Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Gilbert Comeau, Brad Hammersmith, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Patrice Drapeau, Jackie Pike, Dallas Kent, Svetlana Vetrova, Troy Barrett, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Hayden Pike's Children, Gagnon (Game Changers), Andropov (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Masturbation, canon typical idiocy by Hayden Pike but it's not all his fault, Texting, Jorking it, if you see any run on sentences no you didn't, Sexting, Misogyny, Tabloids, Self-Inflicted Revenge Porn, Homophobia, Shane Hollander Gets Outed, Sort Of, Hayden Pike Gets Outed (Incorrectly), Internalized Homophobia, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Touch-Starved Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander's Path to Self Acceptance, Ilya Rozanov Teaches Shane Hollander How To Fight, Dallas Kent Being an Asshole, Butt Plugs, Spanking, Himbo Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Homophobic Language, Minor Injuries, Canon-Typical Hockey Injury, MLH not NHL (ie the rules are whatever the author needs them to be :))

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-04 Completed: 2026-08-16 Words: 85,618 Chapters: 33/33

I Know You’re Up At Night

Summary

In a state of extreme horniness, Shane agrees to make a spicy video for Ilya, and it unfortunately doesn’t stay between just them. One guess as to whose fault it is that it leaks (you're only half right).

(Set in the 2015-2016 season)

Chapter 1: hunched over your phone

Chapter Notes

will you get hard for me?

Shane jolts at the soft buzz in his hand and even before he’s fully processed the words on his phone screen—the phone he’d apparently fallen asleep gripping too tightly, waiting for a text like this, but still not quite expecting one—his cock is stirring in his shorts. He blinks his eyes, trying to focus on the sharp glow of his screen, the only light in his dark bedroom. For a wild second he considers that Ilya could be standing right outside his door, this text his obnoxious alternative to using the buzzer—but then he remembers with a soft pang of disappointment that Ilya, along with the rest of the Raiders, had all filed onto a late flight to their next destination hours ago. There had been no time between the game and the flight for Ilya to slip away, to meet up with Shane like they usually did on the frustratingly rare occasions that Ilya found himself in Montreal.

In the beginning, meeting up with Ilya in Boston and Montreal just a few times per season had felt overwhelming to Shane; the long cooling off periods in between had given him time to come down, come back to his senses, try to figure out if any of it was a good idea, try to convince himself that it was obviously a bad idea and that they should stop, only to yet again find himself pressed up against a wall somewhere with Ilya's cigarette-tinged breath trailing down his neck, pushing all thoughts of right or wrong (replaced instantly with thoughts of yes and now) right out of Shane's head. At least for a few hours. These days, Shane has given up trying to pretend to himself that he's conflicted. He wants Ilya, and he wants him all the time. His one small concession to finally admitting this to himself is that he will never utter it out loud to another living soul—least of all to Ilya.

Shane sits up in bed and leans over to flick on his bedside lamp, squinting at the phone, his heart rate steadily increasing as he reads the words over and over. It’s past two in the morning. Is Ilya in an airport, in a hotel room? Is he alone? Shane bites his lip, his finger hovering over his screen. Would it be pathetic to admit that he was already hard just from this text alone? That he’d been hard, half-hard, and/or desperately jerking off all night, his thoughts only of Ilya, since he’d gotten home from their game—the game the Metros had won 4-3 in overtime by the way, Shane with the winning goal—and Shane had been aching to celebrate in their usual fashion. He'd been restless since he got that text telling him ‘sorry overnight flight, cannot meet this time’; the disappointment drowning out what should have been a celebratory night after his team's win.

Hayden had been pestering him to come out with the guys and Shane had almost agreed. Almost. But partying really wasn't his thing even on a good day, and on this particular day, what should've been a great day (a win on home ice followed by Ilya Rozanov naked in his bed, if things had gone to plan) was now a terrible day (things had not gone to plan), so he couldn't bring himself to say yes. There's only one man Shane could never say no to, never wanted to say no to, and it wasn't Hayden Pike.

Shane lowers his other hand to his groin, his breath catching in his throat as he brushes over the hard flesh waiting there. Waiting for something he can't have again for weeks now, and hasn’t had for over a month already. Shane pushes out a frustrated breath through his nose.

what?

As soon as he sends the text, he shakes his head at himself. Ilya’s right, he really does suck at sexting, even after all this time. But he needs more information because of course he’ll get hard for Ilya, he always gets hard for Ilya, what a pointless question. Is it rhetorical? Does he mean the next time they meet up, or does he mean now? Shane palms himself over his shorts. Yes, I’m hard for you right now is what he could have said. Is that what he should have said? But he doesn’t know if Ilya is alone in a hotel bed or sitting next to a teammate at a coffee shop—he doesn’t know the intent of the question so how can he provide the correct answer?

Why would Ilya ask such a stupid question in the first place when he should know by now the answer is always yes, yes, yes. Yes, Shane thinks, yes, I’ll get hard for you, open my mouth for you, stretch myself open for you, all for you, anything and everything for you.

Palming himself isn’t enough. Shane reaches inside his shorts now, fully gripping himself as he stares at the dots on his screen, at the evidence that Ilya is thinking about Shane, right now, thinking about him being hard or getting hard for him. Shane begins stroking himself firmly as he waits for the text to come through.

get hard for me and send video

i want to jerk off once i am at hotel

video will help, i want to see you

Shane takes his hand off his cock as he rereads Ilya’s words, his stomach sinking all the while. Video? Shane’s heart rate increases again but for reasons that have nothing to do with his dick and everything to do with Ilya being as unpredictable as ever. Which wasn't always a good thing.

no, we’ve talked about this, no pics/videos

maybe facetime?

Shane stares at the dots, biting his lip—practically gnawing on it—as he waits.

team is waiting for shuttle at airport and hotel is still far away, will be sharing room

i am hard all night thinking of you

want video

Shane lets out a slow exhale, his cock still hard and throbbing—even harder now that he knows Ilya has been thinking about him all night. That he's been just as hard, just as desperate as Shane is at having had to forego their expected hookup. Shane can’t think of a response, can only sit there trying to slow his breathing and helplessly feel the needy ache of his untouched cock.

no video then

jerk off for me and record sound so i can listen later

will delete right after

He lets out a heavy sigh bordering on relief at Ilya's attempt at compromise. Then he smiles to himself, fondly impressed that Ilya could instantly read the meaning behind his hesitation and try to placate it, though he's still not fully on board with the request. Shane didn’t exactly want to say no, not with the way his body is reacting to the idea of it, but they’ve had this conversation or some version of it many times before. Many times Shane has had to chastise Ilya for sending him dick pics, telling him to delete them off his phone immediately before both of their careers are ruined, and just how many more times does Shane have to remind him of this? And each time Shane dutifully deleted them on his side too—careful to even scrub them from ‘recently deleted’ so there was no trace. And each time he'd done it with a pang of regret, and only after a long-lingering stare in order to take in every detail, committing them all to memory because fuck if that man didn’t take amazing dick pics. He had an amazing dick, after all.

And it’s Ilya’s amazing dick, and hands, and lips, and tongue, and the memories of all of them on Shane at one point or another, inside of him, surrounding him, that never-ending need for them, for him—for every part of Ilya including his beautiful insides that match his beautiful outsides, that makes Shane send back one simple text:

ok

One simple text that leads to one simple video recorded with the screen face down on Shane's bedsheets.

Shane, now worked up and so desperately hard, unable to think much beyond: ‘of course I'll get hard for you I'm always hard for you and will jerk off for you just because you asked nicely I'll stroke myself while thinking about you and thinking about how you’ll listen to it later how you’ll listen to me horny and desperate for you like I always am while you jerk off thinking about me and listening to me cum and this isn’t a satisfying substitute for you actually coming over and fucking me like we both wanted needed not this time but next time but right now it’s enough it has to be enough it’s not nearly enough but we’re both hard now and if this is it if this is all we get then I’ll get hard for you of course I will and I’ll cum for you because I always do because it’s always for you’. 

He works his clenched fist over his cock, panting, mumbling things meant only for Ilya's ears with his eyes clenched tight, fantasizing about the man and what he would be doing to Shane's body if only he were here in bed with him right now.

Minutes later, with shuddering breaths and choked whispers of, ‘oh fuck, oh fuck,’ Shane comes all over his hand. He lets out a few unselfconscious gasps of relief before ending the recording, and immediately sends it to Ilya before allowing himself any time to chicken out. No, this was not a replacement for Ilya actually being here, but something about it had felt so much more satisfying than the other jerk-off sessions Shane had indulged in earlier in the evening. The ones before he knew Ilya was thinking about him tonight, and hard for him, too.

After quickly cleaning himself up in the bathroom, Shane climbs back under his covers and flicks off his bedside light. He checks his phone; no response yet from Ilya, but Shane isn’t really expecting one tonight. He drops his head heavily onto his pillow, his eyes already struggling to stay open. They'd both had a long day, and if Shane's recording had the same effect on Ilya as it (somewhat surprisingly) had on Shane, he was sure he'd have no energy to text Shane right after. A smile overtakes Shane's lips as he drifts off to a restful sleep, pleasantly shocked at himself for the things he lets Ilya talk him into. Things he would never do—would never want to do—for or with anyone else.

Another dirty little secret for Shane to file away in his memory, for only the two of them to share.

--

Two days later Shane is in the guest locker room getting ready to play against Ottawa. The whole team is in good spirits, still happy about their win against Boston and not at all concerned about their chances of winning against the Centaurs tonight.

"Hey man, can you send me that birthday thing? Before I forget again."

Shane looks up from his phone where he was checking the score of Ilya's game the day before against Florida—the Raiders had won but it was a frenzied game by the sounds of it. Shane was busy with practice and hadn’t caught it live, but looked forward to watching the whole thing later; lately he'd been trying to keep up with all of Ilya's games. More poor substitutes for actually being able to see him in person, but Shane would take what he could get while he counted down the days until the Metros touched down in Boston again. A couple of weeks to go.

"What birthday thing?"

Hayden rolls his eyes but he's smiling, used to Shane needing reminders for anything that wasn't hockey-related. "I texted you after the Raiders game, remember? About that guy in the bar and his buddy? He bought us all a round of drinks and a few of us recorded some messages to tell his friend happy birthday? And you said you'd send one too...? Did you even record it?"

Shane nods at Hayden, zoning out on the rest of his words as he glances back to his phone. Of course he remembers, and he had recorded it, just minutes after he got Hayden's text that night. But then he'd forgotten to send it because jerking off while thinking of Ilya had seemed more important at the time. "Sorry Hayd, yeah, I recorded it, one sec." Shane opens up his text thread with Hayden and scrolls through his photos until he finds the video. He sends it. "There you go."

"Cool thanks, I'll send it to him now." Hayden fiddles with his phone for a few seconds before putting it in his cubby. "So are you gonna come out with us tonight? I think we'll be celebrating another win."

Shane laughs, "Oh, you think so?" Poor Centaurs, they try—well, some of them—but Shane can't imagine how demoralizing it must be to go out on the ice night after night, knowing you're most likely going to lose, again, and the other team knows it too. "You never know, they might surprise us."

"Pfft, let's not hold our breath," Hayden says with a playful grimace. "But really, are you gonna come out?"

Shane was already back to staring at his phone, scanning the stats of Ilya's game. "Mm, I don't know. Maybe." He glances around the locker room, seeing that most of the team is starting to filter out, ready to get on the ice. He puts his phone away and pulls on the last of his gear, thinking maybe he would actually go out for once. He always feels more comfortable in Ottawa, and he's got breakfast plans with his parents tomorrow so has that to look forward to—plus it could be an excuse to leave early, if needed. When they're both ready he follows Hayden out the door and tells him, "You know what, yeah, I think I will join you guys tonight!" 

JJ who was following behind them calls out to the group ahead, "Did you hear that? Hollander is coming out to party ce soir!"

Shane follows his team out to the ice, rolling his eyes as they holler and cheer ahead of him at this rare occurrence.

Chapter End Notes

A probable upcoming win for the Metros, Shane going out with his team afterward, that all sounds so nice! surely nothing bad will possibly happen right? right???

Chapter 2: like a tree atop a hill

Chapter Notes

"Roz, you coming down for breakfast before we leave?"

Ilya peeks one eye open, catching Cliff pulling on a hoodie, then promptly squeezes it shut again when he sweeps the blinds open, harsh sunlight flooding the room.

"No, fuck off, go without me," he says with a groan, pulling the covers over his head.

"Okay, see you in a bit, man. But get packed, we won’t have a lot of time before the flight home."

Ilya grumbles to himself in Russian and waits until he hears the door close behind Cliff. He considers falling back asleep but, as the sun had already burned his retinas, he figures now is as good a time as any to start the day. He pushes the blankets off his body and sits up with a pained wince—he'd gotten slammed into the boards pretty hard yesterday by some Florida player, not unusual, but it hadn't been at the best angle. There’s already a bruise forming on his waist that he’ll have to remember to ice later. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

'Get packed' Cliff had said, as if that would take any time at all; Ilya glances around the room, his eyes falling to his suitcase on the floor next to the TV, already full of all his belongings with the exceptions of his toothbrush, toothpaste, and phone charger.

He reaches over to the nightstand to unplug his phone, then crosses the room to put the charger in a side pocket of his suitcase. There. Ilya was always ready to go at a moment's notice while on the road; he didn't see the point in unpacking everything, in bothering to place folded clothes in the temporary drawers or hang anything in the closets of any of these interchangeable hotel rooms. Some players did, especially the rookies before they learned that doing so was just an easy way to leave things behind.

He wonders if Shane was the type of person that used hotel dresser drawers—something told Ilya he was, that he was someone who liked to "nest" as Connors had once described it to him (while being roasted by Ilya for having forgotten an expensive suit in a hotel closet). "Nesting" - building a cute little home like some cute little bird. Ilya liked the term, and felt that something about it fit Shane perfectly, that it was something he would do. But in their infrequent hotel meet-ups, Ilya had never checked the drawers or closets in Shane’s rooms. Did he have his belongings arranged neatly inside? Clothes folded just so? Nesting is about comfort, and Ilya knows Shane likes to be comfortable. He also knows being comfortable doesn’t come easy for Shane. He wouldn't be the type to forget anything, to absentmindedly leave a suit or his passport behind, so it would be safe for him to make use of such things, to ‘nest’ in these temporary homes away from home.

Ilya smiles as he places his phone on the bathroom counter, closing the door behind him. Shane was always so careful about everything. Well, maybe not everything, Ilya thinks to himself as he opens up the last text Shane had sent him—the video. The preview image is Shane's face, his eyes glassy with an expression Ilya had come to know very well over these past few years, an expression he’s grown to crave. One he dreams about. It’s an expression Ilya never has to work very hard to elicit from Shane, but it’s the one Ilya covets the most.

The expression is lust.

Perfect golden boy Shane Hollander with his alternating polite smiles and stoic impassiveness during press interviews, his look of steely determination and intense focus on the ice, all these different sides of Shane so well-known to the outside world. But this, this look of raw lust and sheer wanting, so unrestrained, so uncontrolled, so not Shane Hollander™️… The fact that Ilya has sole access to this secret side of Shane—and that Shane chose him for it and for whatever reason keeps choosing him for it—doesn’t even feel real some days.

Some nights when he has Shane underneath him, the two of them sweating and moaning as they move together, Ilya almost feels like he’s floating outside of his body. He has to grip Shane tighter and fuck him harder just to try to hold on, try to remain tethered to this earthly plane, to stay inside of his body so he can stay inside of Shane’s body because, if he’s being honest with himself, that’s the only place he ever wants to fucking be. Ilya is careful to avoid being too honest with himself most days—just more things to keep packed away somewhere slightly (safely) out of reach.

(is Ilya the only one who sees this side of Shane? the only one Shane sighs and moans and whimpers for? Ilya’s not actually sure though he certainly wonders… but he doesn’t want to ask, would never ask, because he doesn’t want to know the answer. every time the thought—the gnawing question—crosses his mind, he pushes it away. he prefers to live in the fantasy that this side of Shane is only for Ilya, however unlikely that may be)

Shane, always so careful, always so adamant about his little no pictures and no videos rule, and yet even when Ilya had suggested audio-only (expecting a voice note), Shane still recorded it as a video—a video that opened with his very recognizable, and very horny, face. Shane. Always full of surprises.

Ilya presses play and rewinds the video from the start a few times, enjoying the first few seconds the most. The seconds where Shane starts recording, his wet lips slightly parted, his breathing heavy, and then the glint of realization on his face that the camera is recording him, followed by a soft whoosh as the screen goes black, the sound of Shane dropping the phone on the bed to record only darkness. After another quick rewind, Ilya lets the entire video play, quickly finding himself jerking off right along with Shane, watching himself in the mirror.

Minutes go by as Ilya strokes himself, enjoying the sounds of Shane's breathing, panting, the filthy words that fight their way out of his mouth—all for Ilya, just because he asked and because Shane is so fucking polite, so good, so fucking amenable to Ilya’s demands… Ilya clenches his jaw, closing his eyes, his breathing tight, his hand picking up the pace, matching his rhythm to the absolutely salacious sounds of Shane's hand working himself in his warm bed until they’re both coming at the same time with matching desperate gasps.

— —

Much later that day, Ilya is back in Boston sitting on his couch, shirtless and holding an ice pack againt the darkening bruise on his waist. He’s watching the Metros destroy the Centaurs and getting unspeakably turned on by the effortless skill Shane is displaying on the ice—his team is winning 5-0 with thirteen minutes to go in the third period.

The Centaurs truthfully never stood a chance against the Metros, but the Metros still aren’t taking it easy on them, and the Centaurs are giving it back in kind. Just as it looks like Shane is about to shoot the puck to another sure goal, a player comes up and checks him hard from behind. Shane goes sliding into the boards, not even looking too bothered about it, but Pike has already thrown his gloves off and is wrestling with the player who checked Shane. The two of them glide in circles as they try unsuccessfully to pull the other down while a ref watches them with an expression of pure disinterest in the flaccid proceedings before him. The ‘fight’ peters out quickly with no clear winner as Shane pulls Pike away by his arm, the two of them skating away toward the Metros bench, smiling and laughing.

Ilya scowls at the TV. Hayden Pike wasn’t very impressive on the ice—Ilya was doubtful he was very impressive anywhere but admittedly he knew very little about him personally—and therefore his close friendship with Shane had always been a bit puzzling to him. Surely the great Shane Hollander would only surround himself with the best of the best, with people who could challenge him to be better. But Pike? Ilya shakes his head; it must be some boring Canadian thing he would never understand. Or Shane was simply too nice to cut Pike loose like he clearly deserved.

By the end of the game, the Centaurs did manage to score one goal (frankly it looked like an accident based on the shock worn on the player’s face at the sound of the goal horn), but the Metros easily maintained their lead for a final score of 5-1.

Ilya turns off the TV and pulls his phone out, itching to watch that video one last time (okay maybe a few more times than that) just so he can file away every single one of Shane’s noises to remember later—to keep him going until they can finally hook up in person again. He had promised Shane he would delete the video immediately after listening, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

‘Do you want to ruin both of our careers?’ Shane had asked him once after receiving an unsolicited dick pic from Ilya. ’Delete it.’

The Shane that had said that would have never been so rash as to not only record the video Ilya is currently watching and rewatching, but to ever agree to send it to him in the first place. No, Ilya doesn’t want to ruin either of their careers, but that concern is not at the forefront of his mind as he reaches the end of the video for the last time. 

The very existence of this video, that Ilya even has it, is evidence of the trust Shane has built up toward Ilya, and it’s the thought of losing that trust—of losing Shane, in whatever way he has him, altogether—that makes Ilya, extremely begrudgingly, delete the video (and only two days later than he’d promised Shane he would, but Shane doesn’t need to know that).

Ilya adjusts the ice pack against his skin and sighs to himself in the silence of his empty living room. Only a couple more weeks until Shane is back in Boston, back here with Ilya. Only a couple more weeks until they can enjoy the real thing again.

Chapter End Notes

“The fact that Ilya has sole access to this secret side of Shane” - I just need to share that I really struggled not to add —not to mention hole access— after that sentence but decided against it bc I’m trying to keep it somewhat classy in this fic about Shane whoopsily leaking a video of himself jorking it.

Chapter 3: that’s crooked

“Would you please take this fucking beer, Hollander?” JJ asks, sliding a full glass over the table to Shane, not waiting for an answer. He drops himself next to him in the booth, sipping a drink of his own. “We beat them 5-1, let loose for once in your life!”

Shane sighs and downs the last of his ginger ale, his second of the night, before placing his hands around the cold glass JJ had given him. “JJ, it’s the Centaurs. I don’t think beating them is worth getting too excited over.”

With a roll of his eyes, JJ mutters, “D’accord. Then think of it as a pre-celebration for the harder wins we’ll be getting later in the season. I know we won’t be getting you out again like this anytime soon, so enjoy it!” He glances around the bar and his eyes land on a redheaded woman Shane had been speaking to earlier when he grabbed his ginger ale. “Did you get her number?” JJ asks with a nudge against Shane’s ribs. Shane winces a little, still feeling the impact from the backcheck he had taken from a Centaurs player a few hours earlier. “Oh, sorry, man, you good?”

“Yeah, all good,” Shane says with a nod. JJ is still eyeing up the redhead, so Shane adds, “Feel free to go talk to her; I didn’t get her number. But she seemed really nice. Big Metros fan apparently.”

“You sure? She looked like she was into you.”

Shane rubs his hands over the cool condensation on the glass of his beer, enjoying the feel of it on his fingers, before raising the glass for a tiny sip. “Yeah, go ahead.”

JJ slides out of the booth, making a beeline for the woman, and calls back at Shane over his shoulder, “We’re gonna get you laid one of these days, Capitaine, mark my words!”

“Can’t wait,” Shane mutters with a roll of his eyes.

Across the table, Hayden looks up from his phone and laughs, catching Shane’s comment even over the din of the noisy bar. He watches JJ approach the redhead and raises his eyebrows at Shane. “She’s really pretty, man, you didn’t wanna try your luck?”

Shane focuses on the bubbles inside his drink, continuing to rub his fingers over the cool glass. “She didn’t really seem into me that much, she was just really excited I was on the team. It kinda seemed like any player would do, you know?”

Hayden smiles, holding back another laugh, “Oh no, a hot chick with no standards willing to sleep with you—the horror!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane says with a grin. He’d been wondering for the past hour when it would be safe to leave, what exact time wouldn’t make him look rude. Hanging with the guys had been fun for a bit, but then the bar had started getting louder, and more crowded, and more… not fun. “You’re one to talk anyway, you’ve just been sitting there texting Jackie all night—but apparently I’m the unsociable one?”

Hayden glances up, a crease in his brows. “You’re right, sorry. It’s just the twins have been sick, and Jackie’s kind of stressed, so I’m checking in more. Trying to keep her distracted, you know, cheer her up. She gets a little stir-crazy when I’m on the road.”

Shane shakes his head, “I was just joking, don’t worry. Text away.” He gives Hayden what he hopes is a reassuring smile. Now was his chance. “I was thinking of heading out anyway—I think I’m gonna go stay at my parents’ place tonight.”

Hayden’s attention is back to his phone, tapping away at the screen to his wife. “Isn’t all your stuff at the hotel?” He asks, distracted.

“Yeah, I’ll be back in time for check-out and the bus back to Montreal, it’s fine. They’re taking me for breakfast tomorrow, so it’ll be easier to just stay over there tonight.”

“Two sips of beer and an early night in at your parent’s place. You’re a fucking party animal, Shane,” Hayden says with a shake of his head, laughing.

“Fuckin’ right,” Shane says. He slides out of the booth and slaps Hayden on the shoulder as he passes. “Tell Jackie I said hi and hope the twins feel better soon.”

“Will do, man.”

---

Shane had been dreaming of Ilya, he must have been, because someone is grabbing his shoulder, whispering his name in the dark, and when he opens his eyes, it’s Ilya’s face he’s expecting to find staring back at him. Hoping it’s him. “Ily-what?” He mumbles to the blurry shape in front of him. But his eyes focus in the dark, seeing that it’s not Ilya’s face staring back at him, nor is it his hand grabbing his shoulder, fingers digging urgently into his flesh to rouse him. It’s his mother’s face, and her hands, and it’s her expression, so clear even in the dark of his childhood bedroom, that makes Shane’s blood run cold.

“Is dad okay?” He asks immediately, sitting up in bed so forcefully that Yuna jerks her hand back with a gasp of surprise.

“Yes, honey, he’s fine.” She’s wearing pyjamas, her hair a mess like she’d just bolted up from a sound sleep in her bed and came straight to Shane’s room. “We’re both okay.”

“What’s wrong?” His parents may be okay, but clearly something is wrong. Yuna’s face is pale, her mouth set in an unmoving line, her demeanor so outwardly still but with something frenetic clear in her eyes, nervous energy bubbling up under the surface. Something is horribly wrong.

“Shane, let’s go to the kitchen, okay? Your dad’s making coffee.”

Shane feels like he’s stuck to his bed, like a weighted blanket has suddenly appeared on top of him, too heavy to pull himself out from under. He glances around the room, looking for the alarm clock that should be on the nightstand—but no, that alarm clock with the bright neon green numbers is in his own bedroom in Montreal. This bedroom, his childhood bedroom, has an old ticking clock hanging over his dresser that he can’t see in the dark. “What time is it?” He asks, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. Something is horribly wrong.

“It’s almost four-thirty,” his mother says, her voice tense. “Come to the kitchen.” She pulls the sheets down, her hand back on his shoulder grabbing him more gently than earlier, guiding him up.

“Mom—”

“Come on, honey.”

Shane grabs a hoodie on his way out of the room, pulling it over his shirtless form as he follows behind his mother, feeling like he’s being walked toward a firing squad. At four-thirty in the morning? What the fuck is happening, what the fuck is happening—the words repeat over and over in Shane’s head as he takes a seat at the kitchen table, his father placing a cup of coffee in front of him with a terse nod, and something vaguely like a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes that seem to be looking everywhere but at Shane’s own. Something is horribly wrong.

“What’s happening?” Shane asks a little too loudly.

His parents take their seats on the other side of the table, their hands gripping their own mugs of coffee tightly. “Shane, um—” Yuna starts and stops. She clears her throat, looking down at the table.

Shane hears a faint ticking sound from somewhere in the house (the clock in his room?) and zeroes in on the noise, feeling like he’s listening to a countdown for a bomb dropping. Three. Two. One.

“Mom, just tell me.”

Yuna looks up and holds Shane’s gaze, something apologetic creeping into her expression, her mouth still a tight line, the only barrier standing between Shane and some terrible information that has them all up at the crack of dawn. She clearly doesn’t want to be the one to tell him whatever it is, but Shane meets her gaze, unflinching, and waits.

“A video has leaked.”

Shane’s stomach drops. A video?

“Of… what?” he asks, his body buzzing with a horrible feeling, like quicksand crawling up his limbs, trying to pull him under where there’s no air. Dread? Shame? Whatever it is, his body is heavy with it.

He can’t think of what some video leaking could possibly have to do with him, but based on his parents’ expressions, it wasn’t good. For whatever reason, his mind shoots back to the bar outing just hours before. Had he done something embarrassing? Rude? Did that redhead—Bailey? Brenda? he couldn’t remember her name—film their awkward encounter or something? Shane had gently—and quite politely in his opinion, especially after she had lasciviously rubbed her hand up his chest without asking—turned her down after she’d invited him back to her place. But that didn’t seem to Shane like it would be nearly a big enough deal to be dramatically dragged out of bed over as though someone had died.

“To be more accurate, a video was sold to a tabloid.”

“Okay…” Shane looks between his mom and dad, his mother still the only one meeting his eyes.

“Shane, you know we love you. And that you can tell us anything; you know that, right?”

He nods at his mother. “Yes, I know that.”

David finally joins the conversation, looking at his wife, with, “Son, we know you value your privacy, and we’ve always tried to respect that.”

“Yes,” Yuna nods in agreement.

Shane’s stomach is sinking deeper and deeper into that quicksand, followed by the rest of his body. My privacy? Now he’s thinking of Ilya. Ilya. Were they somehow filmed kissing in public somewhere? Shane almost bursts out laughing at the thought; they’ve basically never been in public together. What could have possibly leaked that would—oh, fuck.

“Of what? What’s the video of?” Shane repeats, monotone, his mouth going dry.

Yuna taps her nails against the mug in her hands. “It’s a… private video. Of you. Alone.”

Oh fuck.

