spotted on a flight to NYC while the rest of the Bears fly to Toronto 👀 Where could their star player be off to?

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RIP ROZANOV @charlatine_8oo8 • 55m

Replied to @TMZSports

YOOO HQ IS GONNA EAT HIM ALIVE LMAO

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Carrey @rozzillion • 55m

Replied to @TMZSports

I can’t believe they’re pulling him from the game for this wtf??? Rozanov has NEVER missed a game outside of IR

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REX @paladinosaurus • 34m

Replied to @TMZSports

Rmbr when Kent got accused of s*xual as*ault last year and nobody did shit but Roz gets outed and they send him to NYC for what?? Being gay?? Instead of PLAYING THE GODDAMN GAME THEY PAY HIM TO??

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Voyageurs <3 @hollandatass • 33m

Replied to @TMZSports

Idc what happens to Rozanov tbh take him out for the whole season serves him right fucking faggot

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Party anthem 🎊 @eazyweezy • 44m

Yooooo just spotted that gay MLH player at JFK he’s hot 👀👀 should I get an autograph?

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seems sus @lilypaddock44 • 41m

Replied to @eazyweezy

Leave him alone!!!!

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I SUPPORT ILYA 💛🖤 @81rozzy81 • 29m

Replied to @eazyweezy

i will sell my left tit for one plsplsplsplspls

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O(HMYGOD)M @Rapunzels_Lair • 16m

Replied to @81rozzy81

Hes not nearly as hot as hollander #sexiestmlhplayer

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Carla Ma’am @hunteradmir3r • 13m

ewwwwwwww rozanov is on Admirals turf on a NON game day?? @Scott_Hunter get em outta here

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The Hockey News ✔ @TheHockeyNews • 3m

BREAKING: Ilya Rozanov spotted outside MLH Headquarters in NYC this afternoon while the rest of his team plays in Toronto. Could this be the end of an era?

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Mary 🐻🐻🐻 @threelittlebears • 1m

ah fucj prayer cicrle for rozanov everyone :(((((

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⋆⁺₊❅.

Ilya Rozanov: Today, instead of playing with my team in Toronto, I am here to address the rumors that have been made about me over the last twenty-four hours. I know that there has been a lot of questions, so I am here to provide answers, if I have any.

Q: Can you confirm whether or not it is you in the video?

IR: I do not know where the video came from, but it is fake.

Q: What do you have to say to the dozens of people coming forward to confirm that it is, in fact, you in the video?

IR: Many people will say what they like to create big news story. This is…how you say? Defamation.

Q: You’re originally from Russia. Does the fact that Putin passed anti-LGBT legislation last year have anything to do with your response?

IR: No comment.

Q: How do you personally feel about the gay community?

IR: My government does not speak for me, like I am sure yours does not speak for you.

Q: You’re widely known as a ladies man. Do you feel offended at the allegations that you’ve only slept with those women to hide your homosexuality?

IR: I do not have sex with women to hide anything. I love women. This is well known fact.

Q: This whole situation has raised a lot of uncomfortable conversations for people, especially pertaining to LGBT athletes and whether they belong in the locker room. Do you have any thoughts on this?

IR: Sports are for everyone. I do not care about your personal life, as long as you work hard.

Q: How important is it for you to squash the rumors so you can get back to thinking about bringing the Bears to the playoffs this season?

IR: I am here to play hockey. This is all I want to do. Stupid rumors will not get in the way of that.

Q: Final question, how do you think these allegations have changed or will change the team dynamics moving forward?

IR: My team knows me. We work well together, we are strong, and I look forward to winning another cup with them.

⋆⁺₊❅.

yiiiiiiikes @gr00tm00t • 13m

Anyone else notice how dead inside Rozanov looked during that??

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Gerry @GerryLGR • 11m

Replied to @gr00tm00t

i would be pissed too if ppl were digging into my fcking personal life!!!

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I WILL FIND THE ONE PIECE @luffy_ddddd • 10m

Bland answers. Very vague, too. Me thinks he definitely has something to hide

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Boston Bears ✔ @BostonBearsMLH • 10m

Our fearless Captain, Ilya Rozanov, said this during his press conference today: “Sports are for everyone. I do not care about your personal life, as long as you work hard” and we agree!

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🍒🍒🍒 @surlymarley • 9m

Replied to @BostonBearsMLH

OH so yall KNOW he was lying dont u???

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LMAO ROZANOV IS GAY @h0llandaise_fan • 8m

Replied to @BostonBearsMLH

how to confirm ur captain is gay without directly confirming it 101

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this WORLD is on FIIIRE @lilcockypocky • 6m

Replied to @BostonBearsMLH

I agree!! It’s fucking 2014 when will people stop being bigoted assholes

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Chad @DR__INDY69 • 5m

Replied to @BostonBearsMLH

I wonder if this applies to athletes who do drugs too lmaooooo

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ESPN News ✔ @ESPNNews • 7m

UPDATE: Ilya Rozanov puts to bed gay rumors once and for all during NYC Press Conference.

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Sarah Lee Witt(aker) @sinnerzaloft • 2m

Oh that was so painful to watch. I really feel like shit now. I didn’t even think about Russia I just wanted to stop the bi-erasure 😭

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⋆⁺₊❅.

Media training or the truth? A breakdown of Ilya Rozanov’s recent press conference

By Cayden Moore | TMZ Sports

Rozanov Squashes Gay Rumors in Less Than a Day, Reassures ‘I Love Women’

By Jared Manning | Hockey News

Internalized Homophobia: How MLH Player Ilya Rozanov’s ‘Outing’ Underpins the Most Pervasive Issue in Professional Sports

By Daniella Rodriguez | Outsports

Chapter 3: Fool | Дурак

Chapter Notes

A few notes before we begin:

Obviously, the sections with Ilya and Svetlana are meant to be spoken in Russian, and I was going to use the hover coding to have the convos actually be transliterated from Russian but, that’s so much work for both me and yall so. Just imagine it’s all in Russian lol.

There are some cultural pieces throughout that will really give more context to certain scenes, so be sure to check the footnotes!

[TW for homophobic language, references to targeted violence, & talks of racism/bigotry]

With all that out of the way, enjoy!

DECEMBER 2014

“How are you?”

Ilya presses his forehead against the driver’s side window, breath fogging up the tinted glass. He draws a frowny face. Watches as the condensation drips down, resembling tears. “I’m fine, Hollander.”

A pregnant pause on the other line. “I saw the Buffalo game.”

He closes his eyes. Of course this is why Hollander had called him. A few checks against the boards and bruises across his ribs are nothing. Fighting assholes is nothing. Ilya has faced far worse before. “Oh? You are a Boston fan now?”

“Rozanov.”

His teeth grind. “What the fuck do you want me to say? Yes, Hollander, he fucking called me faggot to try and start fight. I gave him what he wanted. Is part of the game, Даyes?”

“It’s been bad though, hasn’t it?” Ilya opens his mouth to argue, but Hollander cuts him off before he gets the chance. “Don’t even fucking deny it.”

Ilya scoffs, remaining quiet.

“Did you at least have the team doctor look at your ribs?”

“Is fine. I will put ice on them.” Part of him wants to snap at Hollander to stop coddling him; to stop fretting like some sort of mother hen. They’re not boyfriends. They’re not together. All this does is make Ilya ache in a way that strikes deeper than any bruise.

But he’s always been too weak when it comes to this. Them. Him.

“The ref should’ve given him a fucking penalty,” Shane continues, and Ilya hums in agreement. He imagines Shane pacing back and forth in his Montreal apartment — though all he can picture is the sex condo — lips turned down into the same angry kitten face he pulls whenever Ilya makes a crass joke. “...You dislocated his jaw?”

Ilya smirks. “I did.”

It had gotten him ejected from the game and a stern talking to from management, but by then it had already been nearing the end of the third period and Boston had no hope of winning. Ilya knows when to cut his losses, though it doesn’t make them any easier. Throwing a fist at that stupid fucking defenseman had been his consolation prize.

He can practically hear Hollander nodding. “Good.”

“Don’t worry. Boston will still kick Montreal’s ass next time.”

“I’m not worried.”

He snorts. “No, you are very calm.”

In true Hollander fashion, he bites out a halfhearted, “Fuck you.”

The words are like music to Ilya’s ears. He hums, low and deep, imagining what it would be like if Hollander were here right now, face pressed against Ilya’s groin, his fingers gripping the base of Hollader’s neck. He’d probably go crazy for it, despite the post-game sweat and musk. Maybe because of it. Ilya’s car windows are tinted enough. Nobody would be able to see them, but the danger of being caught would still be there.

He shouldn’t find it so arousing, considering everything.

But he does.

The more people accuse him of being a faggot, the more he wants to shove the proof in their ugly fucking faces. Ilya is not ashamed of who he is; he simply grew up in an environment that expects him to be. Not many people can spot the difference.

Hollander must sense the shift in mood. His breath hitches, so low that Ilya thinks he must have imagined it, until he says, “Watching you fight...”

“Yes, I am very sexy.” He smirks, knowing without a doubt that Hollander is probably blushing and rolling his eyes. “This is not news, Hollander.”

“Shut up.” A scoff echoes in his ear, sharp and quick. Breathless already.

He licks his lips. “If only I had something to put in my mouth.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am horny.” His face feels warm, the smile more real now, at least. Ilya presses his forehead harder against the glass, welcoming the cold. “Send me picture. I want to see you.”

Hollander is quiet for a beat too long. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why would I not be?”

A harsh breath. Ilya pinches his nose as Hollander gears up for a lecture. “It hasn’t even been a week since the leak. I’m not sending a nude.”

“Nobody hacked me,” he argues. “It was video taken without permission. Not mine.”

“Not happening.”

Ilya slumps back against the leather seat, eyes latching onto the roof of his car. His ribs twinge at the movement, forcing a hiss through his teeth. “Хуйня какая-то. и я просто хочу чтоб ты тут был Это чушь.This is some bullshit. I just want you to be here.”

Somehow, the Russian quells Hollander’s mood. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Ilya clenches the phone so tightly he’s afraid it might shatter. He makes a distant note to use Russian more often with Hollander, whose eyes always go a little glassy whenever Ilya speaks his mother tongue.

But the noise is new.

Very cute.

“What does that mean?”

He smiles ruefully. “It means you are so sexy. Take your clothes off.”

Hollander laughs. Ilya’s heart clenches. “Yeah, whatever.”

Silence drifts between them, save Hollander’s soft, steady breaths and the distant, muffled crunch of boots on salt and asphalt as the last few stragglers exit the arena. Ilya has been sitting in his car for far too long, stewing alone, but Hollander’s voice has already thawed the frigid anger he had left the game with.

He doesn’t want to make a big deal about any of this, but McGregor’s words had cut a bit sharper tonight, and his massive frame smashing Ilya against the boards again and again had worn away at the thin veneer of calm he’s been clutching onto since the leak.

Part of him had been happy for the excuse to drop gloves. Grateful, even.

But Ilya is walking enough of a tightrope right now, which management had so graciously reminded him earlier this evening. He doesn’t need to draw any more negative attention to himself. To the team.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hollander asks. Ilya’s ribs twinge again, as if Hollander is physically there with him, latching onto the wound and not letting go. Pressing and pressing until he eventually caves.

Ilya clears his throat. “I will be better when you’re naked.”

“...Yeah. Okay.”

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane triple and quadruple checks that his browser is set to incognito mode, nervously chewing on the string of his hoodie. He sits alone in the cool dusk of his apartment, wide awake despite his early drive to Ottawa tomorrow morning, searching for answers to questions he’s not entirely sure how to ask.

Work visa issues US

If a US work visa is revoked, how soon is deportation?

Work visa grace period

Can you hold a Canadian visa and US visa at the same time?

Canadian visa sponsorship process

His teeth grind. The answer is not so clear-cut, no matter how many times he rewords his search. None of the information he finds makes him feel better. Shane kind of feels worse than he did before Ilya distracted him.

How do most people work around visa issues? He should really hire an immigration lawyer to look into this for him. There has to be an easier solution; one that doesn't require any sort of documentation or public process or search history connecting them together.

Who is he kidding?

That’s fucking impossible. A pipe dream.

And, like, he supposes that Rozanov isn't in any immediate danger. Not that he knows of. Rozanov would tell him if that was the case. Hopefully. Maybe he’s not in danger of losing his visa at all. Maybe Shane is worrying for no reason.

Visa statuses and types are not so black and white — and Shane isn’t sure what type of visa Rozanov even has. He knows next to nothing about the U.S. immigration system. From what he can see, the process seems pretty complicated. And Canada is no better.

But he hates not knowing where the line falls between right or wrong; yes or no; this or that. Should they run into trouble later on, he wants to be prepared. He wants to be able to help.

The thought makes him cringe. When Rozanov’s problems began to feel like his own, he can’t remember, but the idea of him being deported back to Russia in the middle of a gay scandal makes Shane’s skin crawl. His initial searches, nearly a year ago now, had failed to bring up much in terms of punishment. A hefty fine in rubles — not much of a problem for Rozanov in the long-term — is the most he might face in any official capacity.

Then, he remembered the articles.

Russian anti-gay law prompts rise in homophobic violence

Russia Turns Blind Eye to Homophobic Violence

Putin’s Anti-LGBT Law Turns One: HRC Foundation releases new report documenting a year of discrimination, persecution, and violence against LGBT Russians following enactment of new law

Shane has been driving himself half out of his mind over the past few days with worst case scenarios, waiting and waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Rozanov to be outright attacked by another player, or booed out of a stadium, or kicked out of the League altogether. None of those are outside of the realm of possibility — and the incident with McGregor had proved as much. But Shane is familiar enough with the world of hockey that he can anticipate these probabilities. Prepare for them.

Being reminded about the witch hunts, gas attacks, arrests, and murders happening throughout Russia makes Shane’s catastrophizing seem a whole lot smaller in retrospect. It definitely puts Rozanov’s current situation into a whole new perspective. In fact, Shane should probably be freaking out more than he already is.

And it scares the shit out of him.

His entire life is built upon boxes, carefully stacked and sorted according to his needs. His health, family, friends, career. Each one takes up its own designated space in his mind. Some are smaller than others, but no less important. Rozanov has never fit within any of those boxes, and Shane had made his peace with that by telling himself Rozanov isn’t a part of his life, anyway.

Why would Shane make space for him?

Why should he fit?

And yet, Rozanov has a knack for burrowing under his skin. Making space for himself, no matter how hard Shane tries to draw a line in the sand, even when he’s almost a thousand kilometers away. And whenever Shane does attempt to sort him into one box — to make sense of his continued presence in Shane’s life — he spills over into another.

“Fuck.”

He counts each breath as he attempts to sort his frantic thoughts. There is one idea left, which is no more absurd than any of his others, but Shane has carefully avoided it for the sake of his own sanity. Clearly, that hasn’t worked so well, which means he can wait for the panic to drag him into another fear-induced rabbit hole, or take control of the reins and think rationally about this.

He confirms — again — that his browser is set to incognito mode. His fingers feel slightly numb as he types the words into the search bar.

Marriage to foreign national visa questions

The search leads him to a few different websites, each one an official Canadian government-approved source. He learns that sponsorship of spouses is allowed — so long as the marriage is legally valid, of course — but the more he reads, the less confident he is that sponsorship would work. Rozanov would need to live in Canada, which…isn’t going to happen. Probably ever.

Next, he discovers that marriages performed in another country are considered legally valid in Canada. They wouldn’t even need to register in Canada. That’s good. The less paperwork, the better.

The hoodie string frays between his teeth, the texture switching from pleasant to disgusting real quick. He spits the string out. This is so stupid. Marriage licenses are public documents. Anyone would have access to it, and both of them would be fucked if this shit ever leaked to the public. So many things could go wrong. Not to mention that Rozanov would never go for such a ridiculous plan.

Come to think of it, Shane might actually be clinically insane.

Here he is, mixing the boxes up further. Crossing lines that are already blurred. He inhales through his nose, typing in one last search. A crapshoot in the dark.

Secret marriage possible?

Shane doubts anything will come of it, but the results quickly prove him wrong.

The first link directs him to a website for the California Department of Public Health. An article explaining the differences between a public and confidential marriage license. Shane’s heart races as he scans the criteria. The process seems…too good to be true. Astoundingly easy. Convenient.

He mentally drafts a bullet-pointed list:

No need for witnesses. Check.

No need to file the license anywhere other than the county in which the marriage is performed. Check.

The license is effective immediately. Check.

Nobody else is allowed access to the record, except through court order. Check.

There would be no reason for anyone to request access to those records in the first place. At least, he doesn’t think so. He counts it as another win.

One small snag he finds is a stipulation that they must already be living together as spouses and sign an affidavit attesting to that fact. No requirement for any tangible proof, but Shane has never been very good at lying, and lying on a legally-binding document does not sit right with him. Especially when lying on said document could land him in prison.

And yet...

All of this is hypothetical, anyway. Shane would never actually ask Rozanov to marry him; and Rozanov would never say yes. At best, this is a last resort. A failsafe measure, just in case shit hits the fan and Shane needs a quick and efficient way to keep Rozanov from being deported.

God, is he really in so deep that he would consider committing an actual felony for Rozanov?

His stomach twists as he imagines getting on one knee, a gold band held between two fingers — the same gold as Rozanov’s necklace — and uttering those four words. He tries to imagine what sort of expression Rozanov might wear, but comes up blank. Maybe that’s for the best.

Shane sets his phone on his bedside table and covers his face with his hands. If not for the fact that it’s the middle of the night, and his neighbors might file a noise complaint, Shane thinks he would start screaming.

Yeah. He has definitely gone insane.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Svetlana slaps her last card down, red nails tapping against the table. “ДуракFool.”^[2]

The deck is old, far older than either of them. Rounded and yellowed at the edges, the Palekh-style figures still retain their color. Ilya traces a finger along the queen’s solemn face. This must have belonged to Svetlana’s father. A small, thirty-six piece memorabilia from an era neither of them had grown up in, but had marked their youth in pivotal, unshakeable ways.

“This game is boring.” Ilya sighs, dropping his hand.

He shimmies out of his boxers, tossing the black fabric towards her. Svetlana catches them midair. A single, perfectly trimmed brow raises in mock judgment. God, he’s missed her so fucking much. “You were the one who wanted to play. I’m only here to humor you.”

He shrugs. While it is true that he had asked Svetlana to come play with him, this hadn’t been what he had in mind. Durak is such a boring game, especially with only two people, and especially with Svetlana.

She wins every time.

And she will mock Ilya for losing, because it’s all about strategy, Ilyusha, aren’t you supposed to be a master strategist? When they both know she has always been better. Smarter.

Ilya does not mind being the fool. Not here; not with her. But there’s a constant itch humming beneath his skin, begging to be scratched. Refusing to ease. It’s why he had suggested playing a strip-version of Durak to begin with. At least it gives him an excuse to get naked. To breathe.

Svetlana has hardly fared any better than him, sitting unabashedly in her black lace bra and thong as the candles interspersed throughout the room cast an orange glow along her brown skin.

His phone rattles against the wooden coffee table, screen blinking awake as an incoming call comes through. Right on time. Svetlana’s eyes are drawn to the name briefly, her eyebrow raising even higher.

He ignores the call, as he’s been ignoring them the past few days. “You could have comforted me in another way.”

She stares at him, immovable as a brick wall. “How are your ribs?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Fine. Are you going to coddle me, too?”

“Of course not.” She snorts, gaze sharpening as she latches onto his brief slip of the tongue. “Who would dare coddle my Ilyushka?”

His jaw ticks. “Nobody.”

Svetlana hums, eyes raking over his naked body. The starburst of purple and red over his left side looks worse than it is. Most of the time, he can barely feel the pain, outside of the slight twinge or tightness in his muscles. “Sounds like you have plenty of people to comfort you.”

Her words aren’t entirely untrue. Ilya needs somewhere to put all of this agitated energy, and sex has always been a useful outlet for him. It feels much easier to ignore the constant speculation, just live his fucking life and hook up as normal, but the longer the scrutiny lasts, the more tightly wound he feels. He wonders how people like Hollander live like this.

He shakes his head. “I am too busy for other people.”

“I noticed. Boston is on a losing streak.”

Ilya scoffs. “That’s not my fault.”

Three losses in a row is not much of a streak — but it’s a drastic difference from how the rest of the season has been going. As much as everyone else wants to blame him, Ilya has been playing the same, skating the same, scoring the same. It’s just…a few guys on his team fucking up the lines. Playing distracted. Sloppy.

The less supportive members tend to sneer at Ilya when they think he’s not paying attention. Torn between disgust and dismay. He does his best to ignore them, like he does with everything else, but it grows more difficult by the day.

Meanwhile, the more supportive members are trying too hard to compensate, forcing a sense of normalcy where none exists, which only pisses the other half off more. Their team is fraying at the seams and Ilya stands smack dab in the center, barely able to hold them together.

You’re the captain, his father had once said, right after the Olympics. Poor leadership leads to poor results.

A hand cradles his cheek, pointed nails digging into the skin as Svetlana guides his face towards her. He hadn’t noticed her move closer. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere.”

His ‘sex tape’ had finally been flagged and taken down yesterday, but the internet is a stupid place, filled with stupid, horrible people. People who save copies of things and re-upload them like it’s their duty to be a nuisance to society.

Which means the story refuses to die; and instead of trying to find the source or seek legal consequences, the League replays his press conference daily and keeps Ilya under a strict gag order, far away from the media. Probably under the misguided notion that people will move on if enough time passes.

But it’s too late. Things have changed.

Marley still refuses to look at him — barely speaks a word at practice most days — and Ilya misses their shit-talking and roughhousing. The locker room remains tense and quiet. Other players target him on the ice. His coach treats him like he’s breakable. Management keeps trying to micromanage his image. His brother won’t stop harassing him; and his father forgets more than he remembers.

Every time Ilya thinks about the current state of his life, it’s like pressing a fresh bruise. Sometimes he wishes he could cut the wound open. Drain the stale blood.

Her nails dig harder, nearly breaking skin. “Ilyushka. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

The pain is good. Grounding. Sometimes he needs somebody to rough him up a bit — as shameful as that may be — and only Svetlana has ever delivered. He thinks it might be the one thing he needs to quell this insatiable itch. If she can just shut him down for a while, maybe his brain will reset itself to factory settings.

Maybe that would be enough.

Ilya leans into the touch, eyelashes fluttering. He scrapes blunt nails over the smooth skin of her hips, palms cupping the swell of her ass. “Then help me stay.”

The vibrations start up again, insistent in the way his brother always is. Demanding Ilya’s time and money. More, more, more. Whatever he gives is never enough, especially now that they both know Ilya won’t be coming home. His teeth grind at the reminder. All he wants is to forget, just for a little while; to escape this fucking hellscape his life has become.

Her nails scratch soothing circles over the arch of his cheekbone. “шестёркаUnderling.^[2] You lost the card game. Do you think you deserve a reward?”

The insult makes him shiver. His response is hardly more than a whisper of breath. “No.”

Punish me.

Make me forget.

He hears the slap before he feels it. Loud enough to make his ears pop; hard enough that his neck snaps to the side, a hair short of whiplash. The pain is sharp and precise, blooming red hot beneath his skin. Ilya savors the burn.

“Good boys don’t speak. Will you be good for me, Ilyushka?”

He nods, careful not to make a sound.

The game continues.

⋆⁺₊❅.

“Do you feel better?” Svetlana asks, still catching her breath. Her skin glistens with sweat, curly hair plastered across her forehead. Ilya lays beside her, watching the snow accumulate outside. He has no idea when the blizzard started, but there’s nearly half a meter now.

“Yes,” he lies.

How long would he need to lie on the ground until the snow buries him completely? How long until the cold drifts into pleasant numbness?

“Don’t lie to me,” Svetlana murmurs, pulling his face closer. She smooths a thumb over his reddened cheek. Her brown eyes are firm, but kind, and something fragile inside of Ilya cracks. “You are a terrible liar, Ilyusha.”

“Oh, but I’m a very good liar.”

Svetlana hums and turns towards the window, silent as they watch the snow fall. Winter hadn’t been all bad, growing up. Ilya’s winters once belonged to Svetlana. The two of them used to waste entire days building snow kremlins, stacking brick upon brick until the glittering towers spiraled towards the gray sky. He used to believe that if they built one tall enough, they could escape to the moon. That way, nothing and nobody could hurt them.

They would have each other, and it would be enough.

“Is this about Jane?”

No. Yes. Partly, maybe. Ilya shrugs, unsure what to say. The itch is worse now, and he has no fucking clue what is wrong with him. Even Svetlana had failed to fix him. He wonders if something in his brain broke the day the video leaked. If he will ever feel normal again.

She glances sideways at him. “Have you talked to him?”

Another deliberate pronoun change. Ilya is grateful for the dim lighting. He’s not sure what she would see on his face, otherwise. His stomach twists. “It’s nothing.”

They have not spoken about Ilya’s coming out — if it can be called that — but her lack of reaction to the news, beyond worrying for his future, makes him wonder if she had known all along. She probably had.

Nothing has changed between them, which is a relief. She had even flown back to the U.S. earlier than she was supposed to, just to be here for him.

That’s more than Ilya can say for his own family.

“To you or him?”

“Does it matter? It cannot be anything.”

“Why not?”

His jaw snaps shut. Telling Svetlana that particular truth would bring her far too close to unraveling every other secret between them. Svetlana has brought up Jane numerous times throughout the last year, gently probing at him to let her in. This is the first time she’s gotten close.

Part of him wants her to figure it out on her own. Hollander wouldn’t be able to blame him, and Ilya would finally have someone to spill his guts to.

Her hand cups his cheek again, and Ilya leans into the touch. A wilted flower begging for sunlight. “It’s past midnight. You should text him. Americans celebrate Christmas on the 25th, right?”

He nods.

Hollander is Canadian. Not that it makes a difference.

As if on cue, his phone rattles again, but this time, Svetlana reaches for it before Ilya can tell her not to bother. He watches her bring the phone to her ear, tongue in cheek, and listen to whatever shit Alexei is saying on the other end. Based on the slight pinch between her brows, it’s nothing good.

As expected.

“If you keep calling him, I will send very bad men to find you,” she says, tone cool and even. She doesn’t wait for a response before hanging up and tossing it towards him. His phone bounces off his chest, just barely missing his bruise and landing harmlessly at his side.

She twists in the sheets to give Ilya another once over. Her eyes linger on his ribs for a full three seconds, before she turns away, searching for her clothes. “Text Jane. Now. You’re always happier when you talk to him, and I can only deal with so much moping, Ilyusha.”

Ilya narrows his gaze at the window, eyes burning.

She walks out of the room, probably heading for the guest bedroom and shower that she’s claimed as her own. Spare clothes lay waiting in the dresser; along with the silk sheets chosen with her in mind. She will sleep alone tonight, and so will Ilya.

He groans, reaching for his phone. The blue light nearly blinds him after so long in the shadows. He ignores the multiple missed call notifications, instead opening his chat with Hollander, unable to hold back a soft smile as he notices the latest message.

A photo of the snow in Ottawa, taken from what Ilya assumes is Hollander’s childhood home, where he is currently staying with his parents. Snow-covered trees line the street outside; a small, misshapen snowman waves at the camera; a smudge of pink rests in the corner of the frame, where his thumb had gotten in the way. It’s all so very boring.

So very Hollander.

Ilya saves it to his private gallery.

He glances outside, at the unending blur of white shrouding the world from view, and snaps his own photo. The low, warm light contrasts against the midnight snow. His thumb is nowhere to be seen, though he had intentionally caught his bare thighs tangled in his maroon sheets, angled in a way that just barely misses the soft curve of his cock.

It’s a good photo. Sexy. He attaches it to a new message.

You [12:05am]: Merry Christmas. I will buy you camera so you learn how to take photos

Surprisingly, three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. He had thought Hollander would be fast asleep by now. In his boring bedroom, in his boring house, in boring Ottawa.

Ugh.

Ilya wonders what his bedroom looks like.

Jane [12:06am]: jesus christ

Jane [12:07am]: is it a blizzard there too?

Ilya snorts. Of course that’s what Hollander would choose to focus on. He loves this little game of theirs. Hollander loses every time.

Or, really, they both win.

He snaps another photo with his cock in full view, thumb pulling back his foreskin to reveal the head. He’s already half-hard, toes tingling with an undercurrent of excitement he hasn’t felt in ages.

You [12:09am]: Yes. It is snowing very hard))

The next text is almost instantaneous.

Jane [12:09am]: how hard?

You [12:09am]: It will be White Christmas.

Jane [12:10am]: i can’t believe you’re ruining the sanctity of christmas

Ilya doesn’t know what sanctity means, but he will Google later. He’s more interested in seeing what Hollander looks like right now.

You [12:10am]: Send me picture

Jane [12:11am]: no

You [12:11am]: Come onnnnn. So boring. I will delete after

He busies himself while he waits, pumping a lazy hand over his cock and scrolling through his private gallery. Hollander has only sent a handful of nudes throughout the years — and Ilya hasn’t been able to save any of them. All he has are memories, along with some screenshots of their raunchier sexts.

He savors each one. Ilya can get off just thinking about Hollander, but he also loves pushing that invisible boundary; testing how far Hollander will go while in the throes of his own pleasure.

Jane [12:13am]: *photo attachment*

Ilya nearly drops his phone as he hurries to tap the notification.

The photo is a similar composition to his own. Hollander lays in bed, bare thighs splayed out over dark green sheets. From what Ilya can see, his bedroom is filled with hockey paraphernalia: posters of famous players line the walls, along with a collection of junior hockey trophies cluttering the shelves. A small bookshelf sits in the corner of the room, stocked with what Ilya assumes are probably hockey books. There’s an old hockey stick resting against the white wall, next to the curtains, which are closed, and also hockey-themed.

He gathers all of this information in less than a second, before zeroing in on the most important aspect of the photo. Smack dab in center focus, Hollander’s cock peeks out over the waistband of his tight, black briefs. The head is already red and weeping as he cups himself with one hand. Loose, relaxed.

Teasing.

A Christmas gift, packaged so beautifully and delivered right to his phone. Ilya groans, bucking involuntarily into his hand. He wishes he could have Hollander right now. Nothing and nobody takes Ilya as well as his asshole, so tight and fluttery and perfect.

You [12:13am]: So wet for me.

Jane [12:14am]: yeah

You [12:14am]: My little cockslut. Next time you will beg for it

Jane [12:15am]: you wish

You [12:15am]: No, you will.

You [12:15am]: Are you close?

Jane [12:16am]: yeah

Ilya certainly hadn’t banked on any of this happening tonight. He feels slightly drunk on it, tongue curling against the roof of his mouth as he imagines Hollander, sitting in his childhood bedroom, biting his lip and trying to be so, so quiet; his hand shoved into his underwear, thumb pressing into his slit and collecting the pre-come there to help soothe the friction. Hollander gets so wet, Ilya can practically hear the squelch of his hand as he squeezes himself, hips stuttering and messy as he desperately chases his own release.

And Ilya knows exactly how to get him past the finish line.

You [12:16am]: Good boy

He tosses his phone aside and rolls onto his stomach, rutting against the mattress. His cock throbs as he imagines Hollander below him, grinding that perfect ass upwards to meet his thrusts. Mouth open, drool pooling in the sheets, gasping Ilya’s name in fervent prayer. Ilya would place a firm hand on the back of his neck, giving himself just enough leverage to fuck so deep and hard that Hollander would have no other choice but to scream.

Oh fuck, Rozanov, just like that.

“Fuck, Shane.”

Ilya’s vision whites out as he comes harder than he has in a while, hips stuttering and riding out the aftershocks until the overstimulation becomes too much. Every ounce of tension he’d been holding melts away, replaced by a bone-deep contentment.

He pats a hand around the bed until he finds his phone, eyes bleary as he re-opens his messages with Shane.

A new gift already awaits him. Streaks of come brush across Shane’s stomach like an abstract painting, his briefs shoved halfway down his legs, softened cock still on proud display. Physical proof that Shane has finished; that Ilya has left him sated and satisfied.

His chest blooms at the sight.

You [12:19am]: Now show me your hole)))

Jane [12:20am]: fuck you

Jane [12:20am]: don’t forget to delete the photos

Jane [12:20am]: merry christmas

Ilya bites back a smile, deleting the photos from his history.

