Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Major Character Death

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Troy Barrett/Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Troy Barrett, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - The Butterfly Effect (2004) Fusion, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Depression, Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Happy Ending, Time Travel Fix-It, Butterfly Effect, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Memory Loss, Diary/Journal, Shane Hollander Has Issues, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-06 Words: 5,955 Chapters: 1/1

How I Learned to Stop Worrying (but Didn't Love the Bomb)

Summary

“Mom?” His mother moved the tea and plate of cookies closer to him, but Shane didn’t let himself get distracted. “I think I’ve had another memory lapse. Why wasn't Ilya in the play-off games? Did something happen?”

Mom dropped her phone.

Why does she have such a weird look on her face?

...

Shane has memory gaps and keeps journals. Then, after the seventh game of the playoffs, he discovers they can send him back in time.

At first, he only wants to fix his relationship with his team.

Every attempt makes things worse.

Shane tries again.

And again.

Notes

It's time to eat glass a little. (kuriza/kurwa)
Listen, I just couldn't stop, it was just like Shenya and plov. (Riannira)

• A translation of Как я перестал беспокоиться (но не полюбил бомбы) by kurizakusturiza

"Did you have another episode?" Mom asked when she saw Shane looking through one of his journals.

Shane had been having blackouts since he was a child. No doctor had ever been able to explain where they came from, but the last one had advised Shane to keep journals. Shane didn’t understand why, but diligently wrote down every episode.

He would have very, very much liked not to remember being crucified in the locker room after losing to the Centaurs.

"No. If only."

He wished he could stop regretting everything that had happened, but he couldn’t. This whole year had been… a trial.

He flipped through several pages.

“The Centaurs’ plane made an emergency landing, and when JJ saw how badly I was shaking, he said he knew I was in love with Ilya…”

The letters began to dance before his eyes. Shane blinked, and the living room in his parents’ house suddenly changed into a hotel room.

JJ was sitting in front of him.

"It’s fucking heartbreaking to watch, man," JJ said sympathetically.

What… How had he gotten here? Was this an episode in reverse, or some kind of weird dream? JJ looked very real, though, and was waiting for an answer.

Shane swallowed. When Hayden’s fanmail video had gone viral on Twitter, JJ had been most hurt by the fact that Shane hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about his relationship with Ilya, right?

"What if I told you it was mutual?"

"What?" JJ blinked, puzzled.

Shane was trembling, but he kept going.

"What if I told you I’ve been dating Ilya for quite a while? That I want to ask him to marry me? What would you say then?"

This was just an episode, right?

JJ frowned, but he wasn’t looking at Shane as though he had no idea who he was. He chewed the inside of his cheek and asked:

"How long?"

"We started sleeping together before our rookie season, but dating back then would have been terrifying," Shane blurted out. Maybe it was too much, but that was always how it went: once the floodgates opened, there was no way of shutting him up. "And we only decided to actually be in a relationship the summer after Scott Hunter came out."

"Holy shit, Shane," JJ shook his head. "Why didn’t you tell me? I kept trying to set you up with guys…"

"Hayden figured it out, and… he didn't take it well. I don’t know. I was afraid of how everyone else might react after that, you know? That’s why Ilya and I started the charity, so that being in public and friendly together wouldn’t seem quite so unbelievable."

"Okay, let’s be honest here—Hayden has always taken this whole rivalry thing between you two way too personally." JJ rubbed his chin, and there was something in his expression that made it seem as though he were evaluating whether he really knew Shane as well as he thought he did. "Thanks for telling me, Shane. But you know. The fact that you hid it for so long. Not from the public, but from us, even though you came out to the team. Now it makes it look like…"

"Like what?" Shane forced himself to breathe evenly.

"Like you had something to hide. Not the relationship. Something… something worse. Sharing insider info, throwing games."

"I’d sooner chew my own hand off," Shane shot back.

"I believe you," JJ said seriously, looking him in the eye. "But you need to do something about this, man. And fast."