Ilya sold that video to a tabloid? – is the first unhinged thought that crosses his mind. But Shane immediately dismisses it, because Ilya would never fucking do that. Shane knows Ilya would never fucking do that. So who the fuck—

Shane’s hands scramble over his hoodie pocket, then over his pj pants, looking for his phone. He stands up so suddenly, he bangs his legs against the table, spilling coffee out of all three of the undrunk coffee mugs sitting on top of it. Where’s my phone, I need my phone, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He runs back to his room, throws the pillows off his bed, pulls the sheets down, searching frantically. He spins around and grabs his jacket from the chair by the bedroom door. He fishes his phone out of a pocket—okay, so at least it wasn't stolen, Shane thinks—his hands shaking so much it takes several tries to unlock it. Opening his text thread with Ilya (“Lily”) he sees the video still there, their last text exchanged. Shane never deleted the fucking video. Shane squeezes his eyes shut, his heart pounding in his chest. Had he been hacked? How would he even know? He frantically deletes the text now, as if that will fix anything, as if it's not too fucking late.

“Shane, honey,” comes Yuna’s soothing voice from the doorway. “Please come back out here.”

Shane allows her to lead him over to the living room couch; he falls into it with a soft thud, clutching his phone in a death grip against his chest.

“How did I get hacked? What—” His thoughts are spiralling—what did he say in the video? He can’t remember. Oh fuck, he deleted it, and he can’t remember what he said.

His breaths are coming out in pants, and his parents sit on either side of him, gently rubbing his back, his knees, trying to calm him down.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Yuna murmurs. “You weren’t hacked, Shane. At least I don’t think so. The video didn’t come from you.”

In between deep breaths in and out, Shane asks, “Who did it come from?”

He sees his parents exchange looks. “Well,” Yuna says, “It seems that it was a fan who sold it to the tabloid...”

A fan? How would a fan have it?

David squeezes Shane’s leg, followed by some quick pats. He finally looks his son in the eye as Shane’s breathing slowly becomes more regular, more calm. “You know we support you no matter what, Shane. But... we wish you would have told us.”

Yuna, still rubbing Shane’s back, nods. “We’re going to get through this. I’ve already sent out some emails to some PR people, just some feelers to see how we might be able to spin this; it might be too big to handle on our own.”

“Spin it?” Shane asks, feeling dazed. We wish you would have told us? Told them what, that he’s been fucking Ilya Rozanov for a few years now? Shane barely knows how to explain that to himself, let alone how he would frame it—label it—to anyone else. Labels. Shane shakes his head, shakes away the thoughts he’s been shaking away for years. He doesn't want to think about labels, or PR statements. Quite honestly all he wants to do is climb back into bed and just let the quicksand take him. He needs to talk to Ilya, to warn him. Oh fuck, what did Shane say in that video?

“Having an affair isn’t going to be a good look to your sponsors, to the league—”

A buzzing in Shane’s ears drowns out the rest of his mother’s sentence as he stares at her.

“An affair?”

David’s voice cuts through the buzzing. “We always knew you and Hayden were close, but we never expected the two of you were…”

“An… item,” Yuna finishes. “Shane, he’s married.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say. He knows Hayden is married. “Yeah?” His brain starts catching up to the words coming out of his parents’ mouths. “Wait—an affair with Hayden?”

Yuna gently places a hand on Shane’s face, turning him to face her. “Hayden sent that… video… of you to a fan. DM’d it to them on Instagram. It definitely came from Hayden’s Instagram account; the tabloid verified that.”

Shane’s mind, slowed almost to a halt as he tries to process what the fuck is happening, is still stuck on, “So… you think I’m having an affair… with Hayden.”

What the fuck had Shane said in that video?

A sudden buzz against Shane’s chest makes him jolt up, his parents dropping their hands from him. He stares down at his phone, still clutched in his shaky grip.

It’s 4:45 in the morning.

Hayden is calling him.

Chapter 4: from the wind that bites

Shane declines Hayden’s call and stands up, putting some distance between himself and his parents, suddenly feeling boxed in. It occurs to him that if this video leaked, if it’s really out there right now, shouldn’t his phone be blowing up? Hayden can’t be the only one awake at this hour.

“How did you find out about this?” Shane asks.

“They sent us the article with a request for comment,” Yuna says. She glances at her watch. “They said it’ll be going live in… just over two hours from now.”

Shane’s phone is buzzing in his hand again. Noticing his mother’s curious glance, he tells her, “It’s Hayden.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “Well, he’s got a lot of nerve.”

Shane’s fighting the urge to start hyperventilating again. Does his mother no longer like Hayden because he’s a married man she thinks is having an affair, or is it because he’s a man she thinks is sleeping with her son? Shane doesn’t want to think that of her, but then again, what’s been holding him back all these years from telling his parents that he—Shane shakes his head, pushing the thought away. What’s there to tell? What does sleeping with Ilya say about him? What does that make Shane? These are all questions he has no answers to.

Shane grits his teeth and turns around to face his parents. “I’m not having an affair with Hayden. We’re friends, and teammates, that’s all.” It felt good to say out loud, to say something true; some truths are that simple. Some other truths are… less so.

“Honey,” Yuna says, concern clear on her face, “you don’t have to lie to us.”

With a sigh, Shane asks, “Can I read the article?”

His mother only hesitates for a second before leaving the room, leaving Shane and his dad alone to sit in the awkward silence Shane fears will become common from this point on. From now on, Shane knows there will be a before and an after with this horrible point of time, this very morning, being the dividing line. Before his life was ruined, and after.

Yuna comes back holding her laptop out to Shane, the screen open on her email. Shane feels sick just seeing the headline waiting for him:

Montreal Metros MESS:

Shane Hollander Revenge Porn Leaked by Secret Gay Lover Hayden Pike

Shane gently places her laptop on the coffee table to stop himself from throwing it across the room. He can only skim over the body of the article, feeling himself getting angrier and more humiliated with every word, every lie.

“Mom, none of this is true,” Shane says quietly, too overwhelmed by the absolute wrongness in front of his eyes to even try to get his voice to match how he feels.

Yuna eyes him carefully. “Is the video fake?”

He drops his head, his face hot. “No.” He forces himself to look back up into his mother’s eyes, and continues, “But it wasn’t for Hayden, it was—uh—” Shane is thankful that his mother interrupts him.

“Why did Hayden send it to someone from his Instagram then?”

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “Maybe he was hacked, or… I don’t know.” Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows that doesn’t make sense either, why would Hayden have the video in the first place, hacked or not. With a few deep breaths to ground himself, he reaches for his phone next to the laptop. Hayden is still calling. Shane answers.

“Shane, what the fuck.”

“Hayden, can you pack up your stuff, and mine—I’m going to come pick you up from the hotel.” Shane didn’t want to deal with this over the phone. “Twenty minutes?”

Without arguing, Hayden says, “Fine,” and hangs up.

Shane leans back in the chair he’s sitting in and closes his eyes, thinking over the article, and tries not to think about how he’s never heard that particular tone of voice from Hayden before. He needs to focus on the priority right now; the article didn’t mention Ilya. It did mention a transcript. Shane’s eyes fly open. He notices his parents watching him, patiently waiting for some explanation, but he averts his gaze and drags the laptop onto his knees. Whatever explanation he comes up with will depend entirely on what he said in that fucking video.

A transcript of it was sent as an attachment with the article. He opens it and immediately hits CTRL-F and searches “Rozanov” – no results. “Ilya” – no results. Shane would rather walk into traffic than read the full transcript or watch the video (the video the entire world will be able to watch in just two hours, but Shane can’t focus on that right now, can’t do anything about it), but he needs to know just how bad this is going to be.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to skim over the transcript in the same way he did the article. But reading back over his own words—words he uttered while mindlessly horny and stroking himself for Ilya Rozanov—is a special kind of hell. Maybe he deserves it. Did his mother read this? Maybe walking into traffic is the right move after all. No, this will be bad for Shane, but if it leads back to Ilya at all, it will be way worse—Shane knows Russia could be dangerous for Ilya if something like this were to come out. Fuck, how could he have been so stupid—all the time he’d spent nagging Ilya about things like this, focusing on how it might affect their careers, and it’s only now occurring to him it could literally get Ilya hurt—or worse. So, Shane walks right into hell for Ilya, and skims the transcript:

I wish you were here / wish it was your warm mouth sucking my dick right now / fuck, I need you in my bed again / nobody else makes me feel like this / can’t stop thinking about you / can’t believe I’m doing this for you / would only do this for you

And more of the same until it all devolves into moaning and ‘oh fucks’. Shane lets out a shaky breath. Okay, yes, it’s fucking embarrassing, humiliating even. But it’s not incriminating for Ilya. Maybe not even…

Shane CTRL-F’s for “ass” – no results. “fuck me” – no results. “suck your cock/dick” - no results.

For the first time since getting dragged out of bed, some of Shane’s panic subsides—just a little bit. And as soon as he’s able to take a breath, thinking that maybe plausible deniability will save him, he realizes exactly where he fucked up.

His hand moves in slow motion to pick his phone up again. He opens his photos and scrolls back—there’s the video he sent Hayden in the locker room. He scrolls back just a bit further, past a few screenshots of macrobiotic recipes he wanted to try, and there it is. The video he should have sent Hayden, the one he recorded just a couple of hours before he recorded himself jerking off. Both video previews show an almost identical image of Shane wearing a black T-shirt, but only one of them has the ability to completely ruin his life—or his career at least, and to Shane it’s all the same. Shane deletes it now, thinking bitterly that if he ever needs it, he’ll have easy access to it all over the internet in just a couple of short hours.

Turning up the volume on his phone, he turns his screen toward his parents and presses play on the happy birthday video he’d filmed. “I was supposed to send this to Hayden for that fan, or for his buddy, whatever. I sent him the wrong video, and he sent it right after getting it. Neither of us double-checked.” Like a couple of fucking idiots.

Yuna takes the phone from Shane’s hand and replays the video. “Okay. So, it’s all just a misunderstanding?”

Shane nods.

“Okay.” Yuna hands his phone back, takes a deep breath, then grabs her laptop and stands up, momager-mode activated. “Get dressed. We’ll get Hayden and I’ll drive you two back to Montreal. You’ve been called for a meeting with management this afternoon, and I don’t think you two want to be on the team bus after the news drops.”

Shane hesitates. “That won’t make us look, I don’t know, guilty? Travelling separately from the team?”

“Honey, I think travel arrangements are the least of our worries right now. You can go back to the hotel and sit around for a few hours waiting for the bus while the article drops, or you can already be back in Montreal by the time it does.”

Being able to avoid some awkward conversations for even just a few extra hours sounds good to Shane, so even though he’s not entirely convinced it’s the best option, it’s the one he decides to go with. He throws on his clothes from the night before, rinses his mouth with mouthwash, and meets his mother, now dressed and looking as put together as she ever does, minutes later at the front door.

David has work and won’t be joining them for the drive, so after Yuna kisses her husband goodbye and goes to start the car, Shane hangs behind for a moment.

“Are we okay?” Shane asks.

His dad looks surprised, but it’s only the second time all morning he’s been able to make eye contact with his son. “Of course, why wouldn’t we be?”

Shane gestures vaguely, not sure how to put his worries into words. “All this…”

David reaches out, grabbing Shane’s shoulders, and gives him a squeeze. “We’re okay. Are you okay?”

Shane looks at the ground, at his shoes, and his dad pulls him into a hug. “You’re gonna be okay, Shane. This isn’t your mother’s first rodeo; she’ll get you through this. We both will.”

Yuna honks the car horn outside. Shane pulls back and nods at his dad. “Thanks.” Just as he’s about to walk out the door, David places a hand on his arm, and Shane glances back.

“Your mom meant what she said before, that you can tell us anything. Anything. Okay? We’re both here for you, and we love you.”

The lack of eye contact from his father had been unnerving to Shane all morning, but now the serious gaze being directed at him is unsettling him in a different way. Like there’s something knowing in it—but Shane doesn’t even know, not for sure, so how could his dad?

“It wasn’t for Hayden,” Shane feels the need to repeat.

David nods. “I believe you.”

An unasked question hangs in the air, but Yuna honks the horn again, and after another quick hug, Shane rushes out the door without another word.

--

“Shane, what the fuck,” Hayden says as throws his and Shane’s bags into the backseat before climbing in next to them. “Jackie called me, crying, at four in the morning because some tabloid called her asking her to comment on my gay affair. With you! What the fuck! Good morning, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Morning, Hayden.”

Shane turns in his seat to look back at Hayden. “Did you read the article?”

“Yes, apparently I’m some evil gay revenge-porn sharing affair-haver. That’s fucking great, thank you. My hormonal pregnant wife really loved hearing that from a stranger, so she’s having a really great morning. Thanks to you.”

“She’s pregnant again? Fuck, I’m sorry—about all this, not the pregnancy! Congrats.” Shane bites his lip, trying to somehow will himself to stop fucking everything up.

Hayden turns his attention to Yuna. “My agent said I probably can’t even sue the guy for leaking it. Is that true?”

Yuna glances at him in the rearview mirror. “You’d have to consult a lawyer, but the fact is, you DM’d it to him calling it ‘the best birthday present ever’; after that point it’s pretty much his video to do with as he likes.”

Hayden buries his face in his hands. “I thought it was a normal video; it should have been a normal video.”

Shane turns back to face the road, sinking down into his seat, feeling like absolute shit.

“Why the fuck did you send me that?” Hayden asks, his voice full of anger and… disgust? Fair enough, Shane thinks, after all how would he react to getting that kind of video out of nowhere from a friend?

“It was an accident, I fucked up,” Shane mumbles.

“You just accidentally filmed that instead of a simple ‘happy birthday’? Yeah, pretty big fuck up I’d say.”

Shane wishes his mother was not in the car for this conversation, something he hadn’t thought of until just now. He texts the correct video to Hayden—too little, too late.

“See? I did film the birthday one, I just sent the wrong video when you asked about it.”

Shane hears his birthday greeting play behind him on Hayden’s phone. “Well, great, I wish you would’ve sent me this one, Shane.”

“Me too.”

An awkward silence takes over the car for a few minutes, until Hayden says, “Where are we going?”

“Montreal.”

“Oh. I thought we were going to your parents’ house or something. I didn’t tell coach or anyone I was leaving.”

Yuna tells him, “Don’t worry, I emailed him. And I told him I’d get you two to your meeting later this afternoon. He knows about the article.”

“Great,” Hayden says, sounding the opposite. After a few more excruciatingly awkward seconds, he says, “You filmed those videos the same night.” It isn’t a question.

“What?” Shane asks, buying time. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, not right now, probably not ever.

“You’re wearing the same thing; the videos look exactly the same.”

Shane turns in his seat again. “You watched it?”

“No! Fuck. There was a screenshot in the article, before the actual video. It looks exactly the same as this birthday one. So, what, you didn’t come out with us that night because you wanted to go home and do… that?”

Shane can feel his face burning again, so he turns back around and looks out the side window, facing away from Hayden and his mother. He really wishes she wasn’t here right now.

When Shane offers no reply, Hayden prods, “Was it for Lily?”

Hayden knows about 'Lily'? Shane digs his fingers into his legs, the worry bubbling up again that this could somehow lead back to Ilya and fuck up his life even more than Shane can possibly imagine.

“Who’s Lily?” Yuna asks.

“Shane’s girlfriend.”

Shane glances sidelong at his mother only to find her staring at him, a look of surprise on her face. He shakes his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Hayden snorts. “Whatever man, was that video for her?”

“It doesn’t matter who it was for,” Shane says, focusing on the dull pain in his thigh as he digs his fingers in harder. “It only matters it was not for you, and this was all just an embarrassing mistake.”

“Who’s going to believe that?” Hayden asks, sounding angry again. “We can deny everything, say ‘no comment’ all day long, what the fuck ever, but you know the internet is going to fucking run with this because it sounds so fucked up. Did you read the article? They insulted Jackie! They all but said I got with you because she’s ‘no good’ anymore after having twins.”

Yuna shakes her head with disgust at this.

“Yes, I saw it,” Shane says quietly. “They’re a trashy tabloid, they said a lot of fucked up shit.” He turns to his mother. “We could sue for that, right? Isn’t that slander, or libel, or whatever?”

Yuna sighs. “Maybe. But that doesn’t stop the article from coming out today, and doing the damage it’s going to do. Lawsuits are a discussion for later; we need to deal with the now first.”

Hayden taps the back of Shane’s seat. “Yeah, and now I’m saying you need to get Lily, or whoever the video was for but we both fucking know it was for Lily, to make a statement saying as much.”

Shane crosses his arms, trying to hide the fact his hands are shaking. “I’m not bringing Lily into this. She didn’t ask for this.” Technically Ilya did ask for the video, but that doesn't make all of this any less Shane's fault. He could've said no—should've said no, but when has he ever said no to Ilya? when has he ever wanted to?—could've deleted it immediately. Could have not texted it to Hayden. Just a long line of absolute fuck-ups that Shane will have to live with. None of which Ilya asked for.

“But I fucking did?” Hayden bites out.

“Honey, maybe you could just ask her if—” Yuna starts.

“No!”

The long drive continues in silence.

Shane can fuck up his own life, maybe Hayden’s life too unfortunately, but he’s not going to drag Ilya into this. Fuck. Why did he ever make that fucking video? Was one orgasm really worth being responsible for Ilya Rozanov potentially ending up in some Russian gulag (Shane barely even knows what a gulag is, but he knows it doesn't sound good)? All those times over the years he told himself he needed to end things with Rozanov… he should’ve fucking done it. He needs to do it now. Before he fucks anything else up.

Before he drags Ilya down with him.

Chapter 5: you say you’re lost at sea

Chapter Notes

Ilya studies the schedule in the locker room after the Raiders’ morning practice, double-checking that the upcoming MTL game is still where it should be. Less than two weeks away now, and time is moving slow as ever, the days seeming to drag between ‘the last time I was in Shane’s bed’ and ‘the next time Shane will be in my bed’—the only way Ilya has been measuring time lately.

“Roz, you coming out tonight?”

Ilya reluctantly tears his eyes from the schedule and heads to his stall, adjusting the towel around his waist. “Maybe,” he says noncommittally.

“What, only if we win?” asks Marleau. “Bro, Buffalo’s on a losing streak, I think we’ve got this in the bag tonight.”

Connors scoffs from a few stalls over. “They’ve kicked our ass in like 90% of the games we’ve played against them, don’t be so sure.”

“Well whatever, we’re going out tonight either to celebrate or to cope, so who’s in?”

A round of cheers erupts from teammates scattered around the locker room in various states of undress. Ilya slides into his jeans and sits on the bench to pull on his socks. Marleau’s staring down at him expectantly, his eyebrows raised. “I already said maybe,” Ilya tells him.

Marleau rolls his eyes, but glances back at Ilya, holding his gaze for a second too long. “Everything good, Rozanov?”

With a shrug, Ilya says, “Yes, great.”

“Feels like you’ve been bailing on us a lot lately.”

“Bailing?” Marleau looks like he’s about to explain the word to him, but Ilya knows what it means. With an impatient wave of his hand, Ilya interrupts him. “We all went out, what, less than a week ago? In what way is that bailing? And look—” Ilya stands up, pointing out the dark bruise on his waist. “Will not help with dancing.”

“Oh no, not a bruise! Who cares? Chicks love that shit. Come out with us; you can find one to kiss it and make it better,” he says with a wink.

Ilya pulls a T-shirt over his head. “Unless their lips are made of ice, I do not think kissing it will help.”

Just then he overhears someone say the name ‘Hollander’, and he glances in their direction. A small group of guys are standing by the door, gathered around a phone, talking in low voices and laughing.

“What is this?” Ilya asks as he approaches the group with a grin. He’s happy to have a reason to end the conversation with Marleau. The truth is that he has been going out slightly less often with the team after games lately, but he hadn’t thought it was a noticeable change. The bars and clubs had just started to feel a little stale, and the hookups a little—a lot—less satisfying; none of it was scratching a particular itch anymore for Ilya, not the way it used to. If anything, going out just makes the itch worse; more often than not he’s been finding himself in those clubs, in stranger’s beds, and only thinking about where he’d much rather be…

Hammersmith glances up and gestures to the phone the rookie is holding up for everyone to look at. “You’re never gonna believe this.”

“No?” Ilya asks.

“Hollander and Pike are fucking each other,” the rookie tells him with unrestrained glee on his face and in his voice. That statement gets the attention of more guys in the room, until it seems like the whole team is crowded in front of the door.

Ilya feels like a bucket of ice water has been poured over his entire body. “What?” is all he can say. The phone screen is finally turned in his direction, and he sees the title: Hayden Pike Exposes Gay Affair with Shane Hollander but someone else grabs the phone to read it before Ilya can scroll for any more information.

Hayden Pike? Ilya wants to throw up. He needs to sit down. He pushes his way around his teammates until he can drop onto the bench in front of his stall. For just a second, he’s shocked at himself for having such a strong physical reaction to hearing about Shane and Pike, but he realizes immediately that’s not the problem—though it’s certainly a problem and is very much still a contributing factor to Ilya’s desire to hurl right now—no, the problem is Shane has been outed. The problem is Shane is living his own personal nightmare right now and there’s nothing Ilya can do to help. He stands to get his phone from his stall, intending to text Shane—text him what? ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you? I’m sorry Hayden Pike could not be trusted to keep your secrets like I have?’ Ilya lets out a breath. No, none of these texts will be helpful to Shane.

“I always kind of thought he was like a Ken doll down there, you know? It’s weird to think about Hollander actually having a sex life.”

“I mean, it makes sense. That guy is all about hockey, right? So what better way to motivate his team to play better—free blowjob for every goal!”

The swirl of excited voices in the locker room is getting louder and louder, and more disrespectful, by the second.

“Maybe when they win, Hollander lets the whole team—"

“That’s enough!” Ilya bellows in his best captain voice. The room quiets down as attention turns to him. “Are we gossiping teenagers, or are we hockey players? We have a game tonight, focus on that. Less focus on tabloid filth. You have seen the shit they have written about me, ah?”

“Yeah, Roz, and most of it was true,” St Simon says, followed by a burst of laughter from the guys.

“Whatever, just be ready for the game tonight,” Ilya says in a clipped tone. He zips up his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder before pushing his way through his team to get to the door. “And don’t believe everything you read.”

---

Hayden fucking Pike, Ilya thinks, maybe not so boring after all. He drops his bag on the floor, then drops himself onto the couch, his pulse still racing even after the drive home from the rink. He still wants to text Shane but can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound completely stupid, or completely bitter. Ilya shakes his head, trying to stave off the unwelcome images of Shane and Pike together that keep trying to force their way into his mind.

Well, Ilya wanted an explanation for why Shane is such good friends with someone as unremarkable as Pike, and here it is. Maybe he’s better at sex than he is at hockey. Or maybe Shane just puts up with boring sex because it’s safer than risking it with a stranger (not that it turned out to be any safer considering it’s currently splashed all over the tabloids). Ilya’s stomach flips thinking of his poor horny Shane, having to make do with the likes of Pike in between hookups with Ilya. Although if he’s seeing Pike, which is something Ilya never would have expected, then maybe there are others; maybe Hollander has a better poker face than Ilya thought. The poker face that allowed Ilya to get too comfortable with the fantasy of being the only one Shane allowed access to his bed and body. To get too comfortable thinking he was special.

Ilya gently presses his fingers against his bruise as more unwelcome thoughts start nesting in his mind, as if the pain will chase them away. He’s upset about the outing, about what Shane must be going through right now, that’s all. It would be stupid to be upset about Shane being with other people. No, not just stupid—hypocritical. Ilya knows this. And still his entire body pulses with a creeping discomfort, something antsy and itching, crawling underneath his skin.

He fidgets with his phone, alternating it from hand to hand, fighting the urge to google ‘shane hollander hayden pike’. Shane’s privacy has been violated enough already; the entire internet is probably having a field day with this information, and if Ilya thought the Raiders reaction in the locker room was already pushing it… No. Ilya will not be part of it. He’s better than that.

Ilya may be better than that, but his teammates aren’t. Hours later while getting ready for the game against Buffalo, he finds himself yelling at them again to shut the fuck up with the gossip. Apparently an MLH statement had been released earlier in the day requesting that the public respect their players’ privacy and that no comment will be made on players’ personal matters. It didn’t sound like much but is still somehow better than what Ilya expected. Had this mess not involved Hollander, arguably the best (well, at least top two) player in the league, Ilya suspects the players involved would have been immediately benched indefinitely, or worse. But it sounds like the league wants to ignore it and move on as quickly as possible. While it’s a nice thought in theory, Ilya knows that the fans, the internet, and especially other players in the league, will not be letting this go so easily.

“Now let’s get out there and fuck Buffalo up!” Ilya screams at his team before they head out to the ice. The whole game, Ilya is thinking about what he could possibly text Shane, wondering if he should maybe just call him. Fuck, maybe he should hop on a plane and show up at Shane’s door in Montreal, offer to beat Pike to within an inch of his life if it would help. Maybe he should skip the part where he even asks, and just show up at Pike’s door instead.

The Raiders do not fuck Buffalo up; they lose 6-2.

Ilya does go out with the team after—maybe getting drunk will get Shane off his mind.

It does not.

--

(I made a gifset for this chapter on tumblr!))

Chapter End Notes

“Don’t believe everything you read” he says, fully believing the tabloid headline he read 😩

Chapter 6: call the rnli

Chapter Notes

The next several days after the article drops are a blur to Shane. First, that meeting with management, Hayden, their agents, PR, and Yuna was only the beginning of the unending humiliation ritual the video 'leak' kicked off. Having to put on a suit to go sit in a room and discuss your masturbation video with your mother, best friend, and bosses is something Shane could have never dreamed up even in his worst nightmares. When he'd been asked directly who the video was for if not Hayden, Shane had hesitated to find a suitable answer, but Hayden was very forthcoming about it having been for Lily, 'the girl Shane's been seeing for years'.

For whatever reason, Shane couldn't bring himself to lie about the existence of Lily, but it was a sort of relief that Hayden so easily did it for him. It felt more plausible coming from someone who believed it, someone with a wife and kids, someone normal and acceptable who has nothing to hide. No reason to lie. Imagine just being able to live life like that—Shane can't. The room seemed to accept that story along with the explanation of the series of events that lead to Hayden sending the wrong video out, but everyone was still clearly uncomfortable at having to deal with the situation at all. Shane didn't blame them; he has no blame left to spread around. It's all reserved for himself.

Management decided to go with the tried and true 'ignore it until it goes away' strategy (against the advice of Marcel, the team's PR guy) and release a basic 'no comment' statement. Coach Theriault suggested benching Shane and Hayden but received enough pushback ('it will just draw more attention to it', 'it will look like they're being punished for being allegedly gay') that it was quickly dismissed. Carefully worded statements were released to the tabloids that ran the story (at the very least, the 'revenge porn' angle had been retracted), though just as Yuna had warned them, the damage was already done.

The Metros also seemed to accept their explanation, but the locker room hasn't felt the same since. Whispered conversations stop when Shane walks in, even the usual chirping feels more pointed and personal. And JJ went down with a high ankle sprain in their first game after the article dropped, so he’ll be out for weeks—one less friendly presence in the room and on the ice. What used to be a harmless long-running joke about Hayden being the captain's favourite has turned into something bordering on sexual harassment coming from certain players. Unsurprisingly, the chemistry is off on the ice. Everything is off. But maybe that's just Shane being paranoid; he feels like everyone can see right through him, see the darkest, most hidden parts of himself—the truth of him—so he's been keeping to himself even more than usual. And anyway, his own team is the least of his worries when the rest of the league is having the time of their lives with this.

"Hey Hollander, who's got the best mouth on your team? I've got a bet going," the second-line Detroit centre asks him during a faceoff. Shane loses the draw. Later in the game, a D-man drives him hard into the boards and tells Shane, "Hope that didn't turn you on too much," before skating off. It isn't a clean hit, but the refs don't call it, and nobody on his team comes to back him up.

The Metros slump back to the locker room after their 3-2 loss and Shane is biting back his anger over what a shitshow the game had been. He can lie to himself about being paranoid or misinterpreting things in the locker room or at practice, but during the game? It was clear he was being hung out to dry. Even Hayden wasn't keeping up with him; none of their passes were connecting. Shane tears off his jersey in a huff. All the scoring chances his team wasted run in a loop in Shane's head as he rips off his pads next.

Hayden is taking his gear off next to Shane and must notice his frustration. "It was a close one," he says with a shrug.

Shane glares at him. "Close? If anybody else had actually been out there with me, we would've won and it wouldn't have been close at all."

"Whoa, relax, Captain. Do you need to jerk off about it?" Comeau calls out from a few stalls down. The guys around him laugh, and Hayden turns away from Shane to focus on removing the rest of his gear.

"Excuse me?" Shane asks through gritted teeth. A teammate standing between Shane and Comeau quickly steps over the bench and heads for the showers.

