Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Sebbin (Heated Rivalry), Ryan Carmichael, Victor St. Simon, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Farah Jalali, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Gilbert Comeau, Patrice Drapeau, Andropov (Game Changers), Dallas Kent, Troy Barrett, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Minor Characters, Roman Ivanov (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Berkes (Heated Rivalry)

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, Hockey Fights, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is Trying, BAMF Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Soft Hockey Boys, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Miscommunication, Nervous Ilya Rozanov, not a crackfic, Invasion of Privacy, Self-Worth Issues, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Angst with a Happy Ending, Second Chances, The Boston Raiders Make a Plan, Pike is there too for some reason, Oral Sex, 69 (Sex Position), Hockey Players Mic'd Up on the Ice (Game Changers), Relationship Reveal, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Endgame Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Twitter

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-06 Words: 23,659 Chapters: 5/5

Who Do I Have To Fight, Rozanov?

Summary

Despite the *obvious* interest on both their parts (standing naked under a shower makes it hard to hide certain feelings) Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov don’t hook up after the CCM shoot. A few years later, when they’re both Captains of their respective teams, Ilya comes out as bisexual. Shane immediately makes his move to lock down the boy he’s had a crush on all this time, before it’s too late. After a surprise at a post-game press conference and a challenge from the Raiders, Shane has to convince Ilya he is serious about having a real relationship in front of professional hockey and the entire internet. Will it work? There’s only one way to find out!

Chapter 1

Chapter Summary

Ilya comes out. The press has questions. Shane makes a deal with the Boston Raiders.

February, 2013

 

Shane dimly registered that one of his teammates was talking about Boston’s Captain. “Did you know about Rozanov?” Jean-Jacques Dagenais was asking when Shane looked up at him.

 

“No,” Shane said. He was dressed in his compression shirt and pants, and had been bent over on the bench, tying up his skates. “What about Rozanov?” Maybe the curly-haired Russian was injured? His last game had been against Toronto and though he’d dropped his gloves over whatever bullshit Kent was spewing this week, the refs had pulled them apart before -

 

“He is bisexual,” J.J. said, accenting the wrong syllables with his thick Québécois accent. “No, is true!” he insisted when some of the other guys started to object. “He posted on social media just now, look.” He passed over his phone, which was, sure enough, open to a tweet from @ilyaroz81: a photo of a shirtless Rozanov, smoking and smirking, with the caption Officially open to applications, only hotties pls #bisexual #yesreally #stillnumberone 🩷💜💙 🏒🫦

 

Shane’s grip tightened on J.J.’s phone while the room exploded around him. He let the sound blend together in a wall that isolated him from the rest of the world while he focused on what mattered. Ilya Rozanov was famous for his astoundingly good hockey, biting chirps that got under everyone’s skin, and ability to get photographed with a different woman every time he went out to a club. Sometimes two. (Occasionally, three, but Shane told himself that kind of greed wouldn't be sustainable once they got closer to playoffs.) The photos always made him angry. They were, if he was being honest with himself, the biggest reason he avoided going on social media himself. It wasn’t that he was jealous of Rozanov, off the ice, but he definitely felt a certain way about seeing the man’s sexual appetites splashed all over the internet.

 

If he was being honest with himself…

 

“I don’t get why he would do that,” Hayden was saying. Shane looked up, trying to guess the context of the conversation. “We all thought he was straight, right? He didn’t have to come out.” So, they were still talking about Rozanov.

 

“Dude was drowning in pussy,” Comeau said, waving his arms around. “Top tier. No way I’m giving that up.”

 

“Dude,” Shane said, “you’re married.”

 

Comeau shrugged. “He has to be extra gay if he’s risking his roster like that, is all I’m saying.”

 

Several of the guys groaned at that, and a side argument broke out about the risk vs reward of coming out when you still fuck women. Then another group started arguing that Rozanov couldn’t be bringing women home for real if he was gay now. Shane wanted to point out that bisexual and gay weren’t the same thing, but he kept his mouth shut.

 

“He can’t go back to Russia now,” Andropov said, which brought the room down for a moment. “The law passed last year.” Andy was a US citizen thanks to being born in Michigan but his father was Russian and he visited his grandparents in the old country every summer. Shane remembered then that Rozanov went back to Russia every summer too, or he did, before now. Probably not this year, if Andy was right. He opened Google to check which laws Andy was talking about, realized he still had J.J.’s phone, handed it back then went looking for his own.

 

“Raiders are probably freaking out right now,” Drapeau said from across the room. “Shit, I gotta text Koslov, that knowledge should absolutely have been dropped in the goalie chat.”

 

“You’re friends with their goalie?” Shane asked.

 

Drapeau shrugged. “Goalie chat,” he said, as if that was answer enough.

 

“Can you get me Rozanov’s number?”

 

There was a pause as the rest of his teammates realized what Shane had asked. The room went quiet. Hayden leaned forward, his blue eyes bright as he slowly grinned. “You gonna ask Rozanov out there, buddy?”

 

“No, I uh,” Shane started to say. He paused, looking around at his teammates. His brothers. Guys he’d roomed with in hotels and picked up from bars and stood next to in wedding photos. If he was being honest… but what he said instead was, “I just want to check in, make sure he’s doing okay with all this. Captain to Captain, you know?”

 

“You are a better man than me, Capitaine,” J.J. said with a laugh.

 

“Ice in five!” someone from the coaching staff yelled, so Shane put his phone away and finished getting dressed.

 

The Raiders were already doing their warm ups when the Metros got into the rink. Shane glanced around for a moment, memorizing the location of each member of both teams, then skated straight toward Rozanov. He was standing next to another Raider, Cliff Marleau; Rozanov looked over at Shane as he approached, eyes narrowed warily.

 

“Hey,” Shane said, “can I, uh, talk to you?”

“What is it Hollander, you want hockey tips for tonight’s game?” the Russian said with a small sneer. “Okay, what you do is hit small rubber circle into big net with stick. Presto! You are winner.”

“Fuck off,” Shane replied, more out of habit than anything else. “No, I just need to ask you something.”

 

Rozanov shrugged. “So ask me.”

 

“Can we…” Shane tilted his head toward Marleau. “Can we talk alone?”

 

“No,” Rozanov said stiffly. “You want to ask about my post? Yes, is real. Now go fuck yourself.”

 

“Jesus, Rozanov, I don’t have a problem with it!” Shane hissed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hayden skating toward them. “Look, can we please just talk alone?”

 

“He told you to fuck off, Hollander,” Marleau said. The big man skated forward a few feet, putting himself between Shane and the Raiders Captain.

 

“What do you want to talk about?” Rozanov asked over Marleau’s shoulder.

 

“CCM,” Shane said, just as Hayden arrived. “Fuck. Later,” he added, then turned before he could see Rozanov’s face. He grabbed his winger by the arm and dragged him away.

 

“What was that about?” Hayden asked as they skated back down the ice.

 

“Wishing them a good game,” Shane lied. “Captain shit. We’re gonna crush them.”

 

“Let’s fucking go!” Hayden crowed.

 

Boston didn’t put Rozanov in for the first period face offs. He cycled in, taking shifts, taking more hits than he should be. His team was wild, aggressively protecting him, but a couple of Shane’s teammates were Rozanov-seeking missiles, slamming him into the boards whether he had the puck or not. By the second period, Comeau and a couple of their other d-men were spending more time in the bin than on the ice, and Theriault’s face was bright red with anger. Boston was up by one, and Rozanov had assisted on both of their goals but hadn’t gotten close to the net himself. Finally, after yet another fucking whistle stop, Shane skated out to center ice to find himself face to face with Rozanov.

 

“Date me,” Shane whispered.

 

Rozanov’s eyes widened. “What?”

 

“Go on a date with me,” Shane said, just as the puck dropped. Rozanov’s mouth fell open, so Shane snatched the puck and took off. Rozanov recovered immediately, chasing after him. They scrambled for the puck for a moment, with Rozanov trying to steal it off Shane’s stick, before the other man slammed him into the wall.

 

“If you want me to fuck you, just say so,” Rozanov purred as he kept Shane trapped long enough for the refs to start yelling. He let go and pushed away before Shane could respond.

 

Shane focused on the puck instead of the way his blood felt hot in his veins.

 

In the third period he got his chance, with Rozanov pressed between Shane’s chest and the boards, their sticks smacking against each other with the puck underneath them. “I told you what I want,” Shane said, then the puck was his, and Rozanov was chasing him again.

 

After, when the Raiders had won 3-2 and Theriault had ordered Shane into the press room, they ended up seated next to each other. As the PR guys fiddled with their mics, Rozanov suddenly leaned over. “Stop messing with me,” Rozanov said bitterly. “Golden Boy should not be homophobe.”

 

Shane opened his mouth to object but the lights went on.

 

“Ilya!” someone shouted. “Is it true you’re gay?”

 

Shane kicked Rozanov’s foot under the table before he could answer. “Do you guys want to know anything about hockey?” Shane asked. He’d schooled his face into the serious press-trained Hollander look his mother had drilled into him since before his rookie season.

 

“Question for you then, Shane, do you think Rozanov coming out as gay will impact how you play against him in the future?”

 

“Well as I understand it,” Shane said, leaning forward slightly, “Rozanov actually came out as bisexual, not gay. There’s a difference.”

 

Next to him, Rozanov nodded, once.

 

The lights flashed again, making part of Shane’s brain react to loud and too much. He flinched, a movement so small probably no one would notice, but Rozanov tapped his foot under the table. The same reporter spoke up again before anyone else had a chance. Shane waited anxiously, hoping for one follow up question in particular. “Shane, you say there’s a difference, but as far as the league and fans are concerned, is there really?”

 

Got you. Shane smiled, slow and sharp. Next to him, he could see Rozanov narrowing his eyes. “Of course, Hazel, it is Hazel isn’t it? So as far as I understand it – and please, folks, correct me if I’m wrong, I’m still learning all this stuff,” which got a laugh out of some of the room, “a bisexual person like Rozanov is attracted to both same and opposite gender people.”

 

Rozanov shrugged. “Yes, is true,” he said, his accent thicker than usual.

 

“Right,” Shane said, interrupting to make sure he kept the focus on what he was about to say next, “and a gay person, like myself, is only attracted to a person of the same gender. But neither of those things have anything to do with me or Rozanov being some of the best players in the league.”

 

It took less than three seconds for the room to realize what Shane had said. It went eerily quiet, quieter than two dozen reporters had ever been. “Great,” Shane added, sitting back in his chair with his media-friendly smile plastered onto his face, “did anyone else want to ask about hockey?”

 

The Metros PR guy did three things in quick succession: he went pale, started coughing, then started yelling that the press conference was over. Shane was ushered out into the hallway. He made it a dozen steps before he collapsed against a wall. He felt so light he might float away.

 

“Hollander, what the fuck was that?” Rozanov growled.

 

Shane focused. Ilya Rozanov was standing in front of him, angry and glorious. His ocean-colored eyes were glistening, but his jaw was clenched.

 

“It was a press conference but I think it’s over now,” Shane said. A small laugh bubbled up out of his chest.

 

Rozanov’s game day suit was a deep charcoal color. It was more fitted than his suits had been in previous years, and showed off his body very well. The suit Shane wore was black, simple and classic. Off the rack, easier to not have to think about. Rozanov’s suit was probably tailored; Shane made a note to look into getting a tailor of his own. His mom knew someone, maybe. Or she could –

 

“Yes, ha ha, funny man. You told everyone you are gay, Hollander.”

 

Shane couldn’t stop staring at Rozanov’s lips. He’d been trying not to, had been telling himself not to for almost five years. They were perfect, pink, shaped like a bow with that deep v in the center. Shane had been so good at it, ignoring Rozanov’s lips. Now that he was letting himself look, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to stop.

 

“Was that a question about hockey?” Shane joked weakly.

 

“You were serious?” Rozanov stepped closer. There was maybe two feet of space between them now, and Shane thought he might stop breathing. “You mean to do this?”

 

“Can’t take it back now,” Shane said shakily. “If I did it any other way, they’d try to make me take it back. My mom, the league, fuck, my team is gonna lose their shit.”

 

“Okay,” Rozanov said quietly. “Okay. Breathe, Hollander, will be fine. League cannot touch us now. We can be half-gay and super gay together.”

 

“That’s what I was hoping for.” Shane closed his eyes for a moment, trying to take a deep breath. Further down the hall, he heard raised voices arguing. They were getting closer, and he had the terrible feeling that they were coming for him. “Being together, I mean. Pretty sure I’m only regular gay though.”

 

“You really want this?” Rozanov whispered. “With me?” He looked different from how Shane had ever seen him before. There was a softness to his face, a tiny crease between his eyebrows.

 

Oh, he’s scared, Shane thought. He nodded. He had already finally been honest, so he had run out of reasons to stop now. “I’ve always wanted you,” he admitted. “Ever since -”

 

“Hollander!” someone shouted from down the hall. Theriault, probably.

 

“You know this club, Sky Complex?” Rozanov asked quickly.

 

“Complex Skye,” Shane corrected. “Yeah, it’s huge. I’ve never been inside but you can’t miss it.”

 

“One hour. Come find me,” Rozanov said. Before Shane could answer, he turned on his heel and strode away.

 

“Hollander, now!” Theriault shouted again.

 

“Yep, yep!” Shane called back. Time for actions to meet consequences.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

The club was loud, even there in the VIP section. Clubs always were, but this place was enormous – a multi-level glass enclosed shrine to being young, hot, and queer – so the loud wasn’t just music. It was music and lights and the pull of the dance floor and there was no way a quiet guy like Hollander was going to step foot inside. Ilya sighed. It had been Marly’s idea to come here, before Hollander had outed himself. You’re out and proud now baby, his friend had declared. Let’s get you laid!

 

Ilya had said yes like an idiot. Sex cured a lot of problems, for an hour or two, and Ilya’s Twitter post had caused so many problems he was currently avoiding. But that was before. Before Shane fucking Hollander outed himself live on television to make it clear to Ilya that he wanted a date.

 

“You okay there, bro?” Connors asked. The shorter man had leaned over the table, practically yelling to be heard.

 

Ilya nodded. “We are not drunk enough for this place.”

 

“Fuck, I know that’s right!” Connors flagged down a passing waitress to order another bottle of champagne. Marly showed up as the waitress was leaving, with two gorgeous young twinks, one under each of his massive arms.

 

“These are for you,” Marly said, gently pushing them both toward Ilya like a cat bringing its owner a juicy mouse.

 

“I’m Ben,” the blond one said.

 

“Max,” the brunette said, pointing at his own chest. “We heard you were famous now.”

 

They were, objectively, very attractive men. Maybe a little younger than Ilya, who was halfway between 22 and 23, but not by much. The blond had hazel brown eyes, which Ilya usually liked, but they weren’t dark enough. The brunette was too pale, his skin too perfect. Freckles would look better, Ilya thought, then shook his head. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Come convince me why I should fuck you,” he added, gesturing to the space on either side of him. He was out now. Yes, it was stupid and reckless and he really shouldn’t have done it, but like Hollander said, they couldn’t take it back. He had blocked both his father and his brother on his phone. He was ignoring Sveta’s calls, but that probably wouldn’t last the week. There was no reason he couldn’t take one of these boys back to a hotel room. Both of them, if they wanted. He suspected they wouldn’t be hard to convince.