He’s learned, over the years, that ‘Merry Christmas’ is just another way of wishing someone well, and seeing those words from Shane leaves him with a fluttery tangle of mixed emotion. It is…a nice custom. Different.

The come on his stomach begins to itch, but Ilya lacks the will to move. If Shane were here, he would probably be nudging Ilya off the bed by now, stripping the sheets because he can’t stand the mess. They would shower together — maybe catch a second wind — and Shane would kiss him goodbye, soft and pliant and oh so sweet.

Ilya burrows deeper into the mattress, legs tangling in his dirty sheets. He inhales deeply. The room reeks of sex. He yearns for the familiar hint of salt and eucalyptus as the faint flutter in his chest gives way to an old ache. His phone vibrates with an incoming call that goes ignored.

The blizzard continues outside.

In his dreams, he asks Shane to stay.

⋆⁺₊❅.

“Seriously, mom?” Shane groans, crossing his arms and burrowing as deep as he possibly can into the couch. “On Christmas?”

His mom shoots him a look of disbelief. “You’re complaining about watching game replays? Really? What have you done with my son? Are you sick?”

A palm rests over his forehead, which Shane valiantly does not swat away, no matter how badly he wants to. Instead, he frowns at the TV screen as Cliff Marleau misses a clear pass from Rozanov; as Detroit swipes the puck into their possession, lines converging on Boston’s goal. They score without much resistance.

One of the defensemen checks Rozanov’s shoulder as he passes by. Much harder than necessary. Rozanov skates away, brushing off the hands of two other teammates — St-Simon and Connors — as he returns to the box. His movements are jagged and mechanical, no doubt pissed off about that botched assist, and maybe his ribs are still a bit stiff. It’s hard to tell. Normally, Shane loves watching replays, but not this one, or any of Boston’s other recent games.

The talking heads are muted, but closed captioning remains on.

Abysmal play. Distracted. Low morale. Three losses in a row.

Rozanov, Rozanov, Rozanov.

“If he keeps playing like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets traded next season.”

Shane’s jaw ticks. “It’s not him.”

Anyone who knows the game should be able to see. Shane sees it. The breakdown in team dynamics. The gears, once oiled to perfection, getting caught. And then there are the other teams, targeting Rozanov in ways that are clinically precise. Checking him against the boards hard enough to cause a concussion; instigating fights whenever Rozanov gains possession of the puck; and chirping so hard that multiple have earned misconduct penalties. He has a pretty good idea why all of this is happening, but instead of naming it, critics and commentators have taken to blaming Rozanov — and him alone.

His mom sighs, cradling a glass of red wine, legs tucked underneath the wool blanket Shane had gifted her this morning. “Regardless, with all of the bad press he’s been getting, it’s only a matter of time. If he knows what’s good for him, he should really have a lawyer take a look at his contract.”

Bad press.

Would she think the same if it happened to Shane?

A sharp ringing sounds in his ears. Shane picks at the edge of his sleeve, eyes glued to Rozanov gliding across the ice. “Yeah, but that’s not his fault. You really think they would do that?”

“Players have been traded for far less.” She raises a brow at him, probably surprised by his sudden defense of Rozanov.

“He’s been with Boston for five years. He won the Cup last season.”

Even as he says it, he knows that she’s right. Players get traded all the time. Most teams don’t even need a reason to trade someone — but not players like Rozanov, or Shane. Boston would be crazy to trade their best player because of one bad streak. They would be more likely to trade a few other guys on the team first.

But, if Boston does trade Rozanov because of all of the shit that’s happened, that has to fall under some sort of discrimination clause, right?

Fuck. Shane really should give him his lawyer’s number.

His hand twitches, instinctually reaching for his phone. He stops himself short. Continues playing with the fabric of his sleeve instead. Rozanov is no longer on the ice, his absence a gaping wound as the lines change.

Her hand falls on his knee, halting the incessant bouncing. Bad habit. He hadn’t even noticed. “What’s got you so worked up, honey?”

“Nothing, it’s just…”

Just.

Watching the world beat down on Rozanov for something so intrinsic makes him think of himself. He knows what it’s like to be different from everyone else. How ignorance and bigotry can fuck up the chemistry of a team. He’s had to work three times as hard just to force people to look at him as an equal.

If being the first Japanese-Canadian MLH player is a loaded gun, then being the first outed MLH player is a fucking landmine.

What a fucking pair they make.

“How about some tea?” She smiles, a bit nervous around the edges.

Shane nods. Automatic; mechanical. She pats his knee one more time before standing up. The game ends with a score of 0-2, shifting from Marley’s wooden post-game interview to Rozanov’s days-old press conference. He doesn’t understand why they keep replaying it. Each time Shane watches, he feels the same way he did when he first found out about the leak: nauseous, distraught, angry.

The TV remains muted. Shane prefers to keep it that way. He’d watched with sound, once, and had nearly thrown his phone across the room at the subtle tremor in Rozanov’s voice. Unnoticeable to anyone else, maybe, probably. Not to him.

Fake video. Defamation. No comment.

He has no idea what the Commissioner had said to get Rozanov to agree to a press conference, and he’s too afraid to ask Rozanov himself. Still, part of him is relieved. If the masses believe the video is fake, then Rozanov should be safe. They should both be safe.

Everything should go back to normal soon.

His mom returns with two mugs, the strong scent of chamomile wafting towards him. Shane isn’t a huge fan of tea — it’s too bitter, coating his tongue in a strange film — but he likes having something warm to hold. Keeps him from fidgeting too much.

She glances at the TV and winces. “They really should stop playing that.”

He nods, unable to look at her.

Silence envelops the room, his mom sipping at her tea while Shane grips his own, afraid that if he moves an inch, the liquid will spill, and his composure will shatter.

“When…” Shane swallows, eyes fixed on the rising steam that slowly opens each of his pores. “When I was a kid, what did you do? You know, when coaches or players didn’t want me there. How did you…”

How did you fight for me?

His mom blinks rapidly, taken aback. “Oh, um. I guess I didn’t really have to do much at all, if I’m honest. You showed them all on your own. They would have been crazy not to take you.”

He huffs, frustration rising. “Yeah, but.”

“But?”

“You never looked up any, like, legal ramifications? Just in case?”

Would you still fight for me, if you knew?

In the corner of his eye, he catches her gaze flickering between him and the screen. Rozanov is no longer there, but she must have made the connection.

Shane’s palms sweat. He clutches the mug tighter.

“There would have been cause for a discrimination claim…” she says, slowly. Parsing her words. “But I also wouldn’t have wanted you on a team like that, anyway. There were plenty who would have taken you.”

Not the point.

She doesn’t get it. Nobody does.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever been on a team that hasn’t treated me differently. Even the Voyageurs…”

“Hang on, I thought you loved being with the Voyageurs?”

“I did. I do.” He actually thinks he hates the Voyageurs now, but there is no way to explain that to her without divulging everything else. “But it’s not like they’re perfect. They still say stupid shit sometimes, even if they don’t mean it.”

They definitely mean it. Doesn’t matter that it’s Rozanov — in fact, that’s precisely the reason he knows that they mean all of the vile shit they say. Hatred paves the way to honesty, or something like that.

With Shane, the moments are more subtle, not overtly malicious; but that almost makes it worse. Half the time, he doubts they notice when it happens.

Like that time J.J. asked him what his plans were for Chinese New Year;^[4]or the time Comeau joked about how much rice he eats; or when Couillard mentioned playing with a Korean guy in juniors, and then asked if Shane knew him.

There are the more obvious instances, mostly in the form of chirps from other teams. Shane is no stranger to racial slurs, or comments bordering on fetishization. Homophobic language is commonplace. Shane has been targeted — on and off the ice — far more times than he cares to admit, especially to his own mother.

He’s been in the game so long that it barely hurts anymore.

Except that it does.

“That’s just…part of life, I suppose.” She sighs, squeezing his bicep. “I know it can be hard, but the pros outweigh the cons, yeah? So many kids look up to you.”

Shane tips his head back, blinking rapidly at the white ceiling. Right. He carries the weight of every Asian kids’ hopes and dreams on his shoulders. And if he were to come out as…whatever he is…what would he be then? The token queer and Asian player?

That’s double the weight.

“Forget it. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

“Honey—”

“I’m gonna, uh, take a walk.”

She frowns. “There’s two feet of snow out there.”

“Well then, I’ll shovel the driveway.” Shane sets his untouched tea on a wooden coaster. His blood roars, skin itching as agitation rises towards the surface. He needs to cool down; get his head on straight. Fresh air will help. Moving his body will help even more.

“It’s supposed to start again later—”

“Then I’ll shovel again tomorrow.” He stands.

His mom stands with him. “Do you need—”

“I’m fine. Really.”

He dons his winter gear and grabs a shovel from the garage, ignoring his parents’ concerned looks as he steps outside. The cold is not so bad today — perfect for working up a sweat — and the snow had stopped only a few hours ago, leaving a fresh blanket of powdery white, hardly disturbed. The street is quiet and calm. Exactly what he needs.

Shane puts his head down and gets to work.

⋆⁺₊❅.

The music ripples over Ilya’s skin, the heavy beat pulsing in tandem with his heart. His arm hangs loose around some girl’s waist, his dick pressed against the curve of her ass as they grind in the middle of the dance floor. He lost most of his teammates at some point. Not that it matters. He’s nine shots of vodka deep, lost in a haze of sweaty skin and purplish-blue strobe lights as he rides the rush of alcohol-induced dopamine.

His palm glides over her hip, smoothing down the bare skin of her thigh. She’s covered in silver glitter from head to toe, a disco ball beneath the flickering lights. She has brown hair, but he can’t recall the details of her face beyond brown eyes and pink lips. He buries his nose in her neck and—yup, she smells like a vanilla candle and the cranberry vodka sloshing in her hand.

Typical.

But she’s a warm body, and she is more than willing, which is all that matters. New Year’s Eve is the one holiday he cares about, and Svetlana had been called away to some stupid fucking work project, so he has to make do, because as much as Ilya loves New Year’s, he hates spending it alone.

“Roz,” a gruff voice sounds, somewhere to his left.

Ilya ignores it, instead focusing on the way the beat slows, hips rolling deeper and dirtier than before. The girl throws an arm back, acrylic fingernails gripping at his curls. He drags his lips along the shell of her ear, whispering the filthiest shit he can think of in Russian. Girls fucking love when he speaks Russian.

“Rozanov.”

Ilya cracks one blurry eye. The girl, noticing him stiffen and too drunk to care, immediately clings onto some other guy nearby. Ilya’s arm hangs limp at his side. His center of gravity shifts, off-kilter, as her body heat disappears. Could just be the alcohol. Probably.

Half his team had practically stormed his apartment when he asked them to come clubbing tonight. Outside of practices and games, Ilya has stopped attending team outings. He still goes to clubs and bars; still picks up women. Alone. Much easier that way. Avoids a lot of stupid questions and prodding stares.

Ilya had surprised them, he thinks, by reaching out. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: the text had been sent to the entire group chat. That means anyone on the team could show up.

Which includes Marley.

He stands in the middle of the dance floor, beer clenched in one hand, staring at Ilya with furrowed brows. Like he’s just as surprised to see Ilya as Ilya is to see him.

Ilya moves his tongue around his mouth, trying to find English beyond the fog of panicked Russian. “Marley.”

Marley’s eyes dart between Ilya and the girl he had been dancing with. “Sticking to women tonight?”

Ilya nearly bites his tongue.

Nearly.

“Fuck you.”

He and Marley have tossed those words back and forth for years. He’s never meant it. Neither has Marley. One might even call it a love language; a sign of affection. Fuck you has always meant: I got your back; you’re my best friend; you’re an asshole, but so am I. We’re a perfect fucking pair, huh?

Not now.

The hurt and betrayal have been simmering for the past few weeks with nowhere to go, and the only thing Ilya has ever been taught how to do is break. Everything in his life is fragile as glass. All it takes is a single touch for the cracks to spread.

He shoves at Marley’s chest, hard enough that he stumbles into the group of women behind him. Marley opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Dude, can we just talk?”

His words are nearly swallowed by the music, but Ilya hears. He laughs, strangled and ugly. As if he hasn’t already tried talking to Marley numerous times. As if Marley hasn’t thrown all of his attempts back in his face. As if Ilya hasn’t been enduring his cold shoulder for the last two weeks.

He turns away.

One foot in front of the other. Ilya stumbles slightly, leaning against the bar top for a moment to steady himself — and to snag someone else’s shot, sickly sweet in the back of his throat — before pushing onwards. His fingers have gone numb, eyes crossing as he attempts to walk in a straight line. It’s been a long fucking time since he was this drunk.

He doesn’t bother looking back to see if Marley is following. He knows he is. Can feel the heat of his gaze against his back. Ilya feels pathetic with how desperately wants to cling to it. So long as he feels something.

The back of the club is quieter. He navigates through the maze of couples pressed against the wall, shoulder bumping into a guy who’s practically mauling some poor woman’s neck. She moans, high and reedy, sort of like an amateur porn star.

At least she’s enjoying herself.

He takes a breath of fresh air as soon as he steps through the back door, hands shoved into his pant pockets to hide the faint tremble in his fingers. Snowflakes drift gently in the winter breeze. The cold doesn’t bother him — but it does sharpen his senses somewhat.

“The fuck you want?” Ilya speaks first, because he hates silence. He would much rather Marley start yelling. That’s what his father used to do, before. That’s what Alexei does, now.

He turns to find Marley watching him, stuck halfway through the open door like he’s deciding whether to turn back or not. The bass thumps in the background, discordant. Out of sync. Ilya has the urge to clutch his chest, just to check his own heartbeat.

“Look, I’m—fuck, Roz. I don’t know. Are you okay?”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He sways slightly. “I am fucking amazing.”

“Usually you hold your liquor better. Fucking Connors is shitfaced enough that he called me just to cuss me out.” Marley’s gaze scrapes up and down his body, taking samples of Ilya in the process. Dissecting him. “I know I’ve been a shithead, but…”

“So, what? You see me with one woman and think is back to normal? No. Is not how it works. You will be disappointed to know I still fuck men.”

Marley shakes his head. If he’s surprised by Ilya’s brazen truth, he doesn’t show it. Or maybe Ilya is far too drunk to notice. Shit. He feels nauseous. “Nah, that’s whatever, man. I don’t—I don’t care who you fuck.”

“Okay. You do not care. Is why you ignore me.”

A sound like frustration tears through Marley’s throat. “Look, Roz, I know I’ve been shitty, and you don’t owe me shit, and I get why you felt the need to hide, but dude. I’ve been in your corner for how many fucking years?”

Ilya says nothing, but his brain helpfully supplies an answer.

Five years.

Almost five whole fucking years of friendship. Maybe that is why it hurts so bad.

“When I found out, you wanna know what I thought? I thought, ‘I’ve been a shitty fucking friend. He didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell me.’ I thought about all the crap I’ve said over the years and felt like the biggest piece of shit. If I were you, I wouldn’t tell me either.”

“And now you are even shittier friend,” Ilya scoffs, eyes to the sky. “Con—congrat—чертов английскийFucking English.”

Marley sighs. “I didn’t know how to talk to you, man. I thought we were close, and then I found out I barely fucking knew you at all! That fucking hurts.”

“Oh, boo fucking hoo, Marley!”

“Fuck you, Roz!”

The knot in Ilya’s chest loosens, ever so slightly. He scuffs a shoe against the pavement and stumbles into the brick wall, the fabric of his gold shirt catching in the grooves. Silver glitter rains down. He cuts a glare towards Marley, daring him to laugh.

Marley laughs anyway.

Relief floods through him. Ilya swallows. “You’re still not my type.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Shit, I never thought you were being serious with that.”

“Why does nobody think I’m serious? I am always.”

“Uh huh,” Marley nods. If Ilya didn’t know any better, he’d almost say he looks fond. “And you seriously need me to drag your ass home.”

Ilya shakes his head, immediately regretting it as his vision swims. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool, rough texture of the brick. “Is not so easy. You must beg like bitch.”

A pause. “To give you a ride?”

“No. To forgive.”

Part of him has forgiven Marley already. That shameful, hidden part of him that wants to crawl back at the barest hint of affection. He’s drunk enough to admit that to himself. Not so much to Marley.

Marley snorts, and when Ilya cracks an eye open, his arms are crossed, eyebrows practically touching his hairline. The clock must be nearing midnight, because the moon has risen high enough to cast a white glow across Marley’s face, touching even the darkest corners of the alley. Nothing can hide right now. Not even Ilya.

“You sure I’m not your type? Sounds like you want me on my knees, which, I’m flattered, but—”

Ilya flips him off. “Would be too sloppy. Like a dog.”

He raises his hands, backing off. “Whatever you say. How about I make it up to you by buying you some fuckin’ food?”

The thought of food right now makes his stomach turn, but Ilya tilts his head in consideration. Now that he’s away from the strobe lights and thumping bass, he can feel the oncoming headache pressing behind his eyes. A good meal might help stave off the worst of the hangover, at least.

“You buy me burgers for whole month and we are even.”

Marley smiles. “Fucking deal, man.”

Ilya holds out a hand, half-expecting Marley to shy away from his touch. It’s as much a test as it is a token. To his credit, Marley doesn’t even hesitate. His hand — bigger in size but just as calloused — clasps Ilya’s and tugs him in for a brief, one-armed hug.

“I am sorry, Roz,” Marley says, lower this time. A puff of air grazes the shell of Ilya’s ear and he shivers as Marley pulls away. “Shit, you can even punch me if it makes you feel better. I’ll give you a freebie. I deserve it.”

He chokes on a laugh, slightly terrified at the swell of emotion rising in his chest. “You have too many broken teeth. You want more?”

Marley shrugs. “I have dental coverage, don’t I?”

Ilya’s renewed laughter mixes in with the melody as Marley opens the door and bows mockingly, gesturing for him to go first. He shakes his head, grinning so wide that his cheeks ache. He can’t remember the last time he smiled.

Maybe with Svetlana. Or Hollander.

They push through the crowd, thicker now that midnight is within reach. If he wanted to, Ilya could slip back into the mix and continue partying: downing shots, dancing with girls, chiming in the New Year with his dick wet. This has been his tradition for as long as he can remember.

On the other hand, Ilya has his friend back, and he’s getting a free fucking burger.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Boston Burger Company sits close to the river, nestled between a brand-new Japanese restaurant and rustic coffeehouse. Most of the businesses in this part of the city have closed their doors early for the night. The street is dark and quiet, with just a few stragglers stumbling down the street, drunken laughter bouncing off the red-brick buildings.

The neon ‘open’ sign flickers as Ilya and Marley enter the bustling restaurant. One of the best things about this place is how late they stay open, regardless of whether there’s a holiday. Whenever Ilya leaves the club early enough and he’s not taking someone home, he usually swings by here to pick up a late night burger and fries. The grease helps him sober up, preemptively curing any hangover. He swears by it to anyone who will listen.

Lately, he’s been coming alone.

Having Marley here is nice. Like a piece of his life is slotting back into place. A sense of normalcy.

“You sure you’re not mad I cockblocked you?” Marley asks for the twentieth time. Maybe it’s a remnant of his guilt, or maybe Marley is unused to being the one standing between Ilya and whatever girl he has his eye on. If anything, Marley has been a wingman more than a cockblock over the years — not that Ilya needs a wingman — but standing in the way one time out of hundreds is barely worth mentioning.

Ilya rolls his eyes, sliding into one of the black leather booths hugging the wall. “Do I look angry?”

Marley tilts his head, arms crossed as he leans back and studies Ilya’s face. Fucking idiot. “Honestly? You always look kinda angry. It took me a while to realize you just have—uh, what’s it called? RBF.”

“The fuck is RBF?”

He snaps his fingers. “Resting bitch face.”

“I will kill you.” Ilya grabs a bottle of ketchup, pointing the crusted tip towards Marley. “Take it back.”

“Nah,” Marley cackles. “You don’t have the guts.”

Some old, American rock song blares over the speakers as their waitress sidles up to the booth, her smile a bit too bright beneath the rattan lights. She’s dressed head to toe in black, with a black apron tied around her waist. Her dirty blonde hair sits in a high ponytail, stray curls framing her heart-shaped face. Her eyes brew dark, like storm clouds. She kind of resembles his mother. Barely, but enough for his breath to catch in his throat.

Ilya forces himself to look away.

“Happy New Year! I’m Miranda and I’ll be your server this evening. What can I get for you two?”

He picks up the menu. The letters jumble into an unintelligible mess. He would like to order his usual — so he won’t have to embarrass himself — but his mind has gone completely blank.

Marley throws an arm over the back of the booth, wearing that sleazy grin he must think is charming. “We’ll have two OG burgers, two onion rings, one of your pulled pork mac ‘n cheese egg rolls, and two of the spicy honey barbeque wings, sweetheart.”

Her smile strains. “Sure thing, sir. Anything else?”

Ilya drops the menu and rests his chin on his fist, slowly blinking up at the poor waitress. It hurts to look at her. “I am sorry about him. He is very drunk. Very stupid. But no, that is all, thank you.”

Marley throws his hands up once she’s out of earshot. “What did I do?”

“Many women do not like this word. I don’t know why.” He’s watched enough men be rebuffed because of it. At bars, clubs, restaurants. Women seem to hate that word everywhere.

Even after years of living here, Ilya can’t fully understand using pet names for strangers. In Russia, nicknames are fairly common — same as hockey — but other types of endearments are reserved only for those closest to you. If some random asshole called him Ilyushka or Ilyushenka he would probably knock their teeth in.

And he would never call just anyone котикkitten,^[4] but maybe ‘sweetheart’ in America is closer to дорогойdear^[5] than anything else.

“Well, fuck, I’m from the south. Everyone is sweetheart to me.”

He squints, pointing to himself. “Even me?”

“God, no. You’re what we call the devil.”

A familiar rush of shame clogs his throat and he swallows the emotion down. He knows Marley is only joking, but the word unsettles him; prickles at his skin, leaving him cold. Kind of like that stupid mix between snow and rain he’d endured outside of Hollander’s condo.

Ilya shrugs, feigning indifference. “Eh. My brother calls me this, also.”

Maybe he’s still too drunk. He definitely hadn’t meant for those words to come out. Fuck, how many shots had he taken? The past few hours are a blur.

Whatever expression is on Marley's face, Ilya would rather not bear witness. He keeps his eyes trained on the opposite wall. A black and white, vintage movie poster stares back at him. He's so tired that he can barely make sense of the title. A smear of red sits in the center, resembling blood.

“Shit, dude.” Marley sighs. “I forgot to ask how your family is taking it.”

He snorts. It’s not a stupid question. Most people are unaware of Ilya’s family situation, but the bitterness claws up his throat, regardless. “How you think? I am faggot. Cocksucker. Disgusting. Blah blah blah. I have heard this all my life. Is nothing.”

Marley blanches. “Dude.”

“Is just my brother.”

Alexei has treated Ilya like this for as long as he can remember; as if Ilya owes him a debt for daring to exist. Even now, he still expects Ilya to fork over tens of thousands of dollars each month; to absorb the bullshit and not fight back.

The only thing linking them now are the numbers in his bank account.

And their father.

Who, just this morning, had called to scold Ilya about losing the International Prospect Cup; and last week, had mentioned Ilya’s mother, wondering where she had gone. Whether she would be back soon.

Because his father is sick. Dying. The tethers of his mind snapping, synapses dying, memories fading in slow motion as Ilya helplessly watches from afar.

And if he weren’t sick, well…

His reaction to Ilya’s outing would probably be worse than Alexei’s. But he is sick, so it is not worth thinking about. Alexei can’t be trusted to take care of him alone; and Ilya makes more than enough money to cover his treatment.

Some days, Ilya is grateful for the dementia. If his father were in his right mind, Ilya doubts he would survive the blowout. His father has never been a forgiving man, and nothing is worse to him than being embarrassed by his own flesh and blood.

Other days — like right now — Ilya wishes he could rid himself of this parasitic relationship once and for all. Alexei wouldn’t miss him, and Ilya sure as fuck wouldn’t miss Alexei. His father won’t even recognize him one day. Probably soon.

It would be easier to cut ties now. If only he didn’t fucking care.

The waitress—Miranda—returns with a fully stacked tray. She smiles at Ilya before setting each plate down. Ilya stares at the mountain of food, suddenly less hungry than before. He pokes at the basket of onion rings and sighs.

Marley only speaks once he’s annihilated half of his burger. Mustard smears in his beard, his steady gaze meeting Ilya’s. “Well, hey, you’re my brother. Blood or not, that fucking means something to me.”

Ilya nods, tearing open one of the bastardized egg rolls and sniffing it. His stomach growls. “Mm, yes. You are annoying little brother.”

“Fucker. I'm only six months younger, and I'm trying to be nice!” Marley flips him off, but his usual grin returns. Another piece of normalcy.

“Yes, very annoying.”

He picks up his burger and takes a tentative bite, nearly moaning as his hunger rushes back. They continue eating in comfortable silence, cushioned by the overlapping chatter of other diners and soft riffs of a guitar playing through the speakers on the wall. Most people have come in groups, drifting in from the clubs like Ilya and Marley had, or pre-gaming beforehand.

Across the room, Ilya spots two men sitting together, knees pressed beneath the tabletop, hands laid casually over each other’s thighs. Their friends chat animatedly across from them, laughing and teasing as one leans over to whisper in the other’s ear.

Ilya can practically feel the ghost of Hollander’s breath against his skin. He wonders what it might be like to exist within their little bubble outside of four walls. Would it still feel like just the two of them, if they were surrounded by others?

“Oh, speaking of solid people, I’m sure you still have Jane.” Marley wipes at the mustard with the back of his hand. “You guys are good?”

He blinks. “Uh, yes. We are good.”

At least, he thinks they are. Hollander has been texting him the same as always. Maybe a little more than usual. He rarely asks how Ilya is faring anymore, which is a small relief. Ilya is exhausted enough, dodging those questions from everyone else.

Not that many people ask.

Marley slaps the table. The mustard has smeared even more now. “I swear, one day, you’re gonna have to lock that girl down. Your RBF disappears completely whenever you think of her. I’m not used to you being all sappy. It’s kind of sweet, but also gross.”

It takes Ilya a moment to remember what RBF even means, too distracted by the sudden chaos as the countdown to midnight begins. He rolls his eyes. “And you are just gross. Use fucking napkin, Marley.”

“...6!…5!...4!”

Marley smiles, snagging a handful of brown napkins from the dispenser. “I didn’t hear a denial, Roz.”

“...3!”

“Is impossible.”

His gaze is dragged back towards the table with the two men. One of them has practically planted himself on the other’s lap, arms slung around his shoulders, cheek nuzzling against the top of his head. The scene feels so intimate, but Ilya can’t seem to find the sense to look away.

“...2!”

“But do you want that?”

Hands sliding underneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The hard press of skin against skin. Brown eyes boring into his soul as if they can see the entirety of its contents. Unafraid of the mess within.

“...1! Happy New Year!”

Marley claps his shoulder, words drowned out by the clamor filling the room. Ilya can hear people outside, shouting and whistling alongside the distant crackle of fireworks. He could be hearing all of Boston right now and it would still be reduced to mere background noise as Ilya’s attention hones in on the table across the room.

The two men embrace, slow and sweet. There’s no lack of heat — more of a simmer than a boil — but something feels missing. Desperation, maybe. Almost like they have all the time in the world to explore who and what they are to each other.

Ilya shakes his head, a surge of jealousy hitting him so hard that he has the sudden urge to curl in on himself, or punch a hole in the wall. Marley’s question has no simple answer, because nothing about Ilya’s life can ever be simple.

Still, he wonders what it would be like. To get what he wants for once.

Chapter End Notes

¹ The romanized version of this is durak which is a popular card game in Russia. Important context about this game is that whoever LOSES is known as the 'Fool' and is subject to ridicule from other players (all in good fun). ^{[ return to text ]}

² Shestyorka. The more literal translation is 'six.' This word has a negative and pretty much derogatory meaning and originates from the Russian Mafia. Shestyorka are basically junior associates or errand boys who perform minor tasks, run errands, deliver messages, or gather intelligence. They are often in a probationary stage, not yet full members of the organization, and are expected to prove their loyalty and usefulness. They are referred to by this name because 'six' is the lowest card in a Russian deck of cards. ^{[ return to text ]}

³ Many East Asian countries DO celebrate Chinese/Lunar New Year, but Japan specifically does not. It is one of the only East Asian countries that doesn't, actually. Based on what I could find, this is literally just because Japan adopted the Gregorian calendar and celebrates the new year on January 1st. ^{[ return to text ]}

⁴ Kotik. A diminutive of “cat” (male), “котик” (pronounced kótik) is one of the most-widely used pet names in the Russian language. More flirtatious.^{[ return to text ]}

⁵ Dorogoy (or dorogaya for women). Common term of endearment in Russia. Often used by older folks to those who are younger. Can be used between friends/lovers but often seen as more formal. ^{[ return to text ]}

More notes. I’m a notes girlie.

I know some people might not agree with what I did with Marley here, but I just really need to emphasize that he doesn’t have a problem with Ilya’s sexuality, he’s just a dumb sensitive jock who got all up in his feelings and didn’t know how to hash it out. He’s a good guy, but he’s also still a GUY.

Some of you might be shocked to discover that Marley is YOUNGER than Ilya! I know I sure fucking was. I debated on changing it to fit my own fanon, but I ended up kind of liking the idea of Marley being like an annoying younger brother to Ilya lol. So here we are.

Also, re: Alexei. I know I've kept his reaction off screen so far and that IS intentional. He will show up more later. This is really just a lot for Ilya rn and the less he focuses on Russia the better for him. Mentally speaking. Poor boy.

I’m as slutty as Ilya is, but for comments. Shower me with attention pls <3

Chapter 4: Strength | сила

Chapter Notes

LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLEEEEEEEEE AT ALL-STARS... Please don’t kill me. I claim no responsibility for what happens next.

 

[TW for homophobic language & targeted violence]

JANUARY 2015

Ilya glances up at the sound of skates coming to an abrupt stop in front of him. Players have started approaching more often lately, usually to throw chirps and talk shit, the braver ones blatantly asking if the video was actually him; but sometimes to offer their support, as awkward and forced as it may be. Usually captains who don’t want to look like assholes.

He straightens his back, abandoning pre-game stretches to meet the gaze of whoever felt the need to approach him. When he spots Scott Hunter, of all people, Ilya relaxes. Hunter isn’t known for being an asshole; can barely throw a decent chirp. He is probably safe — for now.

“Hey, Rozanov.”

“They still let dinosaurs play?”

Hunter rolls his eyes, but Ilya catches the nervous twitch in his mouth, the too-tight grip around his stick. “Funny. Remind me why you never became a comedian?”

“My humor is better in Russian,” Ilya shrugs. “Americans would not appreciate, I think.”

“Right.”

They stand in the middle of the rink, surrounded by dozens of players while the stands of San Francisco’s Chase Center slowly begin to fill. Being chosen as one of the captains for All-Stars had been a surprise. Ilya suspects that the decision had been made a while ago, and the League had simply been too lazy to make any changes — or make any decision that might paint them as bigoted — but another part of him wonders if this is another one of their attempts to distract the masses, especially with Hollander captaining the other team.

His and Hollander’s rivalry tends to do the job, whenever they need it to. But in this case, he thinks the masses would be a lot more distracted if they didn’t see Ilya’s face every five minutes.

Time drags as Ilya waits for Hunter to say his piece, but when a few more moments pass and Hunter just stares at him, irritation prickles under his skin. “Fucking spit it out, Hunter. I’m not museum exhibit like you.”

Hunter blinks, as if shaking himself from his thoughts. He exhales a short breath. “Wow, you really don’t make this easy, do you?”

Ilya shrugs again.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to say that you didn’t deserve to be outed like that. The whole situation is pretty fucked, honestly. Not—you know—but the reaction to it. Fucked up.”

Now, it is Ilya’s turn to stare. Most of the time, when another player offers their ‘support,’ they focus on how surprised they were when they found out. How they would never have believed Ilya would put his dick inside another man — not if they hadn’t seen the video — because he hadn't seemed like ‘the type.’

Nobody has told Ilya he didn’t deserve it.

“I just mean,” Hunter sighs, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. His eyes dart from side to side, probably checking to see who’s nearby. He seems scared, maybe. Definitely nervous. “You deserved to choose whether or not to come out, and with the way the League is handling everything…just know that not everyone is an asshole.”