"Hollander, you're going to have to laugh about it at some point," Comeau says.

"The only thing funny right now is you talking shit after playing like that."

"You said nobody else was out there with you; you think the whole team played like shit except you? Then that sounds like a problem with leadership. Maybe you need to spend more time inspiring your team and less time jerking off over them."

Shane takes a step toward Comeau, his pulse spiking, but Hayden grabs his arm and tugs him back.

"Come on, Pike, let your boyfriend fight his own battles," Comeau says, glancing at Hayden's hand on Shane's arm with a smirk.

Hayden immediately drops his hand from Shane and walks off toward the showers, muttering a "fuck you" to Comeau as he passes by.

"Nah, I don't want the cap's sloppy seconds."

——

When Shane sees Hayden walking toward him in the parking lot, he takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as Hayden gets closer. Shane got out of the locker room as quickly as possible after his shower, needing to put distance between himself and the team he no longer feels welcome in. But he wants to talk to Hayden—something they haven't been doing much of lately—and is waiting by his car.

"Hey, is Jackie doing better?" he asks as Hayden unlocks the door to throw his bag in the passenger seat.

Hayden closes the door a little too aggressively and leans against it, looking up at the night sky instead of at Shane. After a moment, he nods. "Yeah, she's getting there. The morning sickness is basically gone now, and she's been sleeping better."

Shane hadn't been asking about the pregnancy exactly, but he's still happy to hear it's going well. "Good." Shane notices Hayden looking at the arena door he'd just walked out of, and feels a twinge in his stomach when he realizes Hayden is worried about being seen with him. Like they're doing something wrong just standing around talking after a game, something they've done countless times before. "Hayden, uh—" he starts, unsure of what he even wants to say. He's already said 'sorry' too much, and it has yet to help anything.

"Shane, it's fine," Hayden says with a shrug.

"It's obviously not."

Hayden finally looks at him, and for a second things feel okay, almost normal even, like his best friend is just shooting the shit with him. But then Hayden says, "I've been talking with coach, and I think I'm going to switch to second line for a bit, just to try it out."

"What? Why?" Shane knows why.

"He was thinking it might be good to switch things up, you know? We're on a losing streak in case you haven't noticed."

"Yeah, I've fucking noticed," Shane says, the words bitter in his mouth.

Hayden's jaw tenses, he opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it.

"It's not like you're getting the worst of it," Shane says, immediately feeling dumb for turning it into some kind of competition. "I'm the one in the fucking video."

"I'm getting enough."

But you're married, Shane wants to say. Wants to scream. To a woman. Stupid gay jokes shouldn't matter to Hayden when he's got a wife and kids at home, with another on the way. The jokes should be meaningless to him, Hayden should just laugh them off. They're not meaningless to Shane, he can't laugh them off because they don't feel like jokes. Can they tell? he wonders with every chirp and insinuation thrown his way. Do they know?

"It's not a big deal," Hayden says, filling the extended silence. "If it doesn't work out, he'll switch me back." Hayden pushes himself off the car and walks around to the driver's side. "Anyway, have a good night, man. I've gotta get home to Jackie and the kids."

Shane nods, understanding he's been dismissed. "Night, Hayd."

Not a big deal. Shane flexes his hands, opening and closing them into fists. Sure.

——

Shane is sitting at his kitchen counter later that night, staring down at his phone. He’s looking at the last text exchanged between Ilya and him: ok. The last text before Shane fucked everything up forever.

He’s been wanting to talk to Ilya, text him, all week but doesn’t know what to say. Is Ilya mad that Shane had been so stupid as to let the video get out? Does he think it’s funny and would he tease him about it? Shane winces; clearly a lot of hockey players think it’s fucking hilarious, so maybe Ilya would too. But Ilya joking about it with Shane wouldn’t feel like getting punched in the stomach the way it does when the other players do it; maybe Ilya making light of it would make it all feel okay. Ilya’s talent for releasing tension extends far beyond the bedroom, no one else can get Shane to laugh at himself so easily. And if there’s one thing Shane’s been needing this week above all else (other than the power to turn back time), it’s tension release. Of any and every kind.

Shane drops his phone on the counter. He knows he won’t be getting that release anymore though, knows he has to end it the next time he sees Ilya (if Ilya even wants to see him). Maybe Shane won’t even have to do anything, maybe they’ll just mutually let this… thing between them fade and never speak of it again. It’s not unusual for the two of them to only text when they’re in the same city, but considering just how unusual the past week has been, Shane had been watching his phone a little more attentively, expecting… something. For Ilya to yell at him? To check in and make sure Shane didn’t leak anything else that could be bad for Ilya? Maybe just to ask how Shane’s doing (terrible, thanks). But Shane shakes his head at the very thought of it. That’s not what they are, it’s not what they do.

So he’ll wait for Ilya to text him when he’s in Boston in a few days. And Shane will do what he should have done years ago, something that will be better, safer, for both of them—he’ll end it for good.

Chapter End Notes

lol press x to doubt

Chapter 7: you’re washed up

"Ready to beat the butt buddies, boys?"

"Yeah, let's keep their losing streak going!"

Ilya glances up from taping his stick. The locker room is buzzing about the imminent Metros game; the Shane and Pike gossip had started to die down but now that the Metros are in the building, all bets are off. "Butt buddies?" Ilya asks the player who said it.

"Like they fuck each other in the a—"

"Ah okay, got it," Ilya says, unimpressed, while other players around him laugh. "Pike is terrible hockey player, I think that is plenty to make fun of. I do not want to hear about 'butt buddies' or any of that shit on the ice tonight."

A third-line winger pipes up. "I know one of the rookies on the Metros. They told me Hollander has a secret girlfriend, and that's who the video was for."

That fucking video, Ilya thinks. He'd tried really hard to respect Shane's privacy by avoiding (and shutting down) as much of the lurid gossip as he could, but avoiding hearing about it completely was all but impossible. And after hearing enough descriptions of the infamous video, Ilya thought it sounded a little too familiar. So he'd caved and sought it out, only to confirm his suspicion that he had indeed seen it before—when Shane originally sent it to him. The idea of Shane making such a video for Pike was one thing, but then finding out the video in question—the one the whole world has seen by now—was the video Shane made for Ilya? The whole situation made less and less sense to Ilya, and the vague statements released to the tabloids ('Hayden Pike is in a happy and monogamous marriage', 'please refrain from speculation', 'no further comment') did not help to clear anything up. He still hasn't texted Shane.

Marleau is taping his stick next to Ilya. "Secret girlfriend? Nah. If I was a girl fucking Hollander, I'd be telling everybody." This earns him some sidelong glances from his teammates. "What? Top player in the league. Like you wouldn't brag? Fuck off!"

"Have you seen Twitter? A bunch of chicks are claiming he made that video for them," Connors says. "Apparently he's got girls gagging on it in every city."

Marleau nods. "Hell yeah, that makes more sense. I knew Hollander's nice-boy act was too good to be true; there's no way he's not slaying mad puss looking like that." Another beat of silence passes through the room. "What? Don't pretend you're all blind."

Ilya keeps taping his stick, biting his tongue. For weeks now, he's had to walk the delicate line of standing up for Shane—and, more begrudgingly, for Pike—by shutting down the more blatant homophobia without sounding overly invested for any particular reason. He's tired, he can't imagine how Shane's been dealing with all of it.

Hammersmith says, "No, I get vibes from Hollander. I think he sent Pike that video to, like, come on to him or something. Which is fucked up since Pike's married."

"So you think Pike released the video to get Hollander to back off?" asks a rookie, his eyes wide like he's watching a TV show.

With a shrug, Hammersmith says, "Maybe. But this is why you never shit where you eat. Never fuck a coworker, because it just fucks everything up. Just look at the Metros' losing streak right now—it tells you everything you need to know."

The rookie narrows his eyes and asks, "Wait, so you think they did fuck, or they didn't?"

"It tells you everything you need to know," Hammersmith repeats.

"Oh... kay..." the rookie says, looking around at the others, hoping someone can explain what the hell Hammersmith means. No one does.

--

By the end of the first period, Ilya knows the Raiders have this one in the bag. He sees Shane is playing his ass off, but the rest of the Metros are simply not rising to his level. And with Pike bumped to the second line, the guy taking his spot is floundering. Shane's also been avoiding eye contact with Ilya, even after Ilya checked him into the boards—his way of saying hi. Ilya's been arguing with himself all day about whether to text Shane to meet up after the game. He wants to, has been desperately wanting to, but with everything going on, maybe Shane doesn't want to hear from him right now. Ilya doesn't want to add to his stress. In fact, he wants nothing more than to thoroughly de-stress Shane to the best of his ability, and Shane is definitely looking fucking stressed. A small part of Ilya likes seeing it because it makes him think: would Shane look this tense if Pike was taking proper care of him in bed?

Near the end of the second period, Ilya catches Pike with a hard hit, takes off with the puck on a breakaway, and scores. He's happy his team is playing hard but still following Ilya's lead by not chirping below the belt—at least not that he hears. If anything, it seems like Ilya's team is treating Shane better than his own. The team breakdown has been obvious in the last few Metros games Ilya has watched; Shane's been taking more hits because the Metros aren't backing him up, making him an easy target. Leaving their star player to fend for himself while they keep losing game after game is certainly... a strategy. Ilya's not sure what they're gaining from it. But that's not Ilya's problem tonight—the Raiders have a game to win.

And win it they do. The Raiders win 4-1.

--

Ilya paces in his kitchen with his phone in his hand, his thumb hovering over his unsent text. He won his game tonight; he should be hyped, but he's still thinking of Shane's face at the final horn—it was like stone. Ilya knows what a losing streak feels like, but he's never felt like he was on the ice completely alone the way it looked like Shane was tonight. Fuck it. Ilya sends the text.

come over?

If Shane doesn't want to, he can just ignore it. But Ilya has decided to act like everything's normal; maybe that's all Shane needs—to not think about any of this for even just a few hours. Even with the text sent, Ilya continues to pace back and forth along his kitchen island. He checks the fridge, there's ginger ale sitting on a shelf along with a little pre-cut veggie platter with some kind of healthy dip. It's totally normal to stock up on drinks and snacks when expecting (hoping for) company, it doesn't mean anything other than Ilya is a thoughtful host. He's an exceptional host, actually, because he's also stocked up on lube and condoms. 

Ilya takes a seat at the kitchen counter and checks his phone—no response. Apparently he's got girls gagging on it in every city, Connors had said. That doesn't seem likely to Ilya, but what does he really know about Shane? I know him better than Connors, he thinks. Maybe so, but the Shane Ilya knows would never have sent that video to Pike of all people, wouldn't have sent it to anybody. Was he just reusing it for convenience's sake (isn't Shane too polite to re-gift a sex video?), or maybe it was even Pike's video first (is that why he never said Ilya's name in it?), and Shane just happened to have it handy that night. Ilya shakes his head at this line of thought. He asked Shane for audio only, and that's what he got—mostly. The video had to be for Ilya. So why the fuck did Pike have it?

There's no way around the fact that Shane and Pike must have some kind of relationship for him to have such easy access to a video of Shane jerking off. If there was a simple explanation, surely it would have been included in their statements? So the explanation must not be simple. Ilya thinks again of the vague wording in the statements—a private video sent in error—sent in error to the fan? or Pike himself? It's anyone's guess.

Ilya bounces his knee under the counter as more questions come to him, one after the other. But he won't ask any of them. Shane's never asked Ilya about his other hookups. Ilya wouldn't mind being asked, though—Shane would.

Ilya's phone buzzes on the counter.

be there in 20

Chapter 8: irrelevant

Chapter Notes

Just end it, just end it, just end it. Don't kiss him. Don't suck his dick. Don't even go inside. Just. End. It.

Shane walks up to Ilya's door going over his plan for tonight—no, the plan for right now. Shane just has to say 'hi, this is over', and then leave. Simple. One less thing to worry about in his current nightmare of a life. He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. Just end it, just end it—

Ilya opens the door, smiles when he sees Shane, and steps aside to let him in. Shane hesitates for just a second before crossing the threshold. Ilya closes the door behind them. Strike one.

"Hey," Shane says. Ilya is standing in front of the door wearing grey joggers and a black tank top. Shane's eyes are drawn immediately to his arms, appreciating the way his muscles look in the soft lighting.

Ilya takes a few steps toward him. "Hey yourself."

But Shane has a plan to stick to—a plan he's already fucking up. Before Ilya reaches him, Shane turns to face the kitchen and clears his throat. "Can I get some water, maybe?" He glances back at Ilya, who has paused midstep and is now watching him carefully.

After a beat, Ilya nods and walks past Shane, leading him to the kitchen. He opens the fridge and pulls out a can. "Ginger ale?"

Shane takes it and pulls the tab, relieved to have something to do with his hands. "Some game, huh? Congrats." His words sound stilted even to his own ears. If this were any other time, the two of them would be naked already.

Ilya leans against the counter by the fridge, still watching Shane with an inscrutable expression. He doesn't seem bothered by the silence, but it's gnawing at Shane. Isn't he going to ask me about it? Shane wonders. It's one thing to ignore it by text, but to ignore the elephant in the room when they're face to face? Shane has heard jokes about Slavic stoicism, but damn.

"I, um..." Just end it. "I think..." To buy himself a few seconds, Shane raises the can to his mouth for a sip, but fumbles the motion and pours ginger ale down his shirt. "Fuck!"

Ilya's expression finally breaks into another smile, and he approaches Shane. Before Shane can react, Ilya takes the can from his hand and places it on the counter, then pulls Shane's shirt over his head. "Did you get hit in the head during the game, maybe?"

"No," Shane huffs, reaching for his shirt.

Ilya balls it up in his hands and steps back. "You are sure?"

"I'm sure. Can I have my shirt back?"

Ilya is already walking away as he says, "It is covered in ginger ale, I will wash." Shane follows Ilya to what he always assumed was a door to a closet, but turns out to be a small laundry room. Ilya drops Shane's shirt in the washing machine then turns to face him, his eyes dropping to Shane's pants. "Anything else you want to take off?"

"No, I'm good."

Ilya raises his eyebrows, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "Okay." He strips off his own top and drops it in the machine on top of Shane's. Shane can't help taking in the view of a shirtless Ilya Rozanov, he never can, and he lets his eyes slowly wander down, down... but then he remembers what he's supposed to be doing here. He snaps his eyes back up to Ilya's. The grin is fully there on Ilya's face now—he saw the way Shane was looking at him.

When Ilya approaches this time, Shane doesn't move. Ilya stops directly in front of him and glances at Shane's lips before slowly reaching up to rest a hand against the side of his face. Shane leans into the warmth of it. He can't think of a single gentle or comforting touch he'd received in far too long that hadn't come from his parents. It's nice. He licks his lips and closes his eyes.

Ilya kisses him. Strike two.

Shane tells himself to stop, to leave, to do anything right for once—just end it, how hard can it be?—but right now the only thing that feels right is Ilya's lips against his, Ilya's hands on his back, his waist, his ass. Shane tells himself to shut the fuck up. No more thinking. He gives in, pressing his body against Ilya's and running his hands through his curls. He moans into Ilya's mouth when he feels Ilya's erection pressed against his thigh. The moan spurs Ilya on and in seconds he's on his knees in front of Shane, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down his legs.

Shane drops his head back and lets out a shuddering breath as Ilya's mouth wraps around his cock. Strike three.

--

Ilya drives into Shane from behind, gripping his hips tightly and pulling Shane's body back against his with each thrust forward. Shane pants, holding onto the bedsheets for dear life, loving every second of it. He feels like he's exactly where he's meant to be—finally. He's so close and, from the sounds of the breathless grunting behind him, so is Ilya. But Shane doesn’t want this feeling, this night, to end. Not yet.

"Can we switch to my back?" Shane asks, his voice ragged.

Ilya stills behind him, then gently pulls out. "Of course."

Shane crawls up the bed and drops himself on his back with his head on the pillow, then watches as Ilya follows, trailing kisses over Shane's legs, stomach, chest, until he reaches his mouth. Shane sighs into the kiss, running his hands up Ilya's arms, coming to rest at the back of his head, brushing his fingers through his hair. Ilya's tongue slides inside Shane's mouth, exploring, and Shane lifts his legs impatiently, moving his hands to Ilya's shoulders, digging his fingers into the firm muscle. Ilya adjusts himself between Shane's legs before gripping his thighs to push his legs further up, then slides inside.

"Fuck..." Shane breathes as Ilya pushes deeper. 

Ilya grinds against him, kissing along his jaw. “Good?” he asks.

”Good,” Shane says, closing his eyes. “So fucking good.”

Shane moans, running his hands over Ilya’s back; Ilya builds up a slow and steady pace, breathing hard into Shane’s neck. Shane can’t believe he thought about cutting himself off from this—this, the only thing that can make him feel this good after the nightmare of the past few weeks. It's the first time he’s been able to just let go and not think of everything going wrong in his life—what could possibly be wrong when this, being here with Ilya, feels so fucking good, so fucking right?

Ilya licks a soft trail up Shane’s neck, nuzzling against his sensitive skin. He shudders as Ilya’s warm breath tickles his ear, and he wraps his legs around his waist, wanting to feel as much of Ilya’s body against his as possible. Ilya thrusts slow and deep, making Shane’s toes curl, then asks in a breathless voice, “Has Pike ever made you feel like this?”

Shane’s eyes fly open. “What the fuck?” Ilya pulls back. The flirty smirk falls from his face when he sees Shane’s expression—clearly not the reaction he expected. Shane pushes firmly against Ilya’s chest and tells him, “Get off me.” 

Ilya immediately disentangles from Shane, sitting back on his heels at the end of the bed. Shane wants to jump up and storm out, or yell, or do something, but his legs feel like jelly, and suddenly he’s overcome with pure exhaustion. He’s just done with all this bullshit. So he falls back against the pillow and shakes his head, covering his eyes with his hands. “The whole reason I came here tonight…” he mutters, maybe to himself. He’d told himself it was to end things, to break it off for good, but really he came here because he wanted to feel normal—whatever 'normal' means when he’s with Ilya. He wanted to feel safe, separate from the outside world where he no longer knows where or how he fits. Where people don’t know shit about him. And here he is in Ilya’s bed, the one place he feels right, where he fits perfectly, and he’s realizing Ilya doesn’t know shit about him either. Of course he doesn’t.

Shane lets his hands fall from his face and glances at Ilya, who is now sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, watching Shane with a slight crease between his brows. Shane sighs. “How would you like it if I said your best friend’s name in the middle of fucking?”

The corner of Ilya's mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly but Shane sees it. “My best friend is a gorgeous woman who loves having sex with me.”

”Your brother’s name, then,” Shane says with a roll of his eyes. “Would you like it if I said your brother’s name in the middle of sex? Because that’s who Hayden is to me—family.” Shane waits but gets no answer. “You really thought I was fucking Hayden?”

”No,” Ilya says, his tone serious, but his face fighting a grin. “I thought he was fucking you.”

“Fucking idiot,” Shane says, still annoyed but also fighting a grin of his own. “Why would you think that?”

Ilya shrugs but gives Shane a look like he’s the stupid one. Because it’s all over the internet. Because it’s all the league is talking about. All the obvious answers, but how could Ilya have believed—

“It was the video for you,” Shane says, his tone making it clear Ilya is the stupid one here.

”Yes, but… why did Pike have it?”

Shane sits up, irritated that he has to admit that Ilya was right—Shane is the stupid one here. “Because I’m a fucking idiot and sent it to him instead of something else.”

Ilya’s eyebrows quirk up. “Something else?”

”Something boring. A birthday video for a fan.”

“And Pike did not watch the video before sending it?”

A twinge of guilt hits Shane; he doesn’t blame Hayden for any of this. “I’m the one who should have watched it before sending.”

Ilya tilts his head. ”You both fucked up.” There's no blame in how he says it, just a statement of fact.

”I know.”

”So… you and Pike are not fucking?”

Shane finally lets himself laugh at the absurdity of it, feeling the tension leave his shoulders as he looks at Ilya’s smiling face. “No! Jesus fucking Christ. We’re not fucking, have never fucked, and will never fuck. We’re friends.” Shane doesn’t add: or at least we used to be. Ilya’s smile gets bigger. He almost looks… relieved?

”Don’t tell me you were jealous of Hayden,” Shane teases.

”Jealous of what? Even when I thought you were fucking I felt bad about the mediocre orgasms he must be giving you.”

”Ew, please stop talking about Hayden and orgasms.”

"Sorry." Ilya leans closer. "I know how you feel. Hearing Pike's name kills my boner too."

Shane laughs again. He reaches out for Ilya's hand, and tugs at it, pulling Ilya over to him on the bed. Ilya leans in to kiss Shane, but then pauses to ask, "What did you mean earlier? When you said 'the whole reason I came here'?"

"I just... I thought this would be the one place I could get away from that shit. Not have to think about it. I was supposed to, um..." Punish myself by giving you up.

"You were supposed to what?"

Shane can't help himself, can't deny himself, he reaches for Ilya's face and pulls him into a kiss. "It doesn't matter," Shane murmurs against his lips.

Ilya kisses him back with growing intensity but makes no move to escalate things, probably spooked by Shane's reaction earlier. Shane guides Ilya by the shoulders to sit down on the bed against the headboard. He fists his hand over Ilya's hard dick, making sure there's still plenty of lube on it, then climbs on top of Ilya. Still kissing each other desperately, Shane lowers himself onto Ilya's cock, loving the low groan Ilya lets out at the sensation.

Ilya leans forward and Shane wraps his arms around him as they work together, Ilya thrusting up and Shane grinding down. He squeezes his arms tighter around Ilya and briefly thinks maybe this is all he really needed, a fucking hug. But then Ilya's cock hits at just the right angle, and that combined with Shane's dick being pressed between their bodies, receiving just the right amount of friction, drives that thought completely out of Shane's mind. He comes hard, clawing at Ilya's back as he rides through it. Ilya reaches his own release soon after, gasping and roughly gripping Shane's waist to hold him in place until they're both fully spent.

"Holy fuck, Rozanov," Shane gasps, slumping against Ilya. He doesn't even mind the come pressed between their sweaty bodies.

Ilya nods against Shane's neck, wrapping his arms around his back, the two of them holding the other tight, still breathing hard. After a few minutes, when their breathing has slowed back to normal, Ilya slides out of Shane and removes the condom. "You want to shower first?" he asks.

Shane shakes his head and reluctantly rolls off of Ilya. "You go ahead." He doesn't fully trust his legs to work properly yet. He watches Ilya's beautiful, naked form walk away to the bathroom, then he sinks into the pillows, perfectly content.

How could he have ever wanted to end this? Outside of hockey—which has always been everything to him, the current mess notwithstanding—this is the best thing in his life. Why pretend otherwise? Even with everything going wrong with hockey right now, he'd never willingly give it up—why should he give this up? He'd only be hurting himself, and he's done enough of that lately. Maybe it's time to let himself have something good, and stop punishing himself for things out of his control.

Maybe it's really that simple.

Chapter End Notes

'how hard can it be?' well—

Chapter 9: and standing in my light

Shane walks out of the bathroom after his shower fully nude, and Ilya enjoys the sight—until he notices the bruises covering his body. He'd seen them when he first took off Shane's shirt in the kitchen, but seeing them now, after sex and with a clearer head, they stand out more. Shane notices him looking and self-consciously crosses his arms.

"You can put those on," Ilya says, nodding at the clothes left on top of the dresser for Shane. Ilya tossed the rest of Shane's clothes, discarded on the floor earlier, into the washing machine while Shane showered. As Shane pulls them on, Ilya asks about the bruises. "Those are all from hockey?"

Now dressed, Shane joins Ilya on the bed, sitting against the headboard. He shrugs. "Yeah, tough few weeks."

"You are being targeted." Shane stays silent at this. "Your team does nothing about it."

After a pause, Shane nods. "Yeah."

"Because of the video?"

Ilya immediately feels Shane tense up and regrets asking—he'd just done such a good job of getting Shane to relax, and already the tension is creeping back in.

Shane turns to look at him, lips pressed tightly together, brows furrowed. "I was worried... I thought you'd be mad. About the video."

"Mad?"

"Like... I could have outed you. And with Russia..."

Ilya only stares at him, confused. Shane was worried about Ilya while going through this shitstorm? "You did not say my name in the video," he says simply. 

"But I could've."

"But you did not."

Shane lets out a harsh exhale and leans against the headboard. After a few moments of silence, he asks, "What's your team been saying about it?"

The words butt buddies cross Ilya's mind, followed by the speculation that Shane sent Pike that video to come on to him. Ilya knows now that Shane does not think of Pike in that way—he's still basking in the sheer relief of knowing that—but he's curious about the other theories. "Bullshit gossip. That you have girlfriends in every city."

Shane laughs. "How do they figure that?"

"There are girls on Twitter that say you make video for them." Ilya watches for Shane's reaction, but Shane just keeps laughing. "Is not true?"

"No, it's not true. Just crazy people on the internet lying for fun."

"Hm."

"That's all your team's been saying?" Shane asks skeptically. "That I'm seeing a lot of girls?"

Ilya shrugs. "There is a lot of gossip. I try to—what is it?—nip it in the butt."

"Bud."

"I nip it in the bud," Ilya repeats, nodding.

"You make it sound easy. I can't get the Metros to shut the fuck up."

Ilya winces; he's never heard Shane sound so angry, sad, and bitter all at once. Anger curls inside him at the confirmation that Shane's team is intentionally treating him like shit. Ilya can't imagine his own team turning on him like that, even if they found out he likes both men and women.

"The Raiders are mostly good guys."

"Yeah, I would've said the same about the Metros a month ago."

“It is everyone on team? What about Pike?”

”He's getting shit for it too.”

Based on what Ilya’s been seeing during Metros games, this doesn’t ring quite true. “He is not covered in bruises like this, is he?” Ilya thinks back to the Metros game he watched just before the video leaked and remembers Pike immediately trying to fight for Shane after a harmless check. And now, when the checks are anything but harmless—have become vicious, even—Pike and the entire team do nothing. Shane is the only reason the Metros won their Cup last season, and they treat him like this? Ilya gets angrier the more he thinks about it.

Shane shifts uncomfortably on the bed, obviously not in the mood to get into it.

”Are you hungry?” Ilya asks, changing the subject. He has those veggies in the fridge, but after the workout they just had, maybe Shane will want to order in—

“No, thanks. I’m pretty tired. I should probably—“

”You can sleep here,” Ilya interrupts, not wanting Shane to finish that thought. Ilya hasn't even started the washing machine where Shane’s clothes are currently being held hostage, which may or may not have been the plan since taking Shane’s shirt off. Maybe. At Shane’s hesitation, Ilya continues. “If you are tired, just stay. You are already in bed, is simpler than going back to hotel.”

To emphasize his point, Ilya wraps his arms around Shane and tugs him down the bed from his seated position. Shane laughs as they shift and get comfortable, Ilya snug against his back, the two of them settling into the pillows together. Shane’s tense body slowly relaxes into Ilya’s embrace, and Ilya is pleasantly surprised by how little argument he puts up about it. Ilya really must have tired him out.

Ilya is just starting to doze off when he hears Shane mumble, half-asleep, “What’s your brother’s name?”

He smiles. ”Why, so you can say it to me next time we fuck?” Ilya asks, just as sleepy.

”Just tell me.”

Ilya pulls him closer, nuzzling his face against the back of his neck as he breathes in the lingering scent of his own body wash on Shane’s warm skin. He’s still smiling, endeared by Shane wanting to know these things about him, even if it’s only to use as playful revenge later. “Alexei.”

Shane nods softly and reaches for the hand Ilya has wrapped around his waist, tangling their fingers together as they drift off to sleep.

—

Shane woke up and left before the sun was up, needing to get back to the hotel, but he let Ilya make him coffee and lingered at the door while they said their goodbyes. They put their empty coffee cups in the sink, and Ilya can't bring himself to move them to the dishwasher. The sight of them feels like proof that it really happened, that he really woke up next to Shane. Ilya had never seen anything as beautiful as Shane's freckled face waking next to him after a shared night of sleep. It was the first full night they'd ever spent together, and Ilya finds himself hoping it will be the first of many, however unrealistic that hope may be.

He pulls warm clothes from the dryer, looking for the ones that belong to Shane. Ilya never got around to washing them the night before, so Shane left that morning wearing a borrowed outfit. Ilya finds his T-shirt and jeans, and carefully folds them, more carefully than he'd handled his own clothing.

Thinking back to their conversation the night before, Ilya remembers Shane mentioning Russia, and being worried for Ilya. Why hadn't Ilya been worried himself? At no point had it occurred to him that he should worry, not even when he realized it was that video that was leaked. He'd only been worried about Shane (and pettily about who else Shane might be fucking). But that video had been such a rare treat from Shane—the kind he would certainly never risk sending again after all this—that Ilya committed every second of it to memory before deleting it. He knew he wasn't in any danger because of it; Shane was too careful—less careful than originally thought, it turns out—but still careful enough to have not said anything that could expose Ilya.