 

Well, there was one reason. But Hollander wasn’t here.

 

Until he was.

 

“Hey, you made it!” Sainty yelled.

 

Ilya had one arm around each of the guys Marly had found, with his tongue in the brunette’s mouth, so he didn’t notice when Hollander walked up, but suddenly the Canadian was standing next to the table. He’d lost his suit jacket somewhere between Centre Bell and the club, but he was still in a white button up shirt and black slacks that clung to his thick thighs. Seeing him, Ilya knew why the men in his arms felt too thin. They were ghosts compared to the way he had imagined Hollander would feel beneath him, with all the power and strength in those hard-earned muscles.

 

“Am I interrupting?” Hollander asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Ilya replied, forcing himself to relax against the back of the booth. The table was between him and the booth bench on the other side, but the space was large enough that Ilya’s whole body was on display from where Hollander stood. “Do you have a better offer?” He stretched his legs out in front of him, pushing his frame to look longer, leaner.

 

He watched Hollander’s gaze move down and back up again.

 

“I want to date you,” Hollander said. Again. Out loud, in public, where Ilya and half a dozen Raiders could hear him.

 

“Damn, Hollzy, that’s forward,” Connors said with a grin.

 

Marly laughed. “You could probably get him into bed without having to pay for dinner, no offense Rozy.”

 

Hollander rubbed the back of his neck before taking a deep breath. “I mean, yeah. I know I could. But I want a real shot. Date me, and let's see where it goes.”

 

Ilya barely registered that one of the twinks was licking the side of his neck. It was there, in the back of his mind, a little tickle of someone’s tongue working its way up to his earlobe. He could stand up right now, shake them off and pay for their drinks, then take Hollander back to his probably-fancy Montreal apartment. He could press Hollander against his kitchen counter, or push him onto the couch. Ilya could imagine wrestling Hollander underneath him, stripping him bare until those delicious muscles were shining in the light of whatever designer lamps Hollander probably had too many of.

 

“So serious, Hollander,” he teased instead. “You sound like you are proposing marriage.”

 

He regretted it as soon as he said it. Hollander was going to laugh. He was going to say no, of course not. Ilya was sitting in a loud as hell club, the kind of place Hollander never seemed to go, wrapped up in two men he’d only just met, a whore of a king on a throne of shame. Hollander was going to backpedal, announce Ilya was too much, and walk out onto the dance floor right now to find a dozen men who’d happily take him on a date before offering him mediocre sex and a scandal-free relationship that wouldn’t make his life harder than it was already.

 

“Eventually,” Hollander said instead. “I was thinking boyfriends first, then we can try living together if you want, we see how it goes. Maybe we can find a place together halfway between Montreal and Boston.”

 

Ilya’s dick was unbelievably hard. He carefully untangled himself from the two men sitting next to him. “Maybe we get dog too?” he asked sarcastically. It was too much to ask for, too much to hope for, to be said with the seriousness he actually felt.

 

“Sure,” Hollander said with a shrug. “I was thinking we’d get a cat to start with, but we can figure out how to make a dog work with our schedules.”

 

“He’s fucking with you!” Sebbin yelled. The Raiders d-man was tilting to one side, but so far had managed to stay upright despite having a drink in both hands. “Fucking Metros, man. They’ll do anything to throw you off your game.”

 

“You play hockey?” one of the twinks asked. Ben, maybe. The man lifted his hand, placing it on Ilya’s chest.

 

He gently picked it up and put it back on Ben’s own leg.

 

“He could prove it,” Marly yelled. “Like a, what do you call it, courtship thing?”

 

Connors was nodding. “Like Hercules?” They’d watched the animated movie a few weeks before, on another team flight to somewhere. “We come up with a challenge and he has to do it to prove he’s serious?”

 

“No, he doesn’t -” Ilya started to say, but Hollander said, “Okay,” at the same time.

 

“It has to be something good,” Sainty said loudly. “Something he wouldn’t do otherwise.”

 

“Hey, are we gonna do this or not?” the other twink asked. He was leaning away from Ilya now, looking between him and Hollander.

 

Hollander undid the buttons at his wrists. He started to roll up one sleeve and then the other, revealing his muscular forearms.

 

Ilya licked his bottom lip.

 

“Woah, Hollzy, you gonna fight for Rozy’s love?” Marly asked.

 

Hollander’s eyes widened. “What? No, that’s not…” He looked down at his sleeves. “It’s just hot in here.” His forehead was shining. Ilya wondered what he tasted like.

 

“No that’s good!” Connors said, shaking his finger at Hollander. “He’s gotta fight for you, Roz.”

 

“Hollander never fights,” Seb argued. “He’s the Lady. The most. You know. He won the Lady Byng last year, woo hoo!”

 

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Connors said. “If Hollander fights on the ice, we’ll know he’s doing it for love.”

 

“Okay, I like it,” Marly said. “How many fights?”

 

“You cannot make Hollander fight,” Ilya said, shaking his head.

 

“It has to be more than one, right?” Sainty said. “One fight could be anything. Ten fights, you know that’s on purpose.”

 

“Ten fights would get me benched,” Hollander said. “We have 31 games left in the regular season. I can’t drop my gloves in a third of them.”

 

“Five,” Carmichael said, the first time he’d spoken since Hollander walked up to their table. The others looked over at him. “That’s a sixth of the games you have over the next three months, right? So you could spread them out, probably wouldn’t be noticed.”

 

“You think no one will notice if Mr. Perfect gets into five fucking fights?” Ilya asked. He jerked his thumb toward Hollander. “This guy?”

 

“You think I’m perfect?” Hollander yelled back. He had been standing there, a little stiffly, the entire time, but after he’d rolled up his sleeves he’d hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his slacks. Ilya wanted to peel him like a tangerine, swallow him up and let the juice run down his chin.

 

“I think you are too Canadian Golden Boy to fight for me, Hollander,” Ilya said instead.

 

“All right,” Hollander replied. “Five fights. I get to pick who it is.”

 

“On ice,” Sainty said.

 

“On camera,” Marly said, tapping his own forehead. “Be smart about it.”

 

“Hollander is smarter than all of you put together,” Ilya said before he could stop himself from saying another thing he’d be embarrassed about later. But Hollander smiled again.

 

“On camera,” Hollander agreed. “When it’s done, you give us a real chance.”

 

“You want… what? Candles and romance?” Ilya rolled his eyes for his teammates, but he had goosebumps moving across his skin.

 

“I’ll take care of that part,” Hollander said. “You have to show up. Actually talk to me, you know? Not always making jokes.”

 

“I am very funny man.”

 

“Yeah,” Hollander said softly. Ilya didn’t hear the word, but he saw the shape of Hollander’s mouth as he said it. Louder, he added, “And when we’re dating, you can’t see anyone else.”

 

“I cannot be loyal, Hollander?” Ilya clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You don’t think much of your future boyfriend.”

 

“I’m sure you can, I just don’t know if you want that, with me.” Hollander shrugged his shoulders, a small insecure movement.

 

Before Ilya could answer, one of the men sitting with him, the blond one, stood up. “I’m gonna go,” he yelled over the music. “I still have time to find someone who isn’t doing… whatever this is.” He stepped over Ilya’s legs, pausing to put one hand on Hollander’s shoulder and say something into his ear.

 

Hollander’s cheeks went pink.

 

“I’m cool with it,” the brunette, said. Ben. No, Max. “You can bring him too if you want,” he added, tilting his head toward Hollander.

 

“No, thank you,” Hollander said quickly. “I don’t share.” He looked around the table. “I have an early flight, so I’m gonna…” He waved one hand toward the exit. “I guess I’ll see you.”

 

“Good luck, man,” Carmichael called after him as he turned to go. Without looking back, Hollander raised a hand, waving goodbye.

 

“Damn, Roz, did you know about him?” Marly asked.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Did you know Hollzy was gay?”

 

Ilya shrugged. He had suspected it, the night in the gym, after the draft. Maybe before, when a cute hockey boy shook his hand twice and didn’t seem to want to let go. There was the moment in the shower though, after the ad shoot in Toronto – the moment he’d replayed in his head, over and over – when he’d misread Hollander’s interest so badly the other boy had run out the door before Ilya had a chance to apologize. Or, he thought he’d misread it, with the way Hollander disappeared from the locker room before Ilya finished rinsing off. Now, that memory felt different.

 

“No idea,” he lied.

 

“You think he’s actually going to do it?” Sebbin asked. He was losing his battle against gravity, so Connors slid closer to him, grabbing Seb’s shirt with one hand to pull him upright again. “Hollander never fights. It’s like… a thing,” he announced very seriously. “I love you man, but there’s no way.”

 

A couple of the other men groaned loudly at that. Marly had that look on his face that meant he was about to wax poetic on their Captain’s finer qualities, but Ilya didn’t have it in him to listen to an argument that might end with them all being convinced that he didn’t deserve Hollander’s time after all. Not tonight. Not after everything that led up to him coming out earlier that day.

 

“Enough about Hollander!” Ilya shouted. “Let’s dance!” So they found the dance floor, even Seb, who’d given up his two drinks in favor of wrapping his arms around Connors and Carmy to stay on his feet. The lights were bright, the music was loud, many people wanted to rub up against him in the dark, and if he closed his eyes Ilya could pretend that at least one of them was a shy Canadian man with freckles scattered across his cheeks.

 

For tonight, that had to be good enough.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Shane gets in a few fights. Hunter is confused by the press reaction, and makes a decision of his own. Shane and Ilya grow closer.

Shane’s mom wasn’t talking to him. It had been three days since he came out during a post-game press conference with Ilya Rozanov sitting next to him, to the shock of literally everyone in the room. His agent had called immediately, and his dad too, but his mother hadn’t so much as texted. He knew from his dad, when he finally called back the next day, that his parents loved him. They supported his choice. His mom was, David Hollander said, just a little hurt that Shane hadn’t felt like he could tell them how he was feeling before he announced his sexuality to God, the MLH, and anyone watching at home.

 

“We love you, son,” David had said. “That’s the most important thing. Your mom will call when she’s ready.”

 

So Shane hadn’t mentioned the Rozanov of it all. Rozanov, Rozanov, Rozanov. Hollander-Rozanov?

 

He’d called Farah next. His agent was cool and controlled when she spoke about the need for Shane to run these kinds of statements past her before he did them, but much warmer when she praised him for being true to himself. “We can work with this, Shane,” she promised. “I’ve already got brands reaching out. You might lose a few sponsors, but we’ll replace them easily.”

 

“What about the league?” he asked.

 

She paused before answering. “The Metros have benched you for the time being. You still need to attend mandatory practices and games, but you’re excused from optional skates at the moment. They said it was coming from the commissioner himself.”

 

“Is Rozanov benched too?”

 

“Not as far as I know,” Farah replied quickly. “Shane, I have to ask… does your coming out have anything to do with his?”

 

Shane considered lying. It would be easier to separate personal from professional life. To keep his romantic pursuit of his rival hidden away in the part of his chest where he kept the rest of his secrets. “Yes,” he said instead. “I want to marry him.”

 

“Wow, okay. Wow.”

 

“He doesn’t know that yet,” Shane added. “I mean, I think he does, actually, but I’m still convincing him to date me.”

 

Farah didn’t say anything, but Shane could hear that she’d stopped typing. “Shane,” she said eventually, “what exactly does that mean?”

 

When he finished explaining – about the CCM shoot where he’d run out of a locker room rather than face a naked Rozanov and his own desires, the longing he’d felt during the years in between, about the press conference, the conversation in the hallway, and the Raiders challenge to prove his commitment with his fists – he realized, a little too late, how it all must sound. “I’m not crazy,” he insisted. “I’m just tired of pretending to be… me, I guess.”

 

“I get that,” Farah said gently. “But you’re potentially blowing up your career and your image for a man who might not even want to go out on a date with you.”

 

“He’s worth it,” Shane said. He was pretty sure that Rozanov wanted to do more than just go on a date, but he didn’t want to jinx anything. “Can you help me? Just with the league and the legal stuff. I don’t know how this is all going to work with Russia and everything.”

 

The typing started back up again. “I can reach out to his agent, discreetly of course. As far as this fight challenge goes, you’re going to have to be very careful, do you understand me? You can’t go after anyone that will damage your reputation, but I suspect the usual assholes are going to be more physical now.” Now that you’re out, she didn’t have to say. Now that they know you’re not just Asian but gay too. “I want to put together some statements we can post after each one, to make sure they’re spun the way we want. This is so far outside of what most people think about you, Shane. You have to promise you’re going to be smart about this.”

 

“I will,” he said. “Can I be honest? I’m a little bit surprised you’re not telling me no.”

 

“Do you want me to? Because if I thought it would make a difference, I would absolutely tell you not to do this.”

 

Shane shook his head before he remembered she couldn’t see him. “No,” he said. “It wouldn’t change my mind.”

 

“Okay, well, it’s certainly not going to be boring. I’ll be in touch after I’ve yelled at your GM again.”

 

Shane’s phone beeped. He held it away from his face long enough to see a notification from his email app.

 

“And I’ve sent you contact info for an MMA coach I’ve worked with in the past,” Farah said. “If you’re going to ruin your chances for this year’s Lady Byrd, we at least need to make sure to keep your face magazine ready.”

 

“Got it,” Shane said, though he didn’t think he’d need extra training after being a quiet brown kid in a loud white sport for as many years as he had. He grabbed his notebook off the coffee table and flipped it open. “I’ve been thinking about who to go after. Do you want to hear my list?”

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

Ilya was in the locker room, being pushed back and forth between cheering teammates, high off their win against Colorado, when someone yelled, “Hollander was back on the ice tonight!”

 

“How many games was he out?” someone else asked. Feller, it sounded like.

 

“He missed three,” Ilya said. “Fucking Metros.”

 

“Fucking Metros!” the other guys yelled.

 

“Did he do it?” Connors was asking. Marly had his phone out, scrolling down the screen with his meaty fingers.

 

“Did who do what?” Kane asked as he stripped off his gear.

 

“Hollander is fighting for Cap’s love,” Sainty said. Several men started talking at once.

 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “He was not serious,” he said.

 

“Oh oh shit, you guys!” Marly yelled. “Turn on the screen!” Someone got the monitor on, the big one that hung above one wall of the room. Marly swiped up on his phone to share a video to the screen. “You gotta watch this, Roz.”

 

The Metros had played in Toronto tonight, and Ilya thought briefly of those showers again. Hollander, naked and wet, clearly aroused, telling him to fuck off. Hollander, on the screen, slammed into the wall by a Guardian. The camera zoomed in as the Toronto player dropped his stick, screaming something at Hollander.