Somehow, the word ‘asshole’ leaving Hunter’s mouth is enough to shake him from his stupor. Ilya snorts, tilting his head to the side as he searches Hunter’s surprisingly earnest face. Ilya won’t confirm what Hunter is saying, but he won’t deny it either.

“I thought I was asshole?”

“Oh, you are.” Hunter smirks, as if they are sharing some sort of inside joke. “But not as bad as some of these other assholes, apparently.”

Huh.

That is new, coming from Hunter.

Unable to resist himself, Ilya glides closer, the slight widening of Hunter’s eyes worth it as he skates a slow circle around him. “Careful, Hunter, or I might think you are flirting with me.”

He skates away before Hunter can respond, a sharp thrill running down his spine. Ilya hasn’t stopped chirping over the past month — in fact, he thinks he probably does more now than before. But each time has been rife with tension, because Ilya never knows who might drop gloves because they can’t handle the newly minted bisexual gay player throwing suggestive comments at them.

A large, ugly part of him wants them to start a fight, especially if he can’t start the fight himself because of optics. He wants them to show their true colors. The frailty of their confidence. Ilya will poke as many holes as he needs to until somebody pops.

Regardless, he likes not having to worry about Hunter.

It’s freeing, in a way.

After years of surviving off clandestine hookups, Ilya likes to think he has a knack for knowing when someone is queer. He’s trained himself to pick up on the subtle cues. A tilted chin here, a lingering gaze there. Certain ways of phrasing things, like speaking in code.

The queer scene in America, as it turns out, is not so different from how Russia used to be. Hunter is just like him. Same secret. It feels hypocritical to say he’s surprised. But at least this new piece of information makes Hunter a little more interesting — especially when he has no idea that Ilya has figured him out.

Yeah, he can have fun with this.

A shadow falls in line beside him. Ilya doesn’t have to check this time. Hollander’s body heat is as familiar to him as his own, thawing the ever-present chill from his bones with seamless ease. Ilya tries not to lean into it.

“What was that about? Hunter looks like he’s seen a ghost."

Ilya smirks. “He wants to flirt with me, I think.”

Shane’s movements stutter. Barely enough to notice, but Ilya does. “That’s not funny.”

“Who says I am joking?” Ilya swivels so he can properly face Hollander. A month has passed since they last saw each other. He deserves to get his fill. “Many men would like to approach me. I am very appro—how you say?”

“Approachable.”

“Yes, that.”

“Okay, but. Scott Hunter?”

For one insane, delirious moment, Ilya thinks — or hopes — that Hollander might actually be jealous. A smile spreads, unbidden, at the thought. Shane’s brows furrow, in confusion or reprimand, and Ilya immediately tamps the giddiness down. He taps his stick against Hollander’s helmet. Once, twice.

“любимыйMy lover. Your door is the only one I will be knocking on, yes?”

Hollander looks surprised for a moment, before his entire body uncoils, expression smoothing as he nods. “Yeah, okay. 145.”

He reaches out a hand between them, and Ilya stares for three whole seconds, panic rising in the back of his mind, before he realizes what Hollander is doing.

A handshake. Of course.

Because they are professionals, and people are watching.

Ilya clears his throat, gripping Hollander’s hand. Handshakes remind him too much of standing in a stiff suit at his father’s side, or the reluctant lineup after a game. He squeezes once before letting go, briefly wishing he could linger on the soft pads of Hollander’s fingers beneath his bulky gloves.

“Remember not to be sore loser. You will get reward either way.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.” Ilya smiles and winks, the gesture mostly hidden by his visor, but Hollander’s frown is enough to know that he’s been caught. He laughs, skating away.

They had spent maybe a little too long talking on the ice. Not that Ilya cares, but Hollander does. Usually. Probably more, now that Ilya has become a talking point for others within the League. For the fans.

The invisible eyes on them — from players and fans alike — makes his skin itch from the scrutiny. They will no doubt wonder about that interaction. Everything in his life has been shoved under a microscope. Ilya sort of wants to curl his body around Hollander and snarl at them to back off.

They don’t deserve to know. They don’t deserve any part of this.

He shakes those thoughts away. If Hollander was worried about what they thought, he would not have approached Ilya. He probably analyzed every outcome before making the play.

One of the defensemen on his team, Lundin, tosses an arm around his shoulder as soon as Ilya gets close enough. He juts his chin towards Hollander, whose back is facing them as he speaks to Hunter on center ice, probably about their strategy.

Ilya valiantly resists staring at his ass.

“What did Hollander want? He give you a problem?”

Ilya shakes his head. Lundin is one of the few players who has treated Ilya normally. In fact, he had hugged Ilya the first time they met,[1] which was approximately twelve hours ago. Lundin had been wearing nothing more than a towel at the time, had whispered something Swedish in his ear, though Ilya has no idea what.

It's probably the most normal interaction he's had in a while.

“Hollander is fine. He said sorry for beating us ahead of time and I said no, you will be sore loser and I will make you cry tonight. Boring stuff.”

Now that he thinks about it, Ilya would really enjoy making Hollander cry. He recalls the bathroom in Las Vegas. A memory of shining brown eyes, of tears clinging to dark eyelashes, refusing to fall. Ilya would have loved to chase the tears with his tongue. Like salt after tequila.

Lundin laughs. “Good. I am glad. I would hate to break such a pretty face.”

Ilya blinks, turning to stare at him. That has to be a chirp. Most other players tend to give Hollander shit for being a pretty boy. Maybe Lundin is one of them. As far as chirps go, it’s not the worst thing he could say, but Ilya’s temper flares, anyway.

He remembers calling Hollander pretty, years ago, and Hollander assuming he was chirping rather than telling the truth. How many players have thrown his looks against him? How many have poisoned him into thinking being pretty is more of an insult than a compliment?

Ilya has fared well over the years, fitting into the masculine mold — seen as more rugged and handsome to the masses than anything close to pretty — and he thinks part of this image has protected him so far.

The same would not be true for Hollander.

“You think he is pretty?”

“Uh,” Lundin tilts his head, assessing Hollander from afar. Ilya grips his stick so hard that the fiber creaks. “Yes?”

Ilya opens his mouth, before snapping his jaw shut. Lundin seems confused, but genuine in his response. Part of Ilya is jealous at how easily he says it. He wishes he could say the words in English. What harm could it do, admitting that he finds Hollander pretty? Even if the word barely scratches the surface, he wants others to see what he sees.

But he can’t.

He shrugs the defenseman off, skating towards the box. “You have terrible taste, Lundin.”

Lundin follows close behind, undeterred. “Ah, come on, Rozanov! My taste is good, I think. You are weird. Everyone thinks Hollander is pretty.”

He is almost positive that the rest of them aren’t saying this as a compliment. Maybe it’s the language barrier. Ilya hadn’t understood at first, either, how the tone of a word can change its meaning entirely. Lundin’s English is on par with his own, but Lundin hasn’t lived in the U.S. nearly as long. He’s still learning.

Ilya sighs. “Он прекраснее жизни.He is more beautiful than life.”

Saying the words in Russian satisfies the itch, somewhat.

Two of his other teammates — Barrett and Bogrov — are already in the box when he and Lundin step inside. Ilya had nearly forgotten that he had another Russian on his team. Panic curdles his stomach, worsened by the fucking burger he’d had for lunch. Both of them stare as he passes by.

Bogrov’s eyes are narrowed into slits. The look reminds him of Alexei in some distant, threatening way that sets alarm bells off in his head.

Ilya bites his inner cheek and continues towards the tunnel, hoping against hope that Bogrov hadn’t heard him.

⋆⁺₊❅.

If Shane had to choose a least favorite part of hockey — and this is strictly gun-to-the-head, tip of the tongue response — All-Stars would be it.

The rules are too lax. Nobody takes the game as seriously as they normally do. For most players, the weekend is basically an excuse to get drunk and trash hotel rooms. Shane is constantly having to manage men he’s never spoken to outside of the occasional chirp, which means the team dynamics are never what he wants them to be. Not to mention that the whole event takes away from actual time he could spend training for playoffs.

But he is honored to be invited each year, and to be named as one of the captains this year. Playing against Rozanov is always a bonus, though Shane can’t help but wonder what it would be like for them to play on the same team for once. Same line.

Meeting Rozanov at center ice is as familiar to him as breathing. Shane knows exactly how Ilya’s teeth shine beneath the stadium lights when he smiles; and the exact angle Rozanov holds his stick, perpendicular to Shane’s.

Outside of those two constants, Shane rarely knows what to expect. Like what chirp Rozanov will use to try and throw him off his game, or which direction he will try to move the puck. Each time is different. Exciting.

This time is not like the others.

Rozanov’s smile has disappeared. He skates up to Shane with his head down, jaw tense. Gloved fingers clench around his stick like he’s handling a weapon, rather than an extension of himself. It’s a drastic change from how he’d acted less than an hour ago, when Shane had finally worked up the nerve to approach. Rozanov had chirped at him in the middle of the rink, winking and smiling and laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Shane glances at the referee before tapping Rozanov’s stick with his own. “You okay?”

No response.

But he does tap back.

“Did someone say something?”

Ilya shakes his head, eyes on the ice. The silence drifts between them, pressing between his ribs. Seeing Ilya shut down reminds Shane far too much of the Olympics; and the cold shoulder he had used to push Shane away. The situation had called for it, of course, and Shane had been stupid for trying to cross that boundary in the first place.

If Rozanov were distancing himself from Shane because of the scandal, then he would have acted the same when Shane approached him earlier. But he hadn’t.

So what’s changed?

His gaze drifts towards the other players on Rozanov’s team, which consists of a pretty solid group this year. Matti Jalo is the best defenseman in the entire League, and Troy Barrett — despite his unfortunate friendship with Kent — is a brilliant forward. Carter Vaughan is Hunter’s right wing on the Admirals, practically a golden retriever in human form, and had been the best choice for Assistant Captain.

Shane is less familiar with Lundin. He’s too new to the roster, which had made it all the more surprising when he’d been voted in by fans alongside Barrett. He doesn’t know much about Bogrov, either, except for the fact that he’s Russian. Maybe playing with someone from his home country has been stressful? Shane knows how sore of a subject Russia is, especially now.

Or maybe someone from Shane’s team. His players are probably worse. Drapeau and Houde are, at least. Shane has barely been able to stomach sharing a locker room with them. Their shared bigotry and hatred of Rozanov seems to have turned them into fast friends.

If nobody said anything, then maybe they did something?

Or maybe Shane had done something? But what could he have done?

He isn’t given much more time to think. The referee drops the puck and Rozanov smacks it to the left, officially starting the game. Shane chases after him, frantic thoughts settling into white noise as muscle memory takes over. All that exists are the red and blue lines and the ice beneath his skates and the familiar silhouette of Rozanov’s body gliding in front of him. The puck in his possession.

Shane steals it seconds later, but Lundin checks him in the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. The whistles sound before he can attempt to regain his footing. The lines change. Shane catches his breath, rinses his mouth with water. Repeat. His focus remains on the puck, and inevitably, wherever the puck goes, Rozanov is never far behind. Shane feels the heat of his body, even meters away, attuned to his presence as intimately as he is to the grip of his stick.

The score hits 2-2 by the end of the second round. Other players may not take All-Stars seriously, but there’s a graveness in the arena tonight, led by Rozanov himself. As if he has everything to prove and even more to lose.

The few times Shane does hear someone from his team chirp at Rozanov, his own blood runs cold, strides faltering. Houde’s words are especially vicious, tossing increasingly creative slurs at Rozanov without a care for who hears. The referees either can’t hear or don’t care enough to penalize him for game misconduct. Nobody ever enforces Rule 601e3.^[2]Shane knows better than most.

Rozanov matches Houde’s vicious energy, checking him one, two, three times against the boards in rapid succession, lips pressed close enough to his ear that Shane knows he’s giving as good as he gets. Probably better. He dances away before Houde can get a swing in, while Houde’s face grows progressively redder as the game continues.

Come to think of it, Rozanov has been playing this way ever since the leak. Shane just hasn’t been on the ice with him to witness up close. The aggressive checks, toeing the line between clean and dirty; the hiss of air escaping through clenched teeth as he pushes himself out of each defenseman’s reach; the erratic way he maneuvers the puck towards the goal.

Playing with Rozanov — the act of chasing and being chased — normally gives Shane an adrenaline rush unlike anything else. Except maybe hooking up with him.

Not now.

Right now, it feels like trying to corner a wounded animal.

Rozanov snarls something Russian under his breath the next time Shane gets close enough. Sweat streams down his face like ice melt, curls plastering to his forehead. The sight would be breathtaking to behold, if Shane wasn’t so fucking concerned, which is disorienting enough on its own.

The whistle blows. Shane’s team draws a power play as Barrett is sent to the penalty box. Rozanov wins the face off, tearing down the ice. Possession of the puck changes again as Hunter swoops in. Rozanov growls, swiveling in a graceful one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn. In another life, he would have made one hell of a figure skater.

Shane sprints to catch up to Hunter, receiving the puck moments later as Hunter blindly passes in his direction. The goal is within tasting distance, and Shane can practically see the flecks of green in Bogrov’s eyes as they widen, stance shifting in slow motion.

Too slow.

The puck hits the top left corner of the net. The buzzer sounds. Shane’s team wins with a final score of 3-2. He breathes a sigh of relief, allowing his taut muscles to uncoil momentarily.

But something is wrong.

He senses the shift in the air, a sharp prickle of wrongness as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The arena sits, deathly quiet in the face of Shane’s glory. He glances at Bogrov, the only person in proximity to him, and notices the gray pallor to his face, his helmet tossed to the side like a forgotten thing. Even his mouth has folded into a thin, harsh line as he stares at something — or someone — beyond Shane’s shoulder.

His stomach plummets.

He had lost Rozanov in his mad dash to the goal, but that doesn’t have to mean it’s him. It could be literally any player, it could be—

Shouting erupts behind him. He recognizes Hunter’s and Carter’s voices blending together, enraged in ways he’s never heard. Not from the two of them.

“Shit, what the fuck, Houde?! He didn’t even have the puck!”

“That was a dirty fucking move and you know it! You’re such a homophobic piece of shit that you tried to kill him?!”

Houde’s voice raises, words bouncing around Shane’s skull, unable to process beyond the deafening roar of blood in his ears. He stands, frozen in place, too afraid to turn around. His breath stutters as he imagines all of the ways Rozanov could be hurt. Is he awake? Is he breathing? Shane hasn’t heard him speak, a telling enough sign on its own. Rozanov would never miss an opportunity to add his two cents. Not if he can help it.

Fuck.

A hand smacks at his helmet, thick fingers curling around his chin strap and pulling. Shane blinks up to find Bogrov’s grim expression inches away, eyes trained on the scene. “He is okay. They are putting him on board now.”

He shakes his head, unable to speak or breathe or think beyond the image of Rozanov lying motionless on the ice. He’s not supposed to be motionless — especially not here. The guy’s a fucking shark. Chasing and being chased because he needs the movement to breathe just as much as Shane does. He can’t stop moving; he has to keep moving.

Anything else is impossible to imagine.

“Hollander.”

Shane flinches, attempting to pull away, but Bogrov’s hold on his helmet only tightens. The Russian accent soothes as much as it breaks him. So familiar, yet so different. The same blending of consonants, but thicker. A harsher pronunciation of his name. He’s used to the syllables curling together, pillowed in the fractional space between his and Rozanov’s mouths. This is all wrong, wrong, wrong.

“You will visit hospital, yes?”

Shane nods, vision blurring.

“Good. Then pull yourself together. Now.” Bogrov releases his hold, and, like a cord being cut, Shane’s body nearly collapses in on itself. He braces himself on his knees, trying to catch his breath and blink away the tears.

Pull yourself together.

He can do that. He does that every day.

People are still here, watching. Waiting for him to react. Shane has to act normal. Players get injured all the time. He’s seen his fair share of whimpering men being carried away on stretchers. This is no different. At worst, Rozanov might have a concussion or a broken bone. He might be out for the rest of the season, but that’s the best anyone could ask for. It could always be worse.

Please don’t let it be worse.

Shane pumps one leg, and then the other, mechanically pushing himself towards the box. The rest of his team is already there, tense and silent, waiting for him. Houde is the only one missing.

Hunter’s eyes land on him immediately. He might be Shane’s A.C. here, but he’s a Captain through and through. He knows when a player is down; when they need to be pulled from the ice. Even if they try to hide it, or go down kicking and screaming.

For the first time, Shane wants someone to pull him, and he doesn’t have the willpower to put up any sort of fight right now.

He can’t be here.

Hunter must see it, too. He nods once, before jutting his chin towards the exit. “Hit the showers, Hollander. I’ll take the press.”

Putting Hunter on press would no doubt invite questions, especially since Shane was the one who made the winning shot. But they will inevitably ask about Rozanov’s injuries — which Shane had purposefully avoided seeing — as well as the dirty move that Houde had made, which again, he hadn’t witnessed.

Hunter is the better choice. He’ll know what to say.

But that prickle of fear hits, too loud to ignore. Does Hunter know? Do the others? Can they see it on his face? Bogrov had had a front row seat, but how many others had witnessed Shane’s silent meltdown?

Shane had been too slow to cover his own bleeding heart. Shit, had Rozanov been bleeding?

He opens his mouth, a scream building in the back of his throat as forced words scrape against the soft, vulnerable flesh. “Where’s Houde?”

“He’s already been called up. Hopefully they’ll suspend him, at the very least. What he did was fucked.”

“Okay.”

Shane wants to believe the League will do the right thing, but he isn’t sure anymore. He doesn’t ask for a play-by-play. Not here; not now. Once he makes it into the privacy of his own hotel room, he can dissect the replays and freak out accordingly.

Alone.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Ilya rouses slowly, head throbbing as his eyes are blinded by white stadium lights. Multiple people are yelling, but the words are too muffled to comprehend. His knee aches distantly. The ringing in his ears won’t go away.

He has no idea how he ended up on the ground.

One moment, he was skating, and the next, he wasn’t. The blank spaces refuse to fill themselves in. Panic floats to the surface as Ilya attempts to get up and moving again; to finish the game. He was playing a game, right? A flurry of hands push him back down and Ilya hears himself snarl, gloved hands uselessly grappling against his captors.

“Stay down.” A Swedish accent. “They are coming with a stretcher, ja?”

Ilya knows someone Swedish is on his team, but the name escapes him for the moment. His body relaxes. Just a fraction. “что случилось?What happened?”

“What’s he saying?” Another voice joins in. Unfamiliar. Ilya can’t see enough to know who it is.

The other voice breathes out a strained laugh before responding. “I do not speak Russian. Can you understand me, Rozanov?”

“Да.Yes.”

“Okay, I know that one,” he sighs. “That is good.”

“Где Шейн?Where is Shane?”

Nobody responds for long enough that the panic returns. Where did Shane go? Is he okay? The weight on his chest remains, so they must still be holding him down. Why won’t they fucking answer him?

More voices enter his periphery, rapidfire and clinical. He can practically smell the antiseptic already, stomach roiling. Somebody holds his neck while another carefully wraps it in a brace. A hot, burning pain in his knee forces a grunt through his teeth as they lift him onto the stretcher.

A concerned face hovers above, thick eyebrows drawn into a deep V. The white lights form a disjointed halo around his head. “Where does it hurt?”

Ilya loosens his jaw. “Мое колено.My knee.”

He breathes through the pain as the medics carry him away. The concerned face and blinding white disappear behind a steel red door. He tries not to think about how bad this could be. If his knee is fucked, then Ilya will be out for the rest of the season. Maybe longer.

And if he’s off the ice…

What makes him worth keeping?

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane gives himself two hours.

Two hours to watch the replays about two dozen times. Two hours to brave social media and find videos from various perspectives, of which there are too many, just so he can analyze the exact angle that Houde had hit Rozanov; the exact moment his skate had kicked Rozanov’s feet from under him;^[3] the unnatural way that Rozanov’s knee had bent as he fell; the deafening thud of his helmet smacking the ice.

Two hours to freak out in the privacy of his hotel room about the pointed silence afterwards, filled only by Hunter dropping his gloves and Vaughan spitting in Houde’s face as fists began flying. Indiscriminate and wild. Protective in a way that Shane had never expected, especially not from Hunter, who hates Rozanov openly and proudly. Two referees to pull them apart, whisking Houde away as other teammates gaped at the scene. Maybe in surprise, or confusion.

But his brain hardly has the space to dwell on any of that, too sucked into the collapsed heap of limbs on the ice, Rozanov’s face hidden almost entirely by his helmet’s visor. Shane had been grateful for the privacy when Rozanov had winked at him before, but now, he just wishes somebody would rip it off. Let him see.

He needs to see.

So, he rewinds and rewatches and recounts the seconds that Rozanov is down. Rewinds again as he searches for that twitch of life — right there, in his other leg — as Rozanov stirs back to consciousness. He glances at the time stamp. Twenty-two seconds. Long enough to be a pretty fucking bad sign. A major concussion, maybe. Shane can’t let himself think anything worse. He can’t let himself look at Rozanov’s limp knee as they lift him onto the board, his entire body tensing and coiling as Lundin speaks to him and Barrett hovers off to the side, face pale and gaunt. There’s no way to know what’s being said, and Shane hates not knowing.

He regrets not turning around. Now, all he has are other people’s accounts because he’d been too much of a coward to see for himself. Now, all he has is the memory of a grim expression and tight grip on his chin strap as Bogrov had attempted to smack some sense into him. Like Shane was still a rookie, unmoored by the realities of the game, instead of the fact that it was Rozanov. Specifically Rozanov. Only Rozanov.

Isn’t that how it always goes?

The memory alone is enough to double his panic. Bogrov had been there, sitting front row to Shane’s stupid heart cutting itself open and bleeding — bright red with the oxygen he hadn’t been able to keep in his lungs — in front of thousands of spectators. Everything must have been so fucking plain on his face, because Shane had been too slow. Unable to stitch himself back together in time.

The taste of victory appears to be too decadent for Montreal fans to linger any longer than a brief question mark, punctuated by about a million exclamation points; and fans of Boston are too distressed by his injury to pay any attention to Shane.

There are…some videos of him. When he searches. People are slightly confused about his delayed reaction, and even more confused by Bogrov’s interference, but he finds no direct shots of his face. The visor does its job as the white stadium lights reflect back towards the camera. Hiding his face just as thoroughly as Rozanov’s did.

Still. He panics, throwing his phone across the bed like it might burn him, wincing as it bounces off the mattress and clatters onto the floor. He checks the time on the analog clock beside him. 12:23. Far more than two hours have passed.

Sleep feels impossible.

Not when Rozanov is in the hospital. Not when Shane has no idea what his injuries are. Not when the entire fucking world is allowed to wince in sympathy, express their indignation, call foulplay and demand Houde’s suspension, and as always, Shane is the exception. He’s not allowed.

As he makes his way downstairs, he thinks about that very first time in Saskatchewan, meeting Rozanov in the frigid December cold. Shane had shook his hand twice, far too mesmerized by the sight of pink lips pursing around the end of a cigarette and the puff of smoke that obscured his face from view to realize.

He remembers another hotel gym, smaller than this one, but still big enough that Rozanov choosing the bike beside him stood out; the roaring in his blood that could only be half-explained by the competitive workout. He had been mesmerized, again, by the slow drip of sweat down Rozanov's carotid artery, seducing Shane in a way that felt as intentional as it was effortless. Making him crave something he never thought he wanted. The feeling had been so new, yet so familiar, that Shane had bolted back to his hotel room, confused and angry as he stood in the shower, watching the remnants of his shame disappear down the shower drain.

Shane keeps his eyes fixed on his kneecaps as they pump up and down, ridding himself of as much of this nervous energy as he can. Rozanov's injured knee probably means he's out for the season. That means no games against each other; no secret hookups; no way for Shane to get his fix. The thought of going without makes his chest ache in the same way it only ever does when Shane's routine gets disrupted. He doesn't like change. He doesn't like being caught off guard.

Someone sits on the bench beside him, and Shane glances up in surprise. Bogrov's gaze is already on him, sharp and assessing.

“You cannot sleep?”

Shane yanks his ear buds out, letting them dangle around his neck as he pauses his workout and catches his breath. His thighs burn; the good kind of burn. The kind that makes him feel more connected to his body. He shakes his head.

Bogrov hums and nods. “Me too.”

“First All-Stars loss sucks.” Shane's voice is too loud in the quiet room. He winces. “But you blocked a lot of our goals. You're a good goalie.”

A small, humorless smile appears, before disappearing altogether. “Thank you, but that is not why.”

Right.

His captain had gotten fucking injured, but Bogrov had still taken the time to talk Shane down from a full-blown panic attack. To say he’s surprised at Bogrov’s sensitivity would be an understatement.

And he hasn’t said anything about Rozanov, yet. Which has to count for something.

“Um, I never got to say thank you. For earlier. Uh. I was just surprised.” His excuse sounds brittle, even to his own ears, but Shane has nothing better to say. “Has anyone heard from him?”

Bogrov stares at him for a long moment. “I was hoping you might have update for me. You did not go to hospital?”

Shane winces. Again. “Oh, uh, visiting hours don't start until tomorrow. I called and asked. I'll visit him when I can. What Houde did was messed up.”

Bringing up Houde gives him a better excuse. Shane is the captain, and he’s pissed that one of his players would pull such a backhanded move. He will visit Rozanov tomorrow like any other captain might visit an injured rival. Apologetic and cordial, that’s all. He’s not wrong for wanting to make sure Rozanov is okay. Anyone else in his position would be upset.

He inhales through his nose. Thinking along those lines brings some sort of simplicity, at least. Establishes a boundary that had begun to blur.

Truthfully, Shane is grateful for visiting hours. They act as another boundary, telling him when he can and cannot visit, giving firm starting and stopping points for him to follow. What little comfort it brings is negated by the bone deep panic as the replays loop in his mind, but if he could just grab a few hours of sleep tonight, Shane might be less frazzled by the time he faces Rozanov.

Off the ice.

Without sex.

There are very few times they have faced each other without the competition of hockey or heat of the moment shoved in-between them. Shane is kind of terrified at the prospect.

Bogrov shrugs, not saying much else. He grabs a dumbbell from the rack and starts doing presses. Shane resumes his own workout, pumping his legs harder in an attempt to regain the brief calm he’d felt before. His body aches, but Shane barely feels it as his thoughts race, faster and faster until there’s no hope of catching up to them.

Rozanov is hurt.

His contract might be in jeopardy.

Russia looms like a hanging threat.

And the only thing Shane can think about is how boring the rest of the season will be without him. How fucking out of his mind he feels from the mere thought of not being able to have Rozanov’s dick inside him, like he’s some sort of fucking sex junkie looking for a hit.

He slams the emergency stop button on the bike, breathing heavily through his nose. Bogrov makes quiet, barely-there grunts beside him as he continues lifting.

Bogrov had grown up in Russia, too. Played hockey there. He must know a little more about what it’s like. He can give Shane some contextual evidence, something more concrete than the panicked, half-hearted research he’s done in the middle of the night.

“Can I, uh…can I ask you something?” His voice breaks the quiet, echoing slightly.

“Okay,” Bogrov grunts, sitting up and placing his weights to the side. “Ask.”

Shane worries at his bottom lip, wondering if his curiosity might be his downfall. Asking these questions might give away far too much, but Shane hates not knowing.

“What is it like, in Russia?”

Dark eyebrows rise slightly. “It is…fine.”

Right. That question might be too broad. “What was it like, growing up there?”

“Hard,” is the immediate response. “The end of the Union came when I am little kid. Money and food problems. The, ah, government, tried to fix their wrongs. Very difficult to do. But,” his face softens, eyes locking onto a distant memory. “Was not all bad. Peterburg is nice place to live. My father was a fisherman. We lived well.”

Shane nods along. “And hockey?”

He laughs. “Ah, hockey in Russia is like hockey in Canada. Very popular. We are like stars. And Canada is biggest rival. You do not know?”

Of course he knows.

He runs his hands over his sweatpants, drying the sweat. “I mean, I guess I do. I just…wondered what it was like to grow up there. So, you enjoyed your childhood?”

Bogrov’s eyes glint with something dangerously close to knowing. “I cannot speak for others, but, yes. My childhood was good. I go home often. I am safe.”

“Safe?”

Bogrov sighs, tipping his head towards the ceiling. He twists a ring on his middle finger, the polished silver glinting in the overhead lights. The same kind of cross as Rozanov’s necklace^[4] is engraved into the center, cyrillic letters circling the outside. “Russia is safe for me. Not for others. It is…new and not new. Worse, now, I think. I remember watching Verka Serduchka^[5]as kid. Man who dresses as woman. It was…not big deal. Now, it is big deal because government makes it big deal.”

Shane swallows. “Oh.”

The conversation falters, thread hanging loose. He doesn’t want to pick it up, doesn’t want to know, or hear about how, exactly, things might be worse nowadays. Even though he already knows. He’s seen the articles. He knows.

Somehow, hearing a confirmation from someone who grew up there makes it more real. In a way, he’s almost grateful to Bogrov. If Shane had asked Rozanov, he would have been brushed off again or treated like he was crazy for being concerned in the first place.

Bogrov continues, undeterred. “Rozanov says he is not like this, to protect himself, I think. I do not know him well, but if this is true, he must know Russia will not be kind to him. He is probably scared. Many people would be.”

“What would it be like?” He refuses to add ‘for him’ to the end. The words hang in the air, regardless, as tangible as his own reflection in the mirror.

“He is big public figure,” Bogrov tilts his head, thinking. “His father is in police. That means it is more difficult to hide, and the government will not forget. He would be, ah, watched closely. Texts, phone calls, location. Even before all this, they probably follow him. Make sure he is good for Russian image. I do not know much more than that.”

A few things click into place. Rozanov ignoring his texts during the Olympics and his standoffish behavior in the stadium are the first to come to mind. Back then, Shane had gleaned the bare minimum context from Vaughan’s comment — enough to back off without a fight — but he hadn’t known. Hadn’t thought to look deeper until he was already back in Montreal, and by then Rozanov had already shut him out.

He thinks of Rozanov’s comment, years before, when Shane had won MVP. He had been upset at the time, and Shane had assumed that it was about losing to him.

Not everything is about you, Hollander.

And then Rozanov had mentioned going home. And Shane had replied, ‘must be nice.’

Like a fucking idiot.

“It is nice that you worry,” Bogrov says, standing up. He squeezes Shane’s shoulder as he passes by, thumb digging into his collarbone. Grounding him. “He is human being. You are human being. Rivalry should not get in the way of decency, yes?”

Shane forces a smile, mind reeling. “Yeah. Of course.”

Bogrov leaves the gym, whistling to himself. Shane sits on the stationary bike for so long that the automatic lights shut off on their own. He doesn’t bother turning them back on. He sits there until his back begins to ache, until his eyes are scraped raw from staring into space.

Two hours.

That’s how much sleep he gets.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Ilya comes out of surgery high on anesthesia, which, instead of being fun, only worsens his nausea, making the room spin like one of those stupid fucking teacup rides Marley once tried persuading him to sit on. Afterwards, the dumb fuck had barfed a mixture of half-digested blue slushie and hot dogs into the nearest trash can, and Ilya had been happy with his decision to tell Marley to fuck off.

He imagines this is a lot like that.

Except the closest thing Ilya has is a pink bucket.

Bile comes up as he dry heaves, his stomach too empty for anything else. At least it’s not green mush. The door opens moments later to reveal a different nurse from this morning. This one is a brunette with blue eyes. He distantly wonders how many nurses he'll have to deal with before they release him.

She winces at him apologetically as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You have a visitor, Ilya.”

Ilya perks up for all of two seconds before LeClaire’s tired smile appears behind her shoulder. He had been hoping for Hollander, maybe. Stupidly.

“You look like shit, kid.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, I feel amazing.” Ilya rasps, setting the bucket on the nearby table with a little too much force. The nurse immediately replaces it with a new one. Another whiff of antiseptic hits his nose as soon as she gets close enough. His stomach turns.

LeClaire enters with his hands shoved into his suit jacket, eyes roaming the room as if he’s never stepped foot in a hospital before. He smiles and thanks the nurse as she leaves. Not that she had done much. Ilya has asked twice for anti-nausea meds and has nothing to show for it.

“Houde is suspended. Three games.”

He closes his eyes, fighting the urge to roll them. “Yay.”