Ilya finishes emptying the dryer, wondering what he would have done if that video had somehow outed him. Would he be ducking calls from his father and Alexei? Would they even bother calling, or would they be relieved to have a reason to be rid of Ilya for good? If not for his money, maybe they would have been done with him long ago. If they were to find out, if it became public, Ilya would never be able to go home again. He glances around his house—he's already home—and corrects his thought: he would never be able to go back to Russia again. And maybe there would be some relief in that, in having the choice made for him.

But regardless of how his family feels about him, he's not ready to give them up, not ready to be all alone. Especially now, with his father in such poor health. Ilya reaches for his necklace and rubs the pendant between his fingers. His mother's death had been sudden, and it was terrible. And now his father's death is looming somewhere in the near distance, the opposite of sudden... and it's fucking terrible too. Is that what's got Ilya feeling extra sentimental lately? What has him clutching more tightly to Shane in their brief moments together, letting himself believe it's possible to have what he wants? Why cliche lines from American movies like 'life's too short' are constantly running through his mind? His mother had thought life was too long. Sometimes Ilya agrees with her. But not today—not the day he woke up next to Shane Hollander in his bed.

He puts away the last of his clothes and is left with Shane's shirt and jeans sitting alone on the dresser. He'll have to return them whenever they see each other next, and that won't be for a while. It seems wrong somehow to Ilya to just leave them sitting out in the open where they don't belong. There should be a place for them.

Before he can think too hard about it, Ilya opens two drawers and empties the contents of one into the other.

He gingerly places Shane's clothes in the empty drawer and slides it shut.

Chapter 10: you're standing

JJ walks into the locker room to a round of cheers from the Metros. "What the fuck? I'm away for a couple of weeks and the team goes to shit?"

Some of the guys laugh at this, some argue back, and a few glare at Shane. Most of the players are already in their stalls, waiting for Coach Theriault to show up for the meeting he called before practice.

"Are you back already?" Shane asks, hopeful.

JJ shakes his head. "Non, but I got the okay to start training again. Gotta take it easy, though."

Shane nods, disappointed. Having JJ back in the lineup—having at least one friendly face out on the ice with him—would make getting through games easier. Shane hates to admit it even to himself, but he's worried about the Metros' upcoming game against the Toronto Guardians, a team known for playing rough and dirty. "It's looking good, though?"

"Yeah! The sprain isn't as bad as they first thought, so should be good to go in a couple more weeks. Knock on wood anyway, as long as I don't fuck it up more before then." He sits in his stall, digging through his bag, and pulls out tape to wrap his ankle with. "Pike, I cannot get too drunk at your party. You will need to remind me, d'accord?"

Hayden, standing by the stall next to Shane, nods and says with a laugh, "We'll wrap you in bubble wrap, don't worry. We need you back on the ice, bro." He shoots a glance at Shane. "Oh, I'm having a little get-together after the Guardians game at my place. We found out Jackie's having a boy, so we thought it was time for a party."

Something about the vibe feels off to Shane, and he's already trying to come up with reasons to decline what sounds like a courtesy invite—one Hayden only offered because JJ mentioned it in front of him. "Sounds good," he says instead. "Congrats to you and Jackie." He means it. Maybe he won't even need to come up with an excuse; maybe Dallas Kent will break Shane's leg during the game and save everyone the trouble.

Shane turns to his stall and pulls off his hoodie. As he digs through his things, looking for his compression shirt, Hayden asks, "Did Lily contribute to any of that?"

He stops what he's doing, and turns to look at Hayden. "What?" 

Hayden gestures to Shane's torso, and Shane looks down at himself. There are bruises over his ribs, arms, shoulders—everywhere, some darker than others. Ilya probably did give him a few small bruises with the way he grabbed his hips and waist the other night, but Shane shakes his head. "What does Lily have to do with anything?"

Hayden rolls his eyes. "You disappeared after our Boston game? As usual? We all know where you went."

"To see the throat goat!" Drapeau calls from a stall across from them. Other guys whoop loudly at this, laughing, and Drapeau keeps going. "Oh fuck, oh fuck," he says, quoting the end of Shane's video. "Hope she's worth it, Hollander."

Shane can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He quickly finds his compression shirt and pulls it over himself, his back to Drapeau. The Lily lie has been convenient cover, but at the same time Shane hates hearing about 'her', and the way the guys talk about her. If Drapeau was talking about his actual girlfriend, what was Shane supposed to say? He should probably punch him if anything, but Drapeau must have fifty pounds on him.

"Fuck off," is all he can muster.

Comeau chimes in. "Pike, are you jealous Lily stole your man for the night?"

"Ha ha," Hayden says, his jaw tight. "Hilarious."

JJ, wrapping his ankle, is looking between Shane and Hayden with a frown. It's his first time back in the room in weeks, and he seems surprised by the apparent tension.

"Won't the party be kind of awkward?" Drapeau asks Hayden. "Your pregnant wife and your gay lover in one place?"

"Drapeau, chill," JJ says.

Shane feels like he's about to snap, but Hayden beats him to it.

"Can you all shut the fuck up already? Harping on this is more important than making the playoffs? Have any of you noticed we're playing like complete fucking dogshit? But yeah, no, keep making your little gay jokes, we all find them so funny."

"Bro, we're just trying to help," Comeau says with an exaggerated shrug. "Being sexually harassed by your captain is no laughing matter."

"Are we just going to pretend nobody else has ever jerked off in their life?" Shane asks, exasperated. "Yeah, okay, I fucked up. Is it really this big of a deal?"

Drapeau gives Shane a long look, one that lasts long enough Shane has to avert his gaze. "We've all jerked off. None of us have sent a video of it to a fucking teammate."

Hayden sighs.

"And none of us went and leaked that video to the world," Drapeau adds, turning to Hayden. "You both made this whole gay thing public. You both turned the Metros into a joke."

Shane's hands ball into fists. "You know what sounds gay to me? Willingly watching a video of a guy jerking off. I mean, you’ve all been quoting it—how many times have you watched? Did you like it that much?"

Drapeau lunges over the bench toward Shane. JJ and Hayden both move to stop him, but Drapeau reaches over them, grabs the front of Shane's shirt, and roughly shoves him. Time slows as Shane stumbles backward, his shoulder blade slamming hard into the wooden edge of the stall. The room erupts with shouting as guys scramble between Shane and Drapeau, holding Drapeau back.

"What the fuck is this?" A voice booms from the doorway. 

The players all disperse to their stalls, and the room goes quiet. Coach Theriault strides in, his eyes landing on Shane slumped on the floor. Shane pushes himself up, still winded, his shoulder throbbing, and drops into his stall.

A brief smirk passes over Theriault's face before he says, "Where is this energy on the ice?"

He looks around the room, his face stern. "We won the Cup last season, we can do it again—but not if you keep playing the way you are. Boiziau being out is hurting us, sure, but a team is not one player. Even when the media would like it to be." At the last line, he looks pointedly at Shane, as if Shane is personally calling up the press to make a spectacle of himself. Shane hasn't even been allowed near the media since the video came out. "I don't want any more bullshit distractions. No personal shit, no fucking attention seeking—none of it. Keep that shit off the ice and play the fucking game. You've all done it before. What's changed? Nothing. Not on the ice."

The rest of the meeting is more of the same, and Shane feels himself sinking deeper into his stall, wishing it would swallow him whole. A teammate practically jumped him, and Shane's the one who gets lectured about attention seeking? Great talk, coach.

Practice afterward is especially brutal, the whole team needing to let off steam and treating it like Game 7 of the playoffs. Shane's shoulder kills him the entire time, but he doesn't get it looked at. He doesn't want to give Drapeau the satisfaction.

What's one more bruise at this point, anyway?

--

That evening, Shane is sprawled on his couch, the TV on in front of him, with no idea what he's watching. His entire body throbs with a dull pain, and he's exhausted down to his bones. If tomorrow's game against the Guardians wasn't already going to be a shitshow, it definitely will be now.

His phone vibrates on the table, and he reluctantly reaches for it, wincing at the pain it sends through his shoulder. He's been avoiding his parents' calls but should probably talk to them. He's getting better at lying these days, so maybe he can even deal with the inevitable 'how are you?' question. More likely, though, his mother will have news about sponsors. Some of them got understandably skittish after the video leak; it wasn't a great look for the Sexless™ Family-Friendly™ Shane Hollander™ brand they originally signed on for. But he knows Yuna has been working her magic.

Can I come up?

It's not his parents; it's a text from Hayden. Shane stares at it for a moment, then sits up with some difficulty and goes to buzz him in.

"Hey," Hayden says, closing the door behind him. He slips off his shoes.

"Hey."

They stare at each other.

"Do you want a drink or anything?" Shane asks.

Hayden shakes his head. "How's your shoulder?"

Shane shrugs and tells him, "I don't know. Feels like shit."

"You didn't get it checked out?"

Embarrassment crawls over Shane at the idea. Was he supposed to go to medical and say he'd just been attacked by his own goalie? And his own coach didn't even give a shit? He shakes his head.

Hayden furrows his brows and steps closer. "Can I?" He points to Shane's back.

Shane just looks at him, confused. "You're doing house calls for medical?"

"Just let me look at your fucking shoulder," Hayden says impatiently. He moves around Shane without waiting for an answer and lifts the back of his shirt. "Jesus Christ." He pulls the shirt the rest of the way off him. "Where's your first aid kit?"

Shane goes to grab it from the bathroom, not entirely sure what's happening. He almost laughs to himself, imagining Ilya's face if he saw Hayden taking Shane's shirt off the same way he had in Boston—for very different reasons. Hayden is waiting for him on the couch; Shane places the kit on the table and sits down. After Hayden gives him a look, Shane turns to face away from him.

"It broke the skin, you're all bloody." Shane winces as Hayden gently cleans around the wound. "I'm going to put some Polysporin on it."

His skin stings, but Shane has a smile on his face. Maybe it makes him pathetic, but he likes being taken care of, likes the feeling of being cared for. Something as simple as a friend putting a Band-Aid on him almost makes him want to cry right now. His smile falters a little as he asks, "Did someone tell you to do this? Jackie?"

"No. She doesn't know what happened today. Or most of what's happening lately."

He finishes bandaging up the area, and Shane turns to face him. "And what's happening lately?"

Hayden hands him his shirt; Shane sees the drops of blood on the back and doesn't put it back on.

"I'm being a shitty friend," Hayden says.

Shane shakes his head, but somewhere deep down, he agrees with that assessment. Then, from somewhere even deeper, comes the reminder that this is all his own fault, so how can he hold any of it against Hayden?

Hayden's looking at Shane's bruises again, the same look of concern on his face that Ilya had when he asked about them. And just like then, Shane feels the urge to cover up. He reluctantly pulls his bloody shirt back on.

"I'm sorry."

Shane shakes his head again; he doesn't really want to hear it. He doesn't deserve it. "This started with me. It's my fault."

"Who cares where it started? This shit isn't okay," Hayden says, glancing back to Shane's shoulder. "I haven't been..." He hunches over, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. "I didn't realize how bad it's gotten. I've been so focused on Jackie."

"Jackie?"

Hayden glances up, his hands clasped tightly. "Yeah. The pregnancy. Last time was really rough on her. I mean, it was twins, so higher-risk to begin with, and she lost a lot of blood during delivery, and—sorry, you don't need the details. But... I'm just really freaked out. And I don't want to freak her out, you know? Or make anything more stressful for her."

Shane cringes, remembering Hayden telling him Jackie had called him crying that morning after finding out about the video. This whole situation definitely can't be great for her stress levels.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"No, that's not what I'm..." Hayden lets out a sigh. "She wants you at the party, and she's been telling me to invite you over for dinner. And I wanted to, but... This whole thing is just—"

"I know." Shane's stomach twists at the worry on Hayden's face—for him, for Jackie, for everything. "It's a fucking mess."

Hayden laughs, though there's a slight edge to it. "Right?"

A moment of silence passes. Shane focuses on the pain in his shoulder, throbbing in time with his pulse. "Get back on the first line. I'm dying out there."

"I already mentioned it to coach, but who the fuck knows. He's being such a prick."

"Yeah, because that's unusual for him," Shane says, rolling his eyes.

With a tentative smile, Hayden asks, "You'll come to the party? It’s not just Jackie asking—I want you there too.”

"I'll be there."

Chapter 11: in my light

Chapter Notes

The Toronto Guardians are up 2-0 by the end of the first period. Shane's shoulder throbs the entire time, but he thinks of the pain as fuel—something pushing him to keep going, do better. Win. Hayden is still on second line, but his replacement, Andropov, is finally starting to click a little better with Shane and the others. No goals yet, but the passes are connecting, and Shane is getting a feel for the Guardians goalie's weak spots.

Before the second period, he talks strategy with the team, ignoring the hostility from Comeau and his ilk. Then he wins the opening faceoff and scores the Metros' first goal of the night seconds later.

By the time there are three minutes left in the period, the Metros have scored two more goals—Shane picks up an assist on one, Hayden on the other—and the Guardians are visibly frustrated as their lead slips away. They clearly thought this game would be an easy win. The Metros dominate the ice, keeping the puck firmly on the Guardians' side. Just as Shane is about to take another shot, he's cross-checked hard from behind—sending a fresh burst of pain through his shoulder before his body slams into the glass.

"I hear you like it from behind," someone says in his ear. He glances back in time to see Dallas Kent's smirking face already skating to the penalty box as the ref blows his whistle.

Shane can barely breathe, his entire body is screaming for a fucking break, but he doesn't show it. He skates straight into position for the power play, waving off the medic on the bench. He's fine. He'll be better when they win this fucking game.

Shane scores.

Nearing the end of the third period, Shane is running on fumes. The Metros are maintaining their 4-2 lead, and the Guardians are playing mad about it—but at least they're spreading their animosity to the whole team and not just Shane. When Comeau gets slammed into the boards at one point, Shane struggles to keep his face neutral. But when Andropov is tripped by Kent, Shane drops his gloves without even thinking about it.

Kent sees him coming and looks delighted, dropping his own gloves. Shane reaches out, grabs his jersey, and yanks hard, trying to throw him off balance. But Kent moves smoothly, gets alongside Shane, and snakes an arm around his neck before ripping his helmet off. Shane clutches at Kent's jersey, still trying to drag him down to the ice, when a burst of pain flares in his jaw. Kent lands a few more punches before Shane finally succeeds in unbalancing them both and they fall to the ice. As the ref and linesman get in between them, Kent laughs. "You like it on your knees, Hollander?” Shane spits blood onto the ice in front of him before the ref leads him away.

No more goals are scored, and the Metros win 4-2. Finally.

--

Seconds after Shane walks in the door at Hayden's house, Andropov hands him a beer. "Thanks again, cap."

Shane takes it with a nod, then laughs. "Well, I wish I'd actually got a punch in, but—"

"Still. Appreciate it."

Hayden walks up with a big smile and claps Shane on his good shoulder. "Glad you came, man!"

"Me too," Shane says, almost meaning it.

It had been an afternoon game, so it's only early evening, but Shane wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with a few ice packs. But Jackie and Hayden invited him, and he desperately wants things to get back to normal, so he'll grin and bear it. He just has to get through a few more hours and then can enjoy the next two days off before the Metros start their road trip. Shane needs the rest.

"Hollander! About time!" JJ calls out as Shane steps into the living room.

He immediately feels more at ease at seeing JJ, and so far no overtly unfriendly faces like those of Comeau and Drapeau. Shane takes a seat next to him, wincing as he presses his sore back against the cushion. "What'd you think of the game?"

JJ slaps Shane's knee enthusiastically. "Beaucoup mieux! I'm taking credit because I was in the building. I think you guys cannot play without me around, non?"

"Well, that's only part of the problem," Shane laughs.

JJ's face turns serious at that, and he leans in to ask, "That video really fucked things up around here?"

Shane isn't sure if JJ means it to sound accusatory, but his stomach sinks either way because, yes, he really did fuck things up around here. He sighs. "I guess. Everybody wants to make it something it's not."

"Ah oui, your illicit affair with Hayden Pike, you mean?" JJ rolls his eyes, grinning.

Shane grins back, relieved to see it treated like the nonsense it is.

"Hollander, you just have to make an honest woman out of Lily, and everyone will move on!"

The grin falls from Shane's face. Another teammate strikes up conversation with JJ, and Shane gets up to head for the kitchen, clutching his unopened beer in his fist.

He puts the beer in the fridge and eyes the spread set up on the counter: pizza, wings, fries, and more food that just isn't appealing right now, even though he should be starving after the game. He wants to go home.

"Shane, you made it!" Jackie pulls him into a hug. "Long time no see."

Shane smiles and tells her it hasn't been that long. He'd been worrying all day about seeing her, guilty over stressing her out with everything going on, but looking at her now, she just seems genuinely happy to see him. He glances down at her belly. "Congratulations. Hayd said you guys are having a boy? Are the twins excited?"

Jackie smiles brightly and laughs. "'Excited' might be too strong a word. They wanted another sister if anything, but they'll come around."

"Are they here?"

"No, they're staying with my mom tonight. She's been helping out a lot lately." She rolls her eyes. "She wanted me to stay over too, like I'm too fragile to be around a bunch of hockey players for a few hours."

"Everything's going okay with...?"

"Yes, everything's fine. Everybody keeps asking—it's getting kind of annoying." She reaches out and squeezes Shane's shoulders. "It's my turn to be annoying. How are you?"

He can't think of another answer, so just shrugs. "Fine."

"Yeah? I think one of us might be lying," she says in a playfully sing-song way.

"But which one?"

Jackie pulls him into another hug, and Shane flinches as her hand brushes over his injured shoulder. She pulls away, then frowns at the food next to them. "Did you eat?"

"I'm not really that hungry."

She raises an eyebrow at him, not convinced. "I made you a salad." She grabs a bowl out of the fridge and hands it to him along with a fork. He takes it gratefully and sits at the kitchen table. "You don't want to go back out there with the guys?"

The loud conversations and laughter from the next room carry over. Not really, he thinks. "In a bit. It's been a long day."

Jackie grabs a slice of pizza and takes a seat across from him. She takes a bite and watches him thoughtfully, but doesn't say anything.

Shane suddenly feels self-conscious chewing his salad and covers his mouth. He swallows, then says, "I'm sorry about everything."

"Everything?"

Shane gives her a look—why does everybody play dumb about this?—and clarifies. "The video? Everybody calling Hayden a cheater. All that shit."

"I wouldn't call a few unhinged people on the internet 'everybody'. The people who matter know he's not a cheater. None of that other stuff matters."

"Right... but still. I'm sorry you had to find out the way you did. And that it was... upsetting."

"Shane." Jackie reaches across the table to take his hand. "I cried at a car insurance commercial yesterday. Ruby was holding my hand the other day, and I cried just because she looked so cute. I'm pregnant—I cry a lot. It's not a big deal."

She gives his hand a squeeze. When he says nothing, she adds, "I grew up Catholic. What's your excuse?"

"My excuse?"

"For carrying around so much guilt all the time. You don't need to."

Shane is momentarily taken aback by the concept. But then he sets his jaw and tells her, "I have something to be guilty about, though."

"No, you don't," she says simply. "None of this is your fault."

"None of it?" Shane feels a bit like his brain is short-circuiting. He's not looking to feel sorry for himself, but nobody is holding him accountable to the correct degree. They're either blaming him too much, like Drapeau, or blaming him too little, like Jackie. Shane doesn't know what to do with any of it.

"No," Jackie repeats. "You and Hayden made a mistake not double-checking the video. But all this happening? That's the fault of the guy who sold it, and the tabloid who bought it. I blame them and only them."

Shane goes back to eating his salad, unsure of how to continue the conversation. Yeah, that guy and the tabloid suck, but they were only given the opportunity to suck because of Shane's actions. Pretending otherwise doesn't change what happened.

Jackie finishes her slice of pizza. "Is Lily ever in Montreal?"

Shane's hand, holding a forkful of salad, freezes halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"Is she ever here? I'd really like to invite you guys over for dinner sometime so I can meet her."

Slowly lowering his fork back to the bowl, Shane takes a deep breath, then clasps his hands together under the table. He doesn't even have the energy to lie, his mind blank with exhaustion. His thoughts circle around the idea of guilt—does fucking Ilya make Shane feel guilty? No. Fucking Ilya feels amazing. The guilt comes from the secrecy, from the endless fucking lying. You don't need to, she said. Don't need to carry guilt. Shane is simply too tired to carry anything right now. He glances at the kitchen doorway; no one's nearby. It's just him and Jackie.

"The video was for a guy. Lily doesn't exist."

A look of shock passes over Jackie's features, and Shane's stomach drops immediately. Fuck, he said it out loud. He stands up suddenly—he has to leave, put distance between himself and what just came out of his mouth—but as soon as he does, Jackie stands too. She hurries to his side of the table, grabbing his hand, and with a surprising amount of strength pulls him back into his chair while taking the seat beside him. The shock is gone from her face, replaced by a smile and not a hint of judgement. She leans in and hugs him. After a moment of hesitation, Shane hugs her back. His heart is hammering in his chest—he wonders if Jackie can feel it.

"Don't tell Hayden. Please." His voice sounds small.

Jackie pulls back and looks him in the eye. She shakes her head. "I won't. I promise."

Shane believes her, he thinks he does, but it doesn't ease the tension building in his neck and shoulders. He said it out loud. He ends the hug and sinks back into his chair, closing his eyes. He told someone, and the world didn't end—at least, not yet.

"I think you should tell him, though," Jackie says.

Shane opens his eyes, wanting to say something, but no words come. I can't tell a hockey player, he thinks. They can never know. It's a thought he's carried somewhere in the back of his mind since this whole thing with Ilya started. And that thought has only been reinforced during the fallout of this whole video debacle.

Jackie watches him, waiting. After another moment, she says, "We have gay friends."

"Oh, I'm not—" Shane stops himself. He feels the urge to get up and run again.

"I just mean... Hayden would be okay. To tell." Jackie places her hand gently on Shane's arm. "When you're ready."

Shane nods tersely. He's not even ready for this conversation; thinking about having it with Hayden... No, that's not happening. He can hear Hayden laughing in the next room, along with snippets of guys talking shit about Dallas Kent, and others discussing their upcoming games on the road.

"Can I ask... is Lily like a go-to name?"

Still distracted by the conversations from the living room, Shane takes a second to process the question. "What do you mean?"

"I don't remember exactly when Hayden first told me about Lily, but it's been years. Is that like... a name you use for every guy, or has it been one—the same one—this whole time?"

"Oh." Shane blinks. "Just the one."

Jackie studies his face. "Do you love him?"

The question catches Shane off guard, but then he realizes that, yeah, he's been hooking up with Ilya for years. It’s a reasonable question.

"Um..." He looks into Jackie's eyes. "I don't know."

She smiles. "Well. Then I'd still like you guys to come over for dinner sometime." Shane must look panicked because she adds, "When you're ready."

After more hugging, Jackie sends him back to the living room, and Shane spends the next hour trying to act and feel normal. Everyone is happy about the win against the Guardians, so the vibes are good. Shane is even able to relax a little and talk hockey. He's just starting to think about leaving when he gets a text.

I am in Ottawa. I come there or you come here?

It's from Ilya. The Raiders played the Centaurs earlier tonight. Shane stares at the screen, confused about what's being asked of him. He texts back.

for what?

Ilya responds immediately:

you need to fight

That only confuses Shane more. Fight Ilya? No, that can't be right. Does he mean metaphorically? Shane has been fighting; he's starting to stand up against people like Drapeau, he and the Metros won their game today—he's been growing a thicker skin.

I am fighting

things have been getting better

Shane glances around to make sure no one can see his screen. He doesn't want to hear any more about 'Lily' tonight.

His phone vibrates in his hand with another text from Ilya.

No, I mean you need to punch people in the face

Chapter End Notes

Shane just wants the correct grade in Blame, something which is both normal to want and possible to receive

Chapter 12: you think i'm pretty

Ilya is freezing his ass off in a random Tim Horton's parking lot. Shane didn’t want to risk picking him up at the hotel. "Finally," he mutters when Shane's car pulls up. A boring, black, boxy vehicle—the exact opposite of anything Ilya would ever choose to drive. It's too practical. It suits Shane.

He opens the passenger door. "Hollander, you look like shit," he says, climbing in. Shane has dark circles under his eyes, a bruised jaw, and a split lip. He's still beautiful.

Shane glares at him. "Thanks. Why the fuck did I just drive two hours to Ottawa in the middle of the night?"

Ilya scoffs. "Please. It is barely eleven o'clock." He glances out the window as Shane drives out of the parking lot and onto the road. "You know of ice?"

"Heard of it."

Now it's Ilya's turn to glare. "A rink."

Shane glances at Ilya and grins before turning his eyes back to the road. "Yeah, there's a small town like twenty minutes away where my cousin used to live. There's an old barn we used to sneak into when we were kids. Hopefully they haven't upgraded their security."

"You have all your hockey stuff?"

Shane nods, letting out a huff of impatience at the same time. "Yes, I brought my stuff, yes, I know a rink we can go to—I drove all the way here and did everything you asked. Now what the fuck are we doing?"

Ilya usually enjoys getting a reaction out of Shane, but there seems to be more of an edge to him tonight. Ilya briefly wonders if this was a bad idea, but then pushes the thought away. He's in a car alone with Shane, and when has that ever happened? "I'm going to show you how to fight."

"I know how to fight." Shane's voice is flat; he's offended. "This is about Dallas Kent, or what?"

"No. It is about every team who thinks they can push you around and get away with it. Your team lets them get away with it—even tonight. You went after Kent for Andropov. Nobody went after Kent for you. You texted 'things have been getting better', but I do not see that."

"We won tonight," Shane says, sounding a little petulant.

"Ah, and you want to look like this after every game you win?" Ilya asks, gesturing to Shane's face. "Maybe during the playoffs, but you will not make it that far if this is what it takes to win now. No. If your team will not do it, you will have to."

"Do what?"

"Fight! You have become an easy target—stop being a target."

Shane says nothing but is shaking his head. Ilya stares at him, eyebrows raised, until Shane finally responds.

"I know how to fight."

Ilya just says, "Hm. We will see." They drive the rest of the way in silence.

Luckily, it appears the old barn hasn't upgraded its security, and Shane manages to wrench open a rickety back door so they can slip inside. The rink itself is fairly small, the building rundown, but it'll do for tonight. It’s not like the two of them can just go to any rink in public without it causing a scene—though ‘Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Caught Breaking and Entering’ would also cause a bit of a stir. But it’s midnight in the middle of nowhere, Canada, and Ilya isn’t worried about getting caught. He’s just worried about Shane.

Shane and Ilya pull on their hockey gear, Ilya allowing the silence to stretch as Shane clearly isn't in a talkative mood—even for him. Ilya gets a better look at his face under the harsh lighting, and makes a mental note to pay Dallas Kent back in kind the next time the Raiders play the Guardians.

"Okay?" Ilya asks before they step onto the ice. They do a few laps to warm up, with Shane still looking lost in thought.

Ilya slaps his gloves together, getting Shane's attention, and calls out, "Okay, over here!" Shane skates up to him. "Fight me," Ilya says with a smile, spreading his arms open and flinging his gloves off.

Shane can't help but smile back, but he just stands there awkwardly, making no move to fight. "This is stupid."

"Is not. Come on." He reaches out and gently shoves Shane. "Fight me."

"I already know how to do this; this is stupid. Okay, fine, the fight today with Kent didn't go great, but—"

"Hollander," Ilya says, suddenly serious. "You are star centre. You have not had to really fight in long time. Today with Kent, you tried to end fight, not win it. You need to want to win."

Shane takes a moment, thinking it over, then says, "So, what, you want me to just punch you?"

Ilya smirks. "I want you to try." He skates backward. "Pretend I just tripped you. Now come fight me—make me regret it. Make everyone else think twice about trying it next."

Shane drops his gloves and charges him, and Ilya playfully tries to evade him. He wants to be caught. Shane grabs a fistful of his jersey and jerks him forward—repeating the same move from earlier that day with Kent. Ilya catches hold of Shane's jersey too.

"What is this?" Ilya asks. "This does nothing. You cannot be afraid to punch. Grab jersey, yes—then hold on and punch. No more pulling." He lets go and skates away from Shane. "Again."

They run through a few more drills until Shane actually lands a punch on Ilya's jaw. "Shit, sorry!"

Ilya laughs. "Getting better. Do not apologize when you fight for real."