The room spun like a carousel.

Shane opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He was in the living room at his parents’ house again.

What the hell.

It was too vivid and realistic to be a dream, but too impossible to be real. And it really did feel like an episode in reverse.

His phone chimed. It was JJ.

“Rumours are going around about whether you deliberately threw Game Seven. I said the Cents were a shitty team three years ago, not now, and that Roz didn’t get all these League trophies for nothing. But the fact that people are even saying this—Shane, it’s bad. We need to do something.”

JJ wasn’t mad at him?

Rumours?

Meaning they hadn’t crucified him in the locker room immediately after the game, like he remembered?

Shane didn’t reply. He called Hayden instead.

"Hayd, I need you to tell me something."

"Uh… yeah? Of course?"

"I had an episode," Shane lied. "What was said in the locker room after the last game?"

"Nothing…" Hayden said, puzzled. "Coach said he was going to make us bag skate until we dropped next season because of this series, but that’s just typical Theriault."

"Ah. Okay. Thanks. I’ll call you later, alright?"

They hadn’t accused him of tripping on purpose—not then.

JJ had defended him in front of the team.

Shane had read the entry about his episode and somehow… ended up in the past? And managed to change something?

Everything was still fucked up, given that people had started suspecting him of this insanity anyway, but…

Shane got up from the couch and went looking for other journals.

***

“Today I told the guys I was gay, and then…”

The letters began to dance across the page. Either this was time travel, or Shane was starting to lose his mind.

The locker room at the Bell Centre. His entire team was standing in front of him.

"What about Rose Landry?" Shane didn’t have time to figure out who had asked.

"My last attempt at dating a woman," Shane answered automatically. "She quickly figured out I was gay and very sweetly suggested we stay friends."

A few awkward chuckles went around the locker room.

"So instead of setting you up with girls, Jackie should’ve been finding you guys…" Hayden drawled. "Got it. Understood."

He should have said it sooner, right?

"No need. I have a boyfriend," Shane said firmly, and he was very proud of himself for managing such a confident tone. "Okay, Patrice, I saw that look of relief on your face. You bastard, did you think I was going to hit on one of you?"

"No?" Patrice squeaked questioningly.

The guys were clearly starting to have fun. Well.

"No, what kind of slander is that?" JJ laughed. "I happen to be quite a catch! You’d be damn lucky if I said yes."

"Your locker looks like Bantargebang dumpsite. Not in a million years," Shane shot back.

"You gonna introduce us to your boyfriend?" Hayden demanded.

It's time then.

"Actually, you know him," Shane took a deep breath and said keeping his voice as even as he could muster. "Ilya Rozanov signed with the Centaurs so suddenly because of me. We’re dating."

The laughter died down.

"I see you don’t do anything halfway, huh?" JJ whistled.

"I always said Cap wanted to marry hockey, and here we are," a D-man from the third line blurted out.

"Oh, not that asshole," Patrice groaned. But that was understandable; all the League’s goalies fucking hated Ilya. Or feared him.

"Shane, what the hell," Hayden said quietly, and that was when Shane realized he’d been looking in the wrong direction all this time. "Tell me you’re joking."

He looked as though Shane had slapped him across the face. Something had gone wrong after all.

"I’m not joking. We’re serious," Shane said anyway, feeling something important inevitably rolling toward the abyss. "My parents like him. He sends me pictures of Ottawa dogs. We watch cooking channels and do all sorts of boring old-married-couple stuff."

"Pikey…" JJ said warningly.

The locker room spun.

Shane opened his eyes. Had something changed this time?

There were no messages from JJ about rumours on his phone. The team chat was full of messages about who had made it home from the bar where they’d drowned their loss. And one comment caught his attention in a strange way:

“We need to draft a star winger for Hollzy. Same shit two years in a row.”

Winger? Two years in a row? Biting his lip, with a sinking feeling in his gut, Shane went to check the team page.