 

“Kent,” someone said.

 

“Hollander does not fight,” Ilya said, staring at the monitor. No one seemed to have heard him.

 

Kent had a hand up to hold off another Toronto player who was tugging on his arm, trying to pull him back. None of the Metros were anywhere near them. Ilya couldn’t tell what Hollander was saying, but he could see his lips move. Kent dropped his gloves, shoving Hollander back into the wall.

 

“Come on,” Connors said quietly.

 

Hollander pulled off his helmet, holding it in one hand while he argued. He still had his gloves on. A ref skated nearby, blowing a whistle.

 

“What is he doing?” someone else asked.

 

Kent pushed his own helmet off his head. Ilya leaned forward. Was Hollander smiling? he wondered. Kent swung, a wide hook Hollander dodged easily.

 

The Raiders muttered approvingly. Hollander ducked down to the right, standing again into an uppercut that caught Kent under his jaw. He fell backward, landing on his back.

 

The room filled with hoots and whistles. The other Toronto player, Barrett most likely, moved forward but Hollander jerked his chest as if he was going to lunge at him. Barrett stumbled backward. Ilya felt a smile spreading across his face. The ref skated between them, waving Hollander away.

 

Hollander looked around until he found the camera pointed at him. He smiled, pulling a glove off. He raised a single finger. One.

 

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Marly said approvingly.

 

“All right, you had your fun, yes?” Ilya said, his voice raised enough to be heard. “Everyone knows Kent is asshole. Another player will punch him next week.”

 

“Yeah, but Hollander did that for you, right?” Connors said. “I think he’s serious, Cap.”

 

“Maybe,” Ilya said. “Maybe. But right now you fuckers need showers and I need a beer so let’s go!”

 

He pulled his phone from his stall. He’d gotten Hollander’s number through Koslov, the Raiders goalie, after that night in the club, but hadn’t used it yet. Ilya sat there on the bench, half out of his pads, chewing on his bottom lip.

 

“That Hollander?” Carmichael asked, nodding toward the phone.

 

Ilya shrugged. “Do not know what to say.”

 

“All jokes aside man, do you actually want the guy?”

 

“Is Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, as if that explained everything. “Hollander is…” He sighed. “He will not want me.”

 

Carmy nudged Ilya’s shoulder. “You saw the same thing we all did, right? It’s okay to go slow, but I think the guy meant what he said.”

 

Ilya hummed but didn’t reply. He put the phone back in his stall.

 

Later, after he’d showered and dressed, been pulled aside for a couple of press questions, and pulled his bag onto his shoulder, he grabbed his phone again. He’d meant to put it in his pocket so he could go, but he saw the notification on his screen.

 

Golden Boy: I’m just getting started

 

Ilya’s eyes were warm all of the sudden. His chest was tight, as if he were wearing a shirt a size too small.

 

“Coming, Cap?” Sebbins called out from the doorway.

 

“Yep,” Ilya said. He put the phone in his pocket, and followed the rest of his teammates out of the room.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

The second fight happened toward the end of February. The Raiders had a free night, but the Metros had flown to New York to play against the Admirals, so Ilya was watching the game from home. That would have been manageable, Ilya alone in his sprawling penthouse apartment, sitting in the dark while Hollander skated out onto Hunter’s ice. He could react to whatever did or did not happen in private.

 

Unfortunately the idiots on his team refused to let him watch by himself, so his giant couch was currently filled with hefty hockey players who’d lost the meaning of “personal space” somewhere between changing in a locker room full of men and using whoever sat next to you on long flights as a pillow. Sainty had sprawled out in one corner with Connors leaning against his shins. Marly was between them and Ilya, both of his gigantic arms resting on the back of the couch. Seb and Carmy were still shoving each other over who got to claim the other corner of the couch and who’d have to sit between the other’s legs like they were riding a horse instead of a sectional sofa. Ilya ignored them, because Carmy always won, and Sebbins would end up asleep against his chest before the end of the second period.

 

Straight men got away with so much.

 

Kane was sitting on the floor next to Ilya’s feet, with his legs stretched out across the floor. They’d moved the coffee table out of the way, because Feller would start out on his belly, watching the 98 inch television propped up on his elbows, but he’d end up with his head on Kane’s thigh before Seb passed out. Koslov rarely watched the tv directly, opting instead to hang out in the kitchen, listening to the game and watching everyone else’s reactions to it instead. Sometimes they shared bitchy comments with each other in Russian.

 

Thinking of it made Ilya wish that Big Ivan and Mira had been able to make it. Miranov and Ivanov hadn’t been avoiding him since he came out, not really, but they were cautious now in a way that Ilya knew was because of Russia. Koslov was born here, had US citizenship, and therefore had less to lose. Mira’s mom was still living outside of St. Petersburg and was sick with something expensive that Mira didn’t want to discuss. He had to go back, next summer. Ilya no longer would.

 

After the post online, he finally called his agent, expecting yelling about how he didn’t clear it first. His first agent, the one he’d had when he got signed at 18, was a friend of his father’s. Old fashioned, very Russian, not at all interested in Ilya beyond his value as a paycheck. That guy would have dropped him the second he learned about Ilya’s “depravity”. Thank god he’d switched last year to an American who happened to speak Russian, and who took a standard agent percentage instead of what he was losing to the first guy. His new agent simply let him know he’d seen the news, and was already working with someone outside of his office to secure an emergency green card for Ilya. Under the circumstances, he might get approval in as fast as 30 days. Once he had that, Russia wouldn’t be able to force him to return.

 

Marly had promised, over too many shots, to fight the Kremlin if anyone came for Ilya. He didn’t have the heart to tell the big man he was offering to punch a building. It was the thought that counted.

 

He kept his phone on vibrate, hidden in the pocket of his loose black joggers. He didn’t need to. The guys all knew about Hollander pursuing him now. Everyone on the team did. It had blown up in one of their chats the day after the Montreal v. Toronto game. Not that it mattered. Hollander was a menace, Ilya was learning. A gorgeous agent of chaos. A weapon of sexiness designed in a lab to kill Ilya dead. Because Shane Hollander, it turned out, was just as focused off the ice as he was on it.

 

It started with the Twitter post. Two days after Ilya put it online, @ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer had retweeted it with his own caption: In case you missed it, I’m gay and he’s mine.

 

What the fuck, Hollander? Ilya had texted him as soon as he saw it.

 

I’m manifesting, Hollander had replied.

 

While Ilya was Googling the meaning of the word to be sure he understood it correctly, random Twitter accounts started replying to Hollander’s post. Most of them fell into one of two categories, Ilya discovered when he looked at them later. Half were supportive, either of Hollander’s sexuality or the idea that two of the MLH’s hottest players might be involved. The other half were disgusting, homophobic comments about how one or both of them were ruining hockey forever. But a few went in a different direction.

 

@WasteofBloodAndSweat okay but can Shane fight?

@RozysGirl73 genuinely afraid the hockey robot thinks he has a chance

@LovecraftInBrooklyn Rozy’s been on the market for 48 hours and some Canadian is already claiming him? Bout to throw hands!!

@FeedTheHockeyMachine 81 what if I killed someone for you

@MightyFishHead gonna start a war

 

And to every one of them, Hollander replied with a fucking link to that clip of him knocking Dallas Kent on his ass. Ilya didn't even want to try to count how many times he'd watched it, alone in his apartment, replaying it over and over until he had his hand shoved down the front of his pants like a teenager. It was embarrassing to realize how hot Hollander had been, fierce and breathing hard, breaking his own rules to get Ilya's attention. It was the kind of adoration a man might find addicting if it went on for too long. Ilya wouldn't know, he'd never had it before, but he could imagine it.

 

“How long do you think it will take for him to drop gloves tonight?” Connors asked, breaking Ilya out of his thoughts.

 

“Hmm, I do not think it will be tonight,” Ilya replied. “Hollander would not disrespect his elder by fighting Hunter.” He sniffed. “Buffalo is tomorrow. They cannot win on their own, so maybe try to get him off the ice.”

 

“He didn’t fight anyone in Florida,” Sainty said. “There’s definitely a few of their guys I would’ve hit if I had the chance.”

 

“Not in Calgary either,” Kane said.

 

Ilya looked around the room. “Are you idiots watching all the Metros games?”

 

“No, we’re watching your boyfriend man, keep up,” Marly said, ruffling Ilya’s hair playfully.

 

“I haven’t had time to watch them all,” Kane said, which got him pelted with Cheetos. “Hey!” he said, “I have a new baby at home!”

 

The other guys grumbled but generally agreed this was a good reason. “Are you gonna have Hollander’s babies, Cap?” Seb asked.

 

“Shut the fuck up if you want to keep eating my snacks,” Ilya snapped back.

 

They’d settled down once the game began. Pizza was ordered, delivered, and devoured. Ilya checked his phone a few times, during breaks between periods, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hoping for. Hollander had posted to Twitter three more times over the last two weeks; each one was what could only be described as a thirst trap. In the first one, a black-clad Hollander stood in front of a mirror, taking a selfie with the camera in front of his face. His other hand rested on his hip, with his thumb hooked into the waistband of his tiny athletic shorts. Gravity and the weight of Hollander’s large fingers pulled the shorts down just enough to see a sliver of tanned skin. He’d captioned it in fighting shape.

 

Ilya wanted to bite him, right there above his hip bone.

 

The second time he did it, Hollander posted a photo of him standing outside, in what looked like a park. Connors had pointed it out while Ilya was on the exercise bike in the Raiders’ gym. In the picture, Hollander wore a white ball cap turned around backwards, and a white tank top. His bottom half wasn’t visible but that didn’t matter. The sun shone down on his bare shoulders, turning them into gold. Sweat dripped down his arms, his chest. And because this beautiful man was trying to kill Ilya specifically, he’d pulled up the bottom of his tank, using it to wipe his face. His abs glistened.

 

The caption was let’s get breathless together.

 

Ilya: who took the pic Hollander?

Golden Boy: jealous?

Ilya: is fine, show off for whole world, I am not special

Golden Boy: go out with me and you get the pictures I take when I’m alone

 

Ilya stubbed his toe rushing out of the room before anyone could see how hard he was.

 

The third post was the worst. Hollander had put it online only this morning. Instead of a photo, he shared a thirty second video of him and one of his teammates running on a trail somewhere in NYC. The two men in the video were shot from behind; whoever took the video spent the entire time focused on Hollander’s meaty ass, bouncing every time his feet hit the ground.

 

This time, the caption was this could be yours but you’re playing hard to get.

 

Ilya had screamed into a pillow then jerked off in the shower.

 

Four minutes before the end of the game, a ref called a stop over a penalty that had nothing to do with either team’s Captain. Hunter skated away, bent over and out of breath. Hollander drifted toward him, his mouth moving. The camera only caught them because they hadn’t yet moved too far away; it was fixed on the ref and the defenseman heading to the box. Until suddenly, Hunter lunged at Hollander, who was pushed back, his helmet coming loose from the force of it. Hollander slid a few feet, then dropped both of his gloves. Hunter kept his on, swinging wild. The guys in Ilya’s living room made noise as Hunter connected with Hollander’s chin.

 

Hollander squared up. Ilya leaned forward.

 

“Get him!” Sainty yelled at the TV.

 

Hollander threw a quick jab then a more powerful cross that knocked Hunter to his knees.

 

“Yeah, baby!” Marly crowed as the refs descended on the scene. Hollander was dragged away, still yelling something at Hunter that the cameras weren’t picking up.

 

“Fuck off, you’re 45 years old,” Carmy said. He could read lips better than the rest of them. “I think that one was keep his fucking name out your mouth.”

 

“Damn, Cap,” Connors said with a whistle. “Think he’s talking about you?”

 

Ilya shrugged. “How would I know? I am not there.” He untangled himself from the couch to go into the kitchen, cleaning up while the other guys finished watching the game. As he expected, while he was wiping down the counter on the kitchen island the Metros won with the same three goals they’d had before their Captain’s penalty took him off the ice. By the time he finished loading the dishwasher and bagging up the trash to one of the others to take out when they left, the first reporters had found Hunter inside the Admirals’ locker room.

 

“Hockey is a passionate sport,” Hunter was saying. Ilya nudged Seb’s legs out of the way so he could perch on the edge of the sofa, watching the interview. “Hollander is an amazing player and I have a lot of respect for him.”

 

Hunter had stripped off his jersey and pads; he stood under the harsh light from the camera in his compression shirt, hair soaked with sweat. “Does this have anything to do with the rumor that many in the league feel Hollander’s sexuality should disqualify him from playing?”

 

“Boo!” Connors called out.

 

Hunter’s face scrunched up in a frown. “I don’t know where you’re hearing these rumors, but Hollander and Rozanov are more than qualified to play professional hockey, the same way they already have been since they were drafted.”

 

Ilya took his phone out of his pocket. You see Hunter on tv? he texted.

 

Hollander replied immediately. yep it’s on in the room. The visitors locker room, Ilya knew he meant. It was too soon for the Metros to have left the arena.

 

“Me personally?” Hunter was saying when Ilya realized the Admirals Captain was still talking. Hunter’s eyes were wide with surprise. “No, I personally don’t think we should discriminate against anyone on the basis of their sexuality. I can’t believe -” He huffed, looking into the camera instead of at the reporter. “Rook, if you’re watching this, no hard feelings man. Let’s grab a beer after this, okay? You have my number.” Then he shook his head at the press crew, pushing past them to walk off screen.

 

“You think he’s homophobic?” Carmy asked.

 

“No, but I think he might be after Cap’s man,” Sainty said.

 

“Hunter could not handle Hollander,” Ilya said bitterly. You will go? he texted.

 

Maybe, Hollander replied. Then, before Ilya could type anything else, he wrote when I was a little kid I loved dinosaurs.

 

Ilya grinned. That’s two, but does it count? You fought man so old his bones are like dust, maybe is hate crime.

 

He knows what he did.

 

do I get to know?

 

The phone didn’t buzz again until after the other Raiders had left, taking the trash bag and a Tupperware box of leftovers with them. Call me? it said.

 

Ilya hit dial as he walked toward his bedroom.

 

“I never told you about the All-Star game in 2011,” Hollander said, his voice low and sleepy. "Did you know you were rooming next to Scott Hunter?"

 

“Is this drunk dial?” Ilya asked playfully. "Is very weird, Hollander, to bring up another man."

 

“What? Oh, no, I didn’t go out tonight.”

 

“Okay to not go out with Hunter, he is old and boring, but you don’t go out with team?” Ilya slipped off his shirt, dropping it into the laundry basket.

 

“No, my uh team isn’t… it’s fine.”

 

“The team is not being good about it?”

 

Hollander sighed softly on the other end of the phone call. “I didn’t really expect that they would be,” he said after a moment. “Couple of the guys are supportive, J.J. and Hayden. They’re pretty much my only friends right now.”

 

Ilya paused with his joggers halfway off. “Hollander, that is not okay. Everyone should know you are best part of that whole team.”