Shane looks concerned and cups Ilya's jaw in one hand, inspecting it for damage. It wasn't a very hard hit, but Ilya keeps that to himself. "I think maybe you broke it,” he says with a pout.

"Shut the fuck up." Shane lets go of his jaw and pushes him away, laughing. "Let's go again."

They continue on for another hour, both of them racking up a few well-earned bruises, until Ilya calls it for the night. Shane seems reluctant to stop even though he looks like he's about ready to pass out, but Ilya insists. They get changed, skipping the showers that look like they haven't been cleaned in about a decade, and Ilya suggests Shane come back with him to the hotel. "Is late, no one will see you." But Shane shakes his head, not willing to risk it.

Once they're in the car, though, Shane has another idea. "My parents are out of town. My mom texted me after my game today to check in because of the fight, and told me." He glances at Ilya. "We could go to their house."

Ilya keeps his expression nonchalant even though every part of his body just lit up with excitement. "Sure. If you want."

Without another word, Shane starts the car.

--

Ilya can't stop smiling as Shane leads him through his childhood home. Pictures of Shane cover the walls, documenting his journey from adorable baby to cute kid to lanky teenager, and finally to the devastatingly gorgeous man he is today. His heart warms at the sight of how openly Shane's parents love him—their walls a shrine to their pride and joy. Ilya only remembers cold, bare walls in his own childhood home after a certain age, aside from the ostentatious art displayed for its price tag rather than its beauty. This home is warm, like Shane is warm.

"The bathroom's just through here. We can shower," Shane is saying, and Ilya forces his attention back to the impromptu tour. He follows Shane through a door and eagerly removes his T-shirt before reaching for Shane's. Shane turns to face him and raises his arms as Ilya drags the fabric over his body.

"Fuck," Ilya says. The bruises covering Shane are darker than the last time Ilya saw him, and there are more of them. The anger he felt at seeing them the first time—anger at the players who did it, anger at Shane's team for letting it happen—rushes back all at once.

"It looks worse than it is," Shane says, overly casual.

Ilya catches sight of Shane's back in the mirror and winces at his shoulder. A long cut—or maybe a rash—looking red and angry is visible beneath a few haphazardly applied bandages. "What happened there?"

Shane glances back at the mirror and shrugs. "Oh, I just tripped in the locker room. Fell against the edge of my stall."

"You would have to trip pretty hard to do that. Backwards." 

Shane steps forward, reaching for Ilya's fly, but Ilya catches his hand. He wants Shane to look at him, but Shane keeps his gaze lowered. Ilya places a finger beneath Shane's chin and lifts his face to meet his eyes. "You tripped?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Not tonight, okay?" His eyes drift slowly to Ilya's lips as his hand reaches again for Ilya's fly. Shane looks so tired, so done with discussing things he'd rather not, that Ilya decides to drop it—for now. He wants to help Shane feel good, so he lets him finish undressing them both, and they step into the shower together.

Shane steps under the stream of water first, with Ilya behind him. Ilya pours body wash into his hands, lathers it up, and gently rubs it over Shane's back, taking extra care around his shoulder. Shane leans back against Ilya, reaching up into his hair and pulling his head in for a kiss. Ilya continues working the soap over Shane's body as they kiss, slow and unhurried.

"I missed you," Shane murmurs. He turns around and presses his body against Ilya's, pulling him under the shower stream. Ilya quickly lathers and rinses himself, eager to get the actual shower part over with. They're both hard, rubbing lazily against each other, enjoying being skin to skin.

Ilya missed him too. "Where is your bed?" Ilya asks.

After drying off, Ilya insists on putting fresh Band-Aids on Shane's shoulder before they leave the bathroom. "You are allowed to ask for help, you know," Ilya tells him. "You cannot properly bandage your own back." Shane just nods. Once Ilya is done, he turns Shane around by the shoulders and kisses him. "Bedroom now?" Shane smiles and nods.

Shane leads him to a room down the hall from the bathroom, turning on the bedside lamp before dropping onto the bed. Ilya takes just a moment to glance around—so this is where Shane Hollander grew up, he thinks—before joining him. He lowers himself over Shane and places a gentle kiss over his split lip. "Does this feel okay?" he asks.

"Yes," Shane whispers. He runs his hands over Ilya's back, then trails them down his arms.

Ilya rakes his eyes over Shane's body, the bruising somewhat less harsh under the warm light. He leans down and trails soft kisses over every bruise he sees, travelling from Shane's shoulders to his pecs, down to his ribs, slowly making his way to his waist. Shane whines, pressing his hips up, urging Ilya to put his mouth where he needs him.

Ilya smiles. "Patience." He shifts to the other side of Shane's waist before slowly making the journey back up his body, kissing and licking all the way. Shane's hands find Ilya's arms again, digging into the muscle as Ilya places kisses along his collarbone. "Turn over."

Shane flips onto his stomach beneath Ilya with a soft grunt. Ilya drags a hand over the injury on Shane's shoulder, his touch feather-light, then kisses the bandages. He wants to take all of these marks away from Shane, undo everything that has ever hurt him, but kissing them is all he can do. So he takes his time, kissing and massaging Shane's back, legs, and ass.

Ilya lets out a low moan as he finally drags his tongue between Shane's ass cheeks. He reaches down and strokes himself, suddenly wondering if he remembered to bring lube. He tongues Shane's hole, firmly gripping one cheek, then pulls back to give the other cheek a playful bite. Shane doesn't react, so Ilya glances up—is he not in the mood for anal? does he just want a blowjob instead?—and sees Shane's eyes are closed, his breathing slow and even.

"Shane?"

He slides off Shane and crawls up the bed to lie beside him, examining his face. Shane is fast asleep.

Ilya's pride might be hurt if he hadn't seen firsthand just how exhausted Shane had been all night. He watches Shane sleep for a few minutes, enjoying the peace of it, before quietly getting up. Shane is lying on top of the bedsheets, so Ilya takes a throw blanket from the chair by the door and drapes it over Shane's naked body.

In need of some relief, Ilya goes into the bathroom to quickly jerk himself off. He returns to Shane's bedroom and turns off the bedside lamp before carefully lying down beside him, trying hard not to disturb him—Shane needs all the rest he can get.

Shane sighs in his sleep and rolls onto his side, shifting closer to Ilya. Ilya slips under the blanket with him, curling against his back, and listens to Shane's soft breathing until sleep takes him.

Chapter 13: you think

Chapter Notes

Shane doesn't know where the fuck he is when he wakes up. He hears what sounds like dishes clattering somewhere, and is assaulted by sunlight as soon as he opens his eyes. He always remembers to close his blackout curtains before bed, so what the fuck. Shane rolls over, away from the sun streaming in the window, and remembers he's at his parents' house in Ottawa. Dishes continue to clatter in the kitchen; he smells bacon. Shane stumbles out of the bed, feeling every bit as stiff and beaten up as his body looks, and rummages in the dresser for some old clothes to pull on.

He walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, to find Ilya standing at the stove—shirtless and wearing a familiar pair of joggers. Shane stares at them for a moment before letting his gaze roam appreciatively over Ilya's muscular back.

"Are those my pants?"

Ilya startles at his voice and turns around. He smiles and gives Shane a shrug. "Yes. I took them from your dresser."

Shane comes to stand next to Ilya, smiling at the sight of him cooking. "You're... making breakfast?"

"Yes, I hope is okay—using your parents' food, I mean."

"Yeah, it's fine," Shane says, nodding, endeared. He can't believe Ilya Rozanov is standing in his childhood home and cooking him breakfast right now; it feels surreal. Especially after they'd spent a not insignificant amount of time the previous night trying to punch each other in the face. And then afterward—

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry about last night," Shane says. He has a foggy memory of Ilya being on top of him in bed, kissing him, and then... nothing. "I fell asleep."

Ilya spreads the eggs and bacon between two plates and carries them to the table. "Yes, you fell asleep with my tongue in your ass. Not my best work, ah?"

"Jesus Christ," Shane laughs, feeling his face get hot. "It wasn't you, I was just exhausted. But sorry."

"You want toast?" Ilya asks, adding two cups of coffee next to their plates.

"No, this looks great."

They sit across from each other, and Shane notices Ilya watching him take a bite of bacon. "What?"

"You look good."

Shane self-consciously runs a finger over his split lip. "I bet," he says sarcastically.

"The circles under your eyes are gone. You had good sleep?"

"Yeah, really good." The fact is he hasn't slept so soundly since the last time he and Ilya spent the night together. Shane's body still hurts basically all over, but he feels well rested in a way he's starting to associate with Ilya. Ilya keeps staring.

"What?" Shane asks again. 

The corners of Ilya's lips quirk up as he studies Shane's face. "I never see you in daylight. Is nice."

Hearing this stills something in Shane, and he finds himself studying Ilya's face right back. Ilya does look different in the sunlight; his blue-green eyes practically glow, and there are golden hues in his curls Shane hasn't noticed before. The stolen hours they've shared together in hotels, and even their homes, over the years have all happened after games, at night—hidden away in the dark like shameful secrets. Sitting across the table from each other, having breakfast with morning sun shining on them both, like they have nothing to hide, suddenly overwhelms Shane. Just a bit. He has to look away, trying to push away the question Jackie had asked him yesterday—the same one he's now asking himself.

"Can you talk about your shoulder now?" Ilya asks, finally lowering his gaze to his plate.

Shane is grateful for the change in topic, even if it's yet another thing he'd rather not think about. "It was just an accident."

"So you did not trip?"

"I... things got kind of heated in the locker room, I guess. Um..." Shane doesn't want to say what really happened, doesn't want Ilya to make a big deal out of it. But judging by the look of anger on Ilya's face, he's already assuming the worst—the truth.

"A Metro did it to you?"

Shane shrugs. "I said some shit to him."

Ilya gives him a skeptical look. "Ah, and he did not say shit to you first? Who?"

"It doesn't matter," Shane says, shaking his head. "It happened. It's over."

"No, is not over until I return the favour." Ilya downs the last of his coffee. "So tell me who."

"I can take care of myself, Rozanov," Shane says sharply, bristling. He should be able to take care of himself, anyway. But every time he thinks back to the incident with Drapeau, a fresh wave of anger and humiliation washes over him—it shouldn't have happened. Shane shouldn't have letit happen. And now Ilya's trying to ride in on a white horse to, what, defend Shane's honour like he's some damsel in distress? No. Shane needs to fight his own battles—wasn't that the whole point of last night's impromptu training session? He softens his tone. "My punching's improved, right?"

Ilya purses his lips; Shane can tell he wants to argue.

He rounds the table, slipping into the chair next to Ilya, resting his hand on his leg under the table. "I appreciate you wanting to help. But I don't need help with this."

"It is okay to need help," Ilya says, looking out the window instead of at Shane. "Does not make you weak."

"Sure," Shane agrees, feeling weak.

He strokes his hand along Ilya's leg, moving up his thigh. Ilya glances down at his hand, then at Shane, raising his eyebrows.

"Do you have time? Before your flight?" Shane asks.

Ilya pauses for a moment, then nods. His breath hitches and his lips fall open as Shane's hand brushes over his cock, already hardening beneath the thin fabric.

Shane pushes his chair back, dropping to his knees as Ilya turns in his seat to face him. He hastily pulls his pants down and takes Ilya's cock in his mouth with an eager moan. Ilya groans with relief above him, running a hand gently through Shane's hair and letting him set the pace.

He loves having Ilya's cock in his mouth, loves the raw sounds he can pull from Ilya with just a flick of his tongue—sounds Shane can replay in his head during the long stretches of time between seeing each other. He comes up for a deep breath of air before pressing Ilya's cock against his cheek, looking up. Ilya stares down at him, breathing hard, and fuck his eyes are beautiful in this light. Shane takes him in his mouth again.

"Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans.

Shane feels Ilya's body tensing and it spurs him on—this is something he knows how to do, loves to do. His cheeks are hollowed out as he takes Ilya deep in his throat; he focuses on the sounds Ilya is making, the way his hand tightens in Shane's hair.

Just when Shane thinks he's about to finish, Ilya pulls away with a gasp.

Panting, he tells Shane, "I want to fuck you."

--

Shane, on his knees and elbows on the bed, gasps as Ilya slides two fingers in and out of him. Just fuck me already, he thinks desperately but doesn't say out loud—Ilya would only make him wait longer.

Ilya is teasing him, grazing over his prostate until Shane squirms, desperate for more. A whiny groan slips out of him, and he smiles to himself when he immediately hears the rustle of a condom wrapper. Apparently Ilya can't wait another second either.

He pushes inside Shane with a low, throaty grunt. Shane sighs as Ilya takes hold of his waist and draws him closer, easing him onto Ilya's full length. He holds there for a moment as they both groan at the sensation, before Ilya starts to move, slow and deliberate, inside Shane. Shane stretches his arms out in front of him, pushing his ass back against Ilya, breath hitching as he takes him deep. He wants it harder, rougher, but Ilya keeps the same languid pace.

So Shane pointedly thrusts himself back, panting, hoping Ilya will take the hint. Instead, Ilya leans over him and presses kisses up his back, being maddeningly gentle.

"I won't break, you know," Shane says, his words catching in his throat as Ilya hits just the right angle.

"Break?"

"If you're taking it easy because of my shoulder, or any of it. You don't have to."

Ilya kisses the nape of his neck. "This does not feel good?"

Shane presses his face into the mattress and nods. "Yes. It feels good." His voice is shaky; it does feel good, it feels very fucking good. But it would feel better if—

"But you want something else?" Ilya asks, still moving inside him.

Shane nods again, breathless.

Ilya runs a hand up Shane's back and fists his hair, pulling his face up from the mattress. His lips brush Shane's ear as he speaks in a low voice. "You want something, ask for it."

A shuddering breath leaves Shane. "I want you to fuck me harder."

Still bent over him, Ilya drives into him with sudden force, groaning beside his ear. "Like this?"

“Fuck, yes.”

Ilya releases his hair and shifts behind Shane, setting a harder pace, making him moan louder. "This is okay?" Ilya asks. 

Shane props himself up on trembling hands and glances back at Ilya. ”I’m not fragile.”

Ilya reaches around him and hauls him upright, Shane's back pressed to his chest as he roughly thrusts up into him. "No," Ilya says against his skin. "But you are precious.” These words drive all thoughts out of Shane’s head. He reaches back, needing to touch any part of Ilya—he grabs his ass, squeezing the ample flesh, enjoying the feel of his muscles flexing with each thrust.

Shane clenches his eyes shut as Ilya firmly grips his cock, stroking it as he fucks him. His other arm is still spread over Shane’s chest, holding him in place, making him take it just how he likes.

“Oh, fuck," Shane gasps, unable to hold back. It's all too much, too good; Ilya's hand on his cock and his dick in his ass, a stream of incomprehensible Russian being grunted in his ear, warm breath on his neck. "I'm going to come." He says it as it's already happening.

Ilya loosens his grip on Shane, letting him fall to the bed, and reaches his own release after a few more frenzied thrusts. They collapse in a sweaty, breathless heap together, laughing and sighing.

Shane kisses him. "See? I didn't break."

After getting cleaned up, they're curled up in bed together, Shane's head resting against Ilya's chest. Ilya glances down at him, a smile playing on his lips. "I think Marly has a crush on you."

Shane immediately laughs. "Yeah? Why do you think that?"

"He is always talking about how pretty you are whenever your name comes up."

"I really doubt that," Shane says, unsure if Ilya is joking. Shane doesn't really know Cliff Marleau beyond meeting him in passing, but he strikes him as being a typical jock hockey player. Shane's seen plenty of social media posts of him next to Ilya on nights out with the Raiders, the two of them usually surrounded by girls.

"Is true," Ilya says with a shrug. "Maybe he does not know he has crush on you. But I think he does. I think same thing of Pike."

"What, that you have a crush on him?"

Shane’s hand has been idly resting on Ilya's chest, but at this, Ilya swats it away. "Do not ever accuse me of liking Hayden Pike!"

"Don't blame me," Shane says, smiling. "You're the one who keeps bringing him up in bed."

"I promise, this will be last time." Ilya raises his eyebrows in earnest. "I think he is in love with you."

"Hayden? He's married to a woman and has kids. You think he's in love with me?"

Ilya shrugs. "He gets to see you every day; how could he not be?"

Shane stares into Ilya's eyes as the words settle around them. He holds back his impulse to say that his entire team sees him pretty much every day, and all of them are very much not in love with Shane, but the silence feels too charged for a joke right now.

A shadow of concern, or embarrassment maybe, crosses Ilya's face as the silence lingers. Shane tilts his head up to kiss him, to quiet any thoughts that may have him second-guessing his words. Shane knows Ilya didn't mean it like that—probably—but he doesn't want him to walk it back. They pull apart and Shane smiles, holding his gaze. After a moment, he says, "By that logic, you should be in love with Marleau."

Ilya tilts his head. "Hm?"

"You see him every day."

"Oh." Ilya smiles back at Shane. "He snores. It would never work."

Ilya's phone buzzes on the nightstand, causing them both to jump. He looks at the screen and sighs. "I have to go if I will make my flight."

Shane wants to tell him to miss the flight, to stay here with him for just a little while longer, maybe just for forever, but instead he nods. Ilya calls a cab, declining Shane's offer to drive him, and they reluctantly get up to get dressed.

Ilya pulls the borrowed joggers back on, then digs through Shane's dresser and holds up a T-shirt like a question. Shane tells him he can wear it—the dresser is full of old/spare clothes he keeps at his parents' place for when he stays over.

As they pass through the kitchen, Ilya stops. He glances at the dirty pans on the stove and the dishes and utensils scattered across the counter. "I didn't clean up." He turns to Shane. "Someone distracted me."

Shane gently pushes him forward. "You cooked; I can clean up. Don't worry about it."

As Ilya pulls on his jacket by the door, Shane tries to commit how he looks in this moment to memory—the sunlight in his eyes, the easy smile, the sex-tousled hair; all the things that are rare on their own, never mind all at once. A car honks outside. Ilya's cab. As Ilya reaches for the doorknob, Shane reaches out and grabs the front of his jacket—like he'd grabbed his jersey over and over again last night—and pulls him in for one more kiss. One to remember.

--

"Shane?"

Shane stirs awake on the couch. He looks up, bleary-eyed, and sees his dad looking down at him. "Oh, hey," he says, sitting up. His voice is raspy with sleep.

"What are you doing here?"

Shane looks around the room, trying to remember. He was supposed to clean up from breakfast, wash his sheets, and drive back to Montreal. But as soon as Ilya left, Shane laid down on the couch to rest his eyes for a minute... and now it's hours later. Whoops. "I had a couple days off, felt like coming here. What are you doing here? Where's Mom?" Yuna had texted Shane that she and David would be at her friend's cabin for a few days.

"She's still there. I had a meeting at work I couldn't miss; I'm driving back in the morning."

"Sorry about the mess," Shane says, standing up to stretch. "I was going to clean up earlier, but I fell asleep."

David rounds the couch and pulls Shane into a hug. "That's okay, I'm just happy to see you." He pulls back and nods at Shane's lip. "You feeling okay? After that fight with Dallas Kent?"

Shane rolls his eyes and steps out of his dad's grasp. "'Fight' might be too generous, but yeah, I'm okay. A little sore."

"Oh! That just reminded me—your mom got you some kind of muscle balm? She was going to mail it, but I guess I can give it to you now. She said it's good stuff." He heads for the kitchen, Shane following behind him, still disoriented from his nap. He pours himself a glass of water while his dad opens drawers and cabinets, searching for the balm. "Aha! Found it." He places a little jar next to Shane on the counter.

"Thanks," Shane says, downing his water and going for more.

"Did you have someone over?"

His stomach flips. He turns around to see his dad staring at the two sets of plates and mugs still sitting on the kitchen table from breakfast.

"Yeah, uh, a friend came over earlier."

"For breakfast?" David asks. Shane's plate still has some eggs left on it. "What time did you get here?"

"Uh—" An unending selection of truths and lies runs through Shane's head, and he can't settle on any one of them.

David must see he's floundering because he gives Shane a smile. "It's okay if you had someone over. You know you're always welcome here, and that goes for your friends too."

"I got here late last night," Shane says, feeling a bit more settled. David picks up the dishes and carries them to the dishwasher.

"Dad, I can do that."

"So can I," David says with a shrug. "Are you staying over tonight, too? I'll make us dinner."

Shane nods. "Sure, sounds good."

Later, while they eat dinner on the couch and watch a movie, David asks, "Was it Lily who was over?"

"Lily?" Hearing that name from his dad catches Shane off guard.

"Your mother told me about her."

Shane gnaws on his split lip, feeling cornered. "There's nothing to tell. She's not... I already told Mom she's not—I don't have a girlfriend." He's sick of people asking about this, sick of being made to lie.

"Hayden seemed to think you do."

"Well, Hayden's wrong." Even Shane can hear the defensiveness in his own voice. He should've left earlier, he should be at home alone right now—a place nobody asks him prying questions that he simply can't answer.

"How are you two doing?" David asks.

It takes a second for Shane to realize he means Hayden. "Good." It doesn't sound convincing, so he adds, "Getting better, I think." He hopes.

David nods. "And how are you doing? The games have looked a little rough lately."

A little rough—that's one way to describe the Metros' terrible performance recently, up until their win against the Guardians. "Yeah, everything's kind of a mess right now, I guess." Being a little honest feels better than telling yet another person he's fine when he's anything but.

"Is there anything your mother or I can do to help?" David reaches out and squeezes Shane's shoulder.

Shane shakes his head. "No. I mean... just being here helps."

"Our door's always open."

They finish dinner and the movie in comfortable silence while Shane wonders what would have happened if Ilya had still been here when David showed up. What would David have thought about the Ilya Rozanov being in his home? About him having spent the night naked and tangled up with Shane?

Shane tries to imagine a world where he and Ilya could cuddle on a couch, watch a movie with family or friends, and feel as comfortable as he does now. He's not sure if that world exists.

But it sounds nice.

Chapter End Notes

Shane said you know what this breakfast is missing? sausage

Chapter 14: i'm pretty

Ilya moves to the music, the pretty brunette in front of him running her hands underneath his shirt, looking up at him seductively. She's absolutely gorgeous in a tight, low-cut dress, her lush lips a deep red. But as they dance, all Ilya finds himself looking at are the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, just barely visible beneath her makeup.

He's a few drinks in and should be having fun, still riding the high of winning their game hours ago, but his thoughts are a swirl of conflicting wants and desires. Alexei had called him after the game and his angry words are still echoing in his ears. More shit about how Ilya is doing nothing while their father slips away. Then yelling at him for asking for updates, for wanting to understand how their father had ended up in the hospital this time—he's been waking up at night, confused about where he is, and this week had taken a fall down the stairs. Alexei blamed Ilya for the nurse not being able to prevent it. Ilya bitterly reminded Alexei that he is the one who could have done something to prevent it, he's the one who's actually there. Send me more money, then—his brother's fucking catchphrase. No amount of money can stop what's happening to their father, and they both know it.

The beautiful, freckled brunette pulls Ilya's face to hers, and he lets her, taking one last look at her freckles before closing his eyes. He tries to lose himself in the feel of her mouth, the pulsing music, the swarm of sweaty bodies around them. She runs her tongue over his teeth just as he feels her hand heading south.

Ilya hasn't been out with the team in weeks, lately preferring to stay in alone, watching hockey. Or just staring at whatever happens to be on TV, not caring much about what's on when the Metros aren't playing. He knows he's been slipping into what he thinks of as his weird moods—the kind of moods he used to watch his mother fall into, before he knew what they were called. He knows the word now, but he doesn't let himself think about it. Not now, not when his father is lost in his own mind, slowly dying a continent away while Alexei blames Ilya for it. Maybe it is his fault, somehow. Or maybe it's just easier for Alexei to lash out than to accept the truth; Ilya understands the impulse. Sometimes the mood passes quickly, sometimes it burrows under Ilya's skin and stays there until he stops noticing the weight of it. Right now, he feels it pulling at him.

He gently takes the woman's hand, stopping any further exploration, and leans down to her ear. "I need a cigarette. Thank you for the dance." He walks away, barely registering her offended expression, but he's doing her a favour. He won't be much fun tonight.

Ilya was hoping for a quiet moment alone outside, but he finds a handful of his teammates already out there, smoking and gathered around a phone. Ilya joins them, lighting up a cigarette.

Marleau looks up as Ilya approaches. "Did you see this Metros shit tonight? Hollander's on a fucking rampage."

Ilya lifts his brows, stopping the smile that threatens the corners of his lips. The Metros have fully turned around their losing streak in the past few weeks—in no small part due to Hollander's more aggressive play style lately. It's been magnetic to watch. Watching their games, Ilya feels a tinge of pride at how much more confident Shane seems compared to the weeks after the video leaked. He's also pissed as hell at the Metros for still not matching Shane's energy; it's like three teams are playing every night—the Metros, Shane, and the opposing team.

Ilya steps in beside Marleau, looking at the phone—highlights of that night's Metros game against Florida. A player checks Shane from behind after losing the puck, then shoves him for good measure, yelling something as he drops his stick. Shane turns immediately, gets him in a headlock, and finishes—wins—the fight almost as quickly as the other player started it. After weeks of this, Shane doesn't even look fazed. And of course the Metros let him handle it himself. Ilya watches Shane's teammates more than anything during these moments, as though he'll be able to tell from a look exactly who it was that hurt Shane's shoulder. Maybe Shane can forgive, or move on, but Ilya will hold grudges for them both.

"He's stealing your moves, Roz," another Raider chimes in.

"I did not know I had a, uh, patent on face punching," Ilya says, unable to tear his eyes from the screen. From Shane.

"You used that headlock move on Kent just this week. Or do you not remember breaking his nose?" Hammersmith asks.

Ilya waves his hand dismissively. "Kent is not worth remembering, no."

With the highlight video over, Hammersmith pushes his phone into his pocket. "Damn, that video leaking must have really fucked him up."

"How do you mean?" Ilya asks, taking a drag of his smoke.

"Like, I don't think I ever saw Hollander get in a fight—not a serious one, anyway—and now it's practically every game."

Ilya bristles a little. Shane wouldn't have to be fighting so much if the Metros weren't completely useless, and if the rest of the league weren't a bunch of assholes, so gleeful to throw a fellow hockey player's misfortune back in his face. So many have taken it beyond basic chirping. "You think Hollander is starting these fights for fun? That the others are not provoking him?"

Hammersmith shrugs, dropping his cigarette and smushing it with his shoe. Their teammates had all filtered back into the club by now. "I don't know. If that many people are pissing him off... he kind of seems thin-skinned. We all talk shit on the ice, and get it back. You don't see me punching everyone who chirps me."

"And how are they chirping you? Calling your mother—who they've never seen—fat? Other stupid shit like that? I think he is getting it worse right now. Personal."

"Well, what does he expect?" Hammersmith laughs. "Jerk off on video and show everybody, you're gonna hear about it. Right?" He claps Ilya on the shoulder, conversation over, and heads back inside.

Ilya knows Hammersmith is a good guy—he reminds himself of that as anger simmers somewhere beneath the surface—which somehow makes his casual disregard for Shane worse. Like no matter what happens to Shane, it's all his fault. Because of the video. Because he made a mistake. And for as much as Shane was clear he didn't blame Ilya, the truth is Ilya is the one who asked for that video. Fuck.

He thinks back to Alexei's badgering from earlier that night—his anger and blame about anything and everything, always directed at Ilya, going back as far as he can remember. He focuses on it; he deserves at least some of it. If Shane won't give it to him, he'll get it elsewhere. He absentmindedly runs his thumb over his necklace.

"Are you saving yourself for me tonight?"

Ilya startles at the sound of Russian outside his own head; he hadn't realized he'd been leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, lost in thought. He opens his eyes to see Svetlana heading his way. He'd forgotten she was here. He'd invited her once the guys convinced him to come out; they hadn't been spending much time together lately. She reaches for the cigarette between his fingers, taking it for herself. He watches the smoke leave her lips as she leans back against the wall next to him.

"Saving myself?"

She smiles. "That pretty girl in the dress? She seemed disappointed to not go home with you. Will you be taking me home with you?" She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder as she smokes.

Ilya would like nothing more than to fall into a warm bed and lose himself in another person, to quell the inner rush of his thoughts with the outer rush of physical connection. That used to be a reliable balm to his weird moods—or a reliable distraction, at least. But he's already too distracted with his father dying, with worrying about Shane, keeping tabs on him from a distance, desperately wanting to close that distance but not knowing how—knowing he can't. He has to play hockey, earn money to send home, ignore the weird mood weighing him down while trying to do all these things at once. Svetlana wants a fun night, and Ilya just can't offer that right now.

"I think maybe not tonight," he says, taking the cigarette back for a drag.