Hayden Pike had gone to play for San Francisco two years ago. And they hadn’t won a third Cup. No, no, no, no… Shane checked the sports news, trying not to tear all his hair out.

He hadn’t stumbled in Game Seven. They had lost anyway. Because hockey was a team sport, Shane had lost his most reliable partner. Because Hayd had—what? Gotten offended? Gotten fucking jealous?

There was no way Shane could tell anyone about his relationship with Ilya without getting punished for it. They should have given in to Crowell’s threats and told everyone that the video on Twitter had simply been a prank. Shane wanted Ilya to become his husband. He wanted it so badly. But telling anyone and getting a bucketful of shit dumped on his head for it—no. That had been a terrible idea.

They should have waited until retirement, just as they had planned from the very beginning!

***

“Christmas. Ilya asked if I wanted to go to Zane Boodram’s party with him…”

The letters began to dance across the page, and his parents’ living room blurred and turned into the living room of Ilya’s house. Ilya himself was standing in front of him, waiting for an answer.

“No, Ilya, I’m not going.”

“It’s just a party.” Ilya wasn’t whining, but his brows were drawn together in displeasure. “Why did we even bother starting charity thing if we hardly ever go anywhere?”

Shane tried to breathe evenly, but after his two previous attempts to fix things with the team he’d spent ten fucking years with, everything inside him was still boiling over.

“Let’s be honest, okay? I don’t want you to come out because half the League somehow already knows I’m gay. Everyone will figure everything out immediately. And I don’t want to go to team parties with you for the same reason. We’re here, we’re together, we live close to each other, unlike before. We can wait till we retire before telling everyone and their mother.”

Ilya clenched his teeth. He looked upset. Shane remembered that last time, after his memory lapse, Ilya had cried and asked him to leave. He didn’t know what he might have said during that episode, but he should have held on and reminded Ilya that they were doing just fine as it was. They didn’t need other people!

“Shane, I don’t want to wait that long. I’m tired. You don’t understand, this whole story of one day we’ll live like normal people is just…”

“No. You don’t understand,” Shane cut him off, unable to take it anymore. “You don’t understand what kind of circus is going to start in Montreal. They’ll fucking crucify me the second your team starts winning! They’ll think I was throwing games for you! Why are you pressuring me, Ilya, as if you don’t understand the risks?!”

Ilya looked as though Shane had hit him. His eyes glistened.

“So you…” Ilya swallowed. “You do regret getting together with me after all. I really ruined your life, didn’t I?”

The living room in Ilya’s house began to spin before Shane could come up with an answer.

He gasped sharply and opened his eyes. Back at his parents' house. His nose was bleeding.

He sat up and pressed the sleeve of his hoodie to his nose.

“Sweetheart? Sweetheart, are you alright?”

Mom, with tea and cookies. At least something hadn’t changed for the worse.

“No, Mom, I’m fine. Got dizzy.”

Guilt was gnawing at him over what he’d said to Ilya. He should have thought it through better. He should have waited before jumping into that conversation. He’d been way too annoyed for even trying to fix it. The way his team reacted wasn’t Ilya’s fault. It really wasn’t. Shane pulled out his phone and opened their texts. Ilya should have…

What the fuck.

The last message was from December twenty-ninth, from Shane.

“Ilya, why?”

Where had all the other messages gone? Had Shane deleted them all without noticing?

He scrolled through his other chats.

There were no nasty texts from the team. The last message was from JJ.

“Get some rest, Cap. Next season, we’ll kick everyone’s ass.”

What had happened exactly? Had he not tripped in the game against the Centaurs? Hayden hadn’t left for San Francisco, and the team was at its full strength. Or had Ilya and Shane given in to Crowell’s threats after that conversation and told everyone it had all been a prank after all?

Shane, understanding absolutely nothing, opened a sports news site and found a recap of their latest game against the Cents.

…Ilya didn’t play. The captain’s C was on Boodram’s jersey.

What the fuck?

Had Ilya retired so nobody would think Shane was throwing games for him if the Cents won? But then where was he? Why wasn’t he with Shane?