Ilya couldn’t care less about what happens to Houde. Not when it’s his entire career on the line. He had known that there would be nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Slew-footing might be illegal, but a lot of players make illegal moves every day. The consequences rarely surpass the action.

And Ilya is still alive, isn’t he?

The concussion isn’t as bad as it could be, but with a torn ACL and reconstructive surgery, the recovery time is up to six months, and that’s the bare fucking minimum. He doesn’t want to hear what LeClaire is here to say. The elephant in the room is fucking big enough. Ilya doesn’t need to be a genius to know he’s out for the rest of the season. Maybe more.

Maybe this is the end.

“Unfortunately, Toronto hates to admit when their players fuck up. But,” LeClaire presses on, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. “Boston gets a consolation prize, at least. Obviously, you’ll be on LTIR for a while, so the owners decided to put in a request for Troy Barrett. I believe you’ve already met. He was on your team at All-Stars, and he’s one of Toronto’s best rookies. Fair is fair, right?”

Ilya hums, eyes focusing on a random brown spot on the ceiling.

How is he supposed to respond? Thanks for replacing me so quickly and coming in person just to tell me? Thanks for choosing a kid who seems hellbent on following in Kent’s shoes? Fuck that.

Barrett is young and talented, and he will probably take Ilya’s spot on the first line, or start as Marley’s right wing, and then he will take them to playoffs, maybe win the cup, and Boston will decide that they no longer need Ilya maxing out their cap and causing scandals.

Why should he be grateful?

LeClaire sighs. “I’ve spoken with the owners. They know your track record. Hell, you won us a cup last year. They don’t want to lose you.”

Even doped out on anesthesia and painkillers and a concussion, Ilya can read between the lines. “But you do not know if they will keep me.”

“You just gotta work hard on recovery. Prove to them what you’re worth, Rozanov. I know you can do it.”

Ilya nearly scoffs. His worth consists of a seven figure contract and a Stanley Cup; hundreds of shots and assists to his name; dozens of records set and broken and kept, with only one person good enough to steal his reign. Ilya’s entire career can be broken down into numbers that very few players can match.

Before him, the Bears hadn’t made the playoffs for three seasons. Ilya has carried them to the playoffs every fucking year since he was drafted. Every ounce of his blood and sweat has been poured into this team. He never complains about the pressure from management, the indomitable weight on his shoulders that sometimes makes him feel like Atlas carrying the weight of the world. He commands his locker room with well-earned confidence, buoyed by his team’s respect. Even after everything, the majority of them look at him like the sun shines out of his ass; like they need his light to guide their path; like they can’t survive without him, even on his darkest days, though Ilya is pretty sure it’s the other way around.

Yet none of that makes him worth keeping.

No matter what has happened to him — injuries, losses, his father’s sickness, being outed — Ilya has grit his teeth and continued marching forward, inch by inch, because giving up has never been an option. Not with this. Not when hockey is the only thing Ilya has left to hold onto.

Without hockey, who the fuck is he? What would he do? Where would he go?

“Why not trade me, then? Send me to a team who has the cap and can give me answer.”

LeClaire’s face drops. “You wanna leave Boston?”

No, he doesn’t.

The Bears have finally started falling back into sync after weeks of botched plays and unnecessary losses; players who could barely look at Ilya have finally started acknowledging him again. Him and Marley are a united front in the locker room, and morale is on an upward swing. It’s not perfect — far from it — but he had been looking forward to making a comeback on the ice. Leading them to the playoffs again. Winning another cup.

Ilya would take a fractured team he knows he can piece back together over the highest bidder.

But he also wants a guarantee for next season. For the next five years. He wants to be able to sleep at night without waking in a cold sweat, wondering whether he will be forced to go back to a homeland who despises the very idea of him. Who knows about him, despite the League’s best efforts to cover it up, and who would willfully turn a blind eye to whatever punishment might be doled out if Ilya dares to step foot on Russian soil.

“Look, I know you want an answer, but I told you before that Boston won’t drop you so easily. They just want to make sure that recovery goes smoothly. You’ll be on LTIR. You’ll keep getting paid full salary. Just don’t make any rash decisions,” LeClaire says. As if those words do anything to soothe the gnawing pit in his chest.

Instead, they make Ilya feel more like a hostage than a star player.

Even if he were to put in a trade request, Boston could deny him. Probably would, based on LeClaire’s adamance. Another team could put in an offer, but since Ilya would technically be a Restricted Free Agent, the Bears’ have the right to refuse. Which means…he’s stuck. At least, until he can get a lawyer or agent to look at his contract.

Come to think of it, he really should hire a new agent. His old one from Russia had dumped him about a week after the video leaked. Ilya is only surprised that it took so long.

Fuck. His life is a fucking dumpster fire.

He blinks at the ceiling, exhaustion taking over. “Okay.”

The more Ilya tries fighting back, the more boxed in he becomes. He had tried with the Commissioner, only to be tossed out of his office with a barely-concealed threat, forced into a press conference, and then left to the wolves. Now, the owners walk him like a dog, grabbing the leash and pulling tight, just to remind him who’s in charge.

The deadline for trades is March. The deadline for his visa renewal is in May. Both seem so fucking far away, yet too close for comfort. They probably think they have all the time in the world to wait Ilya out; make him sweat as thoroughly off the ice as he does on it.

They’ll wring him dry before they ever consider letting him go.

More doctors and nurses and faces filter through after that, as small and inconsequential as grains of sand between his fingers. Seconds bleed into hours. His head hurts. His knee hurts. Everything inside of him screams and aches, despite the pain medication, but Ilya refuses to ask for a higher dosage.

Instead, he endures.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Somehow, Shane is able to slip into the hospital unnoticed, helped along by an indescript black hoodie and sunglasses. He hadn’t been able to get away any earlier, stuck inside a stringent, hectic schedule of All-Stars interviews and fan meets. Shane had bolted as soon as he could. He hadn’t even bothered to shower before leaving, which he’s kind of regretting now as the layer of dried sweat makes his undershirt cling to his skin.

He’s almost afraid that other All-Stars will be here already, but his hasty exit turns out to be worth it when he finds the waiting room blessedly free of any hockey players. Only a mother and daughter with their heads bowed in the corner and an older gentleman with two empty coffee cups at his feet occupy the sterile space.

When the staff notice him and ask which patient he’s here to visit, Shane grits out the name Ilya Rozanov with forced neutrality, while they make him wait in an uncomfortable metal chair as they check their records. When the nurse appears a few minutes later, she barely casts him a second glance, eyes glued to the chart in her hands.

“Mr. Hollander?”

Shane stands so quickly that his chair scrapes against the linoleum tile. “That’s me.”

She gestures for him to follow. “Mr. Rozanov came out of surgery this morning, but he’s doing well. He might still be a little out of it. I’m sure if you stop by the vending machines, he’d be ecstatic.”

She adds the last part wryly, as if feeding Rozanov is Shane’s top priority right now.

He nods on autopilot, his brain taking a bit too long to process the rest of her sentence. “Wait, surgery?”

“Yup,” she says. No elaboration.

“Surgery for what?” Part of him knows already. Rozanov’s limp knee, the awkward angle as he hit the ice at peak velocity. Shane could probably guess the exact decibel of the fall. The phantom echo in his ears had kept him awake last night; as well as the gaping silence that followed.

He just hopes it isn’t true.

She looks up at him through tired eyes, stopping in front of a gray door that looks exactly like all of the other gray doors. “I’m sure he can tell you himself. I’m not allowed to give any more details than that.”

Before he can say another word, she enters the room with a cheery ‘Good afternoon!’ that is met with stony silence. Shane peers through the open doorway, surprised to find Rozanov wide awake and already staring back at him. His expression remains closed off. Cold. Shane shivers at the sight.

At least he’s awake.

“What are you doing here, Hollander?”

He sighs and steps into the room, careful to keep his body language neutral as the nurse continues to check on Rozanov’s vitals. “Standard procedure. Houde was my responsibility, and I’m apologizing on his behalf. That play was out of line.”

Rozanov shrugs, turning his gaze towards the window. The yellow light shines across his face, accentuating the blue of his eyes. He winces, turning away again. “Yes, well. It does not matter.”

The nurse finishes her vitals check. She shuts the blinds with a pointed look at Rozanov, before smiling cordially at Shane. The door clicks shut, leaving them alone, but Shane’s shoulders remain tense. He can’t stand looking at Rozanov, only to be met with the same wall he had put up in Russia.

It’s not fair.

“Why the fuck doesn’t it matter? You just had surgery, Rozanov!” He edges closer towards the bed, fingers clenching as he fights the urge to touch. “This is serious!”

Blue eyes cut into him. “Yes, I fucking know! Is my knee. My career. And it is over.”

Shane pulls a chair over, leg bouncing as he collapses into it. His eyes fall to Rozanov’s leg, raised slightly on a pillow. White gauze peeks out from behind the tan leg brace. His own knee throbs in sympathy. A core part of himself hollows out as his fears are confirmed.

“ACL?”

Rozanov nods, flat gaze shifting to his lap as he fiddles with the ends of his hospital blanket. “Will take six months, at least. To recover from surgery. I am out for rest of season, and I don’t know…”

The sentence tapers off as Rozanov swears under his breath, but Shane can fill in the blanks.

With Rozanov being majorly injured, and with so much controversy surrounding his name lately, the Bears will likely take stock on whether it’s worth it to keep Rozanov’s contract, put him on LTIR until he’s fully recovered, or to let him go. Maybe trade him away. Assuming anyone else would be willing to take him.

Dozens of teams would kill to have Rozanov; Shane is certain of that. But that niggling fear remains.

What if Rozanov is sent back to Russia?

His heart thuds. “Boston can’t let you go. That’d be a stupid fucking move.”

“Seems everyone is making stupid moves. No, they will not trade me, but they also will not tell me if they will renew my visa. It is…checkmate?”

“Stalemate,” Shane supplies, before backtracking. “When is your visa renewal due?”

“May.”

Shit, that’s soon. ”Why would they fucking wait?”

Rozanov sighs, staring at the ceiling. “Like I said. Stupid.”

“They told you that? Like actually said it?”

“Yes, Hollander,” Rozanov squeezes his eyes shut. Another wall between them. “My coach came earlier to give me update. Told me they want to see how I recover first. Is bullshit.”

Ice crawls in his veins. His jaw clenches. Shane wishes he had been able to come earlier. He would have ridden in the back of the ambulance, if they let him. If it wouldn’t have given everything away. Rozanov had been entirely alone. No backup; nobody to fight for him. Not even his own coach had been up to the task.

Meanwhile, Shane had been in his hotel room, rewatching the play over and over again, uselessly panicking and wondering what could have been done differently; wishing he could punch Houde in his fucking jaw. Or worse.

If he’d been here, Shane isn’t sure what he would have been able to do. This entire situation is as much out of his hands as it is Rozanov’s, but he hates the thought of Rozanov being forced into a corner with no way out. No guarantee for his future.

Shane doesn’t deal with the contractual side of things nearly as much as his mother does. Or his agent. He’s never had to deal with visas, either. But he’s spoken with his lawyer a bit, just enough to get an idea of the options and still remain inconspicuous.

The point is, Shane can help, and the thought of no longer competing against Rozanov is too dark to bear. Shane needs to make sure he’s back on the ice next season. No matter what.

He clears his throat, parsing through the jumble of words resting there. “What if…” He pauses, biting his tongue until the ringing in his ears subsides. “What if there was another solution?”

Rozanov eyes him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“To keep you from being deported.”

“Like what? Are you going to marry me? Offer me green card?”

Yes.

That’s exactly what he means.

Shane releases a long breath, jaw working as he tries to force the words out. “I mean, yeah. If it keeps you from going back to Russia.”

Rozanov stares at Shane for a solid minute, before turning towards his IV bag, squinting at the clear liquid. Shane can’t help but stare at the purple bruises beneath his eyes. “How many drugs they give me?”

“Could you please take this seriously, Rozanov?” He hates how much his voice warbles. Like he’s miles and miles underwater, screaming into the deep blue void. “I wouldn’t bring it up if I wasn’t serious.”

“Married? You and me?”

“Not for…it would just be to protect you.”

Rozanov is quiet for long enough that Shane forces himself to look up. Those eyes are already on him, wearing that same expression that Shane has never quite been able to decipher. “Hollander. That is crazy.”

“Maybe, but,” Shane shakes his head, fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. “It would just be until we know for sure, right? We can get a divorce after your visa gets renewed. I don’t know. It was just an idea.”

He knows how crazy he sounds, but the longer Rozanov stares at him like he should be admitted into a psych ward makes Shane want to run out the door. Maybe leave a Shane-shaped hole like those old cartoons he used to watch with his dad.

Rozanov frowns, seeming genuinely confused. “And if it does not get renewed? You are going to, what, be my husband forever? I move to Canada? Be housewife?”

“You’re such an asshole.” Shane bites back, embarrassment pressing, rock-heavy and insistent, against his sternum. “Forget it. It would just be another stupid fucking move to you.”

“No, Hollander,” Rozanov sighs, picking at his blanket again. “It is not stupid, but people will find out. Marriage is very public thing.”

“I, uh, I found a way to do it secretly. Actually, we’re already in California…and this is the one place where you can do it. I wasn’t gonna bring it up. But nobody would know. Only us and whatever court official does the ceremony.”

That earns him a raised brow. “You googled this already?”

His hackles rise. “Maybe.”

Fuck. Is he weird for doing so?

He hadn’t thought about how Rozanov might interpret this whole idea. Hadn’t really allowed himself to. He has to know that Shane is only doing this to protect him, not because he has…feelings…or whatever. They can keep things casual. Rozanov can still fuck other people. Shane doesn’t really care.

This is something that he can do. Nobody would have to know besides them. They could marry and divorce with only God as their witness. Of course it’s not perfect. He and Rozanov never have been.

And getting fake married won’t change anything between them.

“It is legal here?”

Shane blinks. “Uh, y-yeah. I think so. California is pretty progressive.”

Rozanov nods. The thoughtful look on his face makes Shane’s stomach swoop. “Okay. So we do this.”

Holy shit. He hadn’t thought Rozanov would agree. “Really?”

“Is like you said,” Rozanov shrugs. “We get secret marriage now. Divorce when new visa is secure. If not…we figure it out later, yes?”

“Are you sure this isn’t the concussion talking?”

Rozanov’s stare turns heavier, as if he can hear exactly what Shane is thinking. “The concussion is not so bad. Could be worse.”

He’s clearly trying to make Shane feel better, which only makes him feel worse. The whiplash alone must be killing him, and the sickening crunch of his helmet as he hit the ground means that the impact was more than enough to cause a pretty bad concussion. Rozanov had been unconscious for twenty-two seconds.

But here he sits, fully alert and talking normally. Acting like an asshole as usual. Maybe he’s right and the concussion is minor, but Shane has been through this process enough to know that they will need to keep him under observation for at least another day. Perform dozens of tests, just to be sure.

There is always a possibility he won’t remember any of this tomorrow, and Shane doesn’t think he could handle having this conversation again. He huffs a breath, staring at his hands. Anything could go wrong, but now that a solution is within his reach, he’s not going to let go.

“If you say so.”

“I will be fine, Hollander.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “You’ll be fine.”

“And we will get married.” He says this more like a question, as if to confirm he hasn’t lost his mind. Shane can’t blame him.

He swallows, heart racing so fast he feels it in the pads of his fingers. The image of dropping to one knee rises to the surface again. He thinks of standing in a city clerk’s office with some nameless county official and making his vows; of holding Rozanov’s hand in his own as he slides a gold band onto his ring finger. It’s nowhere close to what reality would be. Neither of them should be wearing any sort of ring on that finger.

But for a brief, terrible moment, he can finally picture Ilya’s expression, flashing that same smile he does at center ice as the gold band glints beneath the fluorescent lights. His chest aches at the thought. With anxiety, maybe.

Shane nods, unable to meet Rozanov’s eye. “Yeah. We’ll get married.”

Chapter End Notes

I really hope people are enjoying my footnotes lmao. I try to include footnotes only when I think context is important or adds nuance to the passage. They’ve been fun to put together!
¹Hugging is a very common greeting in Sweden, even if you don't know the person well. ^{[return to text]}

²Rule 601(e)3 specifically addresses discriminatory and hateful remarks that regard the personal traits of a human being (race, ethnicity, gender, etc.).^{[return to text]}

³What Houde did is referred to as slew-footing and it's considered a pretty dirty move, not to mention illegal. Most of the time players will receive a 2-5 minute penalty if they do it. If injury results, a major penalty and a game misconduct will result. IMO it deserves a whole lot more than that but here we are.^{[return to text]}

⁴Byzantine cross - symbol of the Russian Orthodox church. Ironically, Russia is a non-religious country, though Christian Orthodox has a wide presence, and the anti-queer movement in Russia DOES stem from the Western evangelical church. @rio_everdeen on TikTok has some GREAT insight into this topic.^{[return to text]}

⁵Drag queens were normalized on Russian TV in the early 2000s. Verka Serduchka, from Ukraine, is among the most famous example. Things in Russia started to change after Arab Spring (2010-12) and the Bolotnaya Protests in Moscow a year later. Again, @rio_everdeen on TikTok has some GREAT insight into this topic and goes more in-depth on the history.^{[return to text]}

More quick notes before you go!

I am by no means an avid hockey fan, or even a sports fan, so please know that I did my best with those scenes. I don’t want to anger any hockey fans lol. Be gentle with me.

I am also not an immigration lawyer, but I did research as much as possible about P1 visas and LTIR and contract negotiations and after HOURS and dozens of different websites and reddit threads finally found the specific information I needed. That being said, since this is fiction, I have taken some creative liberty and some things may not be 100% accurate to real life (e.g., Ilya is drafted in 2009 so technically his visa would be renewed in 2014 but we are ignoring this). It’s for drama. Y’all understand.

I also need everyone to know that there are plenty of other ways Ilya could stay in the U.S. He could apply for asylum (but the rules on traveling are very strict and with him going between Canada and the U.S. so much it’s very iffy as a MLH player), he could find someone else to sponsor his visa (like a new agent, but even so he would need to remain employed with the MLH in order to renew his visa), etc. Shane latching onto the marriage idea was just too funny in my mind. Get you a situationship who will marry you just to keep your dick in the same part of the world as him. Well played, Shane. Ilya is no match for your bambi eyes and loser rizz. Keep it comin.

I’ve also seen a lot of talk about the possibility of Ilya getting his Russian passport revoked due to his outing, but when I researched I really couldn’t find anything from around that time about it. People who protested the bill or showed any sort of pride or engaged in ‘propaganda’ were charged, fined, beaten, arrested, etc., but the passport issue seems to be more of a recent development in Russia. If I’m wrong, I would love to be corrected!

Lastly, for most hockey players, an ACL tear actually isn’t career ending. Hockey isn’t as hard on the knees as other sports, and a lot of hockey players recover rather quickly before getting back on the ice. Is it a wise decision? Probably not. But it’s happened. Ilya saying his career is ‘over’ is more in reference to the combination of his injury and his scandal and the fact that the Bears won’t give him a clear-cut answer about his visa/contract. If it was just the ACL, things would very much be different.

Comments? Kudos? Hugs? Kisses?

Chapter 5: 3.5

Chapter Notes

I debated whether posting this before or after the next chapter and ended up going with before just for some suspense. Yes, I got lazy and used a lot of the same usernames. Shhhh it’s fine. Also, I tried doing research on how the NHL account tweets during All Stars but 1) I no longer have an X account and refuse to make a new one and 2) I had a friend who DOES have one search for me and she couldn’t find ANY tweets from the last All Stars on their account, so you know what? We ball. I tried. That’s all I can say.

Also, don't get super used to these social media chapters! I just think for Ilya's outing and All Stars they give an interesting perspective! I might do a few more but we'll see.

MLH ✔ @MLH • 2h

Starting out #AllStars weekend with the skills competition! Team Hollander v. Team Rozanov! Let’s see these rivals duke it out for the top scores

MLH ✔ @MLH • 2h

#AllStars EVENT #1: ACCURACY SHOOTING! Elijah Houde on Team Hollander gets 4 shots in 14.161 seconds! Can Jarl Lundin from Team Rozanov beat him?

MLH ✔ @MLH • 2h

#AllStars RESULTS ARE IN: Lundin wins the shootout with a final time of 13.552!

MLH ✔ @MLH • 2h

#AllStars EVENT #2: FASTEST SKATER! We know you’re all looking forward to this one! Shane Hollander is competing again as this event’s reigning champ. Will anyone be able to dethrone him?

MLH ✔ @MLH • 2h

#AllStars SO CLOSE! Troy Barrett NEARLY surpassed Shane Hollander with a final time of 13.103. Hollander just edges him out with a final time of 13.005. The REIGNING CHAMP keeps his throne

MLH ✔ @MLH • 1h

#AllStars EVENT #3: HARDEST SHOT! Last year, Scott Hunter won this competition with a speed of 102.4 - but this year we have our very own Ilya Rozanov in the mix. Who will win?

MLH ✔ @MLH • 1h

#AllStars ANNNND ROZANOV WINS BY A LANDSLIDE! Phew, look at that power at 108.5 mph. We feel sorry for whatever goalie needs to block HIS shots!

MLH ✔ @MLH • 1h

#AllStars EVENT #4: Finally, we ask our fans to vote for the #BreakawayChallenge! Text ALLSTARS to 111111 along with your vote for who you think should win!

MLH ✔ @MLH • 1h

#AllStars THE VOTES ARE IN! Carter Vaughan wins with 24,289 votes! That slapshot was pretty slick, wasn’t it?

⋆⁺₊❅.

RIP ROZANOV @charlatine_8oo8 • 2h

Surprirse surprise folks this years all stars is team hollander v team rozanov what new tricks will they think of next

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Derrick @voyageinghollz • 2h

Replied to @charlatine_8oo8

Hollander’s probably pissed as fuck

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Matt Matheson ✔ @mathesonMLH • 2h

What is wrong with the bathrooms in chase arena??? The urinals here are round??[1]

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Still saying fuuuck @SAILTATUM • 1h

Replied to @mathesonMLH

My dude. My guy. I think that’s a hand sink

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

TEAM ROZANOV @misssyilya • 35m

Replied to @mathesonMLH

oh to be a hockey player w no braincells left to spare

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Carla Ma’am @hunteradmir3r • 55m

Ugh I know Hunter is being a good guy or whatever but Rozanov is such a dick he probably said some shit like did you SEE Hunter’s face?? Like Rozanov fucked his mother or something

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Manny @cannedpeaches123 • 54m

Replied to @hunteradmir3r

or his father

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Rozy puck bunny @rozyozypozy • 52m

Replied to @hunteradmir3r

Am I the only one who thinks Rozanov looked like he was flirting? Lmaoooo no wonder Hunter looked disturbed

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

Carrey @rozzillion • 50m

Replied to @rozyozypozy

And then Hollander after! I swear I saw Rozanov WINK at him! This man was literally outed to the world and said ok let me be a menace to both genders now. Unbelievable

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

My moon, my man @feistymoonshit • 49m

Replied to @rozzillion

ngl rozanov and hollander would be hot maybe the rivalry is just a bunch of sexual tension, at least on rozanov’s end, it would make soooooo much sense

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

SHANE HOLLANDER ILY @hollandeartome • 25m

Replied to @feistymoonshit

oh my god stfu thats litrally too far they hate each other

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐36

Carrey @rozzillion • 22m

Replied to @hollandeartome

omg are u serious rn??? it’s not that deep, hon. a handshake and a smile from BOTH of them definitely screams hatred, yup

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

⋆⁺₊❅.

Rozanov’s Girls (+Boys) 😝💋

68 online

Sara B [8:46pm]: How many of us are watching All-Stars?

Hillary [8:47pm]: I am!

Samuel [8:47pm]: God help me but yes, I’m invested now

Brandy [8:48pm]: ohhhhh pls u love it sam its a fishtank for sweaty men!

Mary [8:49pm]: that feels objectifying…

Mary [8:49pm]: but also true

Samuel [8:49pm]: I mean yes, but I’m mostly following for Rozanov

Samuel [8:49pm]: I feel like he needs a bodyguard or something

Sarah L [8:49pm]: I’m watching! And yeah, Samuel, unfortunately you’re correct

Karmen [8:50pm]: i still have nightmares about that fight between roz and mcgregor..

Natalie [8:50pm]: same

David [8:50pm]: McGregor had it coming

Bianca [8:52pm]: Obviously. Hopefully nothing happens today

Tahlea [8:53pm]: HOLD YOUR TONGUE!!! YOU JUST JINXED IT

Alexis [8:54pm]: Oh No

Lana [8:55pm]: It’s All-Stars. Nothing fun ever happens.

Hannah [8:57pm]: Oh No x2

Tori [8:57pm]: It was nice knowing you, Bianca and Lana

Bianca [8:57pm]: Jfc I didn’t realize hockey fans were so superstitious??

Yasmin [8:58pm]: oh honey, you have noooo idea

Colin [9:00pm]: Well shit. Here we go again.

Diego [9:00pm]: I blame ALL of u for what is about to happen

⋆⁺₊❅.

Team Hollander @hattrickprick • 30m

Oh god oh fuck what the FUCK???!>!!>?

↩️8 🔁1 ⭐5

Professional hockey troll @zitgayst • 30m

FOUL FOUL FOUL FUCKING FOUL THAT MOVE WAS DIRTY AS FUCK THE GAME WAS ALREADY OVER AND HOUDE IS ON HOLLANDER’S TEAM?? HOLLANDER HAD THE PUCK IN POSSESSION WHY GO AFTER ROZANOV??

↩️14 🔁23 ⭐36

Lady Brady @dearhunter_01 • 30m

HUNTER AND CARTER DROPPING GLOVES ARE MY EYES DECEIVING ME??? THOSE TWO DUDES NEVER FIGHT LIKE EVER

↩️35 🔁18 ⭐44

Mary 🐻🐻🐻 @threelittlebears • 29m

Christ what is HAPPENING

↩️12 🔁10 ⭐15

……… @pucksluuuuut • 29m

Guys…..rozanov has been down for almost thirty seconds….

↩️22 🔁12 ⭐57

charlie @mtlno_1fan • 27m

Okay. I don’t like Rozanov, but that was fucked up. And the refs did NOTHING?

↩️3 🔁2 ⭐19

SUSPEND HOUDE @eightyone_bos • 27m

#SuspendHoude literally that was a fucking HATE CRIME!!!

↩️41 🔁36 ⭐101

dylan 👽 @RUBBERPUCKIES • 26m

What is Hollander doing??? Guy just froze up after making the winning goal and now the opposing team’s goalie seems to be calming him down???

↩️13 🔁4 ⭐5

paul @moronicpaul • 22m

Replied to @RUBBERPUCKIES

Nah, that cant be right, why would he be upset? He just won

↩️98 🔁234 ⭐360

I LOVE U SHANE HOLLANDER @hollandatemepls • 26m

HOLLANDER’S TEAM WON HELL YEAAAAAAH BABY THAT’S THE KING OF HOCKEY RIGHT THERE

↩️28 🔁55 ⭐123

Chad @PuckNorriz • 25m

Bruuuhhhh. Never in my life have I seen an #AllStars game devolve into absolute horse shit so quickly

↩️3 🔁7 ⭐13

Toronto Guardians MLH @TorontoGuardians • 10m

Following the events of todays’ #AllStars game, Elijah Houde #45 will be suspended for the next three games, pending a hearing. The Guardians do not promote unsanctioned violence or illegal moves.

↩️297 🔁300 ⭐567

Mary 🐻🐻🐻 @threelittlebears •8m

Replied to @TorontoGuardians

right you just promote homophobia

↩️31 🔁52 ⭐89

⋆⁺₊❅.

Q: Hunter! Hunter! Can you comment on the final few minutes of tonight’s All-Stars game?

Scott Hunter: I don’t have much to say, honestly. The stunt pulled by Houde was illegal and, quite frankly, a poor show of sportsmanship. There was no reason for him to go after Rozanov. The puck was in our team’s possession. That’s not how we play hockey.

Q: Fans are already calling foul play and demanding Houde’s suspension from the MLH. Do you think these demands are warranted?

SH: I think everyone is always rightfully upset when their favorite player gets hurt, especially when the injury happens during an illegal play. I’m not Houde’s captain or his management team, so I won’t speak to that, but I do think that certain actions require consequences.

Q: Hollander made the winning shot and was the captain of this year’s All-Stars team. Is there a reason he’s not out here with us right now?

SH: We agreed that I should handle the press since I was more closely involved with the incident on the ice. Hollander was on the opposite side of the rink. He made a good final shot tonight. We should absolutely celebrate that.

Q: A few people have commented on Hollander’s strange reaction after making that winning shot. Care to comment?

SH: Like I said, I was on the other end of the rink dealing with Houde. I have no idea what reaction people are referring to, but I think the atmosphere was very clearly tense in the aftermath. Anyone would be able to pick up on that.

Q: You and Rozanov share a rather public animosity towards each other. What made you reach out to him before the game?

SH: All-Stars is an opportunity for players across divisional and team lines to form a sense of camaraderie we don’t normally experience outside of our own locker rooms. Rozanov can be an asshole, but he’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t deserve any of the negativity he’s been receiving lately. I wanted to show my support and try to bridge that divide.

Q: What negativity are you referring to?

SH: I think you know.

Q: What do you think about the controversy surrounding Rozanov recently?

SH: I think people should mind their own business. Hockey players are human beings, too. We have lives outside of the rink. I think it’s easy to forget that sometimes.

Q: You were quoted tonight calling Houde a “homophobic piece of shit.” Do you think the incident on the ice constitutes a hate crime?

SH: I don’t know Houde well personally at all, but based on what I saw on the ice tonight, I don’t think that play was made in good faith. I’m not sure if the cameras caught the chirps he was throwing at Rozanov, but the refs sure did, and they did nothing to stop it until it was too late.

Q: Are you blaming the refs for what happened to Rozanov?

SH: I’m not blaming anyone but Houde.

Q: What do you think about the rumors that Rozanov is likely to be out for the rest of the season due to this injury?

SH: I think it’s a damn shame. He’s a great player, and I’d prefer to beat Boston at their best — but don’t you dare tell him I said that.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Rozanov’s Girls (+Boys) 😝💋

54 online

Yasmin [11:21pm]: ok status report STAT

Lana [11:21pm]: Gimme a sec

Sarah L [11:21pm]: I’m legit freaking out. That fall looked SO BAD. Did you see his knee? 😭😭

Karmen [11:22pm]: Yasmin don’t u live in Cali??

Yasmin [11:22pm]: YEAH IN LA IM NOWHERE NEAR SAN FRANCISCO??

Hillary [11:22pm]: I really don’t think we’ll be able to get an update until the Bears get ahold of the situation honestly

Alexis [11:22pm]: yeah they need more info :(

Samuel [11:24pm]: I think I’m in love with Scott Hunter now. Do we think he’s…? 💅

Mary [11:24pm]: Oh god, I am SOOOO done speculating over hockey players' sexualities. But I saw his interview after the game. I’m so glad someone said something. Houde should NOT be allowed to play for a while

Sarah L [11:24pm]: FOR REAL IT WAS SUCH A CHEAP SHOT

Colin [11:24pm]: It’s unlikely they’ll do anything more than suspend him for a few games

Hillary [11:25pm]: sometimes I really hate sports

Lana [11:27pm]: He’s probably going to need surgery

Yasmin [11:27pm]: omg lana how do you know??

Lana [11:28pm]: I have ways

Olivia [11:28pm]: i can’t decide whether that’s ominous or badass

Leah [11:28pm]: Definitely ominous..

Sarah L [11:28pm]: God. There goes the Bears’ chances of another cup 😭

Charlotte [11:29pm]: And the rest of Rozanov’s season….

Sarah L [11:30pm]: Don’t remind me

Natalie [11:31pm]: Should we like, I don’t know, send gift baskets or something??? Is that a thing we can do???

Hannah [11:31pm]: OMG that is such a good idea

Tori [11:32pm]: I think they have a PO box for fanmail, or we send it directly to the arena. I can ask around.

Diego [11:32pm]: My sister’s a killer baker, but I’m not sure anything she makes would survive being mailed all the way to Boston.

Olivia [11:32pm]: aaawwww it’s the thought that counts!