 

The laugh he got back was quiet, but it loosened something in Ilya’s chest. He breathed better as he finished taking off his pants, folding them over the arm of the green armchair in the corner of the room. “So you are not out at a bar.”

 

“Nope,” Hollander said. "I want to tell you about 2011."

 

"Okay, fine, All-Star game. I remember they did the strange fantasy draft thing. Hunter was Captain of your team. What is point?"

 

"You were in room 1221."

 

Ilya sat on the bed. "How do you know that?"

 

"Hunter told me. Said he was worried you'd bring someone back and keep him up all night. I went to your room..." Hollander paused. "I was going to see if you were still interested in me."

 

"When was this?" Ilya asked. His heart sped up as he rushed through this memories. How had he missed his chance at getting Hollander into bed two years ago and not even known?

 

"Um, the second night. After you told me you were going to bed early."

 

"I did. Hollander, I swear, I went back to my room after dinner."

 

"Yeah, I uh... I didn't knock. I stood outside your door fucking panicking. I kept thinking Hunter was right, you'd have brought someone back with you, and when you opened the door I'd be standing there like an idiot... I couldn't do it." Hollander took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I should have pushed myself harder."

 

"No, Hollander, no." Ilya pinched the top of his nose, trying to stop the dizziness from overwhelming him while his world shifted under his feet. Hollander had come to him. Hollander had wanted him. "I have reputation. I know this. Not your fault. Wait, is this why you fought Hunter tonight?"

 

Shane scoffed. "No, but I am still pissed about that too." 

 

Ilya heard rustling; Hollander getting into bed, probably. “You are at hotel?” Ilya slid under the covers of his own bed. He wriggled a little as he settled into the mattress. “Hmm... You are alone? For how long?” 

 

“I’m rooming by myself tonight actually. Coach said it was a perk of being Captain, but I don’t know. Feels like a punishment.”

 

“What are you wearing?” Ilya asked.

 

Hollander laughed again, and Ilya couldn’t help smiling at the sound. “Don’t I need to buy you dinner first?” he asked.

 

“Mmm, no, I think you deserve reward for defending my honor,” Ilya purred. “That was for me, yes? Your second fight?”

 

“Yes,” Hollander said, breathing into the word. “It’s all for you.”

 

Ilya gripped his cock, already stiff and pushing against his boxers. “So maybe you need encouragement Hollander? Give you, ah, reason to fight for me?”

 

“I don’t need more reason, Rozanov. You’re you,” Hollander said. “That’s reason enough.”

 

“Hollander, fuck, I am trying to have phone sex with you and you are being romantic,” Ilya whined.

 

“Oh, sorry.”

 

“No, no, don’t be sorry. Is… I don’t know,” Ilya said. “It’s hard for me, I think. Why don’t you want to just fuck?”

 

“I do!” he insisted. There was a noise like he was sitting up in bed now. Ilya could picture it - Hollander, shirtless, the sheets pooled around his hips... “You have no idea how much I want you to fuck me,” Hollander said.

 

That answers that question, Ilya thought. “I want to fuck you,” he said, careful with his emphasis. “You don’t have to do all of... this.”

 

“But I don’t just want you, for that,” Hollander said. “Rozanov, I… I like you, okay?”

 

“You don’t like me,” Ilya said quickly.

 

“I like you so much it scares me,” Hollander said, just as fast. “So I want the sex stuff. God, I really really want it. But I want all of you. I want dates and boyfriends and a dog and… I want things that will be very embarrassing for me if you don’t also want them, okay?” He sighed against the phone.

 

“I don’t know how to be a boyfriend,” Ilya said, so quietly he barely heard it himself.

 

“Do you want to try?”

 

Did he? Hadn’t he come out to spite his family and increase the number of people he could fuck? Or was it more than that… had he come out to finally stop hiding?  “Okay, Hollander,” he said, moving his hand to rest on his upper thigh instead. “How do we start?”

 

“Well, maybe instead of the phone sex, just for tonight, we talk about something else? Anything. I’d like to listen.”

 

“Did you see that winger from Los Angeles broke his arm skating into the net?” Ilya asked, instead of other things he wasn’t ready to say yet.

 

“Yes! I watched the replay on that, it was brutal,” Hollander said, sounding more like himself. “I think they’re gonna call up a replacement from their AHL, he’s gonna be out for two months at least…”

 

Ilya closed his eyes. Hollander’s voice was warm and smooth as he rambled about the latest hockey news, stats and players and who had a chance at the cup this year. Ilya listened to him talk until he fell asleep.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

When Shane got out of his post-run shower the next morning, his phone was buzzing with notifications. He ignored all of them to open up the thread from the night before.

 

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: did you see? [link]

 

Shane clicked on it.

 

@ScottHunterOfficial: The reality for queer players in the MLH is one of loneliness and fear. Not knowing who to trust. Not wanting to be the first one to come out. Not wanting to be the target for the homophobic insults we’ve all heard, in every locker room, for our whole careers. I am proud to stand with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov as a hockey player, as a Captain, and as gay man. Love you Kip ❤️

 

The caption was attached to a photo of Hunter and a shorter man with brown hair, hugging and smiling. Behind them, several Admirals players had their arms around the couple.

 

His phone buzzed again.

 

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: why are you first?? I came out first!

Shane: maybe it’s alphabetical

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: is biphobic

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: I will sue

Shane: you’re ridiculous

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: so mean to your boyfriend

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: send naked pics until I feel better

Shane: *future boyfriend

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: pics Hollander

 

Shane went into the hotel bathroom. He slipped off his boxer briefs and the faded Metros tee he’d put on after his shower. He scrunched up the shirt in his hand, pressing it in front of his hips so it barely covered his cock and nothing else. It took a minute of moving the phone around to different angles before he found one that really showed off the work he put in at the gym. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” he whispered to himself.

 

He sent it anyway.

 

Shane: [pic]

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: akdjcva;

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: FUCK HOLLANDER

Ra-Ra-Rozanov: I AM DEAD

Shane laughed, turned his phone over on the counter, and went to get dressed.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

By the middle of March, they’d found a routine that seemed to be working for them both. Hollander kept his flirting to the internet, where once or twice a week he posted photos that carefully skirted the line between “gym bro works out” and “gym bro wants you to think about licking the sweat from his ass”. Ilya avoided liking or commenting on any of them, despite the number of accounts now starting to tag him in the comment section, begging Ilya to reply. Instead, Ilya sent flirty texts back that Hollander laughed at but mostly deflected, promising more once his quest was complete, but until then… Hollander still hadn’t agreed to phone sex, but he was willing to send the occasional almost-naked photo that made Ilya so hard he could cut glass, as long as in between they talked about real things. Hollander didn’t ask if Ilya was going out, didn’t ask how often Ilya took someone home. He would have been honest about it – there had been four women in the last month, and two men, all one night stands. He’d fucked them and enjoyed it, then sent them on their way. There was nothing about them that made him want to come back for more. He definitely wasn’t texting any of them about the new dog the old lady on the third floor had just gotten.

 

“It is so cute, Hollander!” Ilya said as he jogged down the path that curved alongside the Charles River. He had new earbuds with a built in mic, so they could chat while he ran. “When it rains she has a yellow raincoat and boots that match!”

 

Hollander laughed from the hotel gym in Edmonton. Ilya could hear his feet thumping against the treadmill. “This is the dog you sent me pictures of?” he asked.

 

“Yes, Alexis,” Ilya said, hopping over a small pothole. “She is perfect and I love her.”

 

“I’m very happy for you both,” Hollander said. “You have practice today?”

 

“No, have to be at the airport at 3,” Ilya said. “Will head to the gym after this.”

 

“Okay, I’ve got an early game tonight.”

 

“Yes, I know this, Hollander.”

 

“You memorized my schedule, Rozanov?”

 

Ilya’s fitness watch beeped; his heart rate was spiking more than it should. This is what you get for talking to him while you run, he thought. He slowed to a stop, taking deep breaths while his heart found its usual rhythm again. “You will be careful tonight? They got Ryan Price in the last trade.”

 

Hollander sighed. “Yeah. I don’t want to fight him if I can help it,” he said. Pay the Price was a notorious enforcer, traded almost every season but a mountain of a man six inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than either of them. “Neither of us have played them since we came out so…”

 

“So we don’t know how they will be,” Ilya agreed. “I know. But I am becoming invested in your pretty face, Hollander. I do not want Price to break it.”

 

“Invested, huh?”

 

“Yes, I am getting in on ground floor,” Ilya said, grinning now. “Many people want this very expensive Canadian boy, you see. I am thinking I would like to be first.”

 

“Right, that makes sense,” Hollander said. Ilya could hear him punch the stop on the treadmill, which ground down into silence. “Do you think, once you have him, you’ll uh… give him to the next guy?”

 

Ilya looked out at the water. “No,” he said quietly. “I do not think anyone else will deserve him.”

 

“You do,” Hollander said. “You know that, right?”

 

“Good luck tonight, Hollander. I have to go.”

 

“Yeah, uh, you too. Bye, Rozanov.”

 

Ilya stood there longer than he meant to, staring at the tall buildings on the other side of the river. Their glass windows reflected the morning sun. That same sunlight would shine down on Hollander in a few hours, once it crossed the country. He didn’t know what he was doing, letting himself think he could have this. Could have Shane Hollander. Without sex, without the rivalry, he had no idea what Hollander saw in him. He should have asked about Toronto by now, asked what happened in the showers that made him run away years ago. Maybe this whole thing would be turning out differently, if Ilya had asked already. Maybe it wouldn’t be happening at all.

 

Ilya took one last look at the water, then turned and walked back to his car.

 

 

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Shane and Yuna talk, but someone else is listening in. The internet is a bitch. Ilya doubts himself but his teammates don't. Shane spirals.

Yuna Hollander finally called while Shane was stepping off the hotel elevator, an hour before he was supposed to be at the Edmonton arena for the game. “Hi honey,” she’d said when he answered, ignoring the fact that he’d let it almost go to voicemail before he finally pushed the button to accept the call. “Do you have a minute?”

 

“Yeah, mom, of course.” He saw an empty group of chairs in the lobby so he walked over and dropped into one, setting his bag at his feet.

 

She took a deep breath. He could hear it, over the phone, could picture her doing it: setting her shoulders back, composing her face. She was either about to say something difficult, or she was shifting into manager mode. “First, I want to apologize for not reaching out sooner. The last few weeks have been about me needing time to understand how I failed you, okay? It wasn’t about you or your announcement.”

 

Shane felt the tears form in his eyes. “You didn’t fail me, mom.”

 

“No, I did, obviously I did, but that’s not your fault and I don’t want to make it your problem,” she said. “That’s why I needed to step back and let your father be the one to talk to you, so I didn’t say something that would make you feel like you needed to manage my feelings.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I am proud of you for telling your truth, Shane,” she said. “Maybe not thrilled you decided to do it in a press conference without talking to your agent -”

 

“There it is,” Shane said, a smile twitching up the corners of his mouth.

 

“Well, I am your mother and I worry about you!” she said. “But your father and I talked, so I understand you felt it was the only way to do it where you could control your narrative.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you or dad. It’s just hockey, you know? The way the guys talk in the locker room. I spent years staying quiet because it was the only way to get what I wanted. To get my career, to be the Captain of the Metros. But there was this moment where it felt like I could lose everything I actually needed if I didn’t speak up, so I had to do it.” Shane scratched gently at the yellow brocade fabric on the arm of the chair, feeling the raised texture under his fingertips. “You really understand?” he asked quietly.

 

“Yes, honey, oh of course I do,” she said. “And your father and I love you, we support you.”

 

Shane sniffed. “I love you too, mom.”

 

“Now, let’s talk about how Ilya Rozanov plays into all of this.”

 

“How do you know about me and Rozanov?”

 

“Shane,” she said, with a tone that said are you serious? “Your father may be confused by social media but I certainly am not. Did that boy force you to take part in whatever this is you’re doing?”

 

“What? No, he didn’t force me into anything,” Shane laughed. “Except maybe being so fucking… Amazing. I can’t help myself. Mom, he’s funny and clever, and that’s in English which isn’t even his first language. You know no one else can keep up with me on the ice.” He sighed. “I thought there was something wrong with me for the longest time. I didn’t want any of the girls who come up to me when I go out with the team, I didn’t want to be set up with anyone’s cousins or their wife’s friends. The only person I kept thinking about was him... I told myself that was just the rivalry. I was studying him so I could beat him.”

 

“But that wasn’t it, was it?” she asked softly.

 

“No, mom, that wasn’t it. I think… I think if I could love anyone, it would be Ilya.” He smiled at that, even though no one could see, at the thought of calling the man by his first name. Hopefully it was something he could try out on their first date.

 

“And there are no nice men in Montreal?”

 

Shane groaned. “I mean, yes, probably there are, but I only want him. Is that okay?”

 

“Yes, Shane, it’s okay. I’m not saying I’m going to root for Boston, but dad and I want to meet him properly when we can. Maybe we can all go out to lunch the next time you two play against each other?” They left it there, with promises to make plans and talk more later, but Shane had to go then – his teammates would be coming downstairs to get on the bus any minute, and Shane needed to focus on the game.

 

He never noticed the girl sitting nearby, recording the whole thing on her phone.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

Edmonton’s visitor locker room was fine, as a room. It wasn’t as nice as theirs, not the room in Montreal with everything kept shining and clean. None of the visiting rooms ever were, though some were worse. Broken showers that only ran cold, cracking in the rubber mats under their skates, grey ghosts of mildew lurking in the corners of the ceiling. Edmonton’s room was clean at least. Faded paint, worn mats, but everything working as it should be. So the room itself was fine. It would get them through the time they needed it.

 

The problem was Shane’s team. Not all of it – a few guys were overtly supportive, like J.J. and Hayden. Maybe half of the others didn’t seem to care either way; they didn’t comment on his coming out, but they didn’t stop anyone else from doing it. There were six or eight though, guys he never loved but at least trusted to do their jobs on the ice, that laughed about him, trading insults between them to see who had the best one, while he sat nearby lacing up his skates. Close enough to hear exactly what they were saying. Obviously, that was the point.

 

“Who knew all it took was being a fag to go from uptight to desperate?” Gagnon said with a laugh, clapping Comeau on the back as he passed him to get something from his stall.

 

“Montreal’s newest puck bunny!” Drapeau said as he tossed a roll of stick tape toward Miity, who’d asked for it. “If Rozanov doesn’t want him, who do you think he’s going after next?”

 

“Can you not?” Shane asked. “We have a game to play.”

 

“Okay, Captain,” Comeau said, drawing out the word while waving his hands, making it clear the title didn’t mean what it used to. “Are you gonna score tonight, or are you going out there to score?” The air quotes on the last word weren’t necessary, but Comeau had never understood how to be subtle.

 

“Hey fuck you!” Hayden yelled. “That’s our Captain, show some fucking respect!”

 

“Yeah,” J.J. said, rising from the bench to show off his height. “He could do so much worse than Rozanov,” he added, his accent butchering the Russian name. “Better than any of you slugs, that’s for sure.”