“Mom?” His mother moved the tea and plate of cookies closer to him, but Shane didn’t let himself get distracted. “I think I’ve had another memory lapse. Why wasn't Ilya in the play-off games? Did something happen?”

Mom dropped her phone.

Why does she have such a weird look on her face?

Yeah, maybe it was stupid to blame a blackout for his ignorance. Maybe Ilya hadn't played in months already? But Mom was looking at Shane's face with concern, like she was trying to figure out how serious he was.

"Shane, sweetheart." She swallowed. "Ilya died six months ago."

...what?

***

“Get the fuck out of here, Hollander,” Barrett greeted him curtly when he saw Shane standing on the porch.

Shane couldn’t believe this was anything but a long, long nightmare.

Not when he saw the footage from the helicopter report. Ilya had been threatening the police officers and Barrett with a gun. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette toward his house—apparently, he had been generous with the gasoline, because the house was quickly engulfed in flames. And then he put a bag over his head and pressed the gun to his chin. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, but he still heard the shot, as well as the reporter’s shocked voice.

Not when he saw Ilya's grave.

His fucking grave.

His throat tightened, but there were no tears. He simply couldn’t. He had no right to cry. He had killed the person he loved with a couple of sentences—he knew Ilya was depressed, knew he was seeing a therapist, he knew!

Now he had to find out how it had happened. He had to know just how much of it was his fault.

“No, wait! Please. Something’s wrong with my memory. I… I don’t know what happened. When I woke up today, I thought Ilya was alive! I found…” Shane swallowed. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “video.” “You were the last person to see him alive. I need to know what happened! Please.”

Barrett stared at him for a long time.

And there was something truly unpleasant in that look.

Shane couldn’t even remember the last time someone had looked at him like he was a piece of shit. Not a traitor—as recently as yesterday. But something genuinely disgusting.

With contempt.

With unmistakable hatred.

“Come in.”

Barrett didn’t offer him coffee, tea, or water. Nobody was interested in making polite small talk either, but Shane hadn’t come here for that.

“The day before,” Barrett began, without looking at Shane, “he came to Bood’s party. He was cheerful. The life of the party. Even more than usual. I complimented his motorcycle, and he said he was giving it to me for Christmas. I was surprised. It was strange. And then it hit me that night. When people are laughing and seem to have a great time but suddenly start giving away their favourite things. I dropped everything and rushed to his place.

“I found him pouring gasoline all over his living room. He said I’d ‘come too early’ and pulled out a gun. As it turned out later, he’d sent a delayed message to the Cents’ group chat: ‘Call the police and firefighters to my address. Don’t come yourselves.’

“After that, I was the one pouring gasoline around his house. I tried to talk him out of it. You need help, Roz. Come on, let’s go to the hospital. He wouldn’t listen. I told him someone would have to deal with his inheritance; everyone knows he can’t stand his brother. He said he was impulsive and had been depressed for a long time, so he always kept all his documents and his will in order.

“And then…”

Barrett pierced Shane with a look filled with savage hatred.

“He said he couldn’t keep ruining the life of the person he loved, and that there couldn’t be any trace left of their relationship. He didn’t mention any names, but I understood everything perfectly when I saw you at the funeral.”

He turned away again.

“I texted the guys to call the police to his address and tried to buy as much time as I could. As you can see, it didn’t work.

“There’s one question that’s been eating at me for the past six months. Roz isn’t the kind of person who gives up easily. So what the hell did you say to him, Hollander?”

Unfortunately, Shane knew exactly what.

 

***

Ilya will be better off without him.

Shane still couldn’t cry. He wasn’t even sure he had the right to.

Ilya had been doing badly for a very long time. And he kept trying, smiling and pretending to be the perfect boyfriend who was always fine, just for you, sweetheart. He kept going for as long as he could.

He had been standing on the edge of a cliff, and Shane…

Shane had pushed him.