Svetlana turns to him, studying his face, then gently presses her thumb between his eyebrows. She massages the spot, smoothing the crease that had settled there. "You look like you've been speaking with Alexei."

Ilya laughs. "Is it that obvious?"

She nods. "Anything you want to talk about?" Svetlana knows about his father's health, not all the details, but enough. She also knows Ilya doesn't like to talk about it.

"No, but thank you. You should go back in. I think I will go home."

"Are you sure you want to be alone?"

The problem is, the answer is no. Ilya doesn't want to be alone. But the solution to that is not here. Not in this club. Not even in Boston.

He nods anyway. "Yes. Have a good night."

--

Back in the silence of his home, Ilya finds himself fighting the urge to do something he's been resisting since he left Ottawa—to text Shane. They only text when they're in the same city, or soon will be, to organize their hookup locations. Their next opportunity is still a ways away, but Ilya has wanted to reach out since the door closed behind him on the porch of Shane's childhood home. He just wants to say good morning, or good night, but the words look silly typed out on screen. They're not enough.

He lies down on his couch, covering his eyes with one arm. Maybe he should have brought someone home with him; he wouldn't be thinking these things if he was busy with someone else. But thinking back to that last morning he'd spent with Shane, cooking him breakfast and then fucking him—I want you to fuck me harder playing on a loop in Ilya's head since Shane had uttered the words—how could anyone else compare? What would be the point?

Then other words come back to him. I missed you. But Shane had been practically delirious with exhaustion when he'd said that; maybe he just meant Ilya's body, his dick, what he could do for Shane that no one else could. Because he doesn't trust anybody else the way he trusts Ilya. Even when he shouldn't, Ilya thinks, guilt about the video biting at him again. But then again, Shane was often refreshingly direct with his words. Maybe he really meant it just as simply as he'd said it: he missed Ilya. Maybe he misses him now. Maybe a text—even a silly one to say good night—would be welcome.

Ilya pushes himself up from the couch and heads to his bedroom. He opens a dresser drawer—Shane's drawer—and runs his fingers over the small collection of Shane's clothes he's amassed. Another urge rises up, and this one he doesn't fight. He doesn't think about it—just snaps a picture and sends it to Shane. Smiling to himself, he gets ready for bed, exhausted from the game and the club; even if Shane doesn't text back, Ilya feels a little lighter having sent him something.

Just as he's sliding under his covers, his phone vibrates. A text from Shane.

clothes thief 😠

Ilya smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

yes 😏

good night

good night

Chapter 15: cruel

Chapter Notes

"Shane, honey, can we talk?"

Yuna sets her bag on the entryway table as Shane closes the door of his apartment behind them. They'd just spent two hours talking about sponsorships over breakfast, so this question makes Shane's stomach sink. What did I do now? What couldn't she bring up at the restaurant?

"Sure."

"Oh, I brought you some more of that muscle balm," she says, pulling a small jar out of her bag. "It's been helping?"

"Yeah, it's good."

"I just wish they made them bigger, considering how fast you go through it."

Shane takes it, alternating it between his hands, antsy. "Well, I think this one will last a little longer," he says. Since training with Ilya, Shane's been more physical on the ice which has somehow resulted in much less bruising and muscle pain in the past few weeks. Some players are still targeting him, but he's made it less fun for them at least.

He follows his mother to the couch and takes a seat beside her, still fiddling with the jar in his hands. He runs through their conversation from breakfast, recent texts—anything that might prepare him for what this could possibly be about. 

"So, as I said earlier, the sponsors are okay."

Shane nods. He already knows she smoothed things over with them after the embarrassment of the video.

"But there have been some... unofficial concerns recently." She reaches out to cup Shane's chin, turning his face slightly to inspect his jaw. There's some light bruising there from his fight last night. Or maybe from a previous game, a previous fight. There's no shortage to choose from. "And not just from sponsors."

Shane gently pulls away, asking, "Unofficial concerns? Like what?"

"You've been fighting a lot," Yuna says, her lips pursed.

"Yeah. And winning games." He sounds more defensive than he means to be, but he's really tired of his every move being questioned and criticized. Not just by his mother. If fighting more is what it takes to win, to get guys to back off while playing, then that's what he'll do.

"Yes. But it's... not like you. The fighting. You didn't get where you are with an aggressive play style. And that, along with all the internet stuff... it's starting to paint a picture that just isn't you."

"Internet stuff?"

Yuna clicks her tongue, obviously uncomfortable with this entire conversation. But she forges ahead. "There are a lot of women online claiming, I don't know, that they've had one night stands with you? That the video was for them. Or that there are other videos, I don't know."

"Mom." Shane shakes his head. "I already told you none of that's true. I can't control what complete strangers say on Twitter."

"I know, honey. And I know you've already said no to what I'm about to say, but maybe releasing a statement—"

"Mom."

"—saying you're in a committed relationship, or—"

Shane stands up. "Mom!"

Yuna sighs, leaning back into the couch.

"First of all, I'm not in a committed relationship, so you want me to lie?"

"If you had been in a relationship when you sent the video—"

"I wasn't."

"Shane. Your father told me you had someone over at our place when we were gone."

Shane runs his hands through his hair, exasperated. "Yeah, and I already told him it wasn't Lily, if that's where you're going with this. I'm not going to release a statement—or do anything—that involves Lily. We've been over this."

"I just think it would help."

Shane drops back onto the couch with a deep sigh. No, dragging in the fictional woman who only exists as a cover for him secretly fucking a fellow hockey player for years would decidedly not help things. "What exactly are these 'unofficial concerns' we're talking about?"

"The video, the fighting, all these women... This isn't what brands signed up for. If they wanted that, they would've signed someone like, I don't know, Ilya Rozanov."

Shane's throat tightens at Ilya's name, and at the note of disgust in his mother's voice as she says it. In another world, maybe Yuna would be able to see the humour in all of this, if she only knew. If she knew the video was for Ilya. That Ilya's the one who encouraged him to fight—not to mention their other extracurricular activities with each other. The very idea of Shane being some kind of fuckboy womanizer...

If only she knew.

"You mean they want me to keep being the polite, non-threatening Asian boy?" Shane asks, an edge in his voice.

Yuna sighs. "That's not what I said."

"No, but it's what they mean. You know that as well as I do."

"Honey... you have a tighter rope to walk than other players, and it's not fair. I know it's not fair, believe me I know. I just... I wish I could understand what's going on with you. I wish you would let me in—me and your father. So we'd know how to help."

"I don't need help," Shane lies. "Besides, the league already said they don't want me making statements. They still won't let me do any media. They just want to sweep it under the rug and wait for it to go away—and that's what I'm doing. I just want to play hockey, that's it." The Metros are already making that hard enough, Shane thinks. "All this other stuff... my personal life is my business." He feels a little ridiculous calling his infrequent hookups with Ilya his personal life.

"Okay." Yuna pats his leg. "And I'm happy you have a personal life. I'll be honest, your father and I have worried sometimes that hockey takes up too much space. That you didn't have room for anything else. We want you to make space for other things, and I'm sorry if we didn't—if I didn't—make that more clear over the years. So I hope one day you'll be more comfortable sharing your personal life with us." After a second, clearly thinking about the video, she adds with a small smile, "I mean... a reasonable amount."

Shane smiles back. He doesn't know what to say, so leans in and hugs her.

It's nice to hear, but he can't help wondering how much of him being with Ilya would be "reasonable" to share.

Ever.

--

Shane leaves Yuna to work in his apartment until her next round of meetings, heading to the Metros practice facility. It's a recovery day, but Theriault wants to go over last night's game tape, and Shane's got too much pent up energy not to train anyway.

He's running a little late, the talk with Yuna having distracted him, and when he walks into the video room most of the team is already gathered there in the dark.

"Hollander, just in time!" Comeau calls out. 

Shane ignores him, scanning the room for Hayden and JJ. He spots them and goes to grab the seat next to Hayden when the room briefly lights up from the screen at the front. He pauses mid stride. It's his own face on the screen, for just a second before it cuts to black. But his voice continues loudly over the speakers.

I wish you were here

Wish it was your warm mouth sucking my dick right now

"Comeau, what the fuck!" Shane shouts, his blood going cold with humiliation. There's laughter in the room, louder than the few objections. Shane can't tell who's laughing and who isn't; it all blurs into static in his ears. His body moves faster than his brain, and before he even realizes he's crossed the room, his fist is connecting with Comeau's face.

The noise in the room swells, competing with the static in Shane's ears as he and Comeau trade more hits. Shane is vaguely aware the video is still playing, but nobody's paying attention to it now. Comeau slams Shane's back into the wall, knocking the wind out of him, then drives a punch into his stomach. Shane gets one more shot into Comeau before dropping to his knees, gasping for breath.

The lights flick on. Theriault bursts into the room yelling something Shane can't make out. JJ is suddenly at his side, helping him to his feet. Hayden's in front of Comeau, yelling more things Shane can't process. When Shane finally manages a full breath, he locks eyes with Theriault across the room—and this time, he hears him.

"Hollander! My office. Now."

Shane rubs underneath his nose, his fingers streaked with blood when he pulls them away. Theriault stares at him from across the desk, not offering him a Kleenex or anything. Shane rubs his hand on his jeans.

"Do you think this is conduct becoming of a captain?"

Shane scoffs. "Comeau played the—"

Theriault waves his hand. "I don't care what Comeau did. I care what the captain of my team did in response—was it leadership?"

Shane grits his teeth together; the nerve of this fucking guy to criticize his leadership. But he's already on thin ice. "No. It wasn't leadership."

"I was very clear when this all started that I have no patience for bringing personal drama onto the ice. We're here to win games. But instead my players are fighting when they should be working. Training. And not for the first time. And you're the common denominator."

Shane's blood is boiling now. "You expect me to control everybody in the locker room? I've told them a million times to move on, focus on the game. And Comeau still pulls shit like this."

"As the captain, yes, I do expect you to set the tone. If you're incapable of doing that, if you've lost the team, then you shouldn't be in this role. And it looks like you've lost the team. Their respect."

"Does leadership end with me? Do you think you're not setting a tone in the way you do things?" Shane thinks of an earlier team meeting where Theriault essentially called Shane an attention-seeker—like that hadn't shaped how the team sees him, or encouraged how they speak about him. Great fucking leadership.

Theriault leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "I've already been speaking with the GM, and though we hadn't fully decided, I think you've made the decision for us after this display."

Shane holds his gaze, not willing to give him the satisfaction of looking upset. Of giving any reaction he may be hoping for. "You're taking my C?"

"We think it'll be for the best, for the team."

"Why don't you just fucking trade me?" Shane asks, his voice tired and flat. The thought has been hiding around corners in his mind, and now it’s all he can focus on. He needs to get the fuck out of here. Playing for Montreal had always been his mother's dream, whereas Shane's was simpler: play hockey. Win. He can do that somewhere else. Anywhere else. At this point, he doesn't care if he gets traded to fucking Alaska—it has to be better than this.

"Trade you?" Theriault asks. The genuine flicker of surprise on his face gives Shane a small surge of satisfaction.

Shane nods. "You can't have it both ways. Either I'm a valuable player this team needs, or I'm trash you should throw out. Because it seems to me that right now I'm a valuable player you're treating like trash. And that's not going to get us to the playoffs."

"Stripping you of the captaincy is not a reflection of our thoughts on you as a player—just as a captain." Theriault says, regaining his composure. "Maybe under a new captain you can earn back the team's respect, as one of them."

"I'm not interested in their respect, not from the likes of Comeau. He's been jealous of me since I got here." Saying it out loud makes Shane squirm—they're not the words of the polite, humble player his mother raised him to be. But they're the truth.

He was the young hotshot, given the captaincy almost immediately because of how he played, not because of his social skills. He knows that. He still tried to be a good captain, even in the face of hostility from players who resented him for it. He just hadn't expected them to latch onto something so desperately, just to take him down a few pegs—or that they'd never let it go.

"Then maybe you're not a good fit for the team."

"Then maybe you should fucking trade me," Shane repeats, emphasizing each word, giving in to the bitchiness running through his veins.

Theriault had never been particularly pleasant to be around, as a coach or person, but their goals used to align. The way Theriault's been acting, it feels like his only goal now is to wear Shane down until there's nothing left. It used to be winning a cup.

"We're on a good run right now, the team's turned things around since that short losing streak. Maybe we can revisit the trade discussion if things change."

Shane says nothing, just wipes more blood from his nose.

Theriault continues, "You can sit out today's meeting. Go home, get cleaned up; I'll share the captaincy update with the team."

Shane leaves without another word, anger burning under his skin. How did he get here? How could they take his C when he's still leading the league in points—even with barely any help from his own team? All because of what? Some embarrassing video that's mostly a black screen? All because he failed to live up to complete strangers' unreasonable expectations—failed to play the perfect stereotype for them?

Shane drags in a breath as he slams the car door shut, then grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. Fuck Theriault. Fuck the Metros. Fuck the guy who sold that stupid fucking video. And fuck himself for making it in the first place.

He drops his hands from the wheel. He doesn't want to go home, doesn't want to go anywhere. He pulls out his phone and stares at the photo Ilya sent him last night—his own clothes in a drawer in Ilya's house.

A wave of emotion hits him out of nowhere, and he presses his lips together, suddenly fighting the urge to cry. He starts the car, blinking his eyes until he can see clearly.

If he's going to lose it, it won't be in this fucking parking lot. Not here.

Chapter End Notes

just in case it wasn't clear: FUCK THE METROS

Chapter 16: you say i scare you?

“Shane, this is so fucked up. I’m sorry.”

Shane shrugs. “It’s fine, Hayd. You were the alternate, of course Theriault gave you the C.”

Hayden sips his beer as Jackie joins them at the table, placing another ginger ale in front of Shane as she takes her seat. Even with everything going on and the bitterness festering inside him because of it, Shane is happy to be doing something as normal as having dinner at the Pikes’ again. “Well, it’s only temporary until he names a new captain,” Hayden says, chewing his lip.

If Theriault was smart, he'd keep Hayden in the role to cause the least disruption, but Shane's not holding his breath for that. At this point, he’s sure the choice will be made out of spite more than out of what's best for the team. 

“Are you sure you don’t want ice for your face?” Jackie asks, eyeing Comeau’s handiwork with a wince.

“No, I’m good. The swelling’s already gone down a lot.” It’s the day after The Incident—the name Shane has given yesterday’s shitshow in his head—and he’s feeling much calmer about things. It’s a relief, in a way, to no longer be captain to a team who mostly treat him like shit and ignore what he says anyway. They all know where they stand now—Shane just has to keep his head down and work for the Cup. Or maybe sabotage the team from the inside because they don’t deserve to win it a second year in a row. Shane immediately hates the thought—no, he won’t do that. He won’t sink to their level of pettiness, putting bullshit over hockey. Probably.

Hayden suddenly jolts upright in his chair. “Hey Jack, whatever happened to that girl you were talking about?”

“What girl?”

“Your friend you wanted to set up with Shane.”

Shane's stomach sinks. Can people just leave him alone for five seconds? If everyone could stop worrying about his personal life more than he does, that would be great. Struggling to keep his face neutral, he says, "That's okay. You guys don't need to set me up."

Jackie shifts in her chair, shooting Shane an apologetic glance. He gives a slight shrug in return. He bears some blame for things like this. Hayden wouldn't be thinking of setting Shane up with girls if he knew—

Knew what? It's not like Shane is taken, right? Hooking up a few times a year for many years with one person isn't exactly a relationship. With one guy. Would it really be so bad to be set up with someone? With a woman? Maybe his mother is right and it would help his image. So what's stopping him? The thought comes to him—not for the first time—obvious and undeniable: I don't want anyone else.

“I know we don’t need to, but with everything going on, maybe it would help?” Hayden is focused on his phone and doesn’t see the uneasy glance shared between Shane and Jackie. "You know, if you don't want to go public with Lily, or whatever."

Shane sips his ginger ale instead of answering.

"Found her!" Hayden holds his phone out for Shane, open on a pretty woman's Instagram. Shane reluctantly takes the phone and scrolls—she has curly shoulder-length ash blonde hair and green eyes. He almost tells Jackie she wasn't too far off.

"Pretty, right?" Hayden asks.

Shane nods, handing back the phone. "Yeah."

Jackie finally chimes in to save him. "I think she started seeing somebody, actually."

"Fuck, we waited too long. Do you know anybody else—"

"Swear jar," Jackie tells him.

"Oh, come on, the twins are in bed."

Jackie raises her eyebrows, and Hayden immediately reaches for his wallet with a sigh. Toonie in hand, he goes to the kitchen to drop it in the jar on top of the fridge.

"Thanks," Shane says quietly.

Jackie smiles. "Anytime."

Later, as Shane puts his shoes on by the door, Hayden asks, "Did you tell Yuna and David yet? Because Theriault said he's announcing it first thing in the morning, right before we leave for Toronto."

Shane shakes his head. He doesn't want to tell anybody, least of all his parents, that he lost the captaincy. He knows that will only lead Yuna to asking the obvious question of why? She's already concerned about Shane's fighting on the ice—she won't be happy to know about him fighting his own teammates off of it. They've been tiptoeing around discussing the way the Metros have been treating Shane, even though it must be obvious while watching his games. But Shane deflects and minimizes like he always does, and his parents know when not to push. But this? This isn't something he can minimize. This is something Yuna will push. "Not yet. I was thinking I'd text them when they're asleep, and then turn off my phone."

Hayden laughs. "Yeah, Yuna will love that idea. Good luck."

Shane glances at his phone. There was one person he did tell almost immediately after it happened—Ilya. He texted him over 24 hours ago, and Ilya hasn't responded. Shane thought maybe Ilya's random drawer text was an invitation to text a bit more casually, to break out of their usual pattern. But maybe not. Maybe it was a one-off and Ilya doesn't need Shane complaining to him about every little thing in his life. He sighs. "I guess I'll call them when I get home." 

Hayden pulls him into a hug, and Shane returns it. "Sorry everything fucking sucks right now."

Shane nods. "Me too."

--

"I can't believe I let you guys talk me into coming here," Shane says, shouting over the obnoxiously loud music of the club.

"What else is there to do in Toronto after kicking the Guardians' asses?" Hayden shouts back.

It's Toronto, so probably a lot of things. But Shane would still rather be in his hotel room right now catching up on tonight's Raiders game, staring at his phone, willing Ilya to text him back.

"Capitaine, we won 5-3! I am getting you drunk tonight!" JJ says, clapping Shane on the back. Even after Theriault correcting him during practice, JJ won't call Shane anything else, not even Hollander.

"Sure, I could use a drink." Shane is buzzing from the game; he should be exhausted after how he played—he put everything into it. But he's full of energy. Not being captain, not being the one expected to make any speeches or hype up the team, allowed him to just focus on his game in a way he hasn't been able to in a long time. And the less friendly Metros barely spoke to him at all tonight, which honestly suited Shane just fine. It was an improvement, even.

After a couple of shots, the music isn't bothering Shane as much. He even lets a woman drag him onto the dance floor and does his best not to stand completely still while she dances against him. And unlike other women he's met in places like this, she isn't pushy with him, happily waving him away with a smile when he excuses himself to the bathroom.

In the grungy bathroom, he washes his hands thoroughly before checking his phone. Still no text from Ilya. He looks up the score of the Raiders game—they won, but a headline catches Shane's eye. Ilya Rozanov was absent from tonight's game with no further details given. Shane told himself he wouldn't text Ilya again unless he texted him first, but he can make an exception.

are you okay?

The relaxed, fuzzy feeling the shots had given him is gone now—the music is too loud, the bathroom too stuffy. He pushes through the bathroom door, nearly colliding with someone on their way in. Shane mutters an apology and shoulders past more people toward the exit. He needs air.

Shane steps out into the crisp night, stopping a few feet from the door and forcing himself to breathe. Ilya's fine. But the hockey media isn't circling yet, isn't spilling his private information from the rooftops like they usually would. Something must have happened. Shane shakes his head. Or maybe he just missed a flight and it's not a big deal.

"Let go of me!"

Shane jerks his head up from his phone at the sound of a woman's voice. He rounds the side of the club and finds a man pressed up against a woman, his arms braced against the wall on either side of her, keeping her from leaving. He's leaning his head into the crook of her neck as she pushes against his chest.

"She said fuck off," Shane calls out as he runs up to them to grab the guy's shoulder. He jerks him back, his arms dropping from the wall, allowing the woman to free herself. She hurries down the alley, the clack of her heels softened by the snow covering the pavement. "Are you okay?" Shane asks her retreating form.

"Yes, thank you!"

When she disappears around the corner, Shane shoves the guy again. "What's your fucking problem?"

Only now does Shane recognize the sneering man in front of him as Dallas Kent.

"What the fuck, Hollander? You roam the streets cock-blocking people?" His words slur into each other.

"She fucking said no."

Kent laughs. "She was playing hard to get. I know you prefer using your own hand, but some of us enjoy the touch of a woman." He eyes Shane up and down. "Well, I guess you have Pike for that." He feints at Shane, but Shane doesn't flinch—he's used to this kind of bullshit on the ice.

Disgusted, Shane takes a step closer to Kent. "Most of us prefer someone who actually wants to be touched." 

"Bro, we all know how much you like to be touched. I've played your video at parties, you know—really livens them up. We've got a betting pool going over who you're actually fucking. Me? I think it's Pike. You wanna confirm or deny?"

Shane rolls his eyes and turns to go, but Kent grabs his arm.

"Barrett thinks you're fucking Pike's wife. Is that bun in her oven yours?"

Shane jerks his arm away. "Go the fuck home, Kent. Sleep it off."

Shane barely makes it two steps before he's shoved from behind. He whirls around, already swinging, and connects with Kent's nose.

"Fuck!" Kent shouts, covering his face.

Shane is done playing nice; Kent can talk shit about him all he wants, and he could've let it go. But bringing Jackie into it is too far. "Rozanov didn't fuck your nose up enough already? You needed more?" Shane advances on Kent and shoves him hard enough to land him on his ass. "Fucking tough guy, right? Harassing women in alleys? Picking fights you can't fucking win?" Kent hauls himself up only to be immediately shoved back down by Shane. "You're fucking pathetic, you know that?"

At this, Kent jumps up and lands a punch in Shane's ribs. Unfazed, Shane answers with a punch to Kent's jaw while dodging another swing at his stomach. Breathing hard, Kent trips over his own feet and falls to the ground again.

"Hey, what the fuck!"

Troy Barrett rushes past Shane, leaning down to help Kent to his feet. Blood is streaming from Kent's nose. Barrett stares at Shane in disbelief, dropping his eyes to Shane's balled fist as Kent leans heavily against him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Shane flexes his hand. "What the fuck are you doing hanging out with this piece of shit?" Shane gets in Barrett's face. "Listen, you guys can shit-talk me about that video all you want. But families are off limits. Don't ever speak Jackie Pike's name again in your fucking life, do you understand me?"

Barrett at least has the decency to look a little ashamed as he says, "Okay, man," with a curt nod.

"Get him the fuck out of here."

Shane watches them shuffle onto the sidewalk and turn the corner before he lets out a heavy breath. "Jesus Christ," he mutters to himself.

Adrenaline is coursing through him, and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He doesn't want to go back in the club, so he just picks a direction and starts walking. His breath comes out in white puffs in front of him, but the cold doesn't even register. He thinks back to one of his junior hockey coaches and his favourite refrain: walk it off. Errant puck to the head? Walk it off. Being a sore loser? Walk it off. Just fought another star player in an alley? Walk it off. It seems some advice applies at any age, any situation. Accidentally released a video of yourself jacking off for your secret hockey player fuck buddy? Can Shane walk that off?

His stomach twists at the idea of that junior hockey coach hearing about the video—or even watching it. How is Shane ever supposed to walk all this shit off? He drops onto a bus bench, letting out a heavy exhale of white. At the rate he's going, maybe he can just punch everybody in the face who brings it up. Sometimes it works.

Shane's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he scrambles for it, hoping it's finally a text from Ilya.

It's not a text.

Ilya is calling him.

Chapter 17: i know

Chapter Notes

(Just assume whenever Ilya is speaking to someone who isn’t Shane, they’re speaking Russian)

Ilya wakes with a start, confused about where he is until the rhythmic beeping of his father's life support reminds him. A hospital in Moscow. Ilya stands up from the uncomfortable chair he'd fallen asleep in, stretching his arms over his head and wringing the kinks out of his neck.

The doctors hadn't expected Grigori to make it another day—he'd been deteriorating rapidly since the fall down the stairs, the resulting broken hip too much for an already struggling body. Ilya studies his father's face. It's almost unrecognizable from the one he spent most of his life terrified of angering. Grigori just looks like a frail old man, and it makes Ilya a bit sick thinking of him making it into his seventies while his mother got so little time in this world. A rush of guilt immediately follows the thought.

Ilya sinks back into the chair, squinting at his phone for the time. It's barely 7am; Alexei had gone home around 10pm last night. Or so he said. Ilya can tell being around their father in his current state makes Alexei uncomfortable, almost like it's embarrassing to witness. Unmanly to wither and die. His father, were he aware of anything happening, would probably agree. He wouldn't want to be seen like this. But Ilya doesn't mind it—it makes his father seem human in a way he rarely did throughout Ilya's life. Fallible.

Wanting to distract himself, Ilya rereads Shane's texts, skipping over his last are you okay?—the answer is no, but there's nothing to be done about it—and settles instead on the ones about the Metros taking his C. He lets himself feel angry about it all over again. He's felt numb for days, stuck in a kind of limbo waiting on his father's death. The anger actually feels nice in comparison.

His thumb hovers over the screen, wanting to respond but with no idea what to say. He's hardly in a state of mind to be giving useful advice. But maybe that's not what Shane's looking for and he just wants to vent. Thinking of someone else's problems is preferable to thinking of his own right now, so with a quick glance at his father (still unconscious, still dying), Ilya forgets about trying to come up with a text and calls Shane.

"Hello?"

Just the sound of Shane's voice immediately soothes something in Ilya—it also makes him want to cry.

"Hi." It occurs to Ilya now that just like he had no idea what to text, he has no idea what to say. They don't call each other. Another thing occurs to him. "Sorry. What time is it for you?"

"Just around midnight. Why, where are you? Are you okay?"

Ilya hesitates, not sure how much he wants to say. How much he wants to dump on Shane when he's got enough going on with the video and the Metros. But sitting in this sterile, beeping room on a dark Russian morning, he doesn't have the energy to do anything but be honest. "Moscow. My father is in hospital."

"Oh. Is he okay?"

Ilya fights harder against the tears threatening to spill. "No." He cringes at the tremor in his voice, glancing again at his father, expecting to find disapproval at this display of emotion. But his father's not listening; he's not there. "He is dying."

"I'm so sorry."

Ilya shakes his head, exhaling a heavy breath. "Tell me something."

"Like what?"

"Anything." He just wants to hear Shane's voice, hear that the world is still turning outside of this room.

"Um... I punched Dallas Kent in the face."

A laugh escapes Ilya's mouth for the first time since landing in Russia. "During a game?" 

"No, outside a club like twenty minutes ago."

"You were at a club?"

Now it's Shane's turn to laugh. "Yes, JJ and Hayden dragged me there. I left to get some air and Kent was outside, he started talking shit."

"Ah, so my punching lessons have paid off?" Ilya can practically hear Shane roll his eyes over the phone.

"Again, I already knew how to fight. But yes, maybe you helped. A little bit."

Ilya can't stop smiling just listening to Shane. Why haven't they been talking like this the entire time? They should have been. "Where are you now?"

"Heading back to the hotel, in theory. I'm sitting on a bus bench somewhere."

"Hm. Are you okay? Not being captain?"

Shane sighs. "Yeah, it's actually okay. For now. They're kind of leaving me alone. My mom's really upset about it though; I had to talk her out of hunting down my coach to yell at him—or worse. She still might."

Ilya watches his father's chest rise and fall ever so slightly as he breathes, aided by machines. "It is nice that she cares so much."

"Yeah, I guess. It's not as nice when I'm disappointing her, though."

"Theriault is the disappointment, not you." And if Yuna Hollander wanted to hunt him down, Ilya would have no problem helping her hide the body.

"Maybe. How long will you be in Moscow?"

It won't be much longer now. Morbid as it may be, the funeral arrangements are already in place; now they're just waiting to finalize the date. "Maybe a few more days." Ilya's eyes burn.

"If you, uh—you could, um..."

Ilya waits a few seconds for Shane to find his words, but silence hangs between them. His voice soft, he asks, "What?"

Another few seconds of silence pass before Shane rushes out, "You could stop in Montreal on your way back, at my place. If you want. I have a few days off at the end of the week, once the road trip's done. I mean, you'll be busy probably, so maybe not, but just, I don't know, if you wanted—"

Ilya interrupts him. "Yes. Maybe. I will let you know."