 

“Thanks?” Shane said hesitantly. Hayd and J.J. had been great with the gay thing, and they were coming around on the Rozanov thing, but it hadn’t stopped them from trying to set Shane up with every gay man they knew. Which, sure, wasn’t a lot of people, but it was still annoying to keep having to turn them down.

 

“You got it, man,” Hayden said, nudging Shane with his shoulder.

 

“It’s just so sad,” Comeau said. “He’s posting thirst traps for the whore of Boston, who’ll fuck anything that moves but not Hollander.”

 

“Comeau!” their coach shouted from the doorway. “We have ice in 5, stop running your fucking mouth and get dressed.” He looked at the rest of them, shook his head, and left.

 

“All right, listen,” Shane said as he stood up. “I get it, okay? Some of you feel like I owed you information about my personal life before I shared it with the world. Or you wish I hadn’t told anyone at all. But whether I came out to you, or in that press conference, I was still going to be gay. I have been the same person the entire time we’ve played together.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “All those goals I’ve scored for this team? Gay. Every assist I’ve made? Gay then too. I haven’t changed, guys. You just know me a little better than you did before.”

 

“That’s right, buddy!” Hayden said, raising one fist in the air.

 

“Maybe some of us don’t think we should have to play on the same team as a guy who’d bend over for another team’s Captain,” Comeau said, rising off the bench. “Seems like a conflict of interest, Hollander.”

 

“You know for a straight guy, you spend a lot of time with my name in your mouth,” Shane said, grinning now, but it was humorless and sharp. “Rozanov’s too. Got something you want to tell the rest of the class?”

 

Comeau stepped forward, his hands tightening into fists, but other hands grabbed him and pulled him back. He snarled as Drapeau whispered something in his ear, but he nodded.

 

“You wanna be pissed at something?” Shane asked, louder than before. “You want to fight somebody? You do it out there!” He looked around the room. “We’re a team. We’re in this together. You want an enemy? You want to take somebody down? Edmonton is right there. Right outside. Whatever you’re feeling right now, you take it to them!”

 

The other guys cheered. Not all of them, not as loud or as long as they had in the past, but a few of the quieter men nodded at him as they filed out of the room, and a few more patted Shane on the shoulder. J.J. looked at him, then raised his eyebrows. What can you do? he seemed to be saying.

 

Shane rolled his eyes. Whatever, let’s get out there.

 

He’d managed to forget about Ryan Price until they were warming up on the ice. As Shane was bent over, stretching into a lunge, a shadow loomed over him. He looked up to see all six and a half feet of the red-headed enforcer. “Uh, hi?” he squeaked out.

 

“Hollander,” Price said, nodding his head. “You doing all right?”

 

“Yes?” Shane said hesitantly. He stood up, which didn’t help as much as he’d hoped; Price still had six inches over him. “How are you?”

 

“Good enough,” Price said. His voice was low and deep. “Matthews has it out for you. Polleux too. Probably one of them is gonna try to start shit with you.” He paused for a second, tilting his head as if he was considering what to say next. “They’re gonna expect me to step in and help out, you know that right?”

 

Shane nodded. “Yeah, I get it.”

 

Price nodded back. “I’m feeling a little slow tonight,” he said. “I’ll get there but you can probably get in a punch or two before it happens.”

 

“Oh… uh, thanks?” Shane looked around. Hayden and J.J. were watching from a safe distance. When they realized he saw them, Hayden shook his head, his eyes wide.

 

“I’ve come out as gay to every room I’ve been in,” Price said. “No one ever cares. I’m not you or Rozanov,” he added, looking at his glove now. “Take care of yourself, Hollander.”

 

“Yeah, you too man,” Shane managed to get out as the other man skated away. As soon as Price was gone, his friends skated over, demanding an update. He told them about the two players the big man had mentioned, but left out the part about Price’s sexuality.

 

“Which one do you want?” Hayden asked as he turned to view the other team, now doing warm up drills on the other end of the ice.

 

“No, which one do you think your lover boy will appreciate most?” J.J. said with a smile on his face.

 

“I wish I never told you about the challenge,” Shane sighed. “And please stop saying lover, it’s gross.”

 

“No, no, Capitaine! We are your wing men, you need us,” J.J. insisted.

 

“You literally hate him,” Shane said. “You tried to set me up with your hairstylist last week.”

 

Hayden shrugged. “I still think Jackie’s Pilates instructor is gay. You could eat your bird food and do stretches together.”

 

“Not now, dude,” Shane said.

 

“We do not hate him,” J.J. said. “We do not know him, not really. But you like him and we love you so…”

 

“We’re trying,” Hayden finished.

 

“But when he disappoints you I will break his face,” J.J. added.

 

“And then I’m setting you up with one of Jackie’s friends,” Hayden said, grinning and slapping Shane on the shoulder.

 

“You’re two are the worst,” Shane said fondly. “And definitely Matthews. He sucker punched one of the Raiders rookies two months ago. Nobody goes after the kids and gets away with it.”

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

Ilya had turned off his phone once their plane was in the air. He knew some of the other guys would be using the in flight wi-fi to watch the Metros play in Edmonton, knew they’d let him know the moment Hollander dropped his gloves if it happened. They’d be landing in Arizona just after the game finished, so if there was a fight, he’d know before they got off the plane. Marly was more invested in tracking Hollander’s on ice violence than Ilya was, for some reason.

 

He fiddled with his headphones, plugging them into his iPad and unplugging them, over and over to feel the click under his fingers. The movie went on without him, cars racing across the desert or a bridge or over a cliff; he’d lost the plot 30 minutes ago.

 

There was yelling, suddenly, from further up in the plane. Ilya pulled off one headphone and leaned into the aisle.

 

“Woah!” someone shouted. “Fuck yeah!”

 

“Rozy, your boy’s at it again!” someone else said.

 

Ilya sighed. “He is not my boy,” he said.

 

“Whose fault is that?” Connors asked from his seat across the aisle. “Guy is wooing you hard, Roz. I mean, have you seen his Twitter feed?” He whistled. “I’ve never thought a man was attractive before but it’s Hollander, you know?”

 

Ilya did know. That was part of the problem. For the last month his teammates had apparently decided that a) Hollander was the sexiest man in hockey, and b) he and Hollander were meant to be together, which they all took turns telling him every chance they got. The rest of the problem was that Ilya only agreed with half of that.

 

“Yes, yes, he is hot, okay?” Ilya rubbed a hand across his face. “He is so fucking hot, Connie, I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

“If the yelling is anything to go by, he punched someone in Alberta for you tonight, which is fight number four.”

 

“Matthews got him with a high stick so he punched that fucker so hard he slid across the ice!” Sainty yelled. “Oh, that’s a lot of blood.”

 

Connors waved toward the guys who were crowded around Carmy’s tablet, watching the fight replay. “See?”

 

“Okay, so it is fourth fight, so what?”

 

“So one more and you have to go out on a date with him,” Connors said. “A real date, man. Have you ever gone out with anyone you cared about before?”

 

Ilya looked down at his iPad. Two actors he didn’t recognize were sitting on the hood of a vintage sports car, talking. Behind them, something was on fire. “No,” he admitted quietly. “I do not think so.”

 

“All right, then this is a big deal. Plus it’s Hollander, man. Dude’s probably got half the league in his DMs and it seems like you’re barely giving him the time of day. Gotta wonder… did we get the guy’s hopes up for nothing?”

 

“We have been talking,” Ilya said. “Text, sometimes. It’s not…” He closed his eyes, but all he saw was Hollander’s stupidly beautiful face. “It’s not nothing.”

 

“All right,” Connors repeated, smiling this time. “That’s cool, Cap.”

 

“Oh, is it?” Ilya said bitterly. “So cool that everyone knows he is posting online to get my attention and then what? We go out and I disappoint him? Okay, I am bad guy, everyone knows this already. But then they say also that Hollander is stupid for wanting bad guy. Hollander is making bad choices, maybe he is not so perfect. Maybe he loses friends. Maybe his family hates me. Everything he worked for since he was small he cannot have with someone like me.” He swore under his breath in Russian. “You guys should never have told him he had a chance with me.”

 

“Hey, Marly!” Connors shouted. “We got a problem!”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ilya hissed, but it was too late. The guys watching Hollander’s latest fight video on repeat all quieted down as Marleau made his way toward them.

 

“What’s up?” his friend asked, leaning over them both, one muscular arm on each of the seats in front of them.

 

“Captain is having a crisis of faith,” Connors said loudly. “Fellas, he no longer believes!”

 

“Believes in what?” Sebbin called back.

 

“I swear to God,” Ilya said, but Connors interrupted him.

 

“Captain no longer believes in the power of his big Russian dick!” Connors yelled. “He no longer believes in his ability to win the body and soul of one Canadian hockey player!”

 

“Well, that can’t be,” Kane yelled, while several of the other guys booed.

 

“Blasphemy!” Koslov yelled back. “A sin against Russia!”

 

“I hate all of you!” Ilya yelled back, before sinking further down into his seat.

 

“Okay boys,” Marly called out, “I think it’s time for a reading of the scripture. Who wants to start?”

 

“Captain always makes sure the bar tab is cleared out before we leave,” Sebbin said. There were grunts of approval at that one.

 

“Captain always goes to the Children’s Hospital,” Carmy said, “every time they ask us.”

 

“Captain reminds me about my wife’s birthday,” Big Ivan said. “I don’t mean to forget, but he makes sure for me.”

 

Ilya waved a hand dismissively, and looked out the tiny airplane window.

 

“Captain always lets me be Yoshi when we play Mario Cart at his place,” Kane said. Several guys made noises at that, but Kane said, “What? I love that little reptile.”

 

“Captain got a boyfriend who punched Matthews in the face,” Cadyn said. He was new this year, brought up from the AHL just a few months ago. The scar in his eyebrow was from his fight with the Edmonton forward, three games into his MLH career. “I don’t think it’s for me, but it’s still nice.”

 

“It is for you, Cade,” Ilya said, nodding at the boy, who smiled shyly at that. “Hollander knows we protect our rookies.”

 

“Captain worries he’s not good enough for the people he cares about,” Marly said. “But we know he is, right boys?”

 

“Shut your idiot face, Marly.”

 

His friend grinned, wide and easy, as if what Ilya had really said was I love you too. Maybe it was.

 

The rest of the guys kept talking, sharing their favorite things about their Captain, but Ilya tuned them out. Too much, too good; in large quantities, compliments were harder to believe. He turned the internet on for his tablet instead, intending to find the clip of Hollander’s fight from tonight. But when he logged into Twitter, the first notification he saw was that he’d been tagged in a video by some random account. Normally he’d ignore those kinds of things, but the caption read Metros hockey player Shane Hollander talks about Boston Raiders Ilya Rozanov!!

 

Ilya felt cold spreading through his belly.

 

He put his headphones back on, and clicked play. He’d gotten as far as Hollander talking to his mother – fuck, why did it have to be his mother? What a fucking invasion of privacy – about how hard it was to be gay in hockey before he pulled them back off his head and slammed them into the empty seat next to him.

 

“Hey, anyone know if I can make phone call while we are in the air?” Ilya yelled.

 

“Cap there’s a video of Hollander on Twitter,” someone said. Sainty, he thought.

 

“Nobody watches that!” Ilya stood, pushing past Marly to get up to where most of the other guys were sitting. “You see it, you close it, understand?” He got up to the front where the staff sat. “Coach,” he said, quieter now, “Can I make phone call?”

 

“Is it an emergency?” LeClaire asked.

 

“I think so, yes,” he said. “I must call my agent.”

 

“Can’t use your cell, but the plane has a phone. Tell the flight attendant I cleared you.”

 

“Thanks, Coach,” Ilya said. “I owe you.”

 

“Win tomorrow,” LeClaire said. “Win every fucking game between now and playoffs. That’s all I ask.”

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

Shane learned about the video before he left the locker room. Some of the guys found it while he was in the shower, taking longer than usual to carefully wash his hair because the cuts on his lips and across his cheek had been sealed back together with medical-grade superglue by one of the trainers and he didn’t want to mess up their hard work. So when he finally walked out, wearing only a towel around his hips, his whole team knew. They knew about him telling his mother he was afraid, that he’d had to hide because he wasn’t strong enough to be honest about who he was.

 

They knew how he felt about Ilya. Not a rumor, not a guess, but Shane’s own words.

 

Shane dressed as fast he could, ignoring everyone around him. His coaches had seen the video too, so he was excused from doing press tonight. He was on the bus before anyone else, sitting in the back with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down over his eyes. His phone was blowing up so he turned it off, but not before seeing two things he didn’t know how to process. One was an email from his agent, saying Rozanov’s agent had reached out to her? To make sure she saw the video, in case she could help getting it taken down? Which means Rozanov had seen the video too. More than that, he must have been embarrassed by it. Enough to get his own agent involved in trying to rid the internet of it. Shane knew it was impossible; those kinds of things were downloaded and shared, over and over, by “fans” who felt they had a right to his private life because he was sort of famous. Because they felt entitled to all of him, not just the body he dedicated to the sport that paid him.

 

So when he saw the texts from Rozanov, saying please call me and I’m sorry and are you okay? he turned his phone off. He wanted to throw the damn thing out the window, let the bus drive over it as they left for the hotel, let the whole internet be crushed under the heavy wheels, never to bother him again. He could live without the internet, right? There was nothing for Shane there anymore.

 

Four fights. Shane Hollander, who never fights, who’s won fucking awards for how calm he can stay on the ice, no matter what anyone throws in his face… Shane Hollander agreed to fight not for his own guys but for the captain of another team. He had bruises on his knuckles and was probably going to have a scar on his lip and his mother was going to have a comment about that, the next time he did a photo shoot they’d probably have to put even more makeup on him to cover it up and he hated the way makeup felt on his skin and what was it all even for if a stranger could record a private conversation and ruin everything? Shane sighed, leaned his face against the cool glass of the window. He’d almost made it. One more, and he could have forced Rozanov to go on a real date with him. He could have had a few hours of the man’s attention, and maybe that would have been enough to convince him they could be… something.

 

We can’t be something, Hollander, he heard in his head now, that low rumbling voice with that Russian accent. And he knew it, okay? Shane wasn’t stupid. He knew being gay was bad enough but chasing after your arch rival was another thing entirely. He’s not sure how it would have worked but he wanted, more than he’d wanted anything, more than hockey maybe.

 

He had wanted to find out this time. He'd missed so many other chances, in Toronto before their rookie season, when he ran away. In Raleigh at the All-Star game, when he hadn't knocked. All the times he stared into Rozanov's gorgeous eyes across the ice, felt the press of his strong body, chased after him like Ilya was the prize instead of the puck... he could have said something then. But he had been afraid for far too long, and now it was too late.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Ilya needs help. The Boston Raiders are helpful. That should be fine, right? Yuna shows Shane what he's been missing. The Raiders, and a few special guests, enact their plan to get their Captain his man.