He went through his journals, further and further back. They shouldn’t have even started anything if this was how it was going to end. Shane couldn’t trust himself with Ilya’s well-being anymore. He had ignored it for far too long, as though he didn’t know what depressive episodes could end in.

There. Two thousand ten.

“After an awkward encounter in the shower, Rozanov came up to me in the locker room and asked for my room number…”

The letters began to dance before his eyes.

 

***

Ilya.

Alive, young, cocky. Smiling.

God, how Shane wanted to hug him.

But he couldn’t—not now.

“Find yourself someone else, Rozanov,” Shane said in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. “I’m not ready to risk my career over a one-night stand.”

Ilya involuntarily took a step back, blinking in surprise. A shadow of disappointment passed over his face.

“Too bad you’re such coward, Hollander.”

“Not too bad to me,” Shane lied.

The seconds dragged on like rubber. Shane desperately wanted this painful conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

“You could have really good time with me,” Ilya said at last, giving him a boyish wink.

“I know,” Shane said firmly. “I know.”

A sharp breath.

Shane opened his eyes. He was back at his parents’ house. There was dried blood beneath his nose.

He grabbed his phone.

Lily wasn’t among his contacts.

But there was a whole pile of insults from the team, right where they belonged.

What the fuck?

Who, according to the guys, could he possibly have been fooling around with if there had been nothing between him and Ilya?

A quick Google search left Shane stunned.

They had crucified him for an affair… with Troy Barrett?!

But Hayden had outed the two of them with his Fanmail, just like last time.

Shane bit his lip and typed “Ilya Rozanov” into the search bar.

The first result was a YouTube video.

“Scott Hunter and Ilya Rozanov 2017 Stanley Cup Kiss.”

What the fuck.

Shane had thought that if he let Ilya go, Ilya would just marry that friend of his, Svetlana, and never have to deal with any trouble.

But Scott Hunter?!

Seriously?!

Shane opened Ilya’s Wikipedia page. Alternate of the Brooklyn Scouts since 2017. Stanley Cups in 2014 and 2019. Personal life…

There he was. Scott, you fucking bastard.

How the fuck did you manage that?

According to Ilya himself, he had been in a serious relationship with Scott Hunter since 2012. They married in a private ceremony in 2015, and came out after Rozanov Sr.’s death, when Ilya cut all ties with his family. When there was some progress with his citizenship.

Shane didn’t want to watch the Stanley Cup video. He felt like he was going to throw up.

Ilya was fine. So shouldn’t Shane be happy for him?

Wasn’t that what he had come back this far for?

He put his phone down and lowered his head between his knees to catch his breath.

Let this be a dream, he begged again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Just a fucked-up, goddamn nightmare.

Once he caught his breath, Shane started digging through the sports news archives.

In 2017, during a Boston–Montreal game, JJ conveniently took Rozanov out, and he left the ice for the hospital with a concussion and a nasty forearm fracture.

Paparazzi caught Shane leaving the hospital—he must have gone to apologize. There was nothing between Ilya and Shane this time, after all.

Without Rozanov, Montreal knocked Boston out of the playoffs pretty quickly. And then the Admirals ran them over like a fucking steamroller. Yeah, Hunter was the real peach there. In the final game of the series, he gave JJ a black eye. No wonder.

And then the Finals. The Cup.

Ilya, his arm in a cast, on the ice. Happy.

And there was a ring on his finger, gleaming like a fucking lighthouse, smashing what remained of Shane’s resolve to pieces.

That was supposed to be me.

Unable to look at it anymore, Shane found Kip Grady on Instagram.

Scott’s ex-husband didn’t look miserable and lonely like Shane himself. He was in grad school on a full scholarship and dating a cute bartender.

His phone pinged with a message from the contact saved as “Douche Canoe of My Heart.”

“How are you, babe? I’m at the bakery. Can pick up your sugar-free cupcakes for tonight.”

God, how had he forgotten?

He wasn’t even alone.

He was dating Troy fucking Barrett.