Sarah L [11:32pm]: I’m going to channel all of my energy into baking now. This is a great idea

Lana [11:33pm]: Make sure to include some medovik

Sarah L [11:33pm]: What is that?

Lana [11:33pm]: Russian honey cake

Leah [11:34pm]: 👀

Olivia [11:34pm]: 👀

Hillary [11:34pm]: 👀

Lana [11:35pm]: My grandmother is Russian. It’s very popular. I’ll send you her recipe

Sarah L [11:35pm]: That’s so sweet! Thank you!

Yasmin [11:35pm]: i’ll be baking with you guys but keeping it for myself i need some sugar after all THAT

Alexis [11:35pm]: BAKING PARTY!!!

⋆⁺₊❅.

MLH All-Stars Turns into an All-Out Nightmare as Rozanov Takes a Tumble

By Manny Nedham | TMZ Sports

What Rozanov’s Injury Means for the Bears’ Playoffs Prospects

By Breanna Haines | Hockey News

Hate Crimes on the Ice: Why Ilya Rozanov’s Injury Wasn’t an Accident

By Daniella Rodriguez | Outsports

Toronto Guardians’ Troy Barrett to Fill Ilya Rozanov’s Shoes as Boston Bears Demand Recompense

By Maxwell Fleming | CBS Sports

Outraged MLH Fans Demand Elijah Houde’s Suspension After Illegal Play

By Austin Attridge | ESPN

⋆⁺₊❅.

TMZ Sports @TMZSports • 55m

SPOTTED! Shane Hollander visits rival Ilya Rozanov at the hospital after yesterday’s bungled All-Stars game! What a good sport!

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Jay @jayzimmerman • 52m

Replied to @TMZSports

He’s literally doing what all captains do. How is this newsworthy?

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Miranda @slappyha_ppy • 48m

Replied to @TMZSports

Is he trying to be incognito lmao that’s sooooo funny

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0__0 Hello @allthewaytomars • 32m

Oh mygod it’s official. Boston actually stole one of Toronto’s best rookies in revenge i’m literally laughing so fucking HARD THAT’S WHAT YOU GET LOSERS

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Rozy we’ll miss u @slapshothothot • 48m

Replied to @allthewaytomars

Who’s apparently almost as big of a homophobe as Kent….I’m not sure this is a win

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yes im terry @TerryTheTerror • 48m

Replied to @slapshothothot

It’s not like Barrett and Rozanov are gonna share a locker room?? The whole reason Barrett got traded was because of Rozanov’s injury. He’s out for the season

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⋆⁺₊❅.

Emilia @lilacfields • 1h

Ok so im not a hockey fan but my brother is and he just started frothing at the mouth at Union Square mall who’s shane hollander???

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Emilia @lilacfields • 48m

Yes ok he’s hockey’s national sweetheart, got it.

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Emilia @lilacfields • 40m

Oh my god did i just open pandora’s box into some secret feral hockey world?? I’m trying to get updates from my brother as quickly as i can hold your goddamn horses

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Emilia @lilacfields • 39m

UPDATE! Apparently he was walking by Kay Jewellers and saw Hollander looking at the glass cases. No idea what he was buying. My brother’s a pussy and was too scared to approach him

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Emilia @lilacfields • 33m

He did send me a photo tho… HOT DAMN i understand the hype now

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Emilia @lilacfields • 28m

NO I’M NOT POSTING IT

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⋆⁺₊❅.

TMZ Sports @TMZSports • 15m

SPOTTED! Ilya Rozanov leaving the hospital on a pair of crutches! Looks like the rumors are true. Our hockey star is out for the season 💔

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Chapter End Notes

Honesty time: I haven't touched this fic in a whiiiiiile so I'm not sure when I'll get back to it. I have a few more chapters ready to post but I'm still gonna spread them out. Plus, fall semester just started and I'm working 2 jobs this semester so we'll see where I have time/motivation to work on this. Thanks to everyone who's read and commented so far tho! It means a lot <3

Chapter 6: High Priestess | верховная жрица

Chapter Notes

I hear wedding bellssssssss <3

If you don’t like explicit smut, sorry not sorry. You can skip the entire third section, but you’ll miss a lot of character and relationship building. (Also, why are you reading hollanov if that’s the case?)

[TW for homophobic language]

JANUARY 2015

The morning Ilya is meant to be discharged, one of his nurses hands him a light blue sticky note. He blinks, eyes straining to make out the neat handwriting. His doctor tells him that reading should get easier, over time, but not to push himself too hard.

Ilya shakes his head, frustration curling in his gut. “I cannot read this.”

Her smile is sympathetic. Ilya hates being on the receiving end. “It’s an address. From Jane. Do you need someone to call a cab?”

His breath stutters at the mention of Jane, excitement bleeding into paranoia as he watches her face for any sort of recognition. When he finds none, he nods slowly, eyes closing around an impending headache. If Hollander wants to meet up, of course Ilya will come. His bags are already here, courtesy of Lundin, so he has no real need to go back to the hotel. All-Stars is over. All of the players have already left.

Except for Hollander, apparently.

He thinks Hollander must have visited at some point — with his dopey brown eyes and stupid constellation of freckles — but perhaps that was a dream. The more Ilya remembers, the more he's convinced. Some of the stuff Hollander said…

Only his imagination could conjure something so insane.

Ilya grips his crutches in one hand, duffel bag set carefully on his uninjured knee, as they wheel him out towards the discharge bay. He keeps his weight mostly on his right leg as the orderly helps him into the cab. The bulky brace makes maneuvering harder, but he’s not going to complain. He hands the sticky note over without a word, waiting as the driver inputs the address into his GPS.

The drive is long. Very long. So long, in fact, that Ilya begins to feel nauseous. He’s never been prone to motion sickness, but the doctor had warned him of the potential. Another symptom on an ever-growing list. His knee throbs, just to remind him of its miserable existence, but Ilya has no extra room to spread out. The uncomfortable, cramped position is probably something his doctor would tell him to avoid. He sighs, head rolling against the headrest. He picks a spot on the ceiling and keeps his eyes trained on it. Ignores the roiling in his gut.

Eventually, Ilya can’t help but ask where exactly they’re going. The question earns him a funny look through the rearview mirror, but the guy shares the address easily enough. They’re going to some place in Santa Cruz. About fifteen minutes out now.

“Why? Are you gonna throw up, kid?”

Ilya pinches his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut, which curbs the nausea a bit. “No.”

The driver makes a scoffing noise. “Somehow, I don’t believe you. If you throw up, I’m charging extra for the cleaning fee.”

“Okay.”

Ilya hates cab drivers, and he stupidly wishes Hollander had been the one to pick him up from the hospital. At least the nausea would be a bit more bearable with someone pretty to look at.

They pull into a half-empty parking lot a few minutes later, coming to a stop around the backside of the building. Ilya’s heart creeps into his throat as he spots Hollander standing outside, half-hidden by a bush as he leans against the brick wall. The suit he’s wearing is one of the suits he often wears after a game. The blue one. The one that brings out his freckles.

He suddenly feels woefully underdressed in his sweatpants — with one pant leg haphazardly bunched above his leg brace — and faded Bears t-shirt. They had finally allowed him a shower this morning, but Ilya can still feel the sweat and grime clinging to his skin.

Hollander has yet to notice his arrival, despite them being the only car here. The thought of awkwardly maneuvering his way out of the cab, of hobbling up to Hollander with his stupid crutches, brings a flood of white-hot shame over him. Ilya wants to be able to pick Hollander up, press him against the nearest wall, and have his way with him.

This was probably a bad idea. Ilya can barely pick himself up right now, which is not a fucking turn on. Maybe that’s why Hollander had wanted to meet. To end this once and for all. That certainly makes more sense than any of Ilya’s dreams, at least.

The cab driver clears his throat. “That’s two-hundred dollars. I don’t got all day.”

Ilya tosses a wad of cash at him, too distracted to properly count the bills. It would probably hurt his eyes if he tried, and the thought of looking away from Hollander right now is too much to bear.

As soon as he opens the door, Hollander’s eyes land on him. Moth to flame. He starts towards the car, before stopping, a complicated expression flitting over his face. Ilya adjusts his grip on his crutches and yanks his duffel bag out. The cab pulls away a second later. The sunlight is so bright that Ilya can hardly keep his eyes open.

He blinks and Hollander suddenly appears in front of him, brows furrowing as his gaze roams over Ilya’s body, lingering on the Bears logo plastered across his chest before moving on. Brown eyes meet his briefly, before shifting to his chin. “You don’t have any sunglasses?”

Ilya squints. “In my bag. Could not find them.”

He’s already grabbing Ilya’s bag and digging through its contents before Ilya has finished speaking, a small noise emitting from the back of his throat as he comes back successful. Pink lips pull into a soft smile as he carefully slides the aviators over the bridge of Ilya’s nose.

“Better?”

An unnamable emotion clogs his throat. He nods, teeth clenching at the sharp throb emanating from behind his skull. “Thank you. What are we doing here?”

Hollander hates the thought of being seen together in public. Ilya had assumed he would hate it even more now that the world knows about Ilya’s sexuality. He doesn’t understand what they are doing here. He kind of wishes they were back in some hotel room. Dark, quiet, alone.

Hollander’s face falls briefly, before smoothing out. “You don’t remember.”

“I have concussion, Hollander.” Ilya bites, maybe a bit harder than necessary. He takes a calming breath. “I have…memories of you visiting. I do not know if they are real.”

“Oh, uh…” Hollander looks around them, as if suddenly realizing how exposed they are. Relatively speaking. There’s actually a decent amount of foliage surrounding them, creating a pocket of privacy that Ilya wishes he could take advantage of. Nobody else is around. “Right. I was going to text you, but no phones, and I didn’t want to put it on the note…”

Ilya’s stomach coils. “Okay.”

“What, uh…what do you remember about the visit?”

He remembers Shane’s round eyes staring at him, and the slight tremble in his upper lip as he said those words, and how little they had made sense to Ilya at the time. He remembers being glad that he was no longer attached to the heart monitor, because the sudden uptick in his heart rate would have been too fucking obvious. Even for someone as oblivious as Hollander.

“Does not matter. It was definitely dream.”

“Maybe not.” Hollander shrugs, trying and failing to appear nonchalant. The tension in his spine gives him away, as well as the intermittent clenching and unclenching of his fists. “I, uh, suggested something pretty crazy. You agreed at the time, but if you wanna back out, that’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked while you were still out of it.”

Ilya’s heart flutters. He leans forward, wavering slightly as his balance falters. Hollander’s hands immediately move, ready to catch him. Wide eyes meet his own before flicking away again. “What did you ask?”

The blush on Hollander’s face is more than worth it. He would never say the actual words aloud, too paranoid of others overhearing. “Shut up. You know.”

“Maybe. Was very embarrassing for you.”

“And yet, you said yes.” Hollander’s gaze drags back up towards Ilya’s face, pinballing back and forth between his covered eyes. Searching for something. Confirmation, maybe, like he can’t quite believe it either.

Ilya smirks, helpless against the rush of affection that swells in his chest. “Yes.”

“And you…” Hollander licks his lips. “Do you still want to?”

“No, Hollander. I come all this way for nothing.”

Hollander rolls his eyes, roughly grabbing at Ilya’s duffel bag and tossing it over his shoulder. He makes a beeline for the back door, propped open by a small wedge of wood. “Okay, I get it. Come on.”

“Wait,” Ilya huffs, trying to keep up. Hollander, at the very least, appears sheepish as he slows to a crawl. “Do you have rings? We need rings, or it will not be…legit.”

Hollander looks at the ground, nodding. “Yeah. I, uh. I bought some. I hope that’s okay.”

Ilya waits for a beat. “Can I see?”

“Not yet.”

Ilya gapes at him. “I cannot see the ring I am supposed to have bought for you? What if it is not right?”

Hollander laughs, brows furrowed in disbelief. “I bought them. I think I would know what I like.”

“And you know what I like?”

A shrug. “I think so.”

“Ah,” Ilya raises a brow. “So you know I require a big diamond, yes?”

“Oh my god,” Hollander scoffs, reaching into his suit pocket. He pulls out a small, black box and shoves it into Ilya’s hand. “Here. It’s not a diamond, because this is fake, but I did my best, okay?”

Ilya casts a glance towards the door before lowering his voice into a stage whisper. He might feel like absolute shit, but teasing Hollander is the remedy to most ails. His headache is nothing compared to this. “Don’t let them hear you. You will blow our cover.”

“Unbelievable,” Hollander sighs.

He opens the box, staring at the ring inside. A simple, twelve karat yellow gold band winks in the sunlight. The same kind of gold as his mother’s necklace. Of course Hollander would think of that detail. The guy is always so diligent. So perfect.

He clears his throat. “It is…not boring.”

“Yeah, well, it was one of the cheaper ones, so…”

Ilya tuts as he closes the box and returns it to Hollander’s waiting hand. Their fingers barely brush, but the sharp jolt of electricity is enough to get his mouth working. “You would buy your husband cheap jewelry?”

Hollander smirks. “Not my husband. Just you.”

“It is shame people don’t know how mean you are. I should tell whole world what a mean person Shane Hollander is.”

They start moving towards the building again, slower this time. Hollander keeps pace with Ilya as he maneuvers his stupid fucking crutches. The gesture, small as it may be, makes his throat close. Fuck, maybe the pain medication is messing with his emotions more than he thought.

Hollander continues on, oblivious to his plight. “They would never believe you.”

“Evil Canadian boy,” Ilya says. What he absolutely does not say is that he loves when Hollander bites back, and he loves knowing that very few people are given the privilege to see that side of him.

He loves being one of the few.

“Another thing, before we go in…” Hollander pauses, biting his lip. “You can’t call me Hollander, and I can’t call you Rozanov. We have to use each other’s first names. It would sound too suspicious otherwise.”

Ilya nods. He is tempted to ask if it would be too weird if they call each other by their first names in private, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t know what he would do with that kind of permission; and he’s too afraid to find out.

He knows how many lines they have crossed over the years, how non-casual their casual sex can be at times. The only way for Ilya to preserve his sanity is to keep their interactions strictly to last names; to keep the post-sex cuddling to a minimum; and to reach for the door handle when all he’d really like to do is reach for Shane’s hand. It is the only way. For both their sakes.

“Okay. Shane.”

Saying that name now feels like a slip of the tongue. Far too reminiscent of those moments when he’s alone, dreaming of thick thighs around his waist, the tight clench around his cock, brown eyes locked on his face like he’s the only thing in the world worth looking at. In those moments, he allows himself that brief weakness. A private confession of his sins.

Shane smiles softly and pulls the door wider, gesturing for him to go first. “After you, Ilya.”

Hearing his name come from Shane’s mouth only worsens the untamable emotion welling in his chest. Shane says it all wrong — tongue curling into three syllables instead of just two — like most people in America do. But unlike with everyone else, Ilya finds himself enamoured by the clumsy way his accent tries and fails to fit the word into his mouth. Unpracticed. He nearly asks Shane to say it again, just so he can savor the moment. Commit the sound to memory.

Instead, he moves through the open door, wondering if the day will come that saying each other’s names feels as natural as breathing. Without conditions, or pretense.

He wouldn’t dare to hope.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane has never contemplated what his wedding day might look like. He’s always been too focused on hockey. Never had time beyond those stolen moments in hotel rooms to even consider what his attraction to men might mean, and whether that meant he would someday marry a man. He hadn’t thought so. He had assumed that, at some point, he would meet a nice girl, and they would hit it off, and he would wait a respectable amount of time before proposing. They would get married in front of his friends and family, because they wouldn’t need to hide.

It would be a normal wedding. A normal relationship.

He certainly had never anticipated his wedding day looking like him sitting in a private waiting room, stuck wearing one of his itchy post-game suits, with Ilya Rozanov beside him in sweatpants and a Bears shirt — of all the things he could have worn — barely able to walk, or fill out his own form.

He hadn’t thought that this is what he would be doing on his few days off after All-Stars. He hadn’t thought Rozanov would end up injured. He hadn’t thought any of this would be happening at all.

This was supposed to remain a hypothetical scenario.

Shane gets as far as Rozanov’s middle name, before drawing a blank. “You have a middle name, don’t you?”

He feels kind of dumb asking, but Shane wasn’t given a middle name. Most people he knows have one, so he figures this is just another way he’s different.

Rozanov blinks at him tiredly, sunglasses pushing his curls back to reveal the soft patch of skin underneath. He looks younger like this. Less hardened, somehow. “Grigoryevich.”

“Oh.”

He definitely hadn’t been expecting that. He knows nothing about Russian names, but something about the way the sounds blend together is so stiff and formal that associating the name with Rozanov feels wrong.

His face must show some confusion, because Rozanov sighs, handing over his passport. “In Russia, we take our father’s first name as middle name.”

Shane nods, chewing on the end of the pen as he glances down at Rozanov’s passport. He copies the information down, stomach twisting. It’s…unnerving. How little he actually knows about Rozanov. Even his birthday — June fifteenth — is barely a month after Shane’s. That feels like something he should know.

But how could he?

They don’t talk about anything that matters. They don’t usually need to.

And now, here they are. Getting married. This entire fucking idea is so far outside of their usual arrangement that Shane doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s marrying a man he barely knows; who he hardly sees more than a few times a year; who he has ill-advised, mind-blowing sex with whenever he does; and who is pretty much allergic to anything resembling real emotion. He’s marrying his rival, for fuck’s sake.

This is a terrible idea.

His idea, but still.

Shane has done the research. Has spoken to lawyers (anonymously) and laid out each possible avenue in painstaking depth. Marriage is the quickest option. He can’t back out. He won’t. Even if he is kind of starting to feel like he's dying.

He swallows down the budding panic. He just needs to take today step-by-step. If he can get through the next few hours, he should be free to panic in the comfort of his own hotel room before his flight to Minneapolis in the morning. This is just a blip in his regular life. By this time tomorrow, everything will be hockey again, like it’s supposed to be, and Shane can focus on what really matters: bringing the Voyageurs to the playoffs.

He refocuses his attention on the half-filled form. “Uh…mother’s full maiden name?”

“Irina Ivanovna Shakhovskaya.”^[1]

Shane’s curiosity piques. Rozanov never speaks about his family, and despite briefly mentioning his father and brother one time, he’s never mentioned his mother. He’s tempted to ask what she’s like, if she’s nice to him, if he gets his looks from her. He wants to know more. He wants to know everything.

Which is stupid.

He finishes the form with only a few more questions, keeping his curiosity to himself. This marriage is nothing more than a formality. A favor. Nothing needs to change, and that includes getting to know each other.

Their number is called a few minutes later, and Shane hurries towards the desk. Rozanov lags behind, grumbling under his breath as the soft creak of his crutches approach.

The secretary looks between them, jaw snapping around a piece of gum. She seems entirely unconcerned about who they are as she holds out a waiting hand. Shane passes their paperwork and passports over, trying to control the slight tremor in his hands. Don’t ask questions, please don’t ask questions—

“Upstairs. Second door on the left.”

Shane nearly sags in relief. He nods, glancing at Rozanov’s brace. “Do you—have an elevator?”

She points down the hall, bubble popping obscenely loud.

The elevator ride is short and silent. Shane keeps his face forward, hands curled at his sides as the doors open. He’s beginning to lose his nerve. Each step that takes him closer to the room weighs him down with the reality of what they are about to do.

He glances at Rozanov, watching as he swings his leg forward and plants his foot down, shoulders shifting with each push and pull of his crutches. His face is a clean slate, void of emotion. He keeps his eyes trained ahead, acting like today is any other day. Like he’s bored by the entire ordeal.

Shane wishes he could walk through life with that base level of calmness. He wishes he could stop giving so many fucks, but the fucks he gives are pretty important. Life altering. Which he supposes Rozanov knows better than most about, given that his entire life has been altered.

Maybe that’s what makes it easier for him.

Maybe it’s all an act.

He wishes he knew what was going on inside Rozanov’s head. Playing the guessing game is exhausting, and Shane is almost never right.

Regardless, this is happening. Rozanov had said yes twice, even going as far as to smile — and Shane won’t even begin to pick apart what that might mean, or why his stomach clenched so tightly both times. Throwing up is not on his agenda for today.

Marriage is.

God, what would his mother say if she found out? His father? His team? The fans?

His next inhale hiccoughs in his lungs, a bubble of air pressing insistently against his chest. He stops with his forearm against the wall, head falling into the dark crook of his elbow as he tries to catch his breath. There’s no need to think about any of them right now. They won’t find out. They can’t. The marriage will remain confidential; Shane and Rozanov will be divorced in a matter of months.

A hand lays over his lower back. “Shane?”

Fuck. He knows using each other’s first names had been his idea, but hearing Rozanov say it so easily, like it’s so simple, feels like someone’s slammed him against the boards, a tender bruise forming along his ribcage.

“‘M fine.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

He shakes his head, pushing away from the wall. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out the ring he had bought for himself and tossing it to Rozanov, who just barely catches it. “I don’t, but I am.”

Rozanov stares at him for a moment. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Shane squashes down every ounce of panic. Compartmentalizes it into a brand new box and shoves it under the bed. He can examine it later. Right now, Rozanov’s eyes are on him, and Shane can’t bear the thought of him witnessing one of his episodes. Not about this.

Not about them.

They enter the small room together. Shane holds the heavy wooden door open for Rozanov, eyes glued to the ground. Even Rozanov’s sneakers are black today.

Together they make black and blue.

The magistrate is the only other person in the room besides them. He welcomes them with a cordial smile and briefly introduces himself, probably to make them feel more at ease, before diving straight into the beginning of the ceremony.

Shane listens intently as he recites the opening remarks, overly conscious of Rozanov’s body heat beside him, seeping through his suit and spreading along his arm. They reach the vow portion of the ceremony pretty quickly, but since neither of them have anything prepared, the magistrate goes straight into another portion of the script.

The clinical order to things settles his nerves a bit.

He stares at the ring box in Rozanov’s hand. The thin, silver band is plain; understated. Something that Shane could wear on any other finger, probably, and nobody would think twice about its origins. Not that he’s planning on wearing it outside of this room. That would be a stupid, reckless mistake.

Maybe as stupid and reckless as marrying Rozanov in the first place.

Someone says his name — the magistrate, maybe — and Shane blinks against the harsh fluorescent lighting. Rozanov’s head is no doubt hurting right now, if the slight strain in his jaw is any indication, but his gaze remains stubbornly on Shane.

Shane forces himself to look anywhere else, meeting the patient smile of the magistrate, which feels worse, somehow. “Sorry?”

“Do you, Shane Hollander, take Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

His throat cinches, as tight and uncomfortable as his tie.

His eyes stray towards Ilya again, beyond his control. Ilya looks back at him, expression as placid as usual, though his eyes are shining in a way that nearly has Shane reaching out in concern. It’s probably from the lights. Probably from the pain. Shit. They really should wrap this up soon.

Shane clears his throat, nodding. He stares at his stupid dress shoes, at the way the fluorescent lights reflect off the toe. He had fretted for far too long about what to wear — just like that first night they hooked up, years ago now. The suit was a terrible choice; and probably makes him look like an idiot.

He straightens the lapels to keep his hands busy.

“I do.”

Rozanov’s mouth drops open slightly, as if he hadn’t expected Shane to actually go through with this. Shane stares at the cupid’s bow of his upper lip, each one of his boxes and lines crumbling in real time.

“Do you, Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, take Shane Hollander to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

No hesitation. Not even a flinch.

Shane’s ears buzz. Less of a roar and more of a pleasant hum. He knows this entire thing had been his idea, but hearing Ilya say the words I do, and feeling his warm skin brushing along Shane’s hand as he carefully slots the band in place…

None of it feels real.

The ring slides on easily. Of course it does. Shane knows his own ring size, and he had been the one to buy them. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’s more nervous that Ilya’s ring won’t fit; that he had guessed incorrectly.

The magistrate gestures at Shane. He reaches into his breast pocket, where said ring rests against his heart. His fingers tremble as he grabs Ilya’s hand and slides the golden band over each knuckle. A perfect fit, exactly like the clothes had been.

Maybe Shane does know Ilya. At least, parts of him. He supposes that he’s had enough time to acquaint himself with the size of Ilya’s hands, the width of his fingers; the span of his shoulders and the curve of his waist. Shane could probably map his body blind — but that’s all. Everything else remains enigmatic. Unknowable.

His chest hurts.

“By the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you…”

Shane doesn’t catch the rest of the sentence. He knows how it ends. He’s too distracted by Ilya’s hands pawing at his chest, dragging him closer until his mouth sucks Shane into its own center of gravity. He sinks into the kiss, helpless and dazed by the sheer intensity of his own want. Ilya hisses as Shane pulls at his hip, stumbling slightly forward and mumbling Russian against his mouth. His ringed hand pets the back of Shane’s head as their foreheads knock lightly together.

The magistrate clears his throat. “All that’s left is to sign the marriage certificate. If you would…”

His face heats at the reminder that they aren’t alone. Fear grips the back of his neck, dousing the warmth left behind by Ilya’s touch. Shane has never, ever imagined kissing Ilya anywhere other than hotel rooms or his condo. Especially not with witnesses.

He knows that the magistrate is sworn to secrecy; that this probably isn’t the first time he’s had to marry people behind closed doors. Doesn't matter. He knows.

Shane steps away from Rozanov, trying not to linger on the ache in his chest, or think about the new glint of silver on his hand. He takes the pen and stares at the document. The words swim off the page, but he signs where he’s directed, before passing it off to Rozanov.

A short ceremony. A few signed documents. And that’s it. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are officially, secretly married.

He risks another glance at Rozanov, only to find him looking back.

That’s my husband, he thinks. We’re husbands now.

Fake husband, but husband all the same. Or partner. He’s unsure of the terminology here, but it’s real. It happened. There’s no going back. At least, not until Rozanov gets his visa renewed.

That’s only a few months away. His chest aches again, sharp and quick, like a pulse gone wrong. A few months of pretending, and then they can go back to how things are supposed to be. He should be relieved at the reminder.

Rozanov cocks an eyebrow at him, mouth curling into his signature smirk as the magistrate hands them their official copies of the certificate.

Yeah.

Definitely a relief.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Ilya has hooked up in dozens of places throughout the years. In the back of cars, in club bathrooms, in seedy motels, on high-rise balconies. One time, he ate a girl out in the alleyway outside the hockey arena in Atlanta, high on adrenaline from his victory and too horny to drive the five minutes to her apartment. Instant gratification is practically his middle name. How and where he gets his rocks off hardly matters to him.

Except.

Hooking up with Hollander is often a litmus test in restraint. Ilya can poke and prod and peel away at the layers between them, but he knows when to push closer and when to pull back and reapply some distance, pretending that his heart isn’t fucking putty in Hollander’s hands.

Over the past year — since Sochi — Ilya had thought he was getting better at pretending, but maybe the concussion knocked some of his common sense loose.

Maybe seeing Hollander wearing a wedding band, and having those stupid bambi eyes glued to him, and hearing the words I do mumbled alongside the brightest blush Ilya has ever seen is what undoes his painstakingly cultivated self control.

Maybe.

Whatever the case, as soon as the elevator doors close, Ilya’s restraint snaps. Busted knee be damned. He tosses his crutches aside and crowds Hollander against the wall, arms caging him in on both sides as his mouth dives into the deep end. Head first, no floaties. Nothing but an uncontrollable current of desire pulling him under.

Shane melts almost instantly under his touch, moaning against his mouth as he greedily sucks on Ilya’s tongue. Always so desperate. Always so perfect.

Ilya wants to fucking ruin him.

“Wait,” Shane gasps, hands gripping Ilya’s shoulders as if to push him away, only to pull him closer. His legs spread easily, welcoming Ilya home. The strain on his one good leg eases as he leans into the touch. “Wait. Not here.”

“I will bribe them to erase security tape,” Ilya murmurs, distracted by the soft cut of Shane’s jaw. He scrapes his teeth along the supple skin, tinged pink from embarrassment and arousal.

Shane breathes harshly through his nose. He looks wrecked already. Enough so that if they leave this elevator, people will be able to tell exactly what went down in here. That thought alone should bring him back to his senses, but all Ilya can think about is how badly he wants to mark Shane from head-to-toe. Claim him for the entire fucking world to see.

“It’s a government building, Rozanov. You can’t fucking bribe them.”

“Okay. It is government building, and we are newlyweds.” He leans in again, smirking against Shane’s throat. Savoring the way his breath hitches at the word. “We are still trying to convince them, Shane.”

The elevator dings, doors opening to reveal the empty lobby. Shane reaches around him for the abandoned crutches and hands them to Ilya, before straightening his suit jacket and wiping at his mouth. Ilya sags against the elevator wall, staring at the ceiling and willing his erection down. He follows a minute later, trying not to let the frustration show.

They take separate cabs to the hotel, of course. A smart choice on Hollander’s part, because Ilya doubts he could keep his hands to himself long enough.

Even if he sort of wants to strangle him for it.

Ilya isn’t exactly sure what’s wrong with him. He knows that Hollander had done this in some misguided attempt to help him, but the fact that they are bound together legally — that’s real — and Ilya suddenly has the insatiable urge to pin Hollander down. More so than usual.

He knocks on the door, fingers tapping his leg in anticipation. It opens moments later, revealing a shirtless and blushing Hollander, his dark hair hanging in wet tendrils over his face. Ilya drags his gaze lower to find Hollander’s erection pressing insistently against a pair of sponsor-approved sweats.

His blood burns as he steps into the room. The door clicks firmly shut, casting them deeper into the shadows. Ilya sets one crutch aside to bring a hand to Hollander’s cheek, watching his eyelashes flutter at the touch, listening intently as his breath turns shallow. He runs a thumb over Hollander’s bottom lip. Digs his nail into the pink flesh.

“You started without me?”

Hollander’s tongue pokes out guiltily, nodding. “Wanted to be ready.”

Ilya slips his thumb into that waiting mouth. His other hand traces the outline of Hollander’s cock, hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach as Hollander moans, low and guttural, into the quiet room.

“And if I want to take my time? Hm? You will be good?”

“Yes.”

He could make Hollander kneel here and take his cock in his mouth, right against the door. It would be so easy; and Hollander would do so well. Just as he’s told. Ilya glances down at his knee brace and contemplates. They have done that a million times before.

And tonight’s a special occasion.

He inhales through his nose as Hollander sucks his thumb, taking him down to the second knuckle. Hollander moans again, lashes quivering as his gaze falls back to Ilya. His pupils are blown out, so far gone already that Ilya thinks he would do anything he’s told. Without question, or hesitation.

It’s a dangerous power to have.

And Ilya’s been starving for too long. He wants too much.

“You are mine, yes?”

Shane nods, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

Ilya presses his thumbnail against the back of Shane’s tongue, forcing him to gag. His other hand continues tracing light patterns over the growing wet patch at the front of Hollander’s sweatpants. Hollander whines, attempting to move closer, but stops himself when Ilya wobbles. A hand curls around Ilya’s waist, steadying him.

He swallows down another bout of shame. Focuses on the wet heat instead. “Say it.”

“Yours. Only yours.”

The words are garbled, spit dribbling from the corners of Shane’s mouth, but Ilya understands him perfectly. He pushes deeper, testing to see what the limits are. “Say my name.”

Shane’s eyes roll towards the back of his head, throat fluttering around the intrusion, but he doesn’t give in. Ilya pulls back slightly. Just enough for him to be able to speak.

“Ilya.”

His chest tightens. Ilya hadn’t actually expected Shane to say his first name, and it’s exactly as heady as he had feared it would be. Now that he’s said it once, Ilya will inevitably crave more. His thumb retreats until just the tip remains pressed against Shane’s swollen mouth.

Countless hours have been spent daydreaming about this mouth. Far more hours than he’s ever actually had access to it, because life is unfair and cruel.

But tonight, he hopes to rectify that.

“On the bed.”

Instead of immediately obeying, Shane stares at him for a prolonged moment, eyebrows pulling down as he internally debates with himself. Ilya opens his mouth to repeat the command, but before he can say a word, Shane’s hands cup his ass, lifting him as easily as a sack of flour. His other crutch clatters to the ground.

The noise he makes catches him by surprise. “Shane—”

It’s not like this is the first time Shane has lifted him. Normally Ilya loves being reminded of the fact that Shane can toss him around the bedroom as easily as Ilya tosses him. It’s fucking hot, and makes the sex more exciting.