April 2013

 

Hollander was ignoring him and it was driving Ilya mad. In the three weeks since that video of him had dropped, Hollander had withdrawn from the world. He’d deleted his sexy posts from Twitter without posting anything new. He was still playing, but he barely looked up from the ice. Ilya watched every Metros game, usually staying up until 2 AM to watch the recording after his own game ended, trying to understand what was happening.

 

The internet had been vicious. Everyone was convinced that Hollander’s pursuit of his rival was unrequited – a terrible English word Ilya learned for the first time. They thought beautiful, funny Hollander, the Golden Boy of Canada, Captain of the Metros… they thought he threw himself at someone who didn’t want him back, and it killed Ilya to read tweet after tweet about it. He couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He wanted to argue with every single idiot who could say such a thing. He also knew it was his fault. He’d held himself back, wanting to maybe build something private with Hollander, so he hadn’t replied to his sexy pictures where anyone could see it.

 

Was it wanting privacy though, or was it cowardice? He wasn’t sure anymore.

 

Ilya had posted, once, a statement his agent prepared for him:

 

@ilyaroz81 Shane Hollander is an amazing Captain, hockey player, and person. The video circulating was taken without his knowledge, and is a gross violation of his privacy. It recorded a private moment with family, showing one side of a conversation taken out of context. Whoever posted is not a friend or a fan. If you tag me in any post including the video, I will block you.

 

It was the least he could do, and not nearly enough.

 

(He’d wanted to say more, to tell everyone that Shane Hollander wasn’t some loser thirsting after him for no reason, he was a brilliant, flirtatious man who could outscore every single one of the bastards using him for 20 seconds of internet clout, but his agent had talked him out of it. If it was better for Hollander in the long run to let this die down, Ilya would do that… if that decision also meant Marly had started taking his phone away from him on travel days, when Ilya would have had the free time to create a bunch of burner accounts to defend Hollander, well, that was probably for the best too.)

 

Over the next day, his post was shared by every single member of the Raiders, and he fucking loved them for it. It was reposted by Scott Hunter, several of the Admirals, Ryan Price, dozens of other players from around the league, and some non-hockey celebrities too. Even Pike and Boiziau had posted it to their own feeds (though none of the other Metros, and Ilya was paying very fucking close attention to that).

 

Hollander had texted him a few days after that, just once, to say I’m sorry please don’t contact me again.

 

Ilya didn’t remember much from the rest of that night, but he’d woken up desperately hung over the next morning with Marly and Connors in his apartment, worry written all over their faces.

 

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he whispered as he sat on the floor next to his couch, leaning against Marly’s knees while Connors fixed a blanket around his shoulders.

 

“Will you let us help you?” Connors asked.

 

Russian men do not ask for help, Ilya heard in his head, the voice sounding suspiciously like his father. Russians do not do this.

 

But the other voice in his head these days was softer. Warmer. Canadian.

 

Ilya nodded. “Yes,” he said, swallowing his pride. “Please.”

 

“I’m gonna activate the bat signal,” Marly said, one hand in Ilya’s hair. “Don’t worry, brother. We’ll get your man back.”

 

By the afternoon, half the team was in Ilya’s apartment. He’d showered and drank about eight million cups of coffee, so he was both wired and exhausted, but he’d stopped throwing up which was a plus. He was sitting on the actual couch now, watching the scene come together in front of him. Marly had pulled the big white board from Ilya’s office, propping it up on one of the stools next to his kitchen island. Connors was unpacking food they’d had delivered. Kane was distributing plates and utensils; Sebbin was passing out sodas. Big Ivan had his wife on speed dial; she’d activated the WAGs as backup for whatever plan they came up with. Koslov was ready to text the goalie chat. Carmy sat on the floor with a notebook. But the biggest surprise was their rookie, Cadyn, who’s cousin was married to a Metro.

 

Hayden Pike, specifically.

 

Which Ilya knew because he was currently glaring at them through the screen of Cadyn’s laptop.

 

“Jackie promised he was gonna be nice,” Cadyn whispered as he gave Pike a shaky thumb’s up.

 

“I swear if you guys are gonna fuck with my friend, I’m telling your mom Cade.” Pike crossed his arms across his chest.

 

“It’s not a joke!” Cadyn protested. “Tell him guys!”

 

“It’s not a joke!” several Raiders yelled at once.

 

“Seriously, we need your help man,” Marly said, leaning over the laptop. “Hollander’s freaking out and Cap can’t talk him out of it.”

 

“Yeah well maybe that’s for the best,” Pike said. “I told him if your idiot Captain hurt him I was setting him up with Jackie’s Pilates instructor.”

 

“Fuck you,” Ilya snarled. “I did nothing!”

 

“Exactly!” Pike yelled through the screen. “Shane put himself out there and you completely ignored him.”

 

“Not true! We texted, we called…” Ilya shook his head. “Maybe you are not such good friend if you did not know.”

 

At that Pike seemed to deflate. He let his arms fall, and a sad look pulled at his face. “Why didn’t you say anything about his tweets? You know those were for you, right?”

 

“It was,” Ilya sighed. “It was flirting, okay?”

 

“Obviously,” Pike said.

 

“No, not that. Hollander would post online, not too sexy, training photos, yes? Then I see them and text him, and I… fuck. I begged, okay? I say Hollander, you are so sexy, please send photos with more naked and less Pike.” Ilya rubbed the back of his neck. “Then he sends me photos in shower or bedroom or in one, he is in his kitchen and there is only a bowl of -”

 

“That’s enough!” Pike said, covering his ears with his hands. When he saw that Ilya had stopped talking, he lowered them again. “Okay, without giving me any more details asshole, are you saying that you and Shane had a weird relationship where it looked like he was being ignored but actually you were chasing after him?”

 

Ilya nodded furiously. “Yes, thank you, Pike. You understand.”

 

“I really don’t.”

 

“Hey, Cap?” Sebbin asked quietly. “Do we get to see these photos?”

 

“I will stab you with a fucking spoon, Seb,” Ilya snapped. “Okay everybody listen up! No one gets sexy Hollander except me, got it? Don’t fucking ask.”

 

“Fine, whatever, you and Shane are involved, I guess. What do you need me for?”

 

“You’re Hollander’s best friend, right?” Connors asked.

 

Pike shrugged. “Of course.”

 

“Okay so you can help us get through to him.”

 

“What, all of you?”

 

The assembled Raiders nodded, mumbled, or shouted their agreement.

 

“Wait, Rozanov decides he wants to pursue a very public, very gay relationship with the Captain of your biggest rivals, and half your team shows up to help?” Pike looked confused, but Ilya had seen him on the ice many times, so this look was not new to him.

 

“There would be more of us but some of the guys have kids,” Marly said. “Well, Kane’s got a kid too but his wife is a fucking saint he does not deserve.”

 

“It’s true!” Kane agreed. “Every time she watches the baby so I can do something outside of games or practice, I send her for a spa day.”

 

“Good man,” Big Ivan said.

 

“Wow. You’re all making it very clear my team sucks,” Pike said. “If you’re serious about this, can I get J.J. on the line? He can help too.”

 

Two hours later, the guys (J.J. Boiziau included) had a rough plan. Hollander’s friends were sure his very understandable anxiety – made worse by the state of their locker room and that fucking video – was making Hollander withdraw to a place no one could reach him. Maybe, maybe, Ilya had a chance to get Hollander to see it from his perspective, if he didn’t fuck up any part of their plan. In a week, the Raiders were traveling to Montreal for the last game they’d play against each other this season. Marly had filled the white board with the ideas the group had generated, and Carmy took notes about how the team could divide the tasks to get it all done. Pike and Boiziau were going to work on Shane from their end.

 

At one point, Pike suggested looping in Yuna Hollander, but Ilya quickly asked the room for a show of hands, who here is afraid of Mrs. Hollander? Every hand went up, including the two Metros. “Let’s call that Plan B,” Connors said.

 

Marly wrote Mrs. Hollander on the white board in red pen, then added a little drawing of a skull and crossbones.

 

As they were wrapping up, Ilya stood. “I love you,” he said. “Thank you. I could not do this without all of you, and…” He sniffed, looking away for a moment. “I do not deserve you.”

 

“We got you, man,” Sainty said, standing up to pull Ilya into a one-armed hug.

 

“All right, boys, you heard St. Vic,” Marly said, “let’s get Cap his man back!”

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

“Shane, have you seen what the Raiders are tweeting?” his mother was asking.

Shane looked up from where his hands rested, loosely held together, in his lap. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. They were out to lunch, him and his parents, at a restaurant near his apartment they’d been to often enough his mother could order for him without having to ask.

 

“I said, have you been online recently?”

 

He shook his head. “No, not since. You know.”

 

“Oh, honey, not at all?” There was a little furrow in her brow where her eyebrows were squished together.

 

“I mean, I saw Rozanov posted a statement he didn’t even write, so I guess his agent is trying to clean up the mess I made for him.” Shane shrugged tiredly, a jerky little movement that barely moved his shoulders.

 

“Shane, Rozanov’s agent worked with Farah on that,” his mom said. “And they ran it past me, since you weren’t answering her emails.” Yuna leaned back a little, staring at Shane the way she always did when she thought he was being difficult. “You know the first thing that boy did when he saw the video was call his agent to find out how he could help you.”

 

“Yeah, well, he’s a good person,” Shane said. “What does it matter? You don’t even like him.”

 

“Shane Hollander,” she sighed. “I don’t like his reputation but he clearly cares about you. That’s worth a few points in my book.”

 

“What about you, dad? What do you think?”

 

David Hollander was a calm, reliable man who often took a moment to consider his answer before speaking. This time, he didn’t hesitate at all. “I think you’re punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault,” Shane’s dad said. “If this Rozanov boy heard what you said, saw it for what it was, and he’s okay with it, why hold yourself back? You were being open and vulnerable, Shane. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

 

“Farah says he didn’t,” his mom said.

 

“What?” David looked as confused as Shane felt.

 

“Farah said Rozanov didn’t listen to it. Apparently his agent told her that Rozanov saw five seconds of it, figured out it was posted without your consent, and told his whole team not to watch the rest. Even if he’s heard about it now from the internet or whatever, he wanted you to tell him yourself.” Yuna tilted her head, scanning Shane’s face. “What did you say to him, after it came out?”

 

Shane looked down again. He fidgeted with his watch. “I asked him not to contact me again,” he admitted quietly.

 

“Well, fuck Shane,” his mom said. She sighed, clearly disappointed.

 

Their waiter appeared with their lunches, a pasta dish for his dad, a large and complicated-looking salad for his mom, and for Shane, salmon with brown rice and broccoli, the same dish he ordered every time they came here. He was so familiar with the taste he wouldn’t have to think about it. It was safe, making it easy to turn off his brain and just go with it.

 

Coming out and pursuing Rozanov was supposed to change his life. What did it say about him that Shane wasn’t any different than he had been before that press conference?

 

“You’re playing Boston tomorrow,” Yuna said.

 

“Yeah, Mom, I know,” Shane replied. He was being whiny, he could hear it in his voice, but he needed this conversation to end. He stabbed his salmon with his fork, breaking off a tiny bite.

 

“Shane,” his father warned.

 

“All right then I think you need to see what the team is saying about you and Rozanov before they get here.” Yuna pulled a small case from her purse, took out her glasses, and set them on her face.

 

“Wait, which team?” Shane asked. “My team?”

 

Yuna stared at him over the top of her glasses. “No, Shane, the Raiders. I told you, they’ve been posting about you online.”

 

“Great, so his whole team is mad at me too.” Shane dropped his fork onto his plate, the metal clattering against porcelain. “I really don’t need to know this.”

 

“Son, I’ve seen what your mom is talking about,” his dad said kindly. “You really do.”

 

Yuna scrolled through her phone. “Here,” she said as she handed it over. “Look.”

 

A photo of Rozanov leaning against his couch. He’s sitting on his floor, looking tired and maybe sick? Hungover? still unfairly beautiful, with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The caption reads lost without his man, posted by @conniebabyconnors

 

@saintvicky posted a photo of sweaty, shirtless Rozanov in the gym, from the back, his arms bulging as he pulled down on a weight machine. The caption was training to fight the internet the Metros (except 3 of them) and god himself if that’s what it takes

 

Another picture, this one of Marly standing next to a white board in someone’s home, his arms up like he’s gesturing wildly at the board. His eyes are open wide, and so is his mouth. Whatever was written on it is covered up by stickers of pink and red hearts. Under the photo it says got the boys together for a win-back-your-man planning session – we stand behind our captain! It was posted by @raidersmarleau and liked by both J.J. and Pike for some reason?

 

And the comments… comment after comment of people immediately insisting this was all about Shane, somehow…

 

“Mom, what the hell is this?” Shane asked as he held out her phone.

 

“I screenshotted the important ones,” Yuna said. “There’s more but I think you get the point.” She took her phone back. “I’ll email them to you. There’s one from a couple of goalies your father had to explain to me but maybe you’ll understand it.”

 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Shane asked. He looked at his parents. “Either I embarrassed the both of us and he’s never going to talk to me again, which I get that, you know? Or he’s what… out there with his team making a plan to win me back? We weren’t even dating yet. There’s nothing to win back.” He pushed the fish around on his plate some more, but his appetite was gone. “My team hates me, I’ve been in four fights in the last month, and I didn’t even get the guy.”

 

“Yes, well, we are going to have a talk about that, mister. I can’t believe you’d risk your brand deals over some macho posturing just to get a boy’s attention. Your grandmother is rolling over in her grave right now.”

 

“Yuna!” David said with a laugh. “Let’s not bring your mother into this.”

 

“She brought me to Canada so we could have a better life,” Yuna said, “not so my son could tear down decades of feminism by feeding into this masculine bullshit.”

 

“Wait, I’m responsible for feminism now too?” Shane threw his hands up. “Is it too late for me to quit hockey and move to Nunavik?”

 

“Eat your salmon, dear,” she said firmly. “Maybe it’s my fault for not realizing I’d need to explain to you how to date a man without losing your dignity, but you’re going to listen now.”

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

It’s Hayden Pike who gives him Hollander’s address in the end. Ilya isn’t entirely sure what to do with that information – Pike isn’t actually a bad player but he’s gotten under Ilya’s skin for a couple of years. A few months ago he would’ve said Montreal’s 15th best player didn’t deserve to be on the same ice as his Captain, but lately Ilya wondered if he just didn’t want anyone to play on Hollander’s line.

 

He was starting to think, maybe, that it was less about getting Pike off Hollander’s line and more about wishing Ilya was on it.

 

But Pike had come through for him about this, on the condition that he got to go with, which made Marly and Connors and Cadyn and Sainty and several other guys decide they needed to go too. That led to an argument about how many people was too many people to show up unannounced at Hollander’s apartment the afternoon before the game, when the guy was probably doing his usual routine of kale shakes and power naps and wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Then Boiziau said he was coming if that many Raiders were going to be there, then Ilya very much regretted letting these idiots make a text chat together. In the end they agreed to whoever could fit into the SUV Marly rented, but Pike had a minivan – a perk of having twins with another one on the way, he’d said – and Cadyn was technically his cousin so he and J.J. went with Pike. They took Sebbin, too, because he’d been there when they made this deal with Hollander in the first place, but Ilya didn’t want him in too close.