The one his team was sending Shane death wishes over.

Maybe they were even engaged—if Shane had been just as freaked out over the Centaurs’ emergency plane landing.

With Troy Barrett, who had looked at him as if Shane was the worst person on Earth just a couple of hours ago.

“It feels weird.”

Shane thought about it.

What did he really have to lose?

“Get some beer and chips.”

“Holy shit, yeah, I’ll get them,” came the reply.

***

He needed to figure something out, and fast, before Barrett showed up and realized something was wrong with Shane. Why don’t you want to kiss me, babe?

“You need some help, rookie?”

Scott Hunter looked friendly in the Zoom window, almost as if he felt a little sorry for Shane. He also looked tired, like someone who hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a long time.

“No, not really,” Shane said cautiously. “More like relationship advice. You two seem to be… doing great?”

He needed to know.

Someone off-camera gave an unmistakable snort.

So very familiar.

“Um. Rozanov? Hi?” Shane said uncertainly.

It was fucking weird to make himself call Ilya by his last name again.

Scott sighed and turned slightly to the side.

“Come on, sugar, spill.”

“Don’t make me talk. I’m very mean, Hollander will cry,” Ilya grumbled from off-camera.

Scott gave Shane a meaningful look and turned the camera.

Rozanov was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. He looked… phlegmatic.

“We’re trying out some new antidepressants,” Scott explained. “So, rookie, everyone has bad days.”

Ilya was happily married and had been out of the closet for years, but he still suffered from depressive episodes?

It was awful, but… maybe it wasn’t all because of Shane, who didn’t go on dates with him and made him stay in the closet.

Maybe.

“Kotik, can you order me those stupid chocolate rolls from sushi place on Tribeca?” Ilya sighed, pulling the blanket all the way up to his nose.

“Yeah, sure.”

Kotik, kotik, Jesus fucking Christ.

“With sauce, not like last time,” Ilya grumbled as an afterthought.

Alright, enough beating around the bush. It wasn’t going to hurt any less.

“I don’t remember if I’ve asked you this, but how did you two actually get together? I remember Rozanov pretty well during his slut era. He had ‘falling in love is terrifying’ written all over his face.”

For some reason, Scott burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair.

“Bingo, rookie! I’m the kind of guy who sees the goal and doesn’t see the obstacles. We hooked up a couple of times, and I realized this was it for me. Had to go for it. But when I confessed my love to him, he said—and I quote—‘Don’t worry, it’ll pass.’”

A hand emerged from beneath the blanket, with the middle finger raised.

“I’d like to remind you that your incredibly romantic response was, ‘Bullshit,’” Ilya grumbled, shooting Scott an annoyed glare.

“At least I didn’t cry.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Maybe later.”

Shane cleared his throat.

“Grandpa Scott. A couple of pointers. For a happy love life. I’ve got a treasure like that on my hands too. You’re clearly a pro.”

He wasn’t even lying.

If there was still something he could fix…

“Be attentive and talk things out as much as possible, even if he starts whining and trying to distract you with blowjobs,” Scott said clearly. “Healthy communication, rookie. And… how similar is this treasure of yours? Does Barrett have episodes too?”

“Yeah.” That part was a lie. Shane had absolutely no idea.

“Grab him by the scruff and get him to a doctor. Immediately,” Scott pronounced. “And good luck with the patience, I guess.”

“Thanks.”

Shane was about to say goodbye, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Roz. You happy over there?”

“I will be if pills don't make me puke,” Ilya muttered from beneath the blanket. “I’ve got a fucking great life, Hollander. Beautiful husband who’s about to order me sushi,” the last part came with a very pointed emphasis, “five dogs, two Stanley Cups. Maybe we’ll adopt a couple of brats next year, and then it’ll be fucking perfect. So if Barrett barks at you during his episodes, maybe it’s not because you’re shitty boyfriend who fucked up terribly. Maybe it’s because things are fucked up inside and he just can’t make them right.”