But Shane doesn’t toss him. He carries Ilya across the room, careful not to jostle his knee brace, and sets him gently on the mattress; pushing him onto his back and arranging his limbs like he’s some sort of precious doll. His knee twinges at the movement, there and gone a moment later as Shane stuffs a pillow underneath to keep it raised.

“How’s that?” He asks, brown eyes glistening with a terrifying amount of sincerity.

Ilya blinks, trying to find the words around the embarrassment clogging his throat. “Come here.”

Shane complies eagerly. His mouth slots over Ilya’s, sucking and nibbling at his top lip, tongue tracing the back of his teeth. Ilya breaks away, threading one hand through Shane’s damp hair, the other gripping his thigh and tugging him up until the full weight of him presses against Ilya’s sternum, making his vision swim.

“Dick in my mouth,” he gasps, groping the meat of Shane’s ass. “Now.”

Shane tugs his sweats and boxers down just enough to pull his dick out, and Ilya licks a filthy kiss to the head. Precum dribbles down the shaft and Shane swears under his breath. Ilya chases the salt and dips his tongue into the slit, before suckling at the head.

“Fuck. Are you sure—?”

Ilya nods, slapping his ass. He’s pretty sure his smile is tipping towards the edge of manic, but he doesn’t have the capacity to care. “Grab lube first. I will get you ready for my cock.”

As expected, Shane scrambles to obey. It’s almost too easy to divert his attention away from Ilya’s injuries; and Ilya prefers it this way. He refuses to be coddled, especially when he hasn’t had sex with Shane in over a month.

At least he knows how to pleasure his partner. This he can do — even if he can barely move — and do fucking well.

He pours a generous amount of lube over his fingers. Shane’s hips twitch forward, almost unconsciously, the head of his cock rubbing against Ilya’s lips. His face burns so bright, even in the low light, lips transforming from a dusty pink to cherry red as he bites down. Clinging onto those final wisps of control.

Not for long.

Ilya maintains eye contact, opening his mouth wide and pressing a single finger into Shane’s hastily prepped hole. The effect is instantaneous. Shane moans, head rolling back as his hips snap forward. Ilya loosens his throat and swallows him down, tip to root, until his nose is pressed against the soft skin of Shane’s trembling groin.

He can’t breathe like this, but it’s worth it as Shane rocks back and forth, gently fucking the back of his throat like he can’t quite help himself. Ilya hums, adding a second finger, and is immediately rewarded by Shane’s gasp, one hand reaching forward to grasp the headboard, hips stuttering as he pushes himself deeper.

Ilya pulls back, hollowing his cheeks as he does so, and sucks in a desperate gulp of air. Black spots dance in his vision, but Shane is sitting on his chest, bright and ethereal, a king upon his throne.

Exactly where he deserves to be.

If Ilya weren’t literally knuckle-deep in his ass, he’d almost think this was a dream.

His headache has bled into a strange sort of pleasure. A soft, feathery feeling across the nape of his neck spreading towards the crown of his skull. His balls ache from how hard he is, but Ilya isn’t concerned with that right now. He adds a third finger and drags his tongue along the shaft, sucking in a breath as he gears up for another round.

Until Shane stops him.

“Fuck—” He pulls back, one hand covering Ilya’s mouth. “I’m too close. Fuck. Give me a minute.”

Ilya grins under his palm, licking at the salt-warm skin. His fingers crook, finding Shane’s prostate in record time and relentlessly rubbing against the tight bundle of nerves. Shane gasps, glaring down at Ilya like he’s been betrayed, before the pleasure drags him back under. He’s so loose and wet that it's only a matter of time; and it’s cute that he thinks Ilya would stop after wringing a single orgasm out of him.

He’s just getting started.

Shane thrusts into the empty air, a slew of tiny grunts and mewls filling the air, mixing with the obscene sounds of Ilya’s fingers in his ass and rattling headboard. His hand goes lax over Ilya’s mouth, just in time for his cock to twitch as he comes. All over Ilya’s face.

“God, Ilya.”

Ilya’s cock throbs, vision blurring as pleasure seeps under his skin, tingling from the tips of his fingers to his toes. He bites his tongue, trying to quiet the whimper building in his throat. Shane pants above him, catching his breath. His face is radiant, even in the low light. Fuck. That was so fucking hot.

Ilya relaxes into the euphoric feeling for all of three seconds before the cold shock hits him. He just fucking came.

Without being touched.

His face burns. This has never happened to him before. To Shane, yes, which Ilya has never let him live down. But not to him. Sure, he’s gotten close, and of course it had been Shane who nearly got him there, but this has never happened to him before.

A finger drags down the bridge of his nose, gathering the cum splattered there. Shane brings the finger to his mouth and sucks, moaning obscenely loud. He’s fucking insatiable. Ilya never stood a chance.

“Was that okay?” Shane asks, cheeks tinted pink and eyes tilted down. Suddenly shy, as if he hadn’t just given Ilya some of the hottest sex he’s had in his entire life.

Which truly is saying something.

He shoves his own shock and embarrassment down, cooing as he brings a hand to Shane’s cheek. Shane immediately nuzzles into the touch, a contented hum vibrating from deep within his chest and traveling straight through Ilya’s, reminding him of a cat.

“Nearly killed me, котикkitten.” Ilya rasps, nearly laughing at the comical way Shane’s eyes widen in alarm. He smiles, pinching the rosy skin of his cheek and swiping the leftover drool away with his thumb. “In good way.”

“Shit, your voice…”

Ilya shrugs. “I am not talking to press. Is okay.”

In all honesty, he hopes the soreness sticks with him, at least for a few days. He needs the reminder; something tangible to prove that tonight was real. He wishes he could always have Shane’s cock in his throat. His husband’s cock.

Fucking hell. He needs to get himself together.

Hollander shimmies down his chest, tugging Ilya’s (probably offensive) Bears shirt off before sucking a trail of kisses along his abdomen. “I’ll just have to return the favor.”

Ilya sinks against the pillows, fingers tugging at Hollander’s roots. It usually takes a few minutes for him to get back to full hardness, but with Hollander, his appetite never ends. Especially tonight. He could go a hundred rounds and still be starving for it. Who fucking knew that marriage was nature’s viagra?

He dreads the inevitable discovery that will be made as soon as his pants come off, but Ilya could always lie and say he got himself off while Hollander was distracted. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. And Ilya needs to preserve some semblance of dignity tonight.

Normally, he would take them to the shower and have Hollander go down on him there. The steam and running water would give him some cover, at least. But showering is an entire fucking ordeal right now, so that option is out.

The heel of Hollander’s hand rubs over his sweats, nose burying into the black fabric and inhaling deep, almost like he’s trying to memorize the scent. He mouths over the shape of Ilya’s cock, teeth grazing lightly as he cups Ilya’s balls.

“ебатьFuck.” He moans, hips bucking and fingers tightening as he shoves Hollander deeper into the space between his thighs.

Hollander huffs a laugh. “Now who’s desperate?”

Ilya nearly blurts something along the lines of ‘I am always desperate for you’ or ‘Yes, only you make me like this’ but thankfully bites his tongue. Hollander is like a cat in more ways than one. Difficult to earn affection from; desperate to be touched the right way but unable to articulate it; finicky about cleanliness; and most importantly, easily spooked.

Instead of responding, he shoves Hollander’s face deeper, who goes willingly, hands reaching up to clutch the band of his sweats and tugging. Taking his pants off turns out to be the most excruciating part of the night, because Shane has to pull himself up to his knees to carefully work the pant leg over Ilya’s brace.

So carefully that Ilya’s eyes burn.

His briefs are next. Ilya holds his breath as Hollander peels the fabric away, so focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t notice. Not at first. Especially since Ilya is already half-hard again. The low light makes the evidence easy to miss.

But Ilya sees the exact moment he notices. Hollander’s face freezes, eyes glued to the tacky substance smeared across Ilya’s navel, nostrils flaring slightly as the scent hits him. “Did you…?”

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

“Without…?” Hollander stares at Ilya like he’s never seen him before, and the unwavering attention makes Ilya want to squirm in discomfort. This is not how he wanted tonight to go.

“You are very hot. It is not big deal.”

Hollander snorts, almost in reflex, before his smile drops. He looks like he wants to say something for a moment, before lightly shaking his head. Pivoting directions as swiftly as on the ice. “Well, now you can’t hold it against me anymore. We’re even.”

“I will always hold against you,” Ilya teases, toe nudging at Hollander’s ankle to get him moving. “You are like angry kitten when I do.”

“Shut up,” Hollander says, smiling again as he crawls down Ilya’s body, settling back into position.

Hot breath grazes along Ilya’s cock, his stomach tensing as Hollander’s mouth wraps tentatively around the head, lazily sucking the tip but not much else. Ilya is so sensitive that even the slightest touch feels like a punch to the stomach. He wants to pull away; he wants Hollander even closer, pressed to kiss skin like a patch he can wear wherever he goes.

Hollander hums, seemingly content to just lie there with Ilya’s cock in his mouth. Ilya can’t help but gently run his fingers through Hollander’s hair, watching his lashes flutter along his cheekbones with each steady breath, brown eyes glued to Ilya as he awaits instruction.

On second thought, maybe Ilya doesn’t need his dignity.

Shane can have it all.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane wakes up, sticky with sweat and limbs heavy with a familiar mix of exhaustion and pleasure. It takes him a few seconds to orient himself to the darkness peeking through the faded beige curtains, the standard hotel room layout, the subpar mattress dipping beneath his weight.

Someone else’s body heat pressing against him.

He freezes, bleary eyes glued to the back of Rozanov’s head — glowing even now, in the absence of light — and his naked body above the stiff white sheets. He listens to Rozanov’s deep, even breaths filling the quiet room, dead asleep. Those painkillers practically double as tranquilizers; Shane could probably start screaming and Rozanov wouldn’t budge.

Which is good.

Because he kind of feels like he might.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The sex, yes — but falling asleep in the same bed? Shane hadn’t planned for it. He had fully intended to suggest Rozanov book his own room, or book another room for himself and let Rozanov keep this one. This is something they have never done before, and for good reason. A line exists, somewhere. A boundary between what they can be and what they absolutely cannot be.

Sharing a bed for sex is fine, but falling asleep in the same bed is not.

Shane knows very well.

Rozanov does, too. He had been the one to establish that line the very first time they ever hooked up, and every time after that. Shane had simply followed his lead, and somewhere along the way, that unspoken rule became an inextricable part of his routine.

Text Rozanov. Play against Rozanov. Text Rozanov again. Meet up with Rozanov. Have sex with Rozanov. Leave. The puck is always in motion between them, always in someone's possession, until that final buzzer goes off. The leaving part is the lynchpin to their whole arrangement. It gives him firm margins to work within; a neutral zone where he can breathe.

Without it, Shane can’t breathe.

He had known that getting married would blur the lines, but the lines are so far from being blurred. They’ve practically disappeared.

Shane had said Rozanov's name. Multiple times. He recalls the shift in the air as soon as he had; the weight of the word sitting between them; the way Rozanov's pupils had blown out and nearly consumed him whole.

Rozanov had said his name, too, a slightly dazed look in his eyes whenever he did so. Shane refuses to even attempt to pick apart the emotions brewing in his chest at the memory.

Everything is a mess now, and it’s all his fault.

He rolls off the bed, sliding down the side of the frame until his bare ass touches the carpet, knees drawing up to his chest. He presses his forehead against the curve of his knee, focusing on controlling the flow of oxygen through his lungs. In, one, out, two, in, three, out, four.

His flight is at nine, and it’s currently — he checks the analog on the desk — four o’clock in the morning. He could leave now. He could slip out of the room without making a spectacle, without Rozanov ever needing to know that they fell asleep together.

A few extra hours at the airport is nothing. Shane doesn’t mind the airport. It’s another constant in his life, a part of the routine. Re-establishing a neutral zone might be exactly what he needs to get his head on straight.

The bed creaks as Rozanov shifts, murmurs something in his sleep, and settles again. Shane stares into the cavernous darkness, muscles wound so tightly he’s afraid they might snap.

Leaving is the best option, but his body won’t move.

He recalls reading an article once about stress responses. Fight, flight, or freeze. Shane’s never been much of a fighter, despite his profession. Fighting has rarely felt like an option — not with so much scrutiny on him — but Shane’s also not one to run away. He’ll face his problems head on, if he can, or ignore them until they become mere background noise.

But sometimes, the background noise becomes too much, and suddenly his skin is crawling and itching and screaming at him to turn himself inside out. Every cuticle, every hair, every sensation feels wrong, an imperfection to be removed with clinical precision. Scalpel to skin, knife to throat.

The carpet scrapes against his skin. Rozanov’s sleep-drenched murmuring echoes in his eardrums. The darkness presses behind his eyelids, threatening to swallow him whole, much like Rozanov’s pupils had. The difference is that Shane had welcomed the darkness then. Had jumped willingly into its depths, heedless of the risk.

And now he’s drowning.

He clenches his teeth, attempting to regain control of his breath. So, they had fallen asleep together, and said each other’s first names, so what? It’s only a big deal if Shane makes it a big deal, right?

Rozanov had probably thought nothing of it. He probably thought teasing Shane had been fun, that Shane’s name was just another piece of forbidden fruit he had gotten his hands on for a little while. Not to mention that they had been acting at the courthouse for the sake of realism. It makes sense to lose themselves in the roleplay. Isn’t that something that happens to actors all the time?

Yeah. Yeah. That’s it.

Shane repeats the thought like a mantra as his fingernails dig crescent moons into the skin of his kneecaps. Slowly, the tension drops away, his muscles uncoiling and breaths evening out. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but by the time he resurfaces, a bone-deep tiredness has replaced the former adrenaline.

He forces himself to stand up, get dressed, and pull his shit together. He splashes water on his face, hands gripping the edge of the bathroom sink once he notices the red-rimmed reflection staring back at him.

Pull it together. Fucking game face on, Hollander.

The bathroom light bleeds into the rest of the hotel room, casting a gentle glow as he picks his way through the haphazardly discarded clothes on the ground, finding his phone amidst the pile. His gaze strays back towards the lump on the bed. Rozanov hasn’t moved.

The ring on his hand glints, and Shane stares at the silver band for a full minute before ripping it off and stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans. He hadn’t realized he had kept it on.

“‘Oll-an-der?”

Shane freezes at the voice, roughened by sleep (and deepthroating) and only half-lucid. He glances back to find Rozanov on his elbows and wiping at his eyes, a yawn cracking his jaw open.

A shadow sits beneath the skin of his jawline. A hickey, maybe. They have always been careful not to leave marks, but they hadn’t really been careful at all yesterday.

The white of Rozanov’s eyes reflect yellow in the dim light as he blinks, attention falling on Shane almost immediately. Shane swallows and shifts his gaze elsewhere. “Sorry if I woke you. I have an early flight. You can go back to sleep.”

Rozanov doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even move.

“I paid for an extra night already, so you can stay as long as you need.”

He had done so upon checking in yesterday, and now that he thinks about it, the gesture feels too intimate, or presumptuous. But Shane hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of Rozanov having no plans of where to go, and it makes more sense for him to stay in place, rather than move to a new hotel — especially in his condition. Shane isn’t even sure if Rozanov is cleared to fly yet. He could be here for a couple days, at least. Maybe longer.

The bridge of Rozanov’s nose pinches slightly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Well. Bye.” He turns towards the door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and fingers clenched too tightly around the strap.

“Have safe flight.”

The words are mumbled, as if Rozanov’s mouth is shoved into the pillow already, fading back into unconsciousness without a second thought. That’s good. It means that Shane’s assumptions are probably correct, and Rozanov likely won’t think too much about any of the events from the past day. Things should continue as normal.

Except for the signed and sealed marriage certificate, tucked carefully away in a sheet protector at the bottom of his duffel; and the leaden weight of a polished silver ring shifting against his leg each time he moves.

Nothing has to change.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Minneapolis is colder than California, but almost a perfect copy of Montreal weather-wise. Shane steps outside the airport and immediately embraces the cold bite of wind against his cheeks, made colder and wetter from the nearby river. He loves playing in Minneapolis for this reason. It hardly feels like he’s left home.

Most people tend to hate the winter — even fellow Canadians, who grew up in the same harsh environment as Shane. The cold, the snow, the dark days. Shane wouldn’t say that he loves winter, but his senses are sharper. The air is crisper. The world is quieter, because any extraneous noise ends up cushioned by the snowpack.

He closes his eyes and inhales. The industrial scent of gasoline and dust is welcoming, a common denominator between cities that helps keep him grounded during the season. And he will take any source of familiarity he can get right now, even if the scent itself makes his nose wrinkle.

His team should already be at the hotel. They had had an even earlier flight than Shane, and the flight time between Minneapolis and Montreal is slightly shorter. He’s been fretting over what to say to them all morning. They know that he had stayed in California, but they don’t know why.

Obviously, Shane isn’t going to tell them the truth, but they will most definitely ask. Hockey players are fucking nosy like that. Sometimes he thinks they’re worse than the WAGs when it comes to gossip.

Shit, half of the WAG gossip originates in the locker room, anyway.

Shane keeps his private life under such tight wraps that anything he does that strays from the norm piques people’s interest. Hayden has already texted him a million times, asking what he was up to in California, and Shane has left all of them unanswered. He can’t stomach the thought of having to face those questions in person.

But he has to.

As soon as he checks into the hotel and finds his room — a shared one with Hayden, as usual — he’s proven correct when he finds Hayden sitting expectantly on the bed closest to the window. His legs are stretched out over the bedspread, hands folded in his lap, as if he’s been sitting here all this time, just waiting for Shane to walk through the door.

“How was California?”

Shane’s body locks up without his permission, legs stalling halfway towards the empty bed. He glances towards Hayden. “All-Stars was fine. We won.”

Hayden nods, lips pursing. “I know. I was watching.”

His stomach sinks. Of course Hayden had been watching, and probably the rest of the Voyageurs, too. They had probably watched his reaction on the ice and wondered what the fuck was wrong with him. He’s heard them grumble under their breath enough times. No matter how many bag skates he makes them do, Shane is ‘too soft’ in their eyes; and his delayed response on the ice may be yet another weakness for them to pounce on.

He shrugs the bag from his shoulder, letting it drop to the ground. He hates making prolonged eye contact with most people — even his parents — except whenever he’s trying to make a point.

Shane holds Hayden’s gaze. “Then why ask?”

Hayden’s expression melts into a frown. It’s the same face he uses when he’s frustrated and trying hard not to show it. Shane has learned at least that much over the years.

“Look, buddy,” he sighs. “I’m just worried about you. You’ve been…off, lately. The whole thing with Rozanov, the All-Stars game, and then you decided to stay longer? You never miss practice before a game. I just wanna make sure you’re good.”

Ice trickles down his spine. “What thing with Rozanov?”

“You were weird about him being outed! Like, really weird. I’m not trying to make assumptions, dude, but are you…”

His breath hitches as Hayden pauses, mouth twisting down, as if he’s just tasted something bitter. Maybe Shane had been wrong, and Hayden wouldn’t be alright with the whole ‘fucking men’ thing. Maybe he’d figured it out on his own, and now Shane’s about to lose his closest friend because he can’t keep himself in check.

“Homophobic?”

Shane blinks, once, then twice for good measure. Hayden remains seated on the bed, staring up at Shane with scrutinizing eyes.

The word kind of makes him want to laugh. He’s never been afraid of anyone accusing him of being anti-gay, because he’s always been afraid the opposite. Afraid of being caught out, of people peering a little too closely and connecting the dots, of pointing their fingers and accusing him outright of being that thing he’s tried so hard to bury.

Is he homophobic?

Can he be homophobic?

Shane has never thought too hard about the possibility, but the fact that that had been Hayden’s first assumption makes sense. Maybe Shane is homophobic. Maybe, somewhere along the way, that fear translated into hatred, or disgust. Maybe he’s been trying so hard to distance himself from the word that he’s become the type of person who other people might look at with the same fear.

He thinks of Comeau and Drapeau and every homophobic slur that’s been tossed carelessly in the locker room. He thinks of the disgust on their faces and the scorn in their voices whenever they talk about Rozanov, or any other person deemed a ‘fag’ in their eyes. Shane doesn’t think he’s homophobic on that level, at the very least.

But he also hasn’t done much to fix the issue.

He can’t.

His heart pangs, hard and fast, against his ribcage. Shane ignores it in favor of maintaining Hayden’s gaze. He shakes his head on autopilot. “No, Hayds, I’ve just been stressed. Rozanov has nothing to do with it. I don’t care if he’s gay.”

Or bisexual, which is the only other term Shane knows, and the only term that makes sense when he thinks of Rozanov’s proclivities towards women but simultaneous attraction to men. But he’s not going to admit to knowing the term, or knowing with such certainty where Rozanov’s preferences lie. Not when he’s on such thin fucking ice.

Hayden stares at him for a beat longer, before his entire body deflates. He sinks against the pillows, hands to his face, and groans. “Man, that’s a relief. I’m sorry, it’s just—I have a gay cousin. I thought I was gonna have to, I don’t know, lecture you or something.”

That makes Shane crack a brief smile, at least. “Lecture me, huh?”

“Well, obviously, I can’t fight you.”

“You’re right.” He scoffs, thankful for the distraction. “You’d probably lose.”

Hayden makes a noise of protest. “I think the fuck not! I’ve been in more fights on the ice than you have in your entire life, Mr. Star Player.”

“Maybe because you suck at deescalation.”

“Or maybe you have everyone else protecting your ass.”

Shane sucks on his teeth, nodding once. “Maybe, but at least I’m on the scoreboard.”

Hayden kicks at empty air, his smile betraying him, as Shane feints to the right. He desperately wants the normalcy to continue, and nearly thinks he’s in the clear, until Hayden’s smile drops, expression turning serious again.

His palms sweat in anticipation.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Anything at all.”

Acid burns his chest, vision blurring and ears ringing as the roaring rush of blood drowns everything else out. Shane nods, swallowing around the thick lump growing in his throat, trying to push it down.

“‘Course I do. I’m gonna, uh, go for a run,” he says.

He keeps his face turned away, focusing on unpacking his bag and placing his neatly folded clothes into the dresser drawers. Hayden never uses them, so he doesn’t feel bad about taking up space. He keeps his socks and underwear together in the top drawer, before moving onto the next one, where his sweats and t-shirts will go.

It’s just for one night, but unpacking is a part of the routine, and the rote movements stave off the worst of his panic. For now.

Hayden’s eyes burn into the back of his skull. The weight of them is nothing new. Shane has endured worse, and he knows that Hayden is simply concerned about him, but he sort of wishes he could crawl under a rock and disappear.

But they have a game to play, and Shane is the one standing at the helm. His team expects him to lead them into victory, and he will do everything within his power to make that happen, regardless of how he might feel off the ice.

He can’t get all weird now, just because Hayden decided to look closer than usual and had come to the complete opposite conclusion.

Not that Shane is gay, or anything.

He doesn’t know what he is, really. Has never tried to put a label on it, because he’s been too busy trying to shove that part of himself as far down as he can. From himself; from everyone else. Rozanov is the only one in the whole world who knows that Shane enjoys sex with men. But sex with men doesn’t have to make him gay.

Rozanov is living proof of that.

Maybe he just hasn’t met the right girl yet. He had really liked his first (and only) girlfriend, Jessica, back in high school. She had been kind and supportive, and sure, maybe the blowjobs hadn’t been that great, and he’d dreaded eating her out. Maybe that had been because it was all so new, and they were both inexperienced. Not because he didn’t enjoy himself.

Regardless, none of this matters right now. He has a game to play tonight, and playoffs looming in the near future. Shane refuses to let them fail this year. This is his year; his shot at bringing the cup home to Montreal. He doesn’t have the time to entertain any thoughts outside of hockey and training and winning.

Still, the word niggles at the back of his mind as he steps onto the treadmill; eats away at him, weighing him down as his feet slam against the track.

He bites his lip and snatches his phone, pulling up Lily’s contact.

You [2:04pm]: am i homophobic?

The time in Santa Cruz is barely noon, and he half-expects Rozanov to still be asleep, tucked into the soft cocoon of body-warmed sheets. Three bubbles appear almost immediately, and Shane nearly trips. His heartbeat thuds so hard that he can feel it in the soles of his feet.

Lily [2:05pm]: 😂😂😂😂

Lily [2:05pm]: I don’t know. Does gay sex make you afraid?

Shane rolls his eyes, punching the speed down so he can type a response.

You [2:06pm]: you’re such a dick

Lily [2:06pm]: But you are not afraid of my dick))))

Lily [2:06pm]: I think you like it very much.

You [2:07pm]: oh my god

You [2:07pm]: DELETE those messages

Lily [2:08pm]: Why? I have a dick and Jane likes it.

Shane sighs, deleting the messages from his end. He supposes Rozanov makes a point. Of course he would be talking about his dick to ‘Jane.’

That doesn't stop the paranoia. Sometimes he's so afraid of being found out that all rational thought disappears. He'd had to turn off message previews on his phone after a close call with Hayden, months ago. He doesn’t want people knowing ‘Lily’ exists, because they will inevitably ask questions, like, who is she? Why doesn't Shane bring her around? Why all the secrecy?

He would much rather avoid that, if he can.

You [2:09pm]: shut up

Lily [2:09pm]: Make me)))

A smile breaks through, despite himself. Rozanov is fucking ridiculous, but he's also probably bored, all alone in Santa Cruz with a busted knee. No wonder he had responded so fast. He could probably use the distraction.

But Shane does not need a distraction.

He tamps the smile down. He has a game in a few hours and needs to be in tip top shape, mentally and physically. His shaky morning had already thrown him off for most of the day. Humoring Rozanov for a little while would only serve to re-open a can of worms that really shouldn't be touched right now.

You [2:12pm]: later, if you're lucky

Lily [2:13pm]: I am always lucky

Shane sets the phone on the machine, focusing on his breath and his form and the hard impact of his soles against the track. He keeps running until his lungs burn; until each breath scrapes against the back of his still-tender throat; until all thoughts of Rozanov and marriage and gay disappear behind a blanket of white noise.

The punishing pace reminds him what’s important. He has a hockey game to win. An entire season to win.

There is no room for anything else.

Chapter End Notes

¹Irina didn't have a maiden name in the Game Changers wiki, so I just made one up. A little explanation of Russian names for those interested (based on my research): As Ilya explains beforehand, children take on their father's first name as their middle name, including daughters. For boys, they take on the suffix -vich or -evich while girls take on the suffix -ovna or -avna. These literally translate to "son of" or "daughter of." For last names, these are gendered, too. AKA Irina's last name after marrying Grigori would be Rozanova, not Rozanov. So if her family's name was Shakhovskoy, then hers would be Shakhovskaya with the -aya suffix at the end. Also a fun fact about the name Shakhovskoy! It derives from Russian nobility and the word "shakh" translates to king or chess piece.^{[return to text]}

Click for additional notes

Listen, I could have written 10k of JUST that sex scene, but I had to show SOME restraint (unlike Ilya). Sex is just such an important part of their entire dynamic and I LOVE character studies via smut. So trust me, I could’ve kept going. I hope y’all still enjoyed how it turned out though!

That can pretty much be said for this entire chapter. Once I got in my flow, boy it was hard to stop. Restraint is an exercise, and I am constantly exercising.

Chapter 7: Chariot | колесница

Chapter Notes

!!! IMPORTANT UPDATE !!! PLEASE READ !!!
So this is the last chapter I have fully written and edited, etc. I am SO busy right now I haven't had time to work on this in ages, but I still wanted to upload this chapter so I have an excuse to give y'all the update you deserve! That being said: no, I have no idea when the next update will be. I'm hoping I'll be able to come back to it around the holidays when school slows down more and I have more free time. But who knows? Please bear with me. And in the meantime, enjoy this chapter.

Speaking of, things are gonna kind of speed up a bit this chapter. We are speed running from February to May, because it’s coming up playoffs season, baby! Yayyyyy. Also this chapter was suuuuper hard for me to write. Like so hard. It kept resisting me at every turn but I think we got there in the end.

[TW for threats of violence and abusive family dynamics

FEBRUARY 2015

Ilya walks into TD Garden the morning of the Boston-Montreal game, free from his crutches, but weighed down with the knowledge that he won’t be on the ice tonight. Or anytime soon.

He knows his home rink better than anywhere else. The path from the entrance to the locker room; the length of the tunnel leading out onto the rink; the exact seating layout, where nearly twenty-thousand fans chant his name. Games against Montreal are especially intoxicating, sold out months in advance, with crowds spilling out into the street, most of them swathed in the gold and black colors of their home team. It’s the kind of fanaticism that most teams — most players — only ever dream of.

The team seems to be doing well enough without him, all things considered. Barrett has been absorbed into the fold easily, having earned most of the team’s respect after making one assist and two goals in his second game. He’s quickly proving his worth.

Now, Ilya does his best to avoid the rink.

But today, he walks towards LeClaire’s office for his mandatory weekly check-in; then physical therapy later in the training room. The process has been agonizing in more ways than one. His physical therapist, Micah, tells him that he’s doing well, but Ilya’s pretty sure she gets paid to say shit like that. Every moment that his knee aches or twinges or resists a simple exercise is a reminder of how far he has to go.

Slow and steady, Rozanov, is what LeClaire told him a few days ago. You can’t push yourself too far too soon. We don’t want to risk it.

Bullshit.

The Bears are anxious to get him back in working order. He’s their best machine, and now he has broken parts. If they could, Ilya is certain that they would slap a brace on him and call it good before pushing him back out there.

Plenty of players have played with fucked ACLs before. He wouldn’t be the first. But he is one of the more valuable players, which means they have to follow protocol, to some extent, and treat the situation with a healthy amount of gravity. They can’t have him fucking his knee up even more, and they especially can’t have his knee giving out mid-playoffs, which is why they had immediately put him on reserve and traded Barrett.

In the meantime, Ilya wastes his time doing hip and knee extensions, hip abductions, leg raises, all while utilizing bright blue resistance bands that don’t really feel like they do much, but his physiotherapist swears by.

So long as it means he gets back on the ice, Ilya will do whatever it fucking takes.

He has contacted a few lawyers about his options and is currently on the hunt for a new agent — but his visa renewal still remains contingent on having a team to play on. If the Bears don’t trade him away in the next few weeks, he will be stuck waiting for their final decision.

Ilya hates waiting.

He really, really hates it.

He bumps shoulders with someone in the hallway, pain lacing through his knee as he trips over his own foot. He swears and braces himself against the white-painted brick wall, clutching his knee and gritting his teeth as his breath catches in his throat.

“Shit, sorry, man.”

Ilya cuts a glare towards the perpetrator and finds Barrett staring back at him, wide-eyed and panicked. “What the fuck? You do not look where you are going? Are you stupid?”

Barret’s mouth opens and closes, just like a stupid fish. “Uh…”

“сукаBitch.” He grits. “You will catch flies.”

His mouth slams shut with an audible click. “Sorry, Rozanov—Captain—uh, sir. I wasn’t…watching where I was going.”

Barrett looks like he wants to say more, but bites his tongue. Ilya raises a brow, leaning most of his body weight against the wall to keep his knee from throbbing anymore than it already is. Micah’s going to have a fucking field day about this, and now, instead of moving onto more difficult exercises, she’ll probably make him do the same boring shit he’s been doing for days.

Worse, she might not let him do any exercises at all.

“Why are you here? Is game day. No morning skate.” He tries to keep his voice neutral, but whenever he looks at Barrett, all he can see is his replacement.

Barrett winces. He seems to be acutely aware of Ilya’s dislike, which translates into him giving Ilya a wide berth whenever they’re in the same room. At first, Ilya had thought it was attributed to his queerness; like Barrett couldn’t stand to be too close to him, as if being attracted to men is a disease he can catch.

In reality, Ilya knows that he scares the shit out of the rookie. And his…less than amicable attitude hasn’t helped.

“Uh, it’s just…my game day routine.”

His gaze narrows. “More practice does not always mean better play, especially on game days. You will wear yourself out that way.”

Barrett shifts under his attention, eyes straying down the hall, probably searching for someone to save him. “I wasn’t practicing or anything, just, um. I take showers in the locker room on game day mornings, which I know sounds weird, but routine is routine, right?”

Ilya stares.

It’s not the weirdest pre-game ritual he’s ever heard.