"Okay. Good."

He closes his eyes, listening to Shane's breathing on the other end of the line, trying to tune out the sounds of the hospital by focusing on it. By pretending he's sitting right next to Shane on a bus bench somewhere in Canada. Maybe later in the week he will be. But right now—"I should go."

"Okay. Thank you for calling me. I'm so sorry about your dad."

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek to steady his voice before speaking. "Thank you. I'll text you later."

--

"Give me money, I'll get us food."

Ilya reaches into his pocket and pulls out some bills for Alexei. He clenches his jaw as he hands Alexei the money, trying not to smile. Alexei only tends to be nice when he doesn't realize that's what he's doing; he just wants to get out of the room. Ilya's afraid to leave, even to go to the bathroom, in case his father slips away alone, like his mother did.

Alexei returns with what look like bologna sandwiches, chips, and bottled water, dropping them in Ilya's lap before taking the chair next to him. They eat in silence, Ilya watching their father, Alexei looking anywhere else. After another hour, Alexei says, "We should just pull the plug." He's joking, sort of.

Ilya gestures to the myriad of machines, cords, plugs. Neither of them know what any of them do. "Go ahead." Ilya's also joking, sort of.

More hours go by until Alexei is pulling on his jacket, saying he has to go home for dinner with his family. He hovers by the door, then turns back to Ilya. "You can come. Your niece will be happy to see you."

Ilya shakes his head. He'll see them all at the funeral soon enough. "Not tonight."

Alexei continues to hover, carefully keeping his eyes on Ilya's side of the room only. "At least go sleep in your own bed later, even for just a few hours. These chairs are shit." Alexei finally spares one glance at their father, then leaves.

These chairs are shit. Everything is shit here, in the hospital, in Russia. Ilya pulls the chair Alexei had been sitting in closer and lifts his feet onto it as he settles back in his own chair.

When he left Russia for the MLH, for Boston, it never occurred to him he would eventually lose both his parents. He’d wished for it many times as a child—really, he’d wished for a way to swap them, to make it so his father died instead of his mother. But his father was like a force of nature—oppressive and eternal. Something that death could never touch. That’s what his younger self used to think, anyway. He knows better now, knows that death is the real force of nature. First it came for his mother, now his father. And one day it will come for Ilya.

Tired of his own thoughts, he calls Svetlana—she'll be on a flight to Moscow in the morning.

"Tell me something." 

Without any hesitation, she tells him, "I fucked Cliff Marleau. That night we were all at the club? I took him home."

Ilya bursts out laughing. "Marly? No! You told me to never let you get involved with a hockey player." He gets his laughter under control. "Except for me, of course."

Svetlana clicks her tongue. "It was just one night, we're not involved. He's sweet though, like a puppy."

"Of all the Raiders, you had to pick my best friend, hm?"

"Don't tell me you're jealous."

Ilya laughs again. "No. Marly is sweet, you could have done worse." He's not jealous, but he's a little surprised he's only hearing about this now, from either of them. Marleau has asked before if Svetlana was his girlfriend, maybe he thinks Ilya would be upset. But it's just sex. "Was he sweet in bed?"

"I don't kiss and tell," Svetlana says, laughing.

"You just did!"

They talk for a while longer, and then Ilya is alone again. With his thoughts, beeping machines, and his father. Ilya slides his feet off the other chair, gets up, then pulls his chair closer to the bed. He sits and studies his father's face, something he's done a lot since being here. Looking for signs of himself in the man. They share a nose, maybe a jawline. Ilya worries about what else they'll share as he gets older. Anger? Stubbornness? Lack of care, of regard, for those around him?

"I don't want to be like you," Ilya whispers, leaning closer, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed. "Did you want to be like you? If mama had stayed with us, would you have been better?" Ilya doesn't think so; Grigori was always a tough man to be around. Had Irina lived, he would have continued to treat her terribly. But Ilya still fantasizes all the time about moving her to Boston with him, helping her live the life she deserved. Of her coming to watch his games, cheering and smiling whether the Raiders win or lose. Of her just being there and worrying about him like Yuna worries for Shane. He squeezes his necklace.

"I think I've fallen in love with a man."

Ilya freezes. He didn't mean to say it out loud—the words were quiet as a breath, but still out loud. It seems wrong to tell this to his father of all people, before telling the man himself. Shane. He's in love with Shane. Ilya has known this for some time, of course, but speaking it aloud makes it real. Undeniable. And he's tried to deny it, to ignore it, because what else can he do? Bisexual hockey players don't get to live happily ever after, certainly not Russian ones. As far as the MLH and the world are concerned, bisexual and gay hockey players don't even exist.

His voice shaking a little, he continues. "If I told you that earlier, when you were still you, what would you have done?" Disown him? Arrest him? Beat him? Maybe all of the above. Maybe something completely different. "Guess we'll never know."

Ilya finds himself fighting off sleep and decides, for once, to take his brother's advice. He'll go back to his apartment for just a few hours, sleep in a real bed, then come back to continue his vigil. "Goodnight, Father."

His father passes in the night, unobserved.

Chapter 18: most people do

It's after 2am when Ilya finally steps inside Shane's building. Ilya's flight was delayed, and he texted Shane when he missed his connecting flight; Shane gave him the door code in case he fell asleep. And when Shane opens the apartment door, with bleary eyes and mussed hair, it's obvious that's exactly what he'd done.

"Hey, I'm so sorry about your—"

Ilya interrupts Shane's condolences with a hungry kiss, dropping his bags at their feet. After a second of surprise, Shane returns the kiss just as hungrily, running his hands up Ilya's back and into his hair, which is probably equally mussed after a full day of travel.

Ilya grips Shane's waist and turns them, pressing Shane up against the door. He lets out a soft moan when Ilya's hands slide from his waist to his ass, pulling their bodies flush together. Fuck, Ilya missed this—just being able to touch Shane. Ilya grinds against him, and Shane drops his head back against the door, breathing hard. He takes hold of Ilya's face as if to kiss him, but as he really looks at him, his expression shifts from aroused to concerned.

"Oh."

Ilya pulls back. "What?"

A flush creeps over Shane's cheeks. "I should've realized—we can just go to sleep, you know. We've got a whole day and a half, right?"

Sleep is the last thing on Ilya's mind right now, his hands still squeezing Shane's ass. "Realized what?"

"You look exhausted. You've been on a plane for like a day, and you're coming back from a funeral. I shouldn’t have assumed…" He shakes his head. "You should sleep."

Ilya grins. "Is this your Canadian way of telling me I look like shit?"

"No!" Shane laughs. "Just tired."

Tired is an understatement; Ilya has felt like he's walking through water since his father died, however expected it may have been. The brief unspoken truce between Ilya and Alexei went to shit soon after, but being berated by his brother again felt more familiar—and therefore strangely more comforting—than the quiet moments they'd shared waiting for their father's passing. It was always a relief to leave Russia, but never more so than now.

"Even if I am tired, I can still fuck without falling asleep." Ilya leans in and places a kiss on Shane's neck. "Unlike some people."

Shane sighs happily, squeezing Ilya's arms and tilting his head back for him as he continues kissing his neck and jaw. "Fuck off, Rozanov. I didn't mean to fall asleep, and you could've woken me up."

Ilya thinks back to that night, to all the bruises Shane was covered with at the time. How exhausted and worn down he'd been. "No, you needed rest." Ilya leans in for a kiss, but Shane pulls his head back.

"And right now you look like you need rest."

"No." Ilya slowly leans back in, and this time Shane lets him kiss him. "I just need you," he whispers against his lips.

Shane lets out a shaky breath before Ilya kisses him hard, closing his eyes as he gives in to the simple pleasure of Shane's body pressed against his. Of tasting his tongue, smelling his shampoo, feeling his warmth. God, Russia had been so fucking cold, so tense. And Shane is so fucking warm, so inviting.

"Fuck," Ilya groans. Shane's erection presses against his thigh; Ilya rubs him through the soft fabric of his sweats.

Panting, Shane pulls back and says, "I should probably tell you, um—" He looks away, his face growing redder by the second.

Ilya continues rubbing Shane's cock over his pants, biting back his smile. He loves when Shane gets shy with him—the reason is never something Ilya expects.

"I have, uh—" He clears his throat. Ilya lets him squirm, eyeing him patiently. Finally Shane drags his eyes to Ilya's, his jaw rigid. "I have a plug in."

Ilya's eyebrows shoot up at the same moment all the blood in his body shoots down to his dick. Never what he expects. The smile is gone from Ilya's face—all thoughts are gone from his head.

"I meant to take it out before you got here, but I fell asleep. I just—I wanted to be ready for you. I mean, if you wanted." Shane is rambling, embarrassed. Ilya's silence is definitely not helping Shane's panic, but Ilya can't form thoughts, let alone words.

Except one.

"Lube."

Shane smiles, and the sight of it on his beautiful flushed face nearly short-circuits Ilya all over again. Shane pulls a small bottle of lube out of his pocket as Ilya reaches into his own pocket for a condom.

"Fuck, Hollander," he grits out, leading them to the living room. Ilya feels almost faint with the sheer pulsing need for both of them to be naked right now. They reach the couch and a soft 'oh' escapes Shane's lips as the backs of his legs hit the arm of it. Ilya can't wait another second—he pulls Shane's shirt off, then spins him around, bending him over it. Ilya drops to his knees, pulling Shane's sweatpants down with him. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of the base of the plug peeking out from Shane's ass.

Ilya gently tugs at it, sliding it slowly out of Shane as Shane moans above him, his voice muffled against the couch. Ilya stares reverently at Shane’s waiting hole before standing back up to strip his clothes off. How he could go so quickly from the absolute nightmare of his father dying to this absolute dream of a beautiful man stretched open just for him, Ilya will never know. He doesn’t waste time questioning it—he’s just grateful.

He rolls on a condom and quickly spreads lube over his length, his hands practically shaking. He’d been looking forward to opening Shane up slowly, maybe making him beg for it, but that was before being several hours late. Before he knew Shane wanted him so badly that he opened himself up for Ilya, waiting for him for hours with a plug buried in his ass. Ilya pours more lube over his fingers, spreading it in and around Shane’s hole as his own cock twitches with impatience.

”Will you please fuck me already?” Shane asks, his voice low and desperate.

Ilya smiles, positioning himself behind Shane. “Bossy.” He presses forward, groaning with relief as Shane’s body takes him readily. He pauses, checking it’s not too much for Shane, before grabbing his hips and pulling out halfway. Ilya roughly thrusts back inside, both of them grunting as Ilya buries every inch deep inside Shane. “Good?”

Shane nods his head, panting too hard to speak. He squirms around Ilya, wordlessly asking him to fuck him. Ilya doesn’t need to be asked twice. He leans over Shane, fucking him hard and fast, the sounds of their bodies slapping together indecently loud in the late night quiet of Shane’s apartment. Ilya’s only thoughts are of pleasing Shane, of making him feel as good as Ilya feels when he’s inside of him. And it feels so fucking good.

Thinking of Shane all alone—on his bed? on this very couch?—working himself open while thinking of Ilya, getting ready for Ilya, makes Ilya fuck him harder, angling himself in just the right way to get Shane’s legs trembling. Ilya grabs Shane’s ass cheeks, spreading them open with a rough grip, enjoying the view of himself disappearing deep inside. “Fuck,” Ilya grunts.

”Spank me.”

Still fucking him, but now a little off-rhythm, Ilya asks, “What?”

Shane repeats himself, his voice ragged but confident. “Spank me.”

Some girls have asked for this over the years, and Ilya has indulged them, but it’s never done much for him personally. This is the first time Shane has asked. Ilya, not wanting to discourage Shane from asking for what he wants, gives him a quick smack on the ass once the surprise has worn off.

A muffled, breathless laugh comes from Shane. ”Harder than that.”

Ilya’s eyes quickly roam over Shane’s body—the bruises from the last time they saw each other seem to have healed, but there’s a smattering of fresh ones here and there. They’re not nearly as concerning as before; Shane could be any other hockey player after a particularly rough few games. But Ilya still hesitates to contribute to the existence of any more.

Shane is breathing hard, pushing back against Ilya, obviously enjoying himself. So Ilya spanks him once more, a little harder this time as they find their rhythm again, still going fast and rough.

”Rozanov. Harder than that.” He’s starting to sound annoyed. Bossy.

Something Shane said to him the last time they fucked rings in Ilya’s ears. I’m not fragile.

Ilya knows he can’t last much longer, and he doesn’t want to disappoint Shane after making him wait so long. After Shane was so good and ready for him. Ilya drops a hard spank against Shane’s ass, startling himself at the sharp sound.

”Holy fuck, yes,” Shane moans. “Other side.”

Ilya clenches his jaw to keep from losing control; Shane had tightened around him so deliciously during the spank. He repeats it with the same intensity on Shane’s other ass cheek, and this time, with Shane moaning and clenching around him, Ilya can’t stop himself from coming. He drapes himself over Shane’s trembling body, fucking through the orgasm until Shane shoots his own release onto the leather couch. Ilya whispers breathlessly in his ear how good he is, how beautiful and surprising, how nobody else gets Ilya this hard, all in Russian, until they’re able to move again.

Ilya pulls himself up on shaky legs and helps Shane to his feet, both of them flushed and covered in sweat.

”Ugh, the couch,” Shane sighs, eyeing the mess he left behind.

Ilya reaches out and gently turns Shane’s face back to him, drawing him into a slow, lingering kiss. After they pull apart, Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s. “Where did that come from?”

Shane frowns, glancing back at the couch. “My dick?”

Ilya laughs. “No, the spanking.”

”Oh.” Shane tenses a bit in Ilya’s arms. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be hot.”

Ilya kisses him, running his hands over Shane’s sweaty back, trying to soothe the tension away. “Was it?”

”Fuck yes,” Shane says, his face incredulous, like Ilya should already know. “Once you did it right, anyway.”

Ilya pretends to be offended as Shane laughs. Shane pulls him into another kiss until he can’t ignore the couch any longer; he cleans it up before they head to the shower together. It’s a relief to finally wash off the sweat, the plane, Russia, and everything in between under Shane’s gentle touch. They wash each other, trading kisses and murmured conversations about nothing important, both too spent to think.

Lying together in bed after their shower, facing each other, Ilya rests his hand on Shane’s ass. He rubs soothing circles over the area he spanked. “You sure it was not too hard?” He’d already seen the bruises forming in the shower—appearing suspiciously hand-shaped, which won’t be a good look in the locker room. He’s trying to see Shane’s face, but the blackout curtains make that impossible.

”Go the fuck to sleep,” Shane murmurs.

”I bruised you.”

Shane sighs before snuggling in closer, tucking his head under Ilya’s chin. “Like that’s the first time?”

Ilya has left small bruises before from squeezing his hips too tightly, things like that, but leaving ones the size of his palm feels different. “You remember when you were in Boston, the bruises you had? Everywhere? I do not want to be like… one of them.” One of those people that hurt Shane. The kind of men Ilya has spent his whole life trying not to become.

”I asked you to do that,” Shane reminds him, slinging one of his legs over Ilya’s.

”Yes, but…” Ilya trails off. The exhaustion from the week he’s had, and from the long day of travel, is finally hitting him. He can’t find the English to say what he means, if he even knows.

”I know you’d never really hurt me—and the spanking didn’t hurt, by the way. It felt great. It was hot. I don’t care if it leaves a bruise—actually, that’s even hotter.” Ilya feels Shane’s face break into a smile against his chest. “All those other ones, those are things people did to me that I didn’t want. Yours I asked for—we did it together.” He lifts his head to brush a kiss against Ilya’s cheek. “Does that make sense?”

”Maybe,” Ilya murmurs, pulling Shane closer, his head back on his chest as they settle together for sleep. It had been pretty hot—not just the way Shane tightened, but the noises he made… the trust Shane places in him, even when Ilya doesn’t fully trust himself.

”It’s okay if you didn’t like it; it’s not something I’ll want every time or anything. You don’t have to do it again if you don’t want.” Shane’s voice is soft and quiet, fighting off sleep just to stay awake and reassure Ilya.

Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head, his heart aching with love for him. “I will do it if you want it. I just do not want to hurt you.”

”You won’t.”

Chapter 19: this is the real world

"Coffee?"

Shane has already been awake for a while listening to the soft sounds of Ilya sleeping next to him—a rare sound he's come to covet considering they've only spent three nights together since starting... whatever this is. Had the room not been pitch-black, he would have been watching Ilya's face, the slow rise and fall of his chest. But his peaceful breathing shadow was enough. The breathing shadow now stirring awake next to him.

"Hmm?"

Shane drags himself out of bed, fighting the urge to cuddle back in and stay wrapped up with Ilya all day. They have an entire day and one more night alone together before reality comes calling again tomorrow. Shane back with the Metros, and Ilya back in Boston.

"What time is it?" Ilya asks in a groggy voice that brings a smile to Shane's face. "I feel like I am in a cave."

"I think it's almost nine," Shane says, pulling on some clothes. He opens the blackout curtain. "There, no more cave." Ilya starts to sit up, pushing the covers down, but Shane crosses to the bed and pulls them back over him. "Stay in bed. I'm gonna bring you coffee."

Ilya narrows his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I want to. Stay. Rest." Shane stares at him for a moment, waiting for an argument, but none comes. Instead, Ilya just smiles at him, and Shane hurries to the kitchen. He almost feels like he’s in a dream—he always feels like that when Ilya Rozanov is naked in his bed—but the pleasant sting on his ass with every step assures him he’s very much awake.

Shane returns with a coffee in each hand to find Ilya sitting on top of the covers, wearing Shane's clothes. Shane hands Ilya his, cream and sugar exactly the way he likes it, and gives him a look.

"What? I am still in bed." Ilya cups the mug in his hands like he's warming them. It is a little chilly this morning; Shane turns up the heat before settling on the bed next to Ilya. 

"Do you want to talk about anything?"

Ilya glances at Shane, blowing softly over his coffee before taking a sip. "Anything like...?"

"I don't know, the funeral, your dad?" All Shane knows is what he read online—that Ilya's dad had died "peacefully after a long illness." All week he's been sick thinking not just of what Ilya and his family were dealing with, but thinking about his own dad, and what he would do if he ever lost him. He doesn't think he'd be as calm as Ilya seems to be.

Ilya shakes his head softly. After a moment, he asks, "How is your ass?"

Shane rolls his eyes at the smooth change of subject. "Fine, thanks."

But Ilya's face turns serious. "Is it?" He's actually asking.

"It stings a little," Shane says, smiling. "But in a good way. Like a reminder." Shane’s phone vibrates on the bedside table beside him, but he ignores it. As far as he's concerned, he is in a cave for the rest of the day, and will not be disturbed. Shane leans over, tilting his head toward Ilya for a kiss. He stops a breath away, looking into Ilya's eyes, letting Ilya close the distance between them. It's a quick kiss, but it fills Shane with more warmth than the coffee did.

"You smell minty," Ilya murmurs.

"I brushed my teeth. You should try it."

Shane's phone buzzes again. He pulls away from Ilya with a sigh—maybe it's his parents. He gingerly places his mug on the table before reaching for it. Two texts from Hayden are waiting for him, both asking if he's home—the first sent fifteen minutes ago. Shane scrunches up his face, wondering why Hayden wants to know. He's about to text back and ask when a loud knock sounds at his apartment door.

Shane jumps up from the bed and double-checks he's wearing clothes. He is. "Uh—stay here." Ilya shoots Shane a look—obviously he wasn’t going anywhere—and Shane gives him an apologetic shrug before hurrying from the room.

Shane swings open the front door to find Hayden standing in the hallway with Ruby and Emma in his arms.

"Oh, thank god you're home!" Hayden says, already handing Ruby over to Shane. Once Shane has her in his arms, Hayden steps inside the apartment and gently sets Emma down. She waves at Shane before immediately running into the apartment, giggling. "Listen, can you do me the biggest favour in the world and watch them for like an hour or two?" Hayden shrugs off a backpack, presumably full of toddler supplies. He drops it on the floor right next to what Shane suddenly realizes are Ilya's bags from last night. Hayden doesn't take any notice of them.

"Um—I guess, I mean—why?" Shane is flustered at the idea of watching two toddlers even for just an hour. He's always thought they were cute, but that was when he wasn't responsible for keeping them alive.

"Jackie needs to go see her doctor, and her mom's out with a friend for the day. She doesn't want to worry her by asking her to come back."

"Is there something to worry about?"

Hayden hesitates, his eyes flicking to Ruby, her little hands pulling on Shane's hoodie strings. "Uh, maybe not. But she just wants to get checked out, just in case. She's waiting in the car." He lowers his voice. "She's having some spotting. You know what that is?"

Shane nods, his stomach twisting now with worry. "Yes. Go! We can handle the twins for a couple of hours. Get out of here and make sure Jackie's okay." Shane's eyes widen as he realizes he said we instead of I, but Hayden doesn't seem to notice the slip-up.

"Okay," Hayden says, looking a little freaked out but still trying to keep his composure. He pulls Shane and Ruby into a hug, then calls after Emma, "Okay, daddy will be back in a little bit. Behave for Uncle Shane, okay?"

Ruby nods at Hayden before turning her attention back to Shane's hoodie strings.

"Thanks, buddy. We'll owe you big time!" With one last look at the twins, and a nod at Shane, Hayden heads for the elevator.

Shane closes the door, gently bouncing Ruby in his arms, then leans back against it for a second to get his bearings. With a deep breath, he follows the sound of giggling to find Emma in the living room, pushing things off the coffee table. Just as Shane starts thinking maybe he can't do this, he notices Ilya slowly coming down the stairs. When he reaches the living room, his eyes travel from Ruby to Emma before settling on Shane, his brows raised.

"Looks like we're babysitting," Shane says with a shrug. For one brief second, he worries Ilya will want to leave instead of deal with this, but then Ilya's face lights up. Smiling, Shane turns his head to Ruby. "Ruby, this is my, um, friend... Ilya."

An unreadable expression crosses Ilya's features—at the word friend or at hearing Shane say Ilya aloud, Shane's not sure—but it passes in a second, and Ilya approaches him and Ruby with the cutest smile Shane's ever seen from him. Shane points at Ilya, bouncing Ruby. "Can you say 'Il-ya'?" Shane so rarely says the name out loud, to Ilya or anyone, really, but it feels right on his tongue. "Il-ya?" he repeats, grinning.

Ruby smiles shyly. "Ily."

Ilya nods. "Yes, I am Ilya, hello." He flicks his eyes at Shane. "Ruby?"

Shane nods. "Ruby." He points to the twin slapping the floor with the TV remote. "And that's Emma. Pike."

Ilya waves his hand dismissively at the mention of Pike as he lowers himself slowly to his knees by the coffee table. "Hi, Emma. My name is Ilya, nice to meet you." He glances back up at Shane. "Do you have toys other than remote?"

"Oh, right. Hayd dropped a bag by the door." Shane takes a seat on the couch before setting Ruby down gently next to her sister. Ilya comes back with the bag, dropping himself next to Shane. They dig through it, pulling out toys and books for the girls. Shane replaces the remote with a glittery stuffed unicorn, which Emma takes happily.

Shane watches Ilya spread papers and crayons out on the table, chatting comfortably with the girls, encouraging them to draw. He disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with a plate of chopped up apple and banana. Shane smiles at him, surprised, as Ilya settles next him on the couch.

Ilya holds up a sliver of apple. "You need to chop like this so is not choking hazard."

With a laugh, Shane asks, "How are you so good at this?"

"I have a niece at home." Ilya fondly watches the twins drawing and munching on fruit. "Is a good age. But she is older now. I do not get to see her much—I am missing her grow up."

Shane has so many questions he wants to ask—he wants to know everything about Ilya. But he doesn't want to scare him off by getting too nosy, so he settles on one. "What's her name?"

"Alisa."

"Alisa Rozanov. Pretty."

Ilya nods. "Yes, she is."

"Ily, look!" Ruby excitedly holds up her paper, showing off her drawing. Shane has no idea what it is, and he's sure Ilya doesn't either, but Ilya claps and tells her what a good job she's doing. He follows that up by cooing about Emma's drawing too, so nobody is left out.

Hayden ends up being gone for closer to three hours, but once he texts to say they're on their way to pick up the girls, Shane and Ilya quickly clean up. They put everything back in the backpack, Shane washes their fruit-sticky hands, and Ilya hugs them both goodbye before making himself scarce in the bedroom.

"Is she okay?" Shane asks Hayden the second he opens the door.

Hayden nods, looking much more himself than he did earlier. "Yeah, her doctor said it's totally normal. They checked her out, everything's good." He sighs. "Just three months to go. She's got this."

Emma comes running up and clings to Hayden's leg. "Daddy. Up!"

With a laugh, he scoops her up into his arms. "Did you have fun at Uncle Shane's?"

Shane glances down to see Ruby tugging at his hand. He picks her up. "Yeah, we had fun. Didn't we, Ruby? We made some drawings, watched cartoons." He nods at Hayden. "Everything was good."

"Yeah?" Hayden asks Emma, lightly bonking his head against hers.

She nods, then glances back into Shane's apartment. "Ily."

Shane's stomach drops. "It was so much fun having you two over! I hope you come visit again soon." He nervously bounces Ruby in his arms. "Want me to help you get them in the car? And I can say hi to Jackie." He tightens his grip on Ruby as he picks up Hayden's backpack from the bare floor—he'd moved Ilya's bags into the bedroom earlier.

"Yeah, man, thanks," Hayden says, smiling.

After waving the Pikes off and returning to his apartment, Shane closes the door behind him and leans against it with a sigh.

"They are cute."

He opens his eyes; Ilya is walking toward him with a smile. "Yeah, they are," Shane agrees. But watching Ilya with them had been even cuter.

Ilya reaches him, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist. "I almost cannot believe they are made of Pike."

Shane rolls his eyes. "Be nice."

"I am always nice," Ilya says with a pout. He leans in and kisses Shane softly. "Is this not nice?"

Shane kisses him back through a smile, giving a slight nod. It's very nice. After a few sweet, languid moments, Shane pulls away. "I'm fucking starving. Let's have lunch."

——

“You are still not doing after game interviews,” Ilya says, chewing his burger.

Taking a bite of salad, Shane shakes his head. “No. I don’t mind though, you can only say pucks in deep so many times. It’s always the same questions.”

“You are still scoring most of the goals. The Metros keeping you away from media, when you are the only one media wants to talk to, draws more attention than if they just let you speak.”

Shane just shrugs in response. He’s given up being bothered by the demands of the Metros and their management, or at least that’s what he’s been telling himself to get through all of this. Ilya studies him so long Shane has to look away.

“What if you did your own interview?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are Mr. Sponsorship, yes? Do an interview somewhere else. Theriault does not control you everywhere, does he?”

Shane shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “You mean like talk to Rolex or something about my jerk-off video? Because that's the only thing people want to ask about.”

“So answer,” Ilya says with a shrug. "Stop avoiding it. You did not murder anybody. You did not harass anybody—except maybe Pike, if he had watched it." Ilya pauses to laugh. "But clearly he did not, otherwise he would not have sent it along to that fan."

"Don't laugh about it," Shane says, laughing.

"It is embarrassing at worst, so what? Hiding away from it makes people think you are ashamed, and assholes like your teammates take that as a challenge."

The smile drops from Shane's face. "And if I am? Ashamed?"

Ilya sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. "When you talk to media, are you being yourself?"

He has to think about it. "Um... my media-trained self, I guess." Shane learned early on that the MLH preferred players stick to a few talking points and not give the media too much to chew on. That had always suited Shane just fine.

"I have been reading online—yes, many people are rude about video. But others think it makes you less of a robot."

Shane, mid-sip, laughs into his glass of water. "A robot?"

Pointing his burger at Shane, Ilya nods. "Yes, hockey robot. They are surprised to find you have personality, that you do anything other than hockey."

Shane avoids reading about himself online as much as possible; this was true even before the video, but especially so since the leak. But it's not like they're that far off about him. He grins at Ilya. "Well, the only thing I do other than hockey is another hockey player, so..."

Ilya's entire face lights up at this. "See? Personality! Why not show that to people more? Fuck the MLH and their boring media training. Do you think it worked on me?"

With a roll of his eyes, Shane says, "You get booed everywhere you play. I don't think you're the best example to follow."

"I am best example to follow!" Ilya leans over and slaps Shane's knee. "Getting booed is fun! They boo my, uh, persona. Right?" At Shane's nod, he continues, "You should try getting booed more. Will be good for you. You will stop caring so much about being liked."

Shane doesn't particularly enjoy getting booed—it happens the most when he scores in Boston, against Ilya. "I don't care about being liked," he says defensively. It almost feels true as he says it, but Shane knows it's not. And judging from the look on Ilya's face, he doesn't believe it either.