***

There were only two entries about Ilya left in the journals: the CCM shoot, and the meeting before the Junior Cup final, when they were seventeen.

Shane opened the page with the entry from December 2008.

“I went up to Ilya Rozanov outside the arena to introduce myself. He was smoking beneath a ‘No Smoking’ sign. I told him my name was Shane Hollander…”

The letters began to dance across the page. The living room in Ottawa gave way to frozen Saskatchewan. Ilya, standing beneath the “No Smoking” sign, was trying to get a flame out of his lighter, stealing glances at Shane from beneath his lashes.

“You know, kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray.”

Ilya dropped the cigarette from his mouth and stared at Shane, eyes wide at such a cocky pickup line. He was young. Alive. And not married to Scott Hunter, for fuck’s sake. Shane quickly kissed the corner of his mouth before Ilya could recover, then stepped back.

“See you in the finals.”

“What do I get when we beat you?”

Cocky little pervert. Though he had been right. They did beat Shane's team in that championship.

“Win first, asshole,” Shane said with a wide grin.

Round and round the carousel went, and Shane was back at his parents’ house. Blood was running from his nose again.

His phone was full of curses. There were almost no messages from Ilya, but in his social media and messaging apps folder there was… was that fucking ICQ?

ICQ. Jesus Christ, what a relic. Apparently they’d exchanged contact details back in 2008, but sending texts to Russia had been way too expensive. And after that, it had just become a habit…

Shane opened the team chat—he didn’t give a shit anymore—and quickly typed:

“I’m starting to get the impression that this isn’t about me at all, and you’re just a bunch of homophobes. When brothers play against each other, nobody accuses them of throwing games. When wives play against each other in the women’s league, nobody says that shit either. You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves.”

He left his phone on the couch and went to get the journals. He knew what he had to do.

***

“I lay awake for a long time, coming up with a plan for the next five years. It was already two in the morning when I woke Ilya up. Of course, he grumbled that he wanted to sleep…”

The letters jumped across the page.

The bedroom in the cottage. A sleepy, warm Ilya trying to pry his eyes open. The plan could go to hell. In the end, the plan hadn’t helped them at all. If Ilya wanted to change his citizenship, well, Shane was right there. He was fucking tired of this.

“What… Shane, middle of the night…”

Ilya looked rumpled and pathetic, and Shane desperately wanted to kiss every inch of his face.

“I think we should come out now, while all the fuss around Hunter hasn’t died down yet. We come out, announce that we’re together, and if the Bears try to put you on waivers—fuck them, and fuck the American visa. Marry me. Actually, just marry me. I love you.”

Now Ilya was fully awake.

And nodding.

His eyes were round with shock, shining in the poorly lit bedroom.

“I love you too.”

He sniffed quietly and buried his face in Shane’s shoulder.

“So, so much.”

***

…this wasn’t the living room at his parents’ place. Outside the window, the city roared like Ottawa never had.

Shane looked around. Bedroom. Two jerseys hanging on the mirror: number eighty-one of the New Jersey Imps, Hollander, and number twenty-four of the Brooklyn Scouts, Rozanov.

…Huh.

The pile of blankets beside him gave a little snort. The curls were familiar.

Shane smiled involuntarily, tousled the curls even more, twisted the ring on the ring finger of his left hand, and reached for his phone.

Hollander and Rozanov came out shortly after Scott Hunter, and got married that same summer. Aw, too bad Shane didn’t remember his own wedding! Though they could always renew their vows. Why not.

Ilya got traded to Brooklyn almost immediately. Shane played one more season in Montreal before his contract ran out. He approached the Imps himself; the Admirals and the Scouts no longer had cap space for him.

They did charity work. They had three dogs and a gecko, and also…

Wait a minute. Shane hadn’t been eliminated from the playoffs yet?

Fuck, didn’t he have to go to morning skate, or the airport, or something?!