 

Over a team breakfast that morning, Ilya caught Seb’s eye, raising his spoon menacingly. He didn’t want to actually hurt the man, that was one of his brothers right there. But if he sorted this out he wasn’t going to be sharing Hollander. It felt important to set a precedent early.

 

They planned to leave the hotel as soon as they checked in, but meeting in the lobby ended up with them strategically planning like they were going on an adventure more perilous than driving 20 minutes to another hockey player’s apartment. Connors asked if they needed to bring snacks. Ilya said no, then second guessed it, then said yes, but only if everyone agreed they could stop at a grocer on the way. Connors and Sainty pumped their fists in the air like they’d won a skills challenge. Cadyn asked if they were going to be in trouble for skipping out in the middle of the day like this, which earned him several groans and a gentle smack to the back of the head, along with a warning that they could only get into trouble if someone fucked up the plan.

 

O’Reagan happened to wander through the hotel lobby while all of this was happening and immediately demanded to come along with them. There was room in the back of the SUV if he mashed in there with Connors and Sainty, so they hurriedly agreed then left before any other Raiders decided to join them.

 

On the best of days, Ilya was rarely a patient man. He could play the long game if he needed to, but his favorite vices were quick and dirty. Instant gratification. He’d waited weeks to see Hollander again, and he ached with it. He needed to explain, to find a solution – fuck, he’d get on his knees and beg if he needed to. Whatever it took to get back to where Shane Hollander was teasing him, sweet and seductive. Back to where one of them was chasing the other and the end was in sight for them both. He’d believed in the possibility Hollander offered him, just in time for it to be snatched away. He wanted it back.

 

He needed it.

 

Not this. Not Hollander heartbroken and sad in another country while Ilya respects his boundaries and hates him for it at the same time. And definitely not pushing a shopping cart through a grocery store so Quebecois he couldn’t pronounce its damn name: IGA Marché Verreault et Normandeau. If anyone asked, he would tell them the store was called IGA because that’s what it says on the front in big red letters, and fuck the rest of it.

 

“Marco!” he shouted, standing by himself in the cookie aisle.

 

“Polo!” several men call out loudly. Ilya pointed his cart at the closest voice and walked forward. Eventually they’d gathered the boys at the checkout stand, with Ilya waving his hands like those men who direct planes to the right staircase, minus the light sticks and reflective vest.

 

(If Hollander quit hockey to be one of the plane directing men, Ilya thinks he can convince him to come to bed wearing only the vest. And maybe bring one of the light sticks too.)

 

Once everyone had unloaded their prizes on the conveyor belt, Ilya asked the young woman checking them out to ring it as one order, handing over his black card before anyone could object. He only rolls his eyes a little bit when he sees the package of diapers. “Jackie asked me to pick some up,” Pike said sheepishly. Ilya nodded; he’s never going to object to making sure kids have what they need, even if their dad has an MLH paycheck of his own.

 

“I was going to pay for it myself,” Pike mumbled as they rolled their bags out the door.

 

So now Ilya is standing on Shane Hollander’s doorstep, one hand hesitating in front of the door, with several very large men standing a few feet behind him.

 

“Dude, just knock,” Pike hissed.

 

Ilya looked back over his shoulder. “I am thinking,” he whispered. “What if this is a bad idea?”

 

The others groaned loudly. Marly shuffled forward, reached over Ilya’s shoulder, and knocked loudly on the door before stepping back.

 

Ilya swore loudly in Russian, just as Hollander opened the door.

 

“O…kay?” Hollander said, looking wide-eyed at the assortment of beefy hockey players on his doorstep.

 

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Ilya said. “Hello. Hollander.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, more nervous than ever. “Is okay we come in?”

 

“Is this everyone, or should I be expecting another team too?” Shane said, pouting a little.

 

Ilya wanted to bite him. “Please,” he said softly. “Can we talk?”

 

Shane scoffed, a tiny exhale of breath, but opened the door fully and moved out of the way to let everyone in. Ilya waited, letting the other guys stream in first, most of them carrying thick reusable shopping bags. Once they were inside, Ilya stepped inside, and Shane let the door shut behind them with a loud click.

 

“How are you?” Ilya asked. He didn’t move out of the entry way.

 

Beyond, in Shane’s apartment, the guys were milling around the living area shouting things like, “you have a great place, Hollander!” and “wow that’s a lot of pillows, man, good for you!”

 

Shane rolled his eyes at them, lingering with Ilya for a moment. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Because you don’t want me here?”

 

Shane bit his lower lip. Ilya watched as Shane’s eyes wandered down to Ilya’s lips, his neck, his chest. “My mom showed me some social media posts, from your team…” he said carefully. Then he looked up, into Ilya’s eyes. “Were you really, um, lost without me?”

 

“Very,” Ilya said quickly. “Completely. Totally. I know other words in English too, hold on, let me think of them.” He felt the smile tug at his lips as he stepped forward, crowding Shane against the opposite wall. “Oh, yes, desperately,” he added quietly. “That’s a good one.”

 

“Desperately, huh?” Shane was smiling now too.

 

“Can they see us?” Ilya whispered.

 

Shane glanced toward the main room. “No, I don’t think so,” he whispered back.

 

“Can I kiss you?”

 

Shane’s eyes went wide. “What? Here?”

 

“Please,” Ilya said. He was closer now, close enough he could smell Hollander’s shampoo or bodywash or laundry detergent, he didn’t know, but it smelled like the ocean and he wanted more. “Please, Hollander,” he whispered again as his lips ghosted over the sides of Hollander’s mouth. “I will do anything, I promise,” his hands finding Hollander’s hips, “please let me kiss you.”

 

“Not here,” Hollander said, his lips so close Ilya could feel them brush against his own as he spoke.

 

Not here. The same words from the shower in Toronto years ago, the first time Hollander ran away.

 

Ilya stepped back, his guts suddenly turning cold. “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but Hollander grabbed his hand.

 

“Come on,” Hollander whispered, pulling him out of the entryway. “Entertain yourselves but if you break my stuff you will fucking regret it!” Hollander yelled at the other guys as they hurried through the living room with Ilya a step behind him.

 

Ilya limply waved a hand in confusion as he was dragged past them.

 

“You have 45 minutes!” someone yelled back.

 

Then they were in another room, and Hollander shut the door.

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya finally talk. Well. There's some talking...

The Metros play the Raiders at home. Shane gets mic'd up. Shane gets his fifth fight.

Shane’s plan only extended as far as getting Rozanov alone so they didn’t have to do whatever this was in the company of the far too many people the Russian had brought with him for some reason. Now that they were, actually, alone, and fuck, in Shane’s bedroom! In the dark! Standing far too close to each other… he didn’t know what to do next.

 

“You are thinking very loud over there,” Rozanov said. His voice was lower than usual, thicker, rumbling in a way that made Shane think of a cat purring. It made him feel warm at the base of his spine.

 

Rozanov stepped forward, crowding Shane against the bedroom door. “Tell me why we can’t,” he said as he raised a hand to stroke Shane’s jaw.

 

“I made a deal,” Shane said quietly. He looked down at the floor. “I owe you one more fight.”

 

“Deal was with team. They are out there,” Rozanov said, his long fingers gripping Shane’s chin a little tighter, forcing his face up until they were looking each other in the eye. “I am in here, and I need to kiss you.”

 

“I wanted to take you out first,” Shane whispered. “If you give me a chance, I swear, I can be good at this. You might actually like me.”

 

Rozanov leaned back, frowning. “Hollander, do you really think I don’t like you?”

 

Shane shrugged. Of course. It was obvious to everyone.

 

“Words, Hollander.”

 

“I know you don’t like me, Rozanov,” Shane said. He let his head fall back against the door. “I mean I get it, you’re willing to fuck me or whatever, but I’ve always wanted more from you than that. That’s why…” He trailed off. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at Rozanov again, who was frowning now, like he did when a puck didn’t make it into the net.

 

“Tell me,” Rozanov said. When Shane didn’t reply, he said, “This is about Toronto, yes? Why you run like scared little rabbit?” He smirked then, all his usual arrogance on his face, and Shane’s dick twitched in response. “I know I am big but I have seen you too, Hollander. I think I would choke on it.”

 

“You think about it?”

 

Rozanov laughed. “About choking on your cock? Yes, Hollander, I have thought about this many times.”

 

“No, asshole,” Hollander said, smacking Rozanov in the chest. “You think about that day?”

 

This time Rozanov went very still. His face changed. It softened. His brows pinched together a little, and the smile fell off his lips. “Yes,” he said quietly. “No one has run away from me before. I… think a lot about what I must have done wrong. I did not mean to scare you.”

 

“You didn’t,” Shane said, shaking his head. When Rozanov looked away, Shane leaned toward him, grabbing a handful of his black tank top. “I wanted you. So much. But I was getting dressed in the locker room, and I was going wait, okay? I was going to ask you for your room number and I don’t know, I just realized I couldn’t be normal about you.”

 

“You are not normal guy, Hollander,” Rozanov said. He was still looking at the floor, but the corners of his mouth curved up, just a bit, and he leaned toward Shane again.

 

“Such an asshole,” Shane whispered fondly. “I mean it. I was obsessed with you already and I was just going to be a fuck for you. We were about to start our rookie seasons. I knew I couldn’t play with a broken heart.”

 

“Shane,” Rozanov sighed as he jerked his face up to stare into Shane’s eyes. “I was never going to just fuck you.”

 

“Really?” Shane grinned. He pulled Ilya closer, until their hips and chests connected, and Ilya’s hands were on Shane’s hips.

 

“Really,” Ilya purred into Shane’s ear. “I would have fucked you over and over and…” He licked the shell of Shane’s ear, then sucked the lobe into his mouth.

 

Shane moaned softly. “I’m sorry I ran,” he said as he put his hands under Ilya’s shirt, feeling the hard muscles he found there.

 

“I’m sorry I made you think I don’t like you,” Ilya whispered into his ear. He pressed his hips against Shane’s. They were both wearing soft cotton joggers – Shane in navy blue, Ilya in black like his tank top – so he could feel the line of Ilya’s hard cock press against his own.

 

“I want you for more than right now,” Shane said. He was breathing faster now as Ilya kissed down the side of his neck while his own hands made their way under Shane’s faded Metros tee. “Tell me – ah, fuck,” he whined. Ilya had pinched one of Shane’s nipples between his calloused fingers. “Tell me,” he said again, then stopped again when Ilya’s tongue found the hollow of Shane’s throat.

 

“Tell you what?” Ilya moaned against Shane’s skin.

 

“Who do I have to fight, Rozanov?” Shane stuttered out. “To have you, for real? Tell me what to do.”

 

Ilya leaned back again. It was a little hard to see since the only light was the afternoon sun spilling in through curtains on the other side of the room, but his eyes looked darker. “Anyone,” he said. “No one. I don’t care, Hollander. Fight the internet. The league. The fuckers on your team who make you feel like shit for liking me. Anyone but me, okay?” He swallowed hard, hard enough for Shane to see it, and put one hand on the back of his own neck. “Don’t fight me, Shane. Don’t fight us, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Shane said.

 

Ilya looked at him carefully, like he was memorizing something. Then he put his hands on Shane’s shoulders, and pressed him against the door. Not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to keep him still. “I like you, Shane,” he whispered, watching for Shane’s reaction.

 

“I like you too, Ilya,” Shane whispered back with a smile he couldn’t stop. “Please kiss me.”

 

The kiss was gentler than Shane expected, at first. Ilya pressed their lips together softly. His lips were warm and a little chapped, but Shane relaxed into it immediately. Then Ilya licked at Shane’s lips, gently prying them apart until he could push his tongue into Shane’s mouth. His hands moved up Shane’s neck until he was holding Shane’s head as he kissed deeper.

 

Shane moaned into Ilya’s mouth.

 

“Quiet, sweetheart,” Ilya said, pulling back just enough to speak. “Don’t want our friends to hear you.”

 

Shane’s hips jerked at that, and he felt the warmth of a blush spreading across his cheeks.

 

“Oh, maybe you do?” Ilya teased, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. “Hollander, you are slut.” But he sounded pleased.

 

“Only for you,” Shane whispered.

 

“Have you been with a man before?”

 

Shane nodded. “A few. Nothing special. Enough to know.”

 

“Same,” Ilya said. He bobbed his head side to side as he talked. “A friend, in Russia. Not serious, just you know, kids? Figuring it out. Sometimes here, a pickup in bars. Nothing special. But I am safe, yes? Always. I get tested often, I can show you results? And since I came out I am on, the drugs, you know? Team doctor called me in the next day, says this is important for playing so I do it.”

 

“PrEP?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded. “Same. I mean, I don’t go out to bars, but there have been a few guys, on vacations. One in Mexico, one in LA. I get tested too, and I’ve been on PrEP for about two years now. Just to be safe.”

 

“Okay,” Ilya said, “Good. I like this, you being safe, Hollander.”

 

“Yeah?” Shane smiled.

 

“Yes. My boyfriend needs to take care of himself when I am not there to take care of him,” Ilya said slowly, lowering his voice into that purr Shane was starting to love.

 

“Your boyfriend? I haven’t even taken you on a date yet.”

 

Ilya’s eyes widened. “Oh, so I need to convince you?”

 

Shane stiffened. “No, that’s not what I’m -”

 

Ilya shut him up with a hurried kiss. “Is okay, Shane,” he said, his lips brushing against Shane’s, “I am very convincing.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants and boxers at the same time, dragging them down Shane’s hips and thighs as Ilya dropped to his knees.

 

There was a loud knock right behind Shane’s head, making him jump. “You guys gonna eat lunch with us?” Hayden called from the other side of the door.

 

“Yes,” Ilya called out. He was on his knees in front of Shane, staring directly at Shane’s dick: hard, red, already leaking. He said something in Russian, Shane didn’t understand the words, but they sounded sinful. “I am very hungry,” he added in English. He licked his lips, looked up at Shane, and winked.

 

Fucker.

 

“Yeah, uh, me too,” Shane yelled, staring down at everything he ever wanted. “Just give us a few more minutes.”

 

“You got it, buddy,” Hayden yelled back.

 

Then Ilya’s face softened again. “Tell me is okay, Shane,” he said quietly.

 

“Yes,” Shane said, taking Ilya’s curly hair in his hands. “Please.”

 

His mouth was warm and wet. His tongue curled around the head of Shane’s dick, flattening as he moved further down, then in circles again when he came back up. Over and over, taking Shane deeper with each pass, until Shane’s fingers were tightening in Ilya’s curls. He moaned, and Shane could feel the vibrations of his throat.