Connors only eats food that is red the day leading up to a game; Marley always sits in the exact same seat on the bus for away games and requests the same hotel room number, if he can; Carmichael has to put his gear on in the same order, and restarts from scratch if he messes up. And the entire team insists on playing Gimme, Gimme, Gimme right before each game because the one time Sebbin had done it as a joke, they’d won a clean shutout, 6-0.

If Ilya were playing today, he would have woken up late and taken a long, hot shower; grabbed four bacon and egg McMuffins for breakfast; and then fallen back asleep until midday, when he would go for a short run before eating the same meal again, with a chocolate protein shake thrown in.

But instead, he had gotten up early and dragged himself to the arena. No hot shower, no McMuffins, no run.

The one ritual he has been able to maintain is texting Hollander.

He’s been trying not to think too hard about the whole marriage thing. Hollander had bolted the morning after with a panicked aura about him, and Ilya has been content not to press his luck.

Missing a game against Hollander feels like one of the seven cardinal sins, but Ilya soothes himself with thoughts of what they could get up to after the game. He’d taken a gamble and sent Hollander the address to his penthouse instead of a room number — as casually as possible — and had every room cleaned spotless.

Hollander hasn’t responded yet, is probably still on the airplane, but with Ilya’s knee still banished to non-weight bearing activities, he thinks he can make his current disadvantage work in his favor. Tonight is the perfect opportunity for both of them to recalibrate. To settle back into normalcy.

“...Anyway. I’m gonna…go.” Barrett backs away slowly, eyes glued to Ilya like a prey animal escaping its predator, which is as laughable as it is infuriating. Even at a brisk walk, Ilya doubts he could catch up.

Ilya’s jaw clenches. “You will face Hollander tonight, yes?”

Barrett blinks rapidly. “Uh…maybe. I don’t know? I mean, St-Simon centers the second line. He really should be the one on the first line. I’m just a rookie—”

“Rookie or not does not matter. You score well, but you still play like a right wing, not center. You must act as the link between wings. You move puck forward, you make the shots—and if you can’t, use the wing. Do not try to be one man show like Kent. This is not how we do things here.”

It’s probably the most words he’s ever spoken to Barrett, and as soon as he’s finished, the rookie stares at him with his mouth gaping like a fish again. Ilya sighs, turning back the way he’d been going. As soon as he takes a step, pain shoots up his leg, blurring his vision. He grits his teeth so hard that he may have just cracked one of his veneers.

A pair of hands reach out to steady him, one curling around his lower back and the other pulling his arm behind Barrett’s neck. Ilya turns to find blue eyes peering up at him, mouth drawn into a thin line.

“Thanks for the tip. And I really am sorry.”

Ilya simply grunts in acknowledgement, not feeling particularly up for a heart-to-heart with the kid who has replaced him for the season, and who has a reputation of throwing homophobic slurs around.

He takes a tentative step forwards. Barrett moves with him.

To nobody’s surprise, he arrives late to his meeting with LeClaire, who seems too shocked by Ilya and Barrett’s joint arrival to complain, and Micah — predictably — tells him to go home and rest his knee for the day after a thorough probing of the area and confirmation that none of the grafts had been torn.

“I know it’s hard,” she says, rewrapping Ilya’s knee. “But think of it as a vacation. Stillness can do the mind wonders, you know.”

Ilya would like to disagree. Most days, he feels like he’s pacing the length of a cage, and with each additional day of confinement, his tenuous hold on his fraying emotions slips further and further away.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane shouldn’t be here.

And yet here he is, riding the elevator all the way up to the penthouse of some fancy apartment complex in central Boston. He’s not sure why Rozanov had changed their usual routine, but maybe meeting at his place is easier than trekking all the way to a hotel right now.

Still far too risky. Shane had debated not showing up at all, that is, until his body started moving on autopilot. He had given a decent enough sound bite to the media about Montreal’s win, hopped in the shower, ignored his team’s commentary, and the next thing he knew, he was already in a cab on his way to Rozanov’s.

He steps out of the elevator into an open floor plan, warm-toned lighting flowing through the space with intention. He peers around the entryway, but Rozanov is nowhere to be seen.

Shane toes his shoes off and wanders deeper into the apartment. He runs a hand along the white and gray marble counters, eyes roaming over the sleek interior with curiosity. He wonders if Rozanov had hired a realtor, or if he knows who had built this place. The tray ceiling is a nice touch. He wishes he had thought to do that with the cottage.

It’s a nice place. Modern and rustic at the same time. Rozanov’s taste in furniture, on the other hand, is eclectic. The black leather couch is filled with throw pillows with abstract designs embroidered into the fabric, and the shag rug is such a deep maroon that Shane suspects Rozanov had bought it specifically to hide any wine stains from his frequent…guests. Despite that, everything feels cohesive and complementary — and Shane gets the distinct feeling that Rozanov had handpicked most of the decorations himself.

The penthouse feels a lot like him.

Shane really shouldn’t be here, but it’s too late to back out now, especially as he turns around to find Rozanov leaning against the open archway into another room. He’s already shirtless, wearing nothing more than a pair of heather gray sweats; and he definitely isn’t wearing underwear. Shane’s eyes are immediately drawn to the obvious outline of his dick, mouth salivating.

Rozanov tilts his head, heated gaze dragging down Shane’s body. “Congrats.”

“What?”

“Was good game.” Rozanov shrugs, picking at his nails. “Barrett is okay, but he is not good enough to beat you.”

Shane snorts, rolling his eyes. “What about the rest of the team?”

He shrugs again. “They are also okay, but against you? Without me? Is not fair fight.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s a compliment,” Shane says, breath catching as Ilya closes the distance, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floors. Half of his attention remains on Rozanov’s walk, the way he moves slowly, slightly favoring his right side; while the other half preens at the compliment. “How’s your knee?”

Rozanov tuts. “Is rude to ask before taking your shirt off.”

“I need to be half-naked to ask about your knee?” Shane scoffs a laugh, but complies easily. He folds his t-shirt into a neat square, setting it on the nearest flat surface — the coffee table, he thinks.

It’s hard to say when Rozanov is watching him like he’s about to devour him.

A hand rests along his hip, warm skin brushing along the soft muscle. “Knee is good. I can have sex, no problem. Is what you want to hear?”

Shane shoves at his chest lightly. “Asshole. It’s not about the sex—though, I guess it kind of is, since we can’t do it the way we, uh, usually do.” He raises his voice as Rozanov opens his mouth to argue. “Even if you say it’s good, I’m not letting you put any weight on it. Not a chance.”

Rozanov looks towards the ceiling and groans. “You are so boring, Hollander.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

He’s not sure which one of them moves first, but a moment later, there are fingers gripping his hair and a tongue in his mouth. His hands roam Rozanov’s chest freely, tugging at the blond hairs and smirking at the growl Rozanov offers him in return. The room suddenly feels too hot, but that might just be Rozanov’s breath trailing down his neck.

Rozanov snaps the waistband of his pants, nipping at his jaw. “Take these off.”

Shane glances at the wall of windows — just briefly, but long enough that Rozanov notices. He rolls his eyes and takes two steps back, reaching for a strategically placed remote and pressing a single button. The shades automatically start drawing down.

“We are top floor, Hollander. Nobody will be looking through binoculars at us.”

He shrugs. “Just to be safe.”

Rozanov pauses, head tilting to the side as his jaw works, before shaking his head and saying nothing. Shane nearly tells him to say what’s on his mind, but thinks better of it.

It’s best if they don’t talk.

He takes a tentative step forward, fingering the fabric of Rozanov’s sweats. Mostly cotton, he thinks. Probably from some expensive brand. He should ask later. The material is soft, like a cloud, and it shouldn’t breach any of his contracts if Shane buys a pair and wears them in the privacy of his own home.

A finger tilts his chin up. Rozanov’s blue eyes peer into his. “Bedroom.”

Shane nods, eyes glazing over at the command. He trips over his own feet as he hastily moves to follow Rozanov, who navigates the penthouse with ease, if a little slower than usual. Walking as if the tilt of his gait is purposeful, rather than compensation; like he’s making Shane sweat, rather than internally wincing from the pain. He pulls it off well. Or, he would pull it off, if Shane wasn’t so accustomed to his body.

A little over two weeks have passed since the injury and subsequent surgery, which is not a lot of time in the grand scheme of things, and Shane’s been reading up on recovery time. Rozanov’s lack of crutches is a good sign, at the very least, but his compensatory gait either means that they took him off of them too soon, or something happened to agitate the injury.

“Did something happen to your knee? During PT or something?”

Rozanov freezes mid-step, faltering as his balance is thrown off. Shane reaches a hand out to help, if need be, but Rozanov steadies himself against the wall. He throws a withering glance at Shane. “What is this? Interrogation?”

“What? No—I just—”

“Is nothing, Hollander. I will lay down in bed and still fuck your brains out, yes?”

Shane swallows around the desire burning his throat. “If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I was not sure.”

Somehow, Shane highly doubts that, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. It’s best if they don’t talk. Nothing has changed. Not for him, and definitely not for Rozanov. They don’t talk about anything important. They don’t need to. Not before, and not now.

His eyes catch on a familiar glint of gold against Rozanov’s bare chest. It’s strange, seeing the necklace now, knowing that Rozanov has a matching ring somewhere in his drawers. Or maybe he had thrown it out, or buried it somewhere. Maybe he forgot about it entirely.

Shane knows exactly where his ring is. Locked in his safe at home, still in its black box and wrapped in one of his grandfather’s old silk handkerchiefs.

It had been the safest place he could think of.

What Rozanov does with the ring is none of Shane's business, but the thought doesn’t leave his mind. Not when Rozanov licks into his mouth; or when he stretches Shane open until he’s dazed and panting; or when Shane rides Rozanov’s cock with his eyes squeezed shut and face buried in Rozanov’s neck, desperately trying not to meet his gaze. Not when he showers off the evidence, nor when he puts his clothes back on.

Rozanov lingers at the elevator, kissing Shane slowly, unconcerned about the fact that it’s nearing midnight, and Shane is definitely going to be late for curfew. Wouldn’t be the first time, which means Hayden will inevitably do that stupid eyebrow raise he always does. He allows himself a few extra moments of weakness as he waits for the doors to open. A few more seconds won’t make him any more fucked, at least.

“See you later, Rozanov.”

Rozanov groans, forehead digging into Shane’s collarbone. When he pulls away, Shane’s stomach clenches at the dull sheen in his eyes. “Boring. Fine, okay. See you later, Hollander.”

Shane leaves the penthouse with a sinking feeling in his gut. He wonders about the expression on Rozanov’s face the entire ride back to the hotel, but for the life of him, Shane can’t figure out what he might have been thinking.

⋆⁺₊❅.

MARCH 2015

“Good, that’s good, Ilya!” Micah smiles. She stands in front of him, hands on her hips, as she observes the motion of his leg. “Is there any pain when you move your knee laterally?”

He thinks he knows that word. Ilya shakes his head, sweat dripping down his temple. They have been at it for nearly an hour, and by next week, they will probably bump their sessions up to two hours. Not nearly long enough.

Micah is still smiling at him, tongue poking between the small gap between her teeth. “You’re recovering well. How do stairs feel? Any stiffness or pain going up or down?”

Ilya shakes his head again. “No, is okay.”

“Glad to hear it. There’s still some limited swelling—which is normal, don’t worry. You’re looking good. Be sure to keep moving throughout the day. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.”

He nods and slides off the table. He could tell the truth and say that most nights the pain in his knee becomes so unbearable that it’s difficult to fall asleep, but he doesn’t see a point. And so long as his knee functions during the daytime, what does it matter?

She leaves his apartment a few minutes later.

Her departure means that the silence returns. Most of Ilya’s time is spent in silence now. He sits alone in his penthouse, staring at the boring white ceiling with his knee elevated on the coffee table. The TV isn’t even turned on. He lost the remote at some point and hasn’t had the energy to dig for it. It’s probably lost between the cushions forever.

Oh well. That’s just his life now. Everything he wants is just outside of his reach. Hockey, the remote, and…he erases the thought before it can take form. Or, tries to. Brown eyes and freckles come to him, regardless. Those stupidly pretty lips and that perfect body; the new shine of a silver wedding band against his tan skin.

Ilya blows out a long breath. He needs some vodka.

Technically, he’s not supposed to be drinking. His doctors and Micah have warned him multiple times, but it’s not like Ilya is imbibing an entire bottle. Just a single shot to take the edge off.

He grabs the good stuff—The Legend of Kremlin, which he’d brought back from his last visit to Moscow—and realizes there’s only half left now. He stares at the black bottle. It’s not the end of the world. Svetlana can always bring him back whatever he wants from Russia, and there are Russian shops in Boston and New York. Online shopping exists. Anything he could possibly ever need or want from home will still be at his fingertips.

The bottle clinks as he sets it on the countertop, turning to rummage through his cupboards. He pauses as he comes across an old set of stopka.^[1] He’s never actually used them. They had been a gift from his grandmother before her passing, and while he often uses a similar set back home, he’s quite fond of the extensive shot glass collection he’s cultivated over the years.

His favorite is a souvenir he’d bought from a small little shop in Miami Beach during his rookie year. The colors are bright and garish with a giant cruise liner at the top; ‘Miami Florida’ emblazoned in bold letters across the middle; and a few flamingoes standing at the bottom. It’s incredibly ugly and stupid. He loves it.

Ilya’s hand reaches for the stopka of its own accord.

At the same moment, his phone vibrates on the countertop. His arm jolts, knocking one of the stopkas over and shattering it across the hardwood floors. He stares at the mess as he numbly reaches for his phone.

“What?”

“Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yes.”

He’s been waiting for a call like this. The deadline for trades is soon. Half of him expects to be told to pack his bags and move out of Boston effective immediately. The other half of him wants to go down kicking and screaming; to let them try and tear this team from his cold, dead hands.

“Good afternoon, this is Brian with HR. I’m just calling so we can set up a meeting to chat soon. Just a standard check-in while you’re on reserve, and there are a few clauses in your contract we’d like to review. Are you available two weeks from now?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Such a stupid question. HR should fucking know that he’s free as a bird right now, aside from his physical therapy, which is merely a blip in the vast emptiness that is his calendar. “Yes.”

“Great. How does Thursday, April 2nd at noon sound?”

He glances around his kitchen, eyes drawn to the dozen or so gift baskets sitting untouched on his countertops. “That is fine.”

“Alright, I’ll see you then!”

Brian hangs up.

Ilya doesn’t even want to think about what that meeting might be about.

Instead, he stares at the shattered glass. He should probably go find a broom and sweep it up. He doesn’t know where he keeps his broom. The maids come every morning, usually when he’s at practice; since he’s been stuck at home, he’s gotten to know them a little more.

Like Darina from Ukraine, who speaks fluent Russian. Ilya always feels a little awkward listening to her talk about her hometown in Crimea,[2] but she seems to hold no ill will towards him, or Russia. She’s even started bringing him containers of borscht and freshly baked buns, as well as a few traditional sweets like sochniki.

He doesn’t miss Russia. But there will always be parts of home he misses, like being surrounded by the language; or the park down the road from his house that he and Svetlana used to sneak out to get drunk and high; or the babushka who used to force feed him pirozhki because she thought he was too thin. Ilya can’t remember the last time someone fed him homemade meals, or the last time he had spoken to someone in his mother tongue that wasn’t Svetlana or his family. Having Darina around is…nice.

But it also hurts.

Three stopkas are still in his cabinet, so not all is lost, but the set remains incomplete. If he were to try and replace the broken glass, nothing else would come close to matching. He never uses them anyway, but the loss sits heavy on his chest.

He snatches the bottle of vodka and takes a long swig, savoring the burn in the back of his throat. He could find a broom, sweep up the mess, and move on with his day. He could call Darina and pay her extra to come clean it for him, maybe ask her to bring extra sweets and tell him more about her beagle, Maksym.

Or, he could let it be. Do nothing.

Someone will come tomorrow. For now, Ilya leans against the cabinets and slides onto the ground, careful to keep away from the bigger shards. He takes another swig of vodka and sets it beside him, eyes glued to the raised ceiling. The silence permeates throughout the entire apartment.

Ilya’s accustomed to the silence. He’d grown up with long, drawn out bouts of it penetrating the bones of his father’s house and turning the air frigid. Nowadays, he prefers to fill the silence, if he can. Prefers to live life loudly, with fast cars and long nights at crowded bars and a different person moaning in his bed every night.

Ever since his injury, all of that noise has fallen away, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts for company. He glances down at the shards again. Ilya grips the bottle’s neck so hard that the glass creaks as he downs a few more shots’ worth of vodka. His vision starts to go a little blurry — with tears or alcohol, he’s not sure. Maybe both.

He sits there for a long time.

⋆⁺₊❅.

The Voyageurs win against Buffalo, 3-1. Shane enters the KeyBank Center’s locker room afterwards with Hayden’s arm slung around his shoulder, riding the high of their fifth consecutive win. Sure, they could have scored more, and Wilson had botched Shane’s assist in the final period, but at this point in the season, he will take whatever he can get. The Voyageurs are practically guaranteed a spot in the playoffs at this point, so long as they maintain their lead.

He’s been keeping track of the Bears’ more recent games as well. Without Rozanov, the first line isn’t as strong as usual, but Barrett seems to be holding his own. Still, the Bears have won their past three away games by the skin of their teeth. If they keep this up, they may be able to make it into the playoffs as a wildcard team.

Shane can’t imagine what a playoffs season against Boston would look like without Rozanov at the helm. It’s too strange to consider.

“Oi, did you guys hear about Rozanov?” JJ asks, waving his phone in the air as he stands in front of his cubby, stripped down to his boxers already.

Shane’s tongue clogs in his throat.

“What about him?” Hayden asks.

JJ shrugs. “I don’t know what happened, but there are photos of an ambulance outside of his apartment. This article says he was brought to the hospital earlier today.”

His previous high immediately takes a nosedive.

“Avoir de la misèreSuch misery,” JJ mutters, setting his phone down. He resumes about his business as if nothing is wrong, heading towards the showers with a slight shake of his head. Shane is half-tempted to follow him, or steal his phone — just to see what, exactly, the article says.

Hayden jostles his shoulder a bit. “You okay?”

He blinks, nodding.

“How much you wanna bet he tried to kill himself?” Comeau scoffs, peeling away his socks and tossing them aimlessly behind him. “Fucking pussy.”

Shane stiffens, his entire body going cold as a familiar anger bubbles. He immediately pushes it down.

No. Rozanov would never do that. He loves life too much — or, Shane is pretty sure he does, with how much he indulges himself. He does what he wants, who he wants, when he wants; but maybe that’s part of the problem. He drinks in excess, along with who knows what else, and parties more than anyone else Shane knows. He never, ever talks about his feelings.

Maybe he went stir crazy and tried doing too much too soon; or maybe Shane’s initial thoughts were correct and it’s merely an infection. Maybe he’d tripped and hadn’t been able to get back up because he fucked his knee even more. There are dozens of explanations for why he might be at the hospital, though the ambulance is more than concerning.

“Jesus Christ, Comeau, that’s way too far,” Hayden says. “Do you ever fucking hear yourself, or do you legitimately have rocks for brains?”

“Fuck, Pike, chill the fuck out. I’m just saying, wouldn’t surprise me if that faggot decided to end it once and for—”

Shane barely has time to think before he’s brushing off Hayden’s arm and gunning for Comeau, yanking him up by the collar of his jersey.

“Get out.”

Comeau goes quiet, and the sudden lull in conversation around them leaves just enough space for the panic to take hold. He doesn’t know whether he’s given too much of himself away with those two words. But he’s so angry, so scared, he can’t help but direct it all towards Comeau, who represents everything he fucking hates about this sport.

Comeau sneers. “What, are you gonna defend Rozanov’s honor or something?”

“This is my locker room,” Shane spits. “I don’t give a shit what you do or say outside of this room. That’s on you. But this is mine, and I don’t want to listen to this shit anymore. You can talk smack about someone’s game all day long, I won’t stop you, but I draw the line at making jokes about something as serious as suicide. And that includes Rozanov.”

Shane shoves him away, stalks towards his cubby, and throws his gloves inside. The anger bubbles, threatening to boil over. His heartbeat flutters, panic clawing at his chest. Comeau might deserve to be chewed out — and worse — but Shane is the captain of this team. He needs to get his head on straight. He takes a few moments to steady himself.

As soon as he turns back around, he’s met with twenty pairs of wary eyes. “We have an actual chance at the Stanley Cup this year, and I refuse to risk our shot because this team is distracted and spending more time gossipping than working on their own game. If you’re confident enough to go after someone else, then I expect to see nothing less than perfection on the ice. Otherwise, you have no room to talk. Are we clear?”

Silence.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes, Cap.” A smattering of voices parrot back to him. Not nearly enough. Shane looks to Comeau, only to find his back already turned away as he jerkily removes the rest of his gear. He doesn’t have the energy or the power to actually kick Comeau out of the room, and the fact that Comeau hadn’t listened to him is telling enough on its own. A few other players like Drapeau and Renaud hover close to Comeau, staring Shane down with their arms crossed over their chests.

Right.

Shane has never truly had this team’s respect, and whatever tenuous thread had been there before is broken now. He’ll probably pay for this later. He shouldn’t have said anything. Now, everyone in this room has reasonable cause to suspect something, if they hadn’t already before. Shane has spent the better part of the past six years keeping his head down and keeping to himself. Never, not once, has he yelled at another player outside of the rink. Especially one of his own.

Hayden pats his back. “Where the hell has that side of you been all this time?”

Shane shrugs him off. He can’t respond right now. He needs to find his phone; he needs to text Rozanov and figure out what the hell happened. He needs to curl up in a ball and get his lungs under control.

The heat on the back of his neck scrapes like sandpaper and Shane grits his teeth against the sensation, ignoring the probing stares of his team. He just needs to survive the showers and bus ride to the hotel. Hayden won’t bother him once he realizes that Shane needs some space; might even leave him alone for an hour or two.

His fingers twitch. Fuck it. He should be able to send a quick message.

You [9:33pm]: how are y

You [9:33pm]: are you oka

Shane bites his lip. Rozanov rarely responds to him whenever he asks, and if he does respond, he’ll just avoid the question. Shane is used to it enough by now, but he’s not in the mood for Rozanov to downplay whatever the fuck happened.

He pivots directions.

You [9:35pm]: Beat Buffalo tonight. One step closer to playoffs

A few seconds later, three bubbles pop up.

Lily [9:35pm]: 👎

He smothers his own sigh of relief. At least Rozanov is awake. His thumbs hover over the keypad, debating what to say next. Rozanov beats him to it.

Lily [9:36pm]: I saw. Very weak backhand

You [9:36pm]: Seriously?

Lily [9:36pm]: Yes, but don’t worry. We will practice ))

Shane shakes his head. He catches Hayden watching him from the corner of his eye and sets his phone face down. He finishes peeling away his clothes just as JJ walks back into the room, wet feet plodding against the tiles. JJ takes one look around and stops dead in his tracks, eyes landing questioningly on Shane.

“Qui est mort?Who died?”

Shane turns back towards his cubby, hands shaking. “Ne t'en fais pasDon't worry about it.”

⋆⁺₊❅.

APRIL 2015

Brian from HR keeps their meeting on the books.

Ilya has spoken with HR and management far too many times over the past two weeks, so he doesn’t really see a point, but he shows up in a loose black dress shirt and pinstripe pants, regardless. He hasn’t had the chance to wear anything nice in ages. He figures that if they’re going to fire him, he may as well go out in style.

His new agent, Mallory, stands beside him in a blue tailored suit. A badass in more ways than one: she’s a former MMA fighter with a sports law degree. She has a no-bullshit attitude that Ilya appreciates, and a piercing stare that can make even the mightiest of men wither. He feels lucky to have found her at all.

They have discussed the possibilities surrounding today’s meeting a number of times. Mallory had sat Ilya down and forced him to think about what he wanted from Boston in the long term — security, guarantees, a certain length of contract — and write it all down. They had poured over his current contract for days. With every idea Ilya pitched, she would counter with a possible alternative, and they would go back and forth until they determined an acceptable middleground.

The deadline for trades has come and gone, which means this is it. Either Ilya walks out of here with a guaranteed future, or he’ll be forced to face down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Mallory is a bit more optimistic than him. She thinks they would be stupid to let him go, and that he’s still more of an asset than a liability.

Time to find out.

Ilya enters the office after a single perfunctory knock. He doesn’t wait for someone to let him in. He wants to be in control as much as possible here, and Brian from HR definitely isn’t going to be the one calling the shots. Mallory raises a brow at him, but follows close behind.

The room is filled with various suits. Ilya immediately recognizes the General Manager — though the name escapes him for a moment — but the other two men are new. One of them must be Brian. The squirrely one, if he had to guess. On the other side of them is another man with a red trimmed beard and a shaved head.

Their conversation halts as soon as Ilya and Mallory step inside, three pairs of eyes turning to stare at them. Mallory breezes past any potential for awkward silence and steps forward, hand outstretched as her red painted lips quirk upwards.

“Nice to meet you, gentlemen. Name’s Mallory, and I’ll be representing my client today.”

The General Manager appears surprised by this, slowly reaching for her hand and shaking. “Jeff O’Reilly. I’m glad Rozanov was able to find a new agent, especially with the shortage.”

By the tone of his voice, he’s definitely not. He probably had thought that Ilya would show up alone and they’d be able to bulldoze him into agreeing to the bare minimum, maybe even lower.

Ilya controls his expression as he reaches out, shaking O’Reilly’s hand. “I am very lucky. Mallory was top of her class.”

O’Reilly turns back to Mallory. “Really? What did you study?”

Mallory smiles. “Sports law.”

They shift uncomfortably at that. Ilya had known that having someone with her background would come in handy. Most agents tend to veer towards sports administration or sports management; very few opt for sports law.

It feels good to make them sweat.

O’Reilly gestures towards the bearded man first. “This is Mike Sullivan, our new Assistant General Manager, and then we have Brian Reynolds. He’s here as an HR representative, just to make sure everything is above board.”

“Fantastic.” Mallory keeps smiling as she claims the seat closest to O’Reilly.

Ilya smirks and collapses into the chair beside hers, further away from the suits. He stretches his leg out in front of him, wincing as the still-tender muscle twinges. He’d been cleared for strength training recently and spent the better part of yesterday working out with Marley. Micah had warned him against doing too much too soon, but it had felt good to get his blood pumping again.

A thick contract slaps against the table. O’Reilly glances between Ilya and Mallory, hands folded together atop the mahogany desk. “Before we get started, I just want to be clear that we have some…concerns.”

“What sort of concerns?” Mallory asks, tilting her head.

“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, Rozanov has endured quite a lot over the past few months. We want to make sure that he’s getting the best support possible if we’re going to continue investing in his career. However…” His eyes flick towards Ilya again. “He’s refused to join the Player Assistance Program.”

Mallory doesn’t budge. “That program is voluntary, and Ilya has expressed many times that the incident with the pills was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. He had known this would come up again.

In his defense, he hadn't been paying attention to his doctor’s instructions, and he definitely hadn’t paid attention to what kind of pain medication he’d been given. He doesn’t like pills, for numerous reasons, which means the less he thinks about them — the better.

Which had turned out to be a mistake.

Oxycodone and alcohol don’t go well together, as it turns out. Ilya had woken up in the hospital with no idea how he got there. The doctor had told him that one of his cleaners had found him on the floor, barely breathing. He still doesn’t know which one; they have all been tiptoeing around him since.

He really hopes it hadn’t been Darina.

From there, a whirlwind of activity had taken place. LeClaire had stopped by briefly, ‘just to make sure he was alive,’ and left him alone with a representative from their PR team and someone from HR (not Brian). They had asked him various questions, circling around the very obvious conclusion they had come to without directly addressing it. Another representative had arrived afterwards, handing him a pamphlet about the MLH’s Player Assistance Program. Ilya had only read a few sentences before ripping it to shreds.

He knows what management wants him to do, if only to make themselves look better, but Ilya refuses to voluntarily sign up to be sent to some loony bin. He doesn’t have a drug problem, and sure, maybe he’s been fucking depressed lately. Who wouldn’t be? His career is fucked. His knee is fucked. His entire life is fucked.

But he will not turn out like his mother.

He’s fine.

Accidents happen.

Except now, he’s been taken off his previous pain medication and given fucking baby doses of shit he could buy over the counter. His knee still throbs like a fucking bitch at night — worse now, probably. He hadn’t realized how much the opioids had helped until they were gone. His edges feel sharper than ever.

“I did not try to kill myself,” he says, crossing his arms. “I am Russian. I like vodka. I did not take doctor seriously. I learned my lesson. End of story.”

O’Reilly’s gaze sears into his skin. “So you’ve said. How about we meet in the middle, then? You don’t have to do the program—”

“You can’t force him—”

“But all that we ask is that you speak to a psychologist, just once. If you get cleared, then no problem, right?”

Mallory puts her hand out. “Don’t answer that. We’ll circle back. I have the feeling that’s not the only concern you have, Mr. O’Reilly.”

“Well, there’s still the matter of his ACL. The surgery seems to have gone well, but his recovery time…”

“The reality is that my client has been recovering at a rate that far exceeds expectations. Normal recovery time after reconstruction surgery is about…six to nine months? Most people don’t reach the strength training stage for a while, but he was just cleared by physio a few days ago. If you want him back on the ice in working condition next season, I think we would all agree it’s better not to rush the process anymore than it already has been.”

Ilya is half-tempted to argue. He wants to be back on the ice sooner rather than later. He can’t fucking stand the long, boring days of staring at his apartment walls anymore. He needs to move more than he needs to breathe.

But he keeps his mouth shut. There’s a reason he’s paying her to negotiate for him rather than doing it all himself. May as well let it play out.

O’Reilly’s jaw clicks. “I suppose so.”

“Anything else?”

Brian from HR perks up as O’Reilly’s eyes slide towards him. Something in Ilya’s gut twists. He doesn’t like that look at all.

Another, thinner contract is dropped on the desk. Mallory snags it before Ilya can catch a glimpse, eyes scanning the front page. She drops it with a scoff a few moments later. “Are you serious?”

“What is it?” He asks, too curious for his own good.

She shakes her head, lips pursing. “They want you to sign a disclosure agreement.”

He knows this word, he thinks, but the context is too vague. “Disclosure of what?”

“A relationship disclosure.”

O’Reilly splays his hands. “It’s just to cover our bases. We can’t be blindsided again by another leak like that. I’m sure you understand, Rozanov. If we can get ahead of the game, then we can protect your interests as well as ours.”

“Except he doesn’t have romantic relations with anyone on the team,” she counters. “Your form only covers workplace relationships that might be a conflict of interest. My client’s private life is of no concern to the MLH.”

“Except that it is our concern,” Sullivan says, scratching his beard. “After what happened in December, I think we can all agree on that.”

“You mean when my client’s privacy was violated and the League did nothing to protect him. Did you even look for the guy? Did you press charges? What have you done in the aftermath to safeguard my client’s interests?”

“Well—”

“My client is not agreeing to anything until we know his future with this team is secure. So, here’s what we’re going to do: you are going to sign his visa renewal and include a no-movement clause in his contract—and you better believe I will be reading the fine print.”

O’Reilly scoffs. “What makes you think we’ll agree so easily?”

“Because if you don’t, you’d be throwing away a generational talent. When was the last time Boston won a Stanley Cup before last year? When was the last time your team made it to the playoffs before adding my client to the roster? Last I checked, it was 2005. Half of the guys on your team were still around then. They’re certainly not the ones who made Boston great. If you want to go back to limping through the regular season, be my guest.”

It’s a ballsy move. Risky. If it were anyone else, Ilya’s pretty sure management wouldn’t even bother considering it. Men like O’Reilly hate being put in their place, especially by a woman, but the fact of the matter is that she’s right.

Ilya’s been told by everyone he knows that he’s too arrogant, too confident, too self-centered — but he simply knows his worth. He knows how much he’s brought to this team over the years; has seen with his own eyes how much things have improved with him at the helm. And he doesn’t see a point in downplaying that, or pretending to be humble.

Outside of Hollander, nobody can match him.

Hollander, who he absolutely has been committing some sort of breach in policy with for years now. He doesn’t know if fucking — no, marrying — Hollander qualifies as a conflict of interest, but with the MLH branding them as intense rivals and their teams practically hating each other, he wouldn’t be surprised.

He wonders how management would react upon finding out.