“What are you rustling around for?” Ilya grumbled. “Nobody expects you anywhere until tomorrow. Brunch with paleontologist and his dinosaur at eleven. Get under the covers.”

Shane tossed his phone onto the nightstand, found Ilya in the heap of blankets, hugged him from behind, and pressed his lips to the back of Ilya's neck.

Ilya murmured something, obviously pleased with the morning niceties, and covered Shane’s hand with his own.

“Ilya. I need to tell you something.”

 

***

Shane’s journals were cheerfully burning in a metal barrel, seasoned with some kind of accelerant. There were ways to get rid of them with lesser levels of extreme, but Ilya wanted an adventure: an alley in the Little Italy, the fucked-up romance of gangster movies.

“I’ve got it,” Ilya suddenly said, snapping his fingers. “Look.”

He pulled out his phone and opened Instagram.

“Here! Crowell fucking hates me for this. Here’s our story since 2017, very detailed.”

Shane took the phone and started scrolling down. Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane's waist and rested chin on his shoulder.

The bio read: “Shane Hollander’s gorgeous husband. Also, I play hockey sometimes 🏆🏆”

“How many Cups do I have?”

“We’re tied for now.”

“Hmm.”

Dogs, dogs, dogs. Joint photos from various sports bars. A ton of pictures of Shane—some just of him, some with Ilya in front of various landmarks, some with a gecko perched on his shoulder (captioned “my Rapunzel,” naturally), some of them having picnics and BBQs in the park.

“Wait, I think I remember this,” Shane said uncertainly. “You texted that you’d found the most handsome man on Earth, and I replied, ‘Okay, show me the dog.’”

Ilya giggled into his ear.

“That day I was sure you were going to kill me.”

“Well, obviously. Rex is an industrial-scale producer of woolly tumbleweeds!”

Shane kept scrolling, further and further down, and the funny, ticklish feeling of déjà vu gradually turned into certainty that he had seen all of this before, that he actually lived it.

The cottage, 2017. Sleepy Shane with a mug of coffee, looking into the camera with the faintest hint of a smile. Ilya’s hand was in the frame too—demonstratively.

Caption: “Cheapskate, Hollander. Where’s the ring?”

And absolute chaos in the comments, which had surpassed a hundred thousand.

Ilya silently held out his hand and switched to Shane’s account.

He didn’t have that many posts, so the one they needed came up quickly:

“Thank you to Scott Hunter, who went first and gave us the courage to do it. This is Ilya Rozanov. And today, when I asked him to marry me, he said yes. Even though I woke him up at two in the morning to ask. Must be love.”

It was a selfie. Ilya was giving Shane a sidelong look while Shane kissed him on the cheek. It seemed to have been taken at night, so it was a miracle they were wearing anything at all: Shane recognized his own flannel shirt on Ilya.

…He remembered this.

His phone was exploding with notifications and calls, but Shane only answered Dad, who first asked whether his account had been hacked and then invited both him and Ilya over for lunch.

How the emails had started coming in for Ilya—from his agent, his coach, the club management.

How Shane himself had written to Hayden, saying that he had always denied everything about Boston Lily because he’d thought they had no future together.

For fuck’s sake, he had left Montreal peacefully, without bloodshed.

Right place, right time, apparently...

Sirens wailed in the distance, and Ilya quickly snatched the phone from Shane's hand.

“Someone snitched. Time to run!”

“God fucking dammit, Ilya.”

 

***

“Hello, Kip. Hey, dinosaur.”

“Hello to you too.”

“You know, Ilya, you should probably sit farther away from Scott.”

“Why?”

“I had a nightmare that you married him. Move.”

“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, what a joke!”

“Jesus, I would’ve stabbed him in the first very week of marriage.”

“Nah-nah, you were practically a saint. You bought him sushi rolls and let him get five dogs. And you didn’t even kill him after you confessed your love and this idiot answered, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll pass.’ Kip hit on Kyle from the Kingfisher. And I was messing around with Troy fucking Barrett.”

“Now that really is a nightmare.”