 

He felt the familiar tension in his hips, the warmth that told him he wasn’t going to last long.

 

“Up, up,” he said, grabbing at Ilya’s shoulders. The other man let go of Shane’s cock with a loud pop. He stood, but looked confused. “Bed,” Shane whispered before Ilya could say anything, and was delighted when a grin reappeared on his face.

 

They moved quickly, clumsily, laughing as they tripped over their own clothes in their haste to get naked, and then they were on Shane’s bed, not bothering to get under the blankets before they were making out again. Shane pushed Ilya down onto his back, then folded himself the other way, so his socked feet were near his pillows, and he was leaning over Ilya’s hips. Then he wrapped a hand around that thick cock, used his other hand to push the foreskin back from the head of it, already so hard it felt like a piece of wood in Shane’s hands, already leaking, and he knew Ilya wanted this just as much as he did, which made it easier to let go. He felt Ilya’s hands on his hips, felt him push Shane’s hips against the blanket, so they were mirror images of each other, hips flat and waists twisted to bend over the other. Shane licked at Ilya’s cock, sucked the head of it into his mouth, swirling around it like a lollipop, and Ilya at the other end of the bed groaning out something in Russian before swallowing Shane down again.

 

Ilya was heavy on his tongue, so warm and filling, Shane moaned around the length of him, his brain drifting somewhere new, where only the heat and weight and delicious scent of Ilya Rozanov existed. He heard, faintly, like from a distance, Ilya warning him about something, but it didn’t matter. Shane wasn’t letting him get away this time. He sucked harder, swallowing Ilya deep, taking him so far down his dick was hitting the back of Shane’s throat, using his fingers on the last few inches of him, and Ilya swore again, something in Russian that sounded like it could be praise or confession or a promise, and then he was coming in Shane’s mouth and Shane was coming in his.

 

After they came down, and righted themselves so Shane’s head was sharing a pillow with Ilya’s, after they’d turned a bedside table lamp on, after Shane had kissed away the tears at the corners of Ilya’s eyes and Ilya had kissed into his mouth like he was starving for it, finally, they found words again.

 

“Are you okay with people knowing about us?” Shane asked.

 

“Yes,” Ilya said, looking down on him. He’d turned on his side to get this view; one of his hands was gently stroking across Shane’s cheek. “I did not like the things people said, when they thought this was… what is words? One sided?”

 

“Not reciprocated,” Shane said.

 

“Yes. Was not fair. I am maybe also a little bit obsessed with you,” Ilya admitted. “People should know this.”

 

“Okay.” Shane leaned over him then, reaching for his pants.

 

Ilya trailed a hand down Shane’s long back until he could grab a handful of his meaty ass, and squeezed. Shane yelped, then smacked Ilya’s abs gently as he came back up with his phone. He settled into Ilya’s arms, moved his head until the sides of their foreheads were touching, then smiled and snapped a photo. “Good?” he asked, showing Ilya his phone.

 

“Good,” Ilya agreed. “But sweetheart, people will look at this and know we are fucking.”

 

“Not yet, but after the game, if you want,” Shane said, biting his lip shyly.

 

Ilya growled, wrapped his arms around the other man and jerked him close until they were pressed tightly together. “Fuck, Shane,” he moaned dramatically, “I will cancel hockey. No game tonight. Just stay here with me.”

 

“You’re just trying to get ahead of me in the scoring race,” Shane teased. “Tell your dick it needs to score at least one goal if it wants to be invited back here.”

 

“Ah! You are asshole!” Ilya laughed. “I must tell everyone this!”

 

“Fuck off,” Shane said, “tell me if this is okay.” He showed Ilya the caption he’d written for the photo of them together, ready to post on Twitter.

 

Ilya nodded. “Yes, if league asks we can say we are very professional. Hurry up, if you will not fuck me now I must eat.”

 

Shane pushed the button, making the post live.

 

@ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer: [photo of Shane and Ilya in bed, from the shoulders up, shirtless and blushing, hair messy, smiling at the camera] my favorite competitor @ilyaroz81

 

A minute later, as they were pulling their clothes on, they heard cheering coming from the other room.

 

“Ah, the idiots have discovered the internet,” Ilya said as he rolled his eyes.

 

Shane threw the man’s pants at him and laughed.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

He was standing on the Raiders end of the ice with Connors and Marly when J.J. skated up to them. “Hollzy’s mic’d up tonight,” he said as he stared into the stands. “Last minute thing. Hayden knows, but we think the rest of the team does not.”

 

“Did they see the picture?” Ilya asked.

 

J.J. nodded. “Yeah, and they fucking sucked about it.” He said something else, in French, biting it off at the end with a shake of his head. He still wasn’t looking at them, but Ilya could see the side of his face. His expression was sour, like he’d eaten a lemon before speaking. “Coach pulled Comeau into his office after he told everyone that if they didn’t knock off the homophobic shit we’d have to watch another PowerPoint from HR, but he says the bare minimum, you know? Enough to not lose his job, not enough to stop anyone from…” He stopped himself, and Ilya very much wanted to know what he would have said next. Instead, J.J. said, “Tell your guys, okay?” and skated away.

 

“On it,” Connors said, breaking off to skate toward their goalie.

 

“You okay?” Marly asked.

 

Lunch at Shane’s had been nice. The boys had teased them a little, mostly about the state of Ilya’s curls and the fact that they’d fooled around with other people in the apartment, but it felt warm, and safe. Safe enough that when Pike had asked why Ilya had come out the way he did, he answered. Not completely, not everything, but when Ilya finished with, “So my family cannot make me go home again,” they understood enough to know it was a good thing.

 

Shane had squeezed the back of Ilya’s neck, kissed his forehead. That felt more like home than his apartment in Moscow ever had.

 

“Yes,” Ilya said, because he was very much looking forward to seeing Shane again after the game, “and also we are maybe going to have to punch some Metros tonight.”

 

“Always a pleasure, Roz,” Marly said with a grin. “I think your boy needs you,” he added, jerking his chin toward center ice.

 

Shane was waiting there, alone. Ilya clapped Marly on the shoulder and skated over.

 

“Hollander,” he said dryly.

 

“Rozanov,” Shane said with a nod. “I hope you guys are ready to lose.”

 

“Maybe,” Ilya said with a shrug. “Or maybe we score so much your Metros forget how to be assholes and treat their Captain with some respect, huh?”

 

Shane’s eyes flicked down to the collar of his shirt. Ilya nodded, once, a tiny movement, but Shane’s lips twitched into a smile. “You know I appreciate your support off the ice, but once the game starts, we will crush your team.”

 

“Thank god,” Ilya said as he smirked. “The day Shane Hollander takes it easy on me is the day I die of boredom. Other teams already too boring, too slow. Lucky for Metros, second best player in the league keeps me on my toes.”

 

“Second best? Oh fu- fudge. You. Rozanov.” He stumbled over his words as he tried to stop from swearing live on national television, but Ilya – who was fully aware of the mic but was also kind of an asshole – laughed out loud.

 

“Yes, yes, very scary, like angry kitten. You will make this face again when I am stealing puck from you.”

 

Shane opened his mouth as his cheeks went red, clearly about to say something he really shouldn’t, when a couple of other Metros skated up to them. “What are you cocksuckers talking about?” one of them said. Ilya recognized them as defensemen, he thought. He almost said something back but then remembered Shane’s mic.

 

“Gil, coach warned you about that,” Shane said tiredly. “We’re at work. You need to use professional language with your coworkers.”

 

“Fuck that,” Gil sneered. “You don’t get to hide behind woke bullshit, Hollander. This is fucking hockey.”

 

“You think hockey is not a real job?” Ilya asked, forcing himself to hold back. To be calm, and casual, as if he didn’t care what they were talking about. “I don’t think they make you sign contracts for hobby. Maybe for you, yes? But for players who score more than three times a year, I think is real job we are very lucky to have.”

 

“Yeah, fuck you too Rasputin,” one of the other men said. “Don’t think you’re any less gay just because Hollander’s the one taking it.”

 

“Oh, really?” Ilya said, raising his eyebrows. “Did you know this, Hollander?”

 

“Did I know what, Rozanov?” Hollander started chewing on his lip the moment he stopped talking, but his eyes flashed the same way Ilya had seen in dozens of face offs over the years.

 

“Your teammate is expert on what is gay. Did I miss a coming out?”

 

“Rozanov, I’m not going to speculate on the sexuality of my teammates. That would violate the law and my contract as a professional hockey player.” But Hollander winked, and Ilya had to choke back a laugh.

 

“Ah yes, I will also not do this” Ilya said. “Though the Raiders had presentation from management about queer people and statistically speaking there are many of us. I think Montreal is what they call a gay mecca, yes? Boston is this too.”

 

“Hey fuck you!” one of the Metros said, lunging at Ilya but he stepped out of the way easily. Shane grabbed the back of the guy’s jersey, yanking him backwards.

 

“That’s enough!” Shane barked. “Get back to the bench, all of you.” When the hesitated, Shane straightened his shoulders and raised his voice. “Now!”

 

The Metros grumbled but skated away. “You too, Rozanov. Let’s have a clean game, okay?”

 

“Yes sir, Captain Hollander,” Ilya said, barely containing the desire in his voice, and fuck if that wasn’t something to think about later. Captain Hollander, yes sir. “I always play hard against you.”

 

Shane rolled his eyes as he skated backward, then caught Ilya’s attention and fucking winked before turning away. What an asshole.

 

God, Ilya loved it.

 

He’d missed almost all of their warm-up period talking to his teammates and then Shane, but he was loose limbed already. Relaxed, thanks to weeks’ worth of holding himself back before coming in Shane’s perfect mouth before the game. He would score many goals tonight, maybe get in a few more comments that made his idiot teammates look like idiots on tv, then go back to Shane’s apartment and take him apart until Shane was a shuddering mess, crying and moaning on Ilya’s cock. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect night.

 

Halfway through the first period, Ilya realized his mistake. The Metros weren’t going after the Raiders tonight, not the way they should be. Shane was on fire, having scored once already and then stealing the puck off Ilya’s blade before losing it to Sainty who kicked it back to Ilya for a goal of his own. No, the problem was the most of the Metros seemed to be doing their best to injure Shane.

 

In the first period it was more subtle. A skate that slipped during a scramble for the puck, almost causing Shane to trip. A defensemen that went after Ilya but didn’t stop himself from slamming into Shane a moment later. A teammate’s stick that caught Shane across the knee. And the shitty fucking comments… Ilya didn’t hear most of them because they weren’t meant for him, but he heard the noise of something being said, and saw the look on Shane’s face: saw Shane clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth, forcing himself to bite back a response over and over.

 

In the middle of the second, there was an argument on the Metros bench that ended with someone pushing Shane before the coaching staff stepped in.

 

“I think they figured out about the mic,” Marly said.

 

“Fuck,” Ilya said quietly.

 

“Yeah,” Marly agreed.

 

By the third period, the Raiders were up 3 to 1. Ilya had scored two of those goals to Shane’s one, which would normally having him crowing with joy, but it felt empty. He wasn’t playing against a decent team led by one brilliant center. He was playing against one thrillingly competent man, his two admittedly not terrible friends, and a team full of other players who didn’t seem to have any interest in winning. On his side, Ilya had the whole of the Boston Raiders. It wasn’t remotely fair.

 

His usual tactic of running his mouth until the attention was back on him wasn’t available. Shane had made it clear he didn’t want any of the Raiders to get caught on the mic. His other tactic, being so good it pissed everyone else off, wasn’t working either. He was scoring but the Metros didn’t care.

 

When his line got called to take the next shift on the ice, he leaned over to look Shane in the eyes. “You are better than all of them,” he said.

 

“I wish it mattered,” Shane replied. The puck dropped, Shane caught it, and took off.

 

For one second, Shane was tearing away from the rest of the pack, and Ilya was right behind him, pushing himself harder, legs burning, chest on fire, feeling that good tight heat in his hips as he closed in on the puck. Then Shane turned back to look at him, grinning, the most beautiful thing.

 

Then a blue jersey barreled past, cutting Ilya off and slamming Shane into the wall.

 

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊

 

Shane came up onto his knees, shaky but conscious. There was a ringing sound behind his head. He stood up, white spots swimming in his vision, and turned straight into someone’s fist.

 

“Berkes, you motherfucker!” Hayden yelled as he grabbed the back of Berksy’s jersey, pulling him away just as he was about connect with Shane’s face.

 

Shane looked around. His own teammate stood in front of him, trying to get loose from Hayden’s grasp. J.J. was in the center of the ice, trying to pry apart a Metro and a Raider. Comeau and Marly? he wondered distantly. The ringing was still there, loud and insistent.

 

Ilya was off to his right, moving toward him, but caught up in the arms of another Metro. Connors was hanging off one of the guy’s arms, he thought. Where are the fucking refs? There are too many men on the ice.

 

Berkes elbowed Hayden in the face. Blood dripped from Hayden’s nose as he stepped back.

 

Shane briefly registered that there were other teammates in the fight, off to his left, that guys must have come off the bench, Raiders too, it was the only explanation that made sense, and then Berkes was swinging at him again.

 

He dodged before he could think about doing it.

 

Berksy stumbled a little when he missed, one skate coming down hard as he followed through too much, swung past where Shane’s head used to be, so Shane caught his arm above the elbow, grabbing him and pushing him away.

 

“Stop!” Shane yelled. “I’m on your fucking team!”

 

The other man jerked but didn’t fall, didn’t stop, he just pivoted and swung again.

 

Shane sidestepped, pulled back, and slammed his fist into Berksy’s face.

 

He dropped like a rock.

 

Shane went with him, dropping to his knees to grab the front of Berkes’ jersey, pulling him up so he could look in his face. “Why?” he shouted. “What the fuck did I do to you?”

 

Strong arms hooked under his, lifting Shane up from the ice. He twisted, trying to escape, but a warm voice said, “Hey, hey, I have you. We’re done here.” He relaxed into Ilya’s hold.

 

“We’re good here,” Ilya said soothingly. “Let the refs handle it.”

 

Shane turned to face him. “What happens now?”

 

“You will go back to your bench and let trainers put ice on that pretty face,” Ilya said, smiling. “We will finish this game.”

 

“My team,” Shane started to say. He didn’t have the words to finish it.

 

“Everyone knows now,” Ilya said. “The league, the people listening. Everyone knows. They will fix it. You will keep being maybe best player in the league, but don’t tell anyone I said that.”

 

Shane laughed. “Too late.”

 

Ilya made an exaggerated O shape with his mouth. Oops, his face said.

 

“And then?” Shane asked.

 

Behind them, refs were blowing whistles, clearing the ice. Coaches were yelling. The crowd was too loud, like a wave rising against the shore. He didn’t want to check, but Shane was pretty sure he and Ilya were on the Jumbotron right at that moment. He almost didn’t care. Not when Ilya was standing in front of him, eyes bright and lips soft, staring back as if he didn’t care who saw them either.

 

“And then, Hollander,” Ilya said, “I think I owe you a date.”