O’Reilly is an asshole, but he makes a point. If anything about Hollander and Ilya were to leak, the fallout would be an even bigger mess than his outing. But he’s not about to fucking tell them about his situationship with the MLH’s golden boy.

The three suits look between each other, as if coming to a silent consensus. O’Reilly sighs, fingers drumming over the untouched contract. “We’ll be in touch.”

Mallory stands, motioning for Ilya to stand with her. She smiles down at the three men. “I look forward to working with you.”

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane’s tape is missing. He’s checked and re-checked his duffel bag, his cubby, and even the various nooks and crannies around the locker room. He opened a brand new four-pack yesterday — customized white tape with the Voyageurs’ logo — which means he should be fully stocked for the next few games.

But suddenly he’s not.

His favorite pair of gloves have gone missing as well, along with his backups. He pulls out a ratty old pair of red practice gloves stuffed in the back of his cubby, staring at the gaping hole between the pointer finger and thumb. The size is a bit too small. Probably from his rookie year, or the year after.

He puts them on without complaint, leaning over to snatch Hayden’s tape from where he’s set it on the wooden bench. Hayden blinks and glances over, eyes drawn to the frayed seams. “Dude, where are your gloves? And why are you borrowing my tape? Not that you can’t—I just know you’re particular about it, so…”

Shane shrugs, wrapping his blade with Hayden’s ugly, subpar bright red tape. The material shines slightly under the fluorescent lights. He hates the look of it.

Hayden leans closer, eyebrows furrowed. “Wasn’t your tape missing yesterday too? That’s why you opened that new pack?”

His jaw clenches and Shane forces the muscles to relax. The last thing he needs is to get a tension headache today. “Let it go, Hayden.”

“Are you kidding me?” Hayden’s voice drops to a hiss. “Talk to Theriault. Comeau and his lackeys are acting like fucking children.”

“I’m fine,” Shane scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s just tape and gloves.”

Hayden stares at him. “For now.”

He doesn’t say what comes next, and he doesn’t need to. Shane knows far too well the lengths other players will go to in order to make others feel small. He’s been facing their taunting and aggressive hazing rituals since Timbits. Juniors was the worst of it, but Shane tries to block out those experiences as much as he can.

At least here, the ‘C’ on his chest protects him. A few missing rolls of tape and pairs of gloves is barely worth mentioning, and Theriault would probably tell him to suck it up, anyway. He’ll just have to figure out a way to keep his gear away from prying hands.

Hayden sighs. “I’ll keep your shit in my bag from now on, but I really think you should use your captaincy here. They can’t treat you like a rookie.”

Shane has nothing to say to that. He remains quiet as he finishes his tape job. The Voyageurs are only a few games away from playoffs, and their teamwork has remained strong. No cracks have shown up on the ice quite yet, and if Shane plays his cards right, they never will. He just needs to keep his head down. Keep his mouth shut.

He learned that lesson pretty early on.

Tonight’s game is against Cleveland. The win should be easy enough, because Cleveland’s goalie is injured and trying his damndest not to show it. Shane has watched enough of their recent tapes to notice the way his body curls inwards whenever somebody makes a shot, unconsciously protecting his left side. If he had to guess, the injury happened during the last Cleveland v. Toronto game, when Kent had shot a puck so hard it practically shattered the goalie’s chest protector.

He’s shared this detail with the assistant coaches, and they’ve drafted up various plays with this information in mind. If his team can simply follow the playbook, tonight will be another notch on their belt of uncontested wins.

But with the wrong gloves and wrong tape, Shane’s confidence wavers. His grip on his stick is off, the carbon fiber rubbing painfully against the skin of his palm; and Hayden’s tape is too smooth, which makes a noticeable difference in the way his blade controls the puck.

He grits his teeth and plays through it, adjusting his grip to accommodate. They pull ahead 1-0 in the second period, but the score is still too close to call it.

In the locker room, Shane steals Hayden’s extra pair of gloves. They’re slightly bigger than Shane is used to, which might not prevent more blisters from forming, but at least his stick will no longer rub his skin raw.

He reaches for his water bottle, but a hand around his wrist stops him.

Hayden’s eyes are glued across the room as he says, “Drink from mine.”

Shane follows his gaze, only to find Comeau and a few others openly staring at them, lips stretched into smiles that look more menacing than friendly. He turns away, blinking the sweat from his eyes, and accepts Hayden’s water bottle without another word. He throws his own in the garbage bin, before heading out to play the second half of the game.

That’s when the lines begin to fall apart.

Shane pushes himself harder and faster, beyond the neutral zone and into enemy territory, completely alone. His right wing lags behind as Hayden is cut off from view; and a few of his defensemen leave him wide open as Cleveland’s own defense nips at his heels.

He makes the shot. 2-2. The brief victory tastes bitter on his tongue. The rest of the game follows a similar pattern anytime Shane gains possession of the puck, and even when he tries to pass. A few of his teammates continue to try and keep the lines together — most of them rookies, or Hayden and JJ — but even they aren’t enough in the end.

Cleveland decimates them with a score of 4-2.

What should have been an easy win becomes a devastating defeat. Not enough to wipe them from the running for playoffs, but enough to leave Shane shellshocked and frozen as soon as the final buzzer sounds.

His hands are throbbing as he grips his stick tighter, eyes glued to the scoreboard. He realizes — a little belatedly — that he’s angry, breaths heaving through gritted teeth to keep himself from screaming in frustration. The pieces had been in place, their plays had been perfected, and yet they still lost because of some petty, personal vendetta.

Because Comeau can’t fucking handle having his ass handed to him by his captain.

No—it’s the fact that it’s Shane, specifically. Too-soft-pretty-boy-Shane-Hollander. He had hoped that the major leagues would be different, but the men on his team are just as spiteful and petty as the boys he had played with in juniors.

Playing hockey has always been a labor of love. Shane had hoped that he had finally proven himself; that he had established equal footing with those around him after years of killing himself to earn their respect. The least he deserves is to be able to play the game he loves so much without fearing that his own teammates won’t have his back. He’s had his head buried in the sand for so long; he hadn’t wanted to notice the cracks.

One moment and two words is all it had taken to shatter the illusion.

Shane knows he’s different. He knows that people look at him and see an outsider. Too Asian, too unsociable, too far removed from the locker room culture to truly ever fit in. And to top it all off, he’s better than them in every conceivable way.

He hadn’t realized that being good at a sport he loves was a bad thing. Not at first. His parents had thrown him into Timbits with unbridled enthusiasm, and Shane had taken to it like a fish in water. He loved the smooth glide of ice beneath his skates and the chilled air against his cheeks; the grip of a stick in his hands and the sharp sound of a puck being hit.

The first time someone threw a slur at him, he had been six years old, and Shane hadn’t even known what the word meant. Had only known, based on his parents’ reactions, that the word meant nothing good. But his mother had taken it in stride: rolling her shoulders back and raising her chin, voice level and cool as she verbally eviscerated the woman, who turned out to be one of his teammates’ mothers.

Jealous, his mother had explained, afterwards. You’re already so good that they feel threatened, but we’ll show them, won’t we?

Shane remembers nodding, somberly taking his mother’s words to heart. He wanted to show the world what he could do. He wanted to make his parents proud.

But most of all: he just wanted to play hockey.

That same teammate spent the rest of the year pushing him around the ice like Shane had personally wronged him. Shane doesn’t remember his name. It’s not important. What’s important is that Shane had been forced to learn how to shine while simultaneously stuffing himself into the boxes his coaches and teammates gave him without complaint. They could say whatever they wanted, do whatever they wanted, and he would compartmentalize it, bury it deep underground. Nothing could touch him, so long as he could keep playing.

That instinct still exists, embedded into the core of his being. Shane will turn a blind eye to pretty much anything if it’s not affecting his game; and for most of his time with the Voyageurs, this has remained true.

Until that one stupid fucking comment from Comeau.

All because of Rozanov.

After so many years of compartmentalizing, Rozanov continues to evade all of Shane’s efforts, bleeding into the parts of his life he shouldn’t; and Shane is afraid that someday soon, everything between them will spill out into the open like blood in the water.

Shane slams into the locker room, fingers flexing and unflexing with the urge to hit something. The silence in the room unnerves him as the weary mumbling of his teammates halts completely. He can feel their eyes on him, waiting for something.

He’s not sure what, but he refuses to give it to them.

A loss is a loss. Nothing he can do about it now. From now on, Shane will need to compensate harder for his missing support. He can still bring them the Stanley Cup this year. He refuses to give up. That’s not in his nature.

“We’ll get ‘em next time, alright?” He says to the room, eyes flicking aimlessly over their faces. Everyone blurs together, indiscernible from one another. It’s better that way. “We’re still gonna win the cup.”

A few of the guys snort. The rookies — dead-eyed and beaten down — along with Hayden and JJ, are the only ones who nod along.

Shane leaves it at that, turning back towards his cubby. He doesn’t remove any of his gear. Instead, he reaches for his phone, scrolling aimlessly through various screenshots and play-by-plays that have already gone up. Their fans are confused, rightfully so; and multiple critics are trying to pinpoint where, exactly, the game went wrong.

A notification pops up from Lily. He takes a deep breath.

Lily [10:05pm]: Does your team like losing?

Lily [10:06pm]: They were not on the ice. In wonderland, maybe.

Shane grits his teeth. Normally, he doesn’t mind when Rozanov sends a chirp after a game. It’s oddly comforting, knowing that he keeps tabs on Shane’s season. Of course, with his injury, watching games is probably the only thing that keeps Rozanov connected to the sport. Shane would probably go insane being stuck on the sidelines. He imagines the same is true for Rozanov.

But right now, this particular loss cuts deep, and the wound is too fresh for him to tolerate any bullshit — even if said bullshit comes from Rozanov. Maybe especially then.

He’s supposed to be focusing on hockey and winning the Cup. It might not be a fair thought, but Rozanov is part of the reason Shane is in this mess to begin with. He locks his phone and tosses it into his bag without responding.

⋆⁺₊❅.

MAY 2015

Ilya loves Spain. He doesn’t know a lick of Spanish, but he loves the way the language lilts on the tongue, the way English curls around itself as women — and men — openly flirt with him at a local seaside tavern on the outskirts of Barcelona. Right now, he has a brunette woman hanging off one arm while her boyfriend leans into his shoulder, golden eyelashes fanning suntanned cheeks. If Ilya looks closely enough, he thinks he can make out a few freckles. The scent of Tinto de Verano is strong between them, along with the heady swell of sweat and skin and the wafting breeze of sea salt in the air.

Svetlana is somewhere nearby, probably at the billiards table, where a large crowd has amassed in the last fifteen minutes or so. She is insanely good at billiards — like she is at most games — with a penchant for luring unwitting patrons into her trap. Ilya is content to let her have her fun, so long as she lets him have his.

Traveling to Spain hadn’t been his plan, but as soon as negotiations between Mallory and the Bears’ management team had closed and his paperwork had been signed, one of the requirements for his visa renewal — just like any other player — had been that he must get his visa from an embassy outside of the U.S., and Spain had seemed like a no-brainer.

He has fond memories of this country, mostly from his rookie years when he’d blown half of his salary on booze and women and designer drugs and clothes, somehow ending up on Chris Eubank’s^[3] yacht in the middle of the Balearic Sea and waking up in Mallorca with no earthly clue of how he’d gotten there.

He’s tempted to recreate those memories, faded as they might be, and has a few days to kill while he waits for things to process. Ilya is nothing if not resourceful with his time.

And anything is better than being alone.

“Me lo comería. ¿Puedo comérmelo?I want to eat him. Can I eat him? ” The woman — Nina, he thinks — coos to her partner, Elian.

White teeth glint in the sunlight as green eyes roam over Ilya’s face. “Este chico parece muy guapo.He is a very handsome man.”

Ilya is always fascinated — and a bit frustrated — being on the other end of a conversation he cannot understand. He’s used to being the only one in the room who can understand what he’s saying whenever he speaks Russian. And whenever he's with Svetlana, or back home with his brother and father, they only speak Russian.

In his early days in the U.S., picking up on the more complex English questions had been difficult, and Ilya had grown to hate media scrums because of it. He had worked extra hard to pick up the language as quickly as possible to keep from embarrassing himself; he had also spent that period feeling woefully inadequate and increasingly frustrated.

Here, he doesn’t mind as much, because nobody expects him to understand.

Ilya tightens his hand around Nina’s hip, pressing his lips to the shell of her boyfriend’s ear as he speaks low. “You live close to here?”

Elian bites his lip, eyes flicking towards Nina once, before nodding.

“Good. Let’s go.”

He allows them to lead the way, fingers intertwined ahead of him as their arms swing back and forth. Nina’s eyes keep straying back towards him, her pillowy lips pulling into a soft smile. “Is your friend going to join us?”

Ilya raises a brow. “She is…occupied.”

Svetlana doesn’t engage in most of his sexual ventures, outside of their increasingly infrequent hookups. She might be down for a foursome, but Ilya knows her well enough to know that hooking up with couples isn’t her thing.

For Ilya, it’s often a good enough excuse. Not that he needs one anymore.

Nina pouts. “She is so beautiful. I was hoping.”

He hums in agreement.

Elian flashes a grin over his shoulder. “You are both very attractive. Eye catching. I saw the sun in your hair and knew we had to have you.”

Surprisingly, Elian had been the one to approach Ilya first. Usually it’s the girlfriend sniffing out a potential third. It makes llya wonder. “You like men also?”

“Men, women, people of all genders are beautiful, no?”

Ilya tilts his head. “That is okay here?”

Their laughter tinkles in the air, mixing with the distant crashing of waves along the shoreline. Nina’s smile softens at Ilya’s confusion. “It is legal to marry here for a long time now. My best friend, Estrella, married our other friend, Luz, last year. Such a beautiful wedding. Very normal to us.”

He nods, heart clenching uncomfortably in his chest. He loves Spain, and this is simply another reason to add to the list. Part of him can't help but wonder: if he had been born here, how might things be different?

Ilya would be able to come home, first of all, and probably wouldn't have needed to hide as much growing up. So much of his childhood had been stifled, and Ilya had only ever been able to breathe when he was out of that house, sneaking into underground clubs by the age of fourteen and losing himself in a haze of hands and smoke.

He doesn't know who he would be without Russia. Every inch of his life has been defined by where he grew up. Even now, thousands of miles away, he can feel the tight grip of an iron fist around his throat. Maybe more so without the buffer of an ocean to protect him. But he doesn't let those thoughts linger. Ilya follows the couple to their seaside home, briefly captivated at the view of the blue-green sea and nearby cliffs from their balcony.

They don't waste time with pleasantries.

Ilya has a mouthful of pussy in record time as he hastily preps the guy's asshole, slipping a condom on and pressing in with a low groan. He fucks them both in broad daylight, in front of expansive floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water, cracked open to let in the warm breeze. Their wanton moans bleed into the air. He doesn't know which direction Russia would be, but he imagines that they can see him. He fucks a little harder for it, relentless and angry in his pursuit. The guy gasps and grinds against him, trying to take Ilya deeper. The woman's fingers tighten in his hair, the full weight of her pushing down on him, pussy gushing and wet as he buries himself in her pleasure. This is who he is, he thinks. He fucks men and ravishes women. Let them see him in all his glory.

Ilya wants them to see.

Being careful means nothing anymore. Everything is out in the open, aired to the world months ago. Questions surrounding Ilya’s sexuality are old news, probably because he’s been so careful not to cause a stir — not with his visa on the line — and people have begun to move on.

He wonders what would happen now, if he were to go back to Boston and start fucking men on the regular. Openly; unabashedly. The Bears have guaranteed his future with them, thanks in large part to Mallory, and he won’t have to worry about renewing his visa for years. Might even apply for permanent residency during that time. He could start living his life the way he wants to.

Maybe.

It still doesn’t feel possible.

Afterwards, he leaves them sweat-soaked and worn out, glistening naked bodies tangled in turquoise sheets. Ilya walks down the cobblestone streets, eyes glued to the horizon. Somewhere over in that direction, thousands of miles away, sits Moscow. He hadn’t thought about how close it would feel, standing on the same continent.

So close, and yet so far.

He runs a rough hand through his hair, tugging at the roots slightly. He shouldn’t feel this way. So homesick for a place that has done nothing but hurt him. He should hate everything that Russia stands for. The loss of his mother; the pain inflicted from his father; the disdain from his brother; the law that prohibits him from being himself.

A text comes through. Svetlana, wondering where he is. Ilya looks around and has no idea what to tell her. He’s down the street from the tavern; he’s a thousand miles away.

The sun hangs low in the sky, tilting to the west, the late afternoon heat hugging his skin. He ignores Svetlana’s text and cuts into the nearby trees, where a faint trail can be seen. His knee barely twinges as he hikes up the hill. He follows the path until he reaches the cliff’s edge, overlooking the open water and the beaches below. Dozens of people mill about, lounging in the golden sand and splashing in the frothy waves. The bastions of the old city stand tall and proud amidst the surrounding landscape.

Ilya fiddles with his phone, tempted to take a photo and send it to Shane. He thinks Shane would like it here. Maybe. At the very least, Ilya would like Shane to be here; to see how open and free he could be, without any restraints holding him back.

He’s been trying not to think about Shane.

Shane, who hasn’t responded to his texts in almost a month; Shane, who is currently dominating the playoffs as an unstoppable one-man show; Shane, who fucking put a ring on Ilya’s finger without batting an eye and then disappeared from the face of the earth.

Shane, whose birthday is today. Ilya knows because he had caught a glimpse of his paperwork back in Santa Cruz, memorizing the date with a hunger that surprised him. It’s not like he hadn’t been aware of when Shane’s birthday was; his Wikipedia page is open to the public and Ilya has read more than his fair share. But Ilya simply hadn’t given much thought to it before.

The distance between them is so small — barely a month’s difference in age, and talent-wise, they are constantly edging the other out by a hair — but still so big, because Shane grew up in a loving family, with a mother invested in his career and a father who seems boring, but harmless. He grew up with all the love and affection that Ilya had never gotten, but always yearned for. His parents will probably be with him today, celebrating another year of their son’s life like it’s a joyous occasion.

Hollander has everything Ilya wishes he could. Part of him hates Hollander and his perfect family. His perfect life. The other part of him wants to stand in his shadow and beg to stay for a while.

Ilya continues fiddling with his phone, thumb hovering over Jane’s contact. He could call with the cover of his own good news: a no movement clause and a renewed visa. Hollander will find out soon, regardless. He should hear it from Ilya, rather than those asshole pundits on ESPN.

Another part of him just wants to hear Shane’s voice.

He presses the call button, bringing his phone to his ear, and waits. A group of children squeal below as the waves crash into them, trying and failing to drag them into the undertow. The phone rings. They run across the wet sand with reckless abandonment, their joy swelling and rising with the heat. The phone rings again.

He’s met with the dial tone and an automated voice telling him to leave a message. Ilya immediately hangs up, staring at his screen with a familiar frustration budding in his throat. He wants to scream and throw his phone against the ground, smash it to bits and pieces. He wants to ask Shane what he did wrong so he can make it right, crawling back into his good graces like a dog being called to heel. He wants to dive headfirst into the rocks below and shatter his skull, just to rid himself of these pathetic thoughts.

Instead, Ilya retraces his steps, all the way back to the tavern. He finds Svetlana right where he left her, shining and laughing and surrounded by men and women with stars in their eyes. His heart warms at the sight; not nearly enough to thaw the chill in his bones.

He taps the bartop and orders an entire bottle of vodka, waiting for the numbness to take over.

⋆⁺₊❅.

Shane’s birthday has never been normal by any conventional meaning of the word. He turns twenty-four years old today. If he lived a normal life, he might go out with friends and celebrate, maybe have a few drinks. But the Voyageurs are in the middle of playoffs, which means he needs to keep his game face on.

Spending his birthday on the ice is nothing new. When he was a kid, his summers consisted of hockey camps and training at the local rink. The first few years in the major leagues, before the Voyageurs started making it back into the playoffs, Shane had spent his birthdays at home with his family. His mom would order in from Shane’s favorite Mediterranean restaurant while his dad attempted to bake something that fit into his diet plan, and they would sit in the family room watching that night’s game. No frills or expectations. It was nice.

The past few birthdays have consisted of hotel rooms and long, hard games and crashing into bed before he could respond to anyone’s well wishes. On some birthdays, the team would come together after a win; on others, he would spend it alone, agonizing over the loss. Shane isn’t superstitious, but sometimes he wonders if the outcome of games on his birthday are foretelling the year to come. If so, he’s not quite sure what to make of tonight’s game.

His team had won, but for Shane, it feels like a loss. He’d gotten a hat trick, leaving Nashville in the dust. Leaving his own team in the dust.

Shane is exhausted. No matter how many calories he eats a day, no matter how many protein shakes and chicken breasts and bowls of brown rice he inhales, he continues to shed weight. It’s normal for playoffs, but Shane has been pushing himself far harder than usual. Purpling bruises splash across his rib cage from various hits over the past week, where his defensemen continuously failed to ward off the other team. He’s pretty sure two of his fingers are fractured, swollen to twice their size, but he keeps them taped when he can. Hides them from view.

The only reason they keep winning is because Drapeau has maintained a solid save percentage; as well as Hayden, JJ, and the rookies’ hard work in compensating for their weak defensive lines. Shane has also worked with the assistant coaches to restructure their plays, trying to ensure that Comeau and his lackeys aren’t on the ice with him as much as possible. It’s helped, but only to a certain degree. The defensive lines switch less often than the forward lines, meaning some overlap is bound to occur.

Hayden opens the door to their hotel room, peeking his head through and smiling when he spots Shane lying atop the mattress. “Hey. We’re going out tonight.”

“What? No, Hayds, I’m—”

“I wasn’t asking, I was telling you.” Hayden steps into the room, revealing a single cupcake. “Now get dressed. And you’re going to eat this cupcake because I stole it from downstairs.”

Shane stares at the chocolate frosting, stomach churning. “Stole it from who?”

Hayden shrugs. “Some couple’s anniversary.”

“Hayden.”

“Relax,” he laughs. “There were like a million people there. One missing cupcake isn’t gonna have them sending the SWAT team for us. And a little bit of sugar won’t kill you.”

He bristles. “I know that.”

Hayden settles on the bed across from him, arms crossed. The cupcake rests on the bedside table while Shane does his best to appear unaffected. “Look, I know things are shit right now with the guys. I just think you owe it to yourself to have some fun. We fucking won tonight! It’s your birthday! That’s two things worth celebrating.”

“I don’t drink during the season.”

“You don’t have to drink,” Hayden responds easily.

“We have another game tomorrow.” The third out of seven. God, he’s exhausted. He’d much rather take a shower and crawl into bed, maybe rewatch some tapes.

“I’ll have you back before curfew.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Which is how Shane ends up at a dive bar in downtown Raleigh, hands balled into fists and drawn uncomfortably tight into his sides as the crowd ebbs and flows around him. Hayden and JJ stand on either side of him, talking and laughing with some local singer they just met, asking her about her budding Soundcloud career.

The establishment is old and small, preserved mostly by the red-brick construction and exposed steel pipes. The floor is too sticky, the music too loud, with people pressing too close. There is a reason Shane doesn’t go out often. His skin itches with the urge to scrub away the sweat and alcohol and who-knows-what-else permeating the air.

Hayden’s hand clasps down on Shane’s shoulder, jostling him slightly. He blinks, reorienting himself back to the conversation. “My buddy here is a hockey prodigy. Best player in the whole league.”

“Is he really?” She asks, curling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “What’s your name, cutie?”

“Uh, Shane.”

She smiles and reaches a hand out. “Francine, but most people call me Frankie.”

“Nice to meet you, Frankie.”

JJ and Hayden stare at him, as if expecting him to do something. Frankie’s hand lingers in between them, untouched. Shane doesn’t think he can handle touching some stranger right now, so he keeps his hands firmly to himself.

She pulls the hand away, laughing softly. “Well, I gotta go find my girls.”

She leaves a moment later, disappearing in the amount of time it takes Shane to blink. He opens them to find Hayden and JJ’s glares searing into him. He blinks again. “What?”

“Osti d'caveFucking idiot.” JJ mutters, grunting as Hayden elbows him in the ribs, despite having no idea what JJ is saying.

Shane feels mildly offended. “I’m not an idiot.”

“We were giving you an opening, dude,” Hayden says, wincing. “She was totally into you. And fucking hot. Did you not even notice?”

“You could have had birthday sex!” JJ exclaims. “C'est pas le pogo le plus dégelé de la boîteYou are so stupid.”^[4]

“Stop calling me dumb.” Shane’s fists clench and unclench, fingernails digging into his palms. “I didn’t even want to come out tonight. I’m way too tired for birthday sex, or whatever you wanna call it. And it’s playoffs.”

Even if Rozanov were right in front of him, Shane has firm rules about what he can and cannot do during playoffs, and hooking up is one of them.

Not to mention that, no, he hadn’t noticed that she was into him, and nor had he noticed how hot she was. Sure, she had been pretty in a distant way that Shane could probably recognize, had he looked at her a bit longer. Blonde hair and blue eyes are classically attractive. He doesn’t need somebody to point it out for him.

“Sorry, capitaine.” JJ raises his hands, backing off. “You are just so tightly wound, we wanted to help.”

“If you wanna help, have my back on the ice. Tell the others to get their shit together! That’s what I need, not some gross fucking bar.”

Hayden winces. “We’ve tried, dude, but…”

“You could try apologizing to Comeau,” JJ suggests, shrugging.

Shane looks at him, the ringing in his ears growing louder as the chatter around them bleeds into white noise. “Apologize for what? Telling him to knock it off? What he said was out of line.”

JJ waves a flippant hand. “It was about Rozanov, and Comeau always says stupid shit. If it brings the team back together, it is worth it, no?”

Part of him can’t believe what he’s hearing. There is no reason for Shane to apologize to Comeau. He’s not the one who fucked up, nor is he the one acting out of line. Another, larger part of him, has already resigned to reality. No matter what, Shane will always be the one at fault.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

He steps away, pushing through the crowd towards the opposite side of the room. The bar is so small that the bathrooms are single stall, and Shane is forced to wait in line as drunk patrons filter in and out. When he finally slips into a free stall, the scent of vomit and alcohol and piss assaults his nostrils so harshly that he gags.

Shane leaves the bar immediately, hailing a cab and returning to the hotel. His entire body buzzes—or, no, that's his phone. He stares at Hayden’s name through bleary eyes, ignoring the call. He thumbs through his recent contacts, lingering on Lily for a second too long.

He doesn’t know why Rozanov had called him earlier. Certainly not to wish him a happy birthday, but the thought — that Rozanov had been thinking of him today — soothes his agitation somewhat.

Whatever it is, Shane should leave it alone. He’s in the middle of playoffs — exhausted and worn down, but winning — and the last thing he needs is for his focus to waver. Rozanov has a way of cutting through his tunnel vision, leaving him distracted and unbalanced. And with the rest of his team icing him out, Shane needs to be at his absolute best if they’re going to get anywhere close to the Cup.

As soon as Shane returns to his hotel room, he rushes for the shower, cranking the heat all the way up. He scrubs his skin multiple times, ensuring that every inch of him is free from the sticky residue. Waits for his racing thoughts to settle into a mild hum, standing stubbornly under the running water until all traces of former panic seep away.

Hayden isn’t back yet when he exits the bathroom, which is fine with Shane. He pulls on a pair of gray sweats and a soft green t-shirt, flicking most of the lights off before collapsing on top of his mattress. The chocolate cupcake is still sitting on top of the bedside table. Shane shifts until the offensive sight is behind him.

He pulls up his recent contacts again, eyes drawn to Lily’s name.

Rozanov had told Shane that his visa was meant to be renewed this month. Last he heard, Rozanov’s new agent was fighting hard to renegotiate the terms of his contract. Shane had never responded to that text, but he had read it; he’s read them all, despite his better judgment.

His finger slides towards the call button. The phone rings and rings and rings. Shane half-expects Rozanov to ignore him, to give Shane a taste of his own medicine — though Rozanov had technically started it last year when he ignored Shane for a full six months.

The ringing stops.

“Hu-llo?” A voice cracks, half-asleep by the sound of it. “Shane?”

Panic claws at his throat.

Shane hangs up. A few moments later, Lily’s contact shows up on his screen, phone buzzing incessantly in his hand. He stares at the shape of the letters, reading the name over and over again until it begins to lose all meaning. The buzzing stops briefly, before restarting again.

Outside of the rink, Shane thinks he will always lose in a battle of wills against Rozanov.

He answers the call. “Sorry. My finger slipped.”

Rozanov is silent on the other end, soft breath filtering through the receiver. He sounds so close, and if Shane were to close his eyes, he could almost imagine that Rozanov is here with him. “Did it?”

Shane’s nostrils flare as the truth threatens to spill over. The silence stretches between them, soft yellow light illuminating the hotel room and casting shadows along the wall. Shane stares at his silhouette, wondering what Rozanov sees when he looks at him. Does he see him as nothing more than a body? Does it matter to him at all?

He gives in, closing his eyes. “No.”

A sigh in his ear. “You are older than me now.”

Shane’s stomach flutters. “I’m always older than you.”

“Ah, ah,” Rozanov tuts, sounding more awake. “For most of the year, we are same age. Only one month you get to be older, yes?”

He snorts. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“What are you, expert?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course. The great Shane Hollander. He is know-it-all, and so very boring.”

“And older than you.”

“Yes, okay, you are an old man. You and Scott Hunter would make good match.”

Shane makes an affronted noise. “No way. He’s got a stick up his ass more than I do.”

“You put stick up your ass? I thought I was the only stick in your ass.” He can practically hear the pout in Rozanov’s voice.

“Oh my god, I already told you I have a dildo. Get over it.”

“And you never told me what color. It is pink?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Okay.”

Shane stays on the line, fingers clenched around his phone like a lifeline. He finds that he really doesn’t want to hang up, which probably means that he should.

As if reading his mind, Rozanov fills the silence first. “You have game tomorrow. It is late.”

“Yeah.”

A few more seconds pass. “Goodnight, Hollander.”

“You, too.”

The line cuts out. Shane falls asleep with his phone pressed to his ear, dreaming of a heavy arm tossed around his hip and soft, even breaths hitting the back of his neck.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in weeks.

Chapter End Notes

¹A Stopka (also known as a rumka) is the smallest unit of alcohol and usually used for hard liquor. In many restaurants and bars, American shot glasses are widely used, but the Russian stopka is 50 ml. In Russia, before the introduction of the metric system (1899), all volumes were derived from a ведро (a 12.3 liter-bucket) and the smallest unit was called a shkalik (60 ml).^{[return to text]}

²Crimea is an oblast (like a state) in Ukraine that was invaded and then later annexed by Russia. This took place in the relative power vacuum immediately following the Revolution of Dignity. It marked the beginning of the Russo-Ukrainian war.^{[return to text]}

³A British former professional boxer who competed from 1985 to 1998. He held the World Boxing Organization middleweight and super-middleweight titles between 1990 and 1995, and is ranked by BoxRec as the third best British super-middleweight boxer of all time. He had a home in Moraira, Spain up until recently. I think it's been sold now.^{[return to text]}

⁴Stupid person. Literal meaning = Not the most unfrozen corndog in the box / not the sharpest tool in the shed. Specific phrase in Quebecois French.^{[return to text]}

Click for additional notes

I actually think it’s hilarious that of the multiple OCs I introduced in this chapter, 3 of them have names that start with M (I suppose 4 if you count Maksym the dog). Like I’m sorry it really wasn’t intentional, those were just the names that felt RIGHT. So many M and S names in Ilya’s life. I wonder if that means anything.

I really wanted to explore what would happen if Shane decided to stand up to the shitty locker room talk before ever coming out, and whether the team’s reaction would still be the same — and honestly? Yeah. I think it would be. Especially because he’s still defending a queer player, and Shane (despite being the captain) is still in a precarious position. For all the countless reasons I listed, I think they would definitely push back against him, especially since he’s spent so much of his career with his head down. They would probably view it as ‘putting him in his place’ either consciously or unconsciously. Feel free to disagree with me, but that’s where this ended up going, and I never thought I would even TOUCH the issue of hazing in hockey. Just goes to show that the story is not in my control lmao. It has a mind of its own! (I’m only mildly kidding. I am very much in control…somewhat).

SEE YOU NEXT TIME........AND WHO KNOWS WHEN THAT WILL BE! :)