"Okay," Ilya says, not ready to drop the topic. "When you think about the video, how people treat you because of it—the Metros especially—what do you feel?"

Shane doesn't even have to think about his answer. "Pissed."

"Not embarrassed? Ashamed?"

"I mean, those too. But mostly just fucking angry."

Ilya smiles. "Good. Be fucking angry. Your privacy was violated—nobody had any fucking business watching that video."

"Except you," Shane corrects him.

"Except me."

They finish lunch in comfortable silence; Shane is happy to switch to lighter topics as they hang out for the rest of the day. Even just a few months ago, Shane never could have imagined spending time with Ilya like this—lying together on the couch watching movies, playing video games, hands resting comfortably on knees, running his fingers through Ilya's hair, both of them fully clothed. He finds himself wishing they really were in a cave together somewhere, where nobody could get out or in. Because tomorrow Ilya will leave. And then what?

——

"Why will you not share the blame with me?"

Shane pauses, the shirt he was in the middle of pulling off stuck over his head. He finagles his way out of the shirt, and shoots a questioning look at Ilya as he carefully folds it. Ilya is sitting on the bed in his underwear. They just brushed their teeth. "What?"

"None of this would be happening if I did not ask for video."

"None of this would be happening if I didn't send it to Hayden like a dumbass."

Shane doesn't like the look on Ilya's face—guilt? Shane has no interest in blaming Ilya for any of this. Leaving all the hockey bullshit out of it, was it really so bad? If it never happened, would Ilya be here right now? Would they have broken into that old barn together, spent hours skating and laughing (and fighting) together? It doesn't seem likely. Shane wouldn't give up that night, or any of their nights together, for anything.

"But if I did not ask for it, you never would have s—"

Shane holds up his hands. "Let's quit while we're ahead. This train of thought can go back forever."

Ilya nods. "Yes, forever until you admit is my fault."

With a sigh, giving up, Shane sits down on the edge of the bed. He asks the question that has been nagging at him. "Did you even watch it before the rest of the world did? You never texted me after I sent it to you; I don't think we ever really talked about it."

"Of course I watched it." Ilya looks offended at the question. "I memorized it before anyone else saw it."

"You did not memorize it," Shane says with a scoff.

"I did. I watched it over and over, memorized it, because I knew I had to delete."

A smile overtakes Shane's face at how deadly serious Ilya is about this. It's a kind of relief to know that the video wasn't made in vain, that it turned Ilya on watching it as much as it turned Shane on recording it. That it was Ilya's before anyone else.

"Do you remember what I texted you?"

Shane nods, his eyes flicking to Ilya's lips. "You asked if I'd get hard for you."

"Yes. Will you get hard for me now? Like you did that night?"

Just like that night, Shane gets hard immediately at the question. He stands up and slides his joggers off before climbing back onto the bed with Ilya. But as Shane moves to straddle him, Ilya reaches out to stop him. "No touching. I just want to watch you."

Shane sits back on his knees, his cock hard and throbbing, already desperate for touch.

"What did you say in the video?" Ilya asks softly.

"You tell me. You're the one who memorized it." Shane pointedly doesn’t touch himself, even as Ilya watches him expectantly. Shane thinks back to a certain night in Vegas, to how nervous he'd been to show off for Ilya. He's not nervous now.

"You wished I was there."

Shane nods, his lips parted, breath hitching.

"Wished I was in your bed." Ilya's eyes drop down to Shane's cock. "Well, I am here."

"Yes, you are," Shane agrees, moving toward Ilya again.

But Ilya leans away. "Touch yourself for me. I will memorize this too."

Shane manages to hold out for all of two seconds before giving in with a shuddering breath. He wraps his hand around his cock, spreading the already leaking precum over himself with a soft moan. Staring into Ilya's eyes, Shane strokes himself just like he had the night he recorded the video. All for Ilya.

"I would only do this for you," Shane says, echoing the video. It's just as true now as it was then. "Only get hard for you."

Ilya nods, licking his lips, watching Shane's fist work over his cock. "You mean that? You do not do this for anyone else?"

Shane shakes his head, biting his lip. His fist works faster, up and down.

"Have you ever done this with anyone else? Been with anyone?" Ilya drags his eyes back up to Shane's to hear his answer.

"No." Shane's voice shakes. "Not with other men. Nobody else for a long time. Just you." Shane's gaze is drawn to the obvious bulge in Ilya's briefs. "Nobody else makes me feel like this. Only you." God, he wants to touch Ilya. Wants to be touched by him. Shane strokes himself harder, faster, his breath coming out in tight gasps.

Ilya's breathing also picks up as he rises to his knees in front of Shane, pulling his briefs down to grip his own cock.

"Fuck," Shane breathes. "I don't want anybody but you. Ilya."

A sharp groan escapes Ilya's throat as he strokes himself, matching Shane's speed, their hands inches away from each other.

"Do you do this with other people?" Shane hadn't wanted to ask—he thinks he already knows—but the words come out anyway.

Ilya stares into Shane's eyes, their sharp breaths and the soft, slick movements of their hands the only sounds in the world as far as Shane is concerned. Ilya tightens his jaw. "I used to. But lately... no."

"No?"

Ilya breathlessly shakes his head. "I do not want anyone but you either." He shifts forward, keeping his hips back, and presses his forehead against Shane's.

Shane closes his eyes, enjoying the pressure of Ilya's forehead against his own. He breathes in the mint on Ilya's breath, focusing on the sounds coming from him. Shane wants to memorize this too.

"Fuck, Ilya." Shane melts further against him as he comes, his release shooting up onto Ilya's stomach. Ilya makes throaty noises, clearly close to the edge himself, and Shane takes the opportunity to break the no touching rule. He gently rests his hands on Ilya's waist, pulling their bodies closer as he watches Ilya work himself with frenzied strokes. "Come for me."

Ilya comes all over Shane's thighs, breathing hard. Shane presses his mouth against Ilya's, letting his weight settle against him as Ilya kisses him back.

Shane loses himself in the kiss, clawing at Ilya's back, raking his hands through his curls, making up for the brief period that he couldn't touch him. He never wants to stop touching him. Kissing him. Tasting him.

"Was better than video," Ilya murmurs, grinning, as they pull apart for air.

Shane is curled up in Ilya's embrace later, after cleaning up, assuming he's asleep based on the soft, steady sound of his breathing. Shane is exhausted, but he wants to listen a little while longer, for as long as he can, before tomorrow comes.

Ilya's more-than-half-asleep voice breaks through the silence. "Do you unpack when you are in hotels?"

"What?"

"Use the drawers?"

"Oh." Shane thinks for a second. "I guess. Sometimes."

Ilya shifts in the bed with a soft sigh, settling closer against Shane. "I made you a nest." His voice is as soft as the rustling of the bedsheets, and Shane isn't sure he heard him correctly. Probably just sleepy rambling.

"Okay. Thank you." Shane settles deeper into his arms. "'Night, Ilya."

"Goodnight, Shane."

Chapter 20: honey

"Hollander, my office."

Shane had been expecting it; he drops his bag in the locker room and follows Theriault to his office, completely at ease.

After Ilya left, Shane had called Yuna to discuss the idea of doing an interview somewhere. He didn't quite know what he wanted to say, but Yuna, the mind-reader she is, knew exactly what was needed. Something ostensibly casual, where Shane could address the various elephants in the room in passing. Within a matter of hours, she'd lined up a feature with Men's Health magazine to go over his diet and workout routines. And anything else that happened to casually come up.

He hadn’t said anything untrue in the interview, or anything inflammatory. In fact, he’d ended up being even more diplomatic than he’d intended to be—old habits die hard.

"You think this is cute?" Theriault holds up his phone, squinting at the screen as he reads. "If management thinks switching up the team leadership that won the Cup last year will help, we’ll see about that—did you think you were being clever?"

Shane shrugs. That's not quite what he said, but close enough. "I don’t see what’s wrong with that statement."

Theriault drops his phone onto the desk hard before leaning back in his chair. "Publicly questioning the coaching staff. The MLH doesn’t appreciate that."

"I didn’t question anything—I said you know what you’re doing. Don’t you?"

He just smirks at Shane in response. "We're not going to trade you before the playoffs, if that's what you're trying to do."

With wide eyes, Shane says, "I'm not trying to do anything. I just wanted to share my favourite workouts with the world." He has to bite back a smile—the thought of using this interview to get traded hadn't even crossed his mind, but now a litany of comments he could have made with that intention thread through his thoughts. They all come to him in a Russian accent.

Ignoring this, Theriault continues, "I've already talked to the team, and nobody is to mention the video again. I don't want to hear anything out of anybody's mouths that isn't hockey-related while we're at work. And since I've already said this once—and it apparently landed on deaf ears—anybody who doesn't stick to that will be benched immediately. Understood?"

Shane nods. "Sure." As if Shane’s the one that can’t stop talking about it.

"I hope the parts of this interview where you said you want to get another Cup were true. I don't understand why you suddenly crave all this attention, but another Cup will get you it in spades."

Shane clenches his jaw. In no universe did he ever crave attention for that video leaking, or even for how much he can bench press. He just wants to play fucking hockey; that’s all he’s ever wanted. "A lot of players do interviews like this—players on this very team, this very year. You keeping me away from the media after every game is what's drawing attention. Now they've been thrown some scraps." Now maybe everybody can start to move the fuck on.

Theriault clicks his tongue. "We were just trying to protect you from embarrassment."

"That's very thoughtful, thank you. But I'm not embarrassed, and I don't need to be protected."

"Do you still want to be traded?"

Shane hesitates. They've been winning games—at this point it's basically a given that they'll make the playoffs again. And if they win, then what? His mom would be crushed if he ever stopped being a Metro, by choice or otherwise. But Shane isn't sure how much longer he can stay somewhere that's lost so much respect for him—and where he's lost just as much in kind.

He used to look forward to every game, every practice, but these days he mostly looks forward to going home afterward, watching games with teams who clearly enjoy playing together, like the Metros used to. And if he gets traded, what if it’s somewhere like Toronto? Somewhere full of players like Dallas Kent who wouldn’t be any better than the shit he’s dealing with here. Or somewhere like Buffalo, where he'd never get within sneezing distance of the Cup again. Shane's not sure which is worse.

"Let's see how the playoffs go," he hedges.

— —

"What did Hunter want?" Hayden asks.

The Metros just beat the Admirals 6-4. Scott Hunter had skated up to Shane just after the horn while most of the Metros were celebrating their win without him. 

Shane shakes his head. "I don't know, he was saying it sucked my privacy was violated, blah blah blah. I can't tell who's just fucking with me anymore, so who knows if he meant it. I just said thanks."

Hayden thinks about it for a second. "I think Hunter's a good guy. He probably meant it."

"Maybe." Shane had never been naive enough to only think the best of people before all of this, but he's never been so on guard either. It would be nice if Hunter was sincere, but Shane has no way of knowing. Better to focus on the fact they won tonight with minimal bruising.

"Hey, Hollander!"

Shane and Hayden turn to see Comeau heading their way.

"Fuck off, Comeau," Hayden says, turning away and motioning Shane to do the same. But Shane stays put.

"I just want to talk to Hollander for a second," Comeau says, his hands raised in surrender. "It's hockey-related, promise."

Noticing Shane isn't moving, Hayden comes back and stands next to him, arms crossed. "As alternate captain, you can talk to me about something hockey-related if you want."

"It's fine, Hayd. I'll meet you outside."

Lips pursed, Hayden eyes up Comeau—an ineffective warning, but Shane still appreciates the gesture—before nodding and heading for the exit.

"Read your interview," Comeau says. This is loosely hockey-related, at best. 

"Yeah? Need any workout tips?"

He smirks before leaning in, lowering his voice. "So you're just flaunting it now, eh?"

Shane narrows his eyes. "Meaning?"

Comeau glances around before continuing, his voice even lower. "That gay shit. I fucking knew it."

Shane doesn't remember doing any 'gay shit' during the interview, but Comeau seems to know better. "You didn't like my protein smoothie recipe?"

Comeau's lips curl with disgust. "You have fucking handprints on your ass, man. I saw them in the shower. You're not even trying to hide it."

Oh, those. Shane leans in, getting close enough that Comeau jerks his head back, and matches his low tone. "You keep watching that video—now you're looking at my ass in the showers. Comeau, you should probably worry about your own gay shit before anybody else's."

Comeau shoves Shane back hard enough that his shoulders hit the cinderblock wall behind him. For a second, Shane expects him to take a swing too, but instead Comeau just stares at him, disgust still plastered on his face.

With a laugh, Shane says, "Have a good night, man. Good game."

After Shane gets home, he calls his parents. He's been doing that a lot more lately, ever since Ilya's dad passed away. He and Yuna talk about his game, about what went well, and what he needs to work on. They congratulate him on the article, which would have been the perfect time to talk about how things have really been going with the Metros.

He almost tells Yuna about Theriault’s reaction to the article. Almost tells her about Comeau, about how casually some of his teammates react with violence around him these days. Almost. But they’re Yuna’s favourite team, and Shane can’t do that to her. Shane talks to his dad about the latest bad movies he’s seen while flying, and which ones he’s looking forward to watching with David next time he’s at their place.

And all the while the words gay shit nibble at him. He wonders if Ilya’s dad knew everything about him—maybe not, considering the Russia of it all—but not all people are their countries’ laws and prejudices. He knows his own parents aren’t prejudiced—he’s pretty sure he knows it—and that he’s not breaking any laws, and still he can’t say it.

He doesn't know how to tell his parents that he’s been getting up to some gay shit, shit that’s so gay and so good, he might have gone and fallen in love with Ilya fucking Rozanov of all people. Of all men. Of all hockey players. He has no idea how to tell them any of that. Telling them he might get traded by the Metros would be easier. But he doesn’t tell them that, either. He just tells them he loves them and he’ll talk to them later. Later. Maybe he’ll tell them later.

did you steal my hoodie?

He and Ilya have been texting almost every day since he went back to Boston; it’s become Shane’s favourite part of his bedtime routine.

yes. you only notice now?

no, I noticed the day I did the interview.
I was going to wear it.
It came out today, did you see?

Shane texts Ilya the link.

they filmed you exercising?

Laughing, he texts back: yes. that was kind of the whole point. it looks good?

i will let you know in 15 minutes

the videos only 8mins long

i need 15 😈

Interview Excerpts

Over the last few months, your playstyle has become a lot more physical than you’ve previously been known for. Was that a conscious decision on your part?

I think sometimes you have to match the energy of other teams, other players, to win. Earlier in the season we weren’t winning as much. Now we are.

Do you think a more physically aggressive playstyle is necessary to win?

No, I don’t. It just comes down to personal preference. And sometimes necessity, I guess. I found it necessary to get more physical this season.

To match other players’ energy?

Yes.

You mentioned that you weren’t winning as much earlier in the season; the Metros were on what some might call a losing streak. And at the time, many hockey fans online weren’t too happy with how your team seemed to be treating you. Even now, there still seems to be some tension—according to some fans. Do you have any comment on that?

The Metros won the Cup last year, and we’re putting in the work to win it again this year. I think the fans will be happy when we make it to the playoffs. Outside of that, I don’t really pay much attention to what’s being said online. It doesn’t help my focus.

In that same vein, there’s been a lot of talk recently about what’s going on internally with the Metros. It started with line changes, and now leadership changes. Can you talk a bit about why you’re no longer captain?

That decision was out of my hands; I can’t really comment beyond that. I think Gagnon is doing a great job in the role, and there’s no hard feelings there. We all just want to get to the playoffs and bring home the Cup. Again. If management thinks switching up the team leadership that won it last year will help us do that, then I guess we’ll see. They know what they’re doing.

You were also dealing with an unfortunate situation earlier this season when you had a private video leak. Was it difficult to focus on hockey during that time?

If anything, it was easier to focus on hockey and put more energy into that.

How did your teammates support you through that period?

(Long pause) I think we’re all just focused on getting to the playoffs.

Is there anything else you’d like to say about that whole situation?

I’d just like to thank people for respecting my privacy and the privacy of others involved, and to continue doing so. I think it’s unfortunate that we live in a world where someone’s first thought at mistakenly receiving a video like that is how they can make money off it. I hope it was worth it for that person. That’s all I’ll say.

Anything you can tell us about the lucky lady in your life?

No comment.

READ MORE: Shane Hollander shares his must-have breakfast, strength-training tips, and more with Men's Health!

Chapter 21: bienvenue

“So your doorbell works but your phone doesn’t?”

Svetlana doesn’t wait for a response before sidestepping Ilya and letting herself into his house. She’s texted him a few times since the funeral, but Ilya has yet to reply.

“Sorry, it’s just been a busy week.” He follows her into the living room.

Svetlana turns and stares him down with one hand on her hip. “You’ve been back for two weeks. Not to mention you left Russia early without telling anybody.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. He’s sure his absence was noticed by nobody else but Svetlana. “I gave Alexei more money before I left, on top of all the funeral expenses and god knows what else.” For a long time now, he’s thought of the money he sends his brother as another mortgage, and that takes the sting out of it a bit. He’s paying for what he hopes is stability for his niece, though it would be nice if her own father was capable of providing that himself. Ilya sighs. “Did anybody complain?”

After a pause, Svetlana admits, “No.” She crosses to the couch, slumping down in the middle of it. “But I flew out there for you, it would’ve been nice to let me know.” Smiling, she adds, “And then I would’ve left earlier too.”

With a laugh, Ilya joins her on the couch.

She pulls out her phone and taps at the screen for a few seconds before asking, “What are we doing, watching hockey?”

He glances at the TV—it’s muted, but he has it on a sports channel where the Metros game is starting soon. Ilya had been looking forward to a quiet night in watching hockey, like he’d been spending most nights since leaving Shane’s.

“What was so important you had to leave your father’s funeral early?”

He shrugs. “What was so important I had to stay?” His father is dead. He’s a glorified bank to the rest of his family. Going back to Russia has felt more and more like a punishment in the years since he first left. Having to decide between staying there or seeing Shane… it was an easy choice.

“Did you hear about Sasha?”

Ilya glances sidelong at Svetlana; her face is serious. “Well, considering I only ever hear about Sasha from you, if you haven’t told me, I probably haven’t heard it.” There’s an edge in his voice he didn’t mean to have. He’d half-expected to see Sasha at the funeral as well; his parents had been close with Ilya’s family for a time. But he hadn’t been there. “What, did he crash another car in France?” Ilya shakes his head impatiently. He doesn’t like hearing about Sasha if he can help it. It dredges up too many memories of what used to be home.

“He was found out.”

Ilya turns to look at Svetlana fully now. She holds his gaze. “Found out?”

She nods. Glancing down at her hands, she says, “He’s become friends with some actors and musicians in Paris, low-level, but still he ended up in pictures in some tabloids.”

“Pictures.”

She’s still looking down at her hands. “Kissing one of them. A man.” She clears her throat. “And those pictures ended up in Russia. I think someone tried to blackmail his dad, but it was a pathetic attempt. They already knew anyway.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, wondering if he’s supposed to act surprised that Sasha was seen kissing a man. These are things they don’t speak about. All Ilya can think is: how stupid of him to get seen. He doesn’t bother with surprise, not about that part anyway. “His parents knew?”

Svetlana nods. “Yes. Sasha has never been exactly subtle, has he? But they just didn’t speak about it, and it was fine. But now… with it being public…”

“Now it’s not fine?”

She shrugs. “He doesn’t think he can go back.” She finally looks at him. “He wanted to be there for the funeral. But.”

Ilya nods. His parents knew, and it was fine? He never would have expected that from his old coach, who had always been a hard-ass at best, and verging on abusive at worst.

But it was true that Sasha had never cared to be subtle. He never cared about living up to his father’s dream of him playing hockey—or any sport, really. He’d veered toward the arts, toward acting—yet never seemed to feel the need to act in his personal life. Ilya used to admire that. Never felt the need to hide his big personality. His flamboyance. It scared Ilya sometimes.

“Does he have citizenship there?”

Svetlana lets out a bitter huff. “What do you think?”

“Can he get it?”

“He’s looking into it now. I’ve been telling him the whole time. He hasn’t learned to listen to me like you have.”

Ilya laughs. Svetlana is the only reason he’d started the green card process so soon after moving to Boston. The only reason he’d have full American citizenship within the next year or two. The only reason he doesn’t have to worry like Sasha does now. Ilya turns his attention to the TV, and after a few moments of silence, he unmutes it. The game is about to start.

After the opening face-off—which Shane wins—Svetlana leaves the room. She comes back a few minutes later with a tray of drinks and snacks, placing it on the table. Then she leaves again, returning this time with a bottle of vodka and three shot glasses.

“What are you up to?” Ilya asks suspiciously.

She just shrugs and takes her seat, smiling.

It only takes about fifteen more minutes for Ilya to find out what she was up to. His doorbell rings for the second time tonight, and she jumps up to go answer it.

“Marly?” Ilya asks.

“Hey man, what’s up?”

Ilya gives Svetlana a pointed look. Just one night, she’d said about her and Marleau. Right.

Svetlana sits back down next to him. “What?” she asks, looking offended. “You wouldn’t answer my texts; I needed someone to let me know you were okay.”

“Ah, you had my teammate spying on me to report back to you?”

“Whoa, can you guys speak English while I’m here? Are you talking about me?” Marleau sits on the couch on the other side of Svetlana, reaching out for the bowl of chips as Svetlana pours them all a shot. “Metros, really?” he asks, eyeing the TV.

They all take a shot of vodka, and Ilya and Svetlana switch to English.

“So you have been spying on me for her, Marly?”

Marleau laughs. “What? No. She just asked how you were doing, and I told her.” At Ilya’s lingering stare, he adds, “I said you were fine. Maybe a little slower on the ice for a few days there.”

“Fuck off, I am fast as ever.”

“Okay,” Marleau says, turning his attention back to the Metros. “Fuck, did you see that thing about Hollander’s workout? Man’s a beast, his muscles are crazy.” He flexes his arm. “I started following his arm routine and I’m already seeing results, bro. Feel them.”

Ilya doesn’t see a difference, but he reaches out and squeezes Marleau’s arm. “Yes. Good.”

“Want a turn?” Marleau asks Svetlana with a flirty grin, flexing his other arm for her.

She rolls her eyes at Ilya, clearly fighting a smile, and gives the arm a squeeze. “Mm-hm.”

"I mean, obviously I knew he was in good shape," Marleau continues, taking another shot. "But you can't always tell who's really ripped under all the hockey gear, y'know? Hollander's pretty fuckin' ripped."

Yeah, you should see him naked, Ilya desperately wants to say. But he just takes a shot and watches Shane skate circles around the other team.

After a few hours and many more shots, they're all yelling at the TV as the game heads into overtime. Ilya feels loose and fuzzy, happy that they'd all somehow fallen into loudly rooting for the Metros—though Ilya's only really rooting for Shane. Fuck the rest of the team.

"Fuckin' refs, man," Marleau slurs as Comeau is given a penalty for tripping while the high sticking that led to it is blatantly ignored.

"Comeau is shit anyway, they do not need him on ice," Ilya says bitterly. Shane had slowly been opening up to him with more details about who on the Metros has been the worst, and Comeau is at the top of the list. Svetlana tries to tell him why Comeau is apparently essential, but Ilya waves her off, not interested in hearing it.

Four minutes into overtime, Shane scores the winning goal. Ilya jumps to his feet shouting 'Fuck yes!' in Russian.

"Bro, English," Marleau reminds him.

"He said 'fuck yes'," Svetlana says with a pat on Marleau's leg.

Ilya drops back down on the couch and turns the TV off—all he wants to do is text Shane, but that will have to wait until he has his house to himself again.

Leaning back against the couch, he lets his eyes fall shut; his head is spinning a bit. He's about to ask if they should order in some real food when he feels a hand slide onto his leg.

He glances toward Svetlana, but she's facing away from him. She and Marleau are making out while her hand snakes further up Ilya's thigh. In his surprise, he just watches it, only letting out a soft 'oh' when she reaches her target. She pulls away from Marleau and turns to Ilya, leaning in to kiss him as her hand coaxes at him. Maybe it's the vodka, maybe it's missing Shane, but he kisses her back for a bit, finding comfort in the familiarity of her lips and her touch.

And suddenly he really misses Shane.

He pulls back. "I need a cigarette."

Ilya smokes just outside the front door, feeling extremely sober all of a sudden. The door opens behind him after a few minutes, and then Svetlana places his jacket over his shoulders.

"It's cold," she tells him. They're back to Russian.

She takes the cigarette from him for a drag. "I thought you said you were quitting."

Ilya shrugs. "I took them out of your purse." He fishes the pack out of his pocket.

"Thief!" She snatches the pack and passes him back the cigarette. "So... we won't be having fun tonight?"

With a laugh, Ilya glances back at the house. "Was Marly aware of your plan when you invited him?"

Svetlana shoots him a faux-scandalized look, the picture of innocence. "What plan?"

"Pfft. Okay."

She watches him smoke in silence. "Is it because of your father?"

"Is it because of my dead father that I don't want to have a surprise threesome with two of my best friends? One of them being a teammate?" He can't name what he's feeling right now, but at the very least he admires her boldness.

"Oh please, Ilya, like you and Cliff haven't got up to worse. Like we haven't."

"That was before—" Fuck, maybe he's not as sober as he thought. Before Shane. Before knowing what it felt like to fall asleep holding him and wake up still in his arms. Before he craved seeing Shane simply smile at him, his face even more radiant in the sunlight. Before Ilya had fallen so fucking in love that he can't imagine using his dick with anyone else, can't imagine wanting to touch anyone else like he wants to touch Shane. To be with him.

Svetlana raises her eyebrows at Ilya's unfinished sentence. "Before?"

The only person Ilya had told about Shane was his unconscious father—and he took it to the grave. He thinks of Sasha—they knew and it was fine—and the unspoken history all three of them share. These are things they don't speak about. But Ilya is in Boston, his father is dead, Sasha is in a kind of exile even though they knew and it was fine. Maybe it's fine.

Ilya stubs out the cigarette. "I have something that could be... found out."

Svetlana studies his face, her expression inscrutable. "Something current?"

Ilya nods.

"Something serious?"

After a slight hesitation, Ilya nods again. Yes, serious is certainly one word for falling in love with your professional rival. Another word could be stupid. But being around Shane makes Ilya stupid, and hopeful, and powerful, and powerless.

"Come back inside, it's cold," she says after a minute, holding out her hand to him. He takes it gratefully and follows her into the house. He doesn't feel cold, only feels his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. She knows and it's fine.

Ilya hangs up his jacket and they go back to the living room, Svetlana huffing out a quiet laugh at the sight that greets them: Marleau sprawled face-down on the couch, snoring loudly, one arm hanging over the side and brushing the floor. "Should we wake him?" She glances at the time on her phone. "I can get him home if you want us to—"

He shakes his head. "No. Stay. We're all drunk."

They get ready for bed in comfortable silence. Ilya drapes a blanket over Marleau and places a bottle of water by the couch. Svetlana slips on an old shirt of Ilya's and settles into bed beside him—a respectful distance apart.

"I'll be expecting more details at some point," she says through a yawn.

"Yes," he agrees.

Maybe it's fine.

Chapter 22: in spite of everything

Chapter Notes

Marly will not stop talking about how hot and sexy you are
he is trying to make whole team follow your workout together

ok 👍

Shane rolls his eyes, laughing to himself. Even if Ilya is exaggerating—and when isn’t he—it’s nice to have people focused on a different video of his after all these months. Though it would be better if his own teammates were so easily distracted.

He still feels distanced from the Metros—Comeau makes sure of that, always whispering about Shane to anyone who will listen. And the teammates willing to listen—the ones always shooting wary looks at Shane in the locker room, the ones not celebrating when he scores—still outnumber the ones who treat him like any other player. Shane thinks he can probably count those ones on one hand. But Theriault is working overtime to keep them all in line, focused on hockey, on making the playoffs, on getting closer to the Cup that might make this whole season worth the trouble. If they could just win the Cup, if Shane could prove he still belongs, maybe things could even get back to normal. Not normal-normal, but some new kind of normal. Eventually.

Currently, the decidedly not-normal state of things keeps Shane up at night, like right now—he wants to be traded, but he doesn't. He wants to be with Ilya, but he doesn't know what that future looks like, how it would work. He wants to stop feeling like he's hiding all the time, but not hiding could cost him his career. And he wants his career. He's worked too hard to lose it over something he has no control over. He can't help the way he feels about Ilya; he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to—and he doesn't want to.

At least one good thing comes from being up all night, though—more time to text Ilya.

would you mind if I told my friend about you? us?
I trust her

Shane sits up in bed immediately, flicking on his bedside lamp. He calls Ilya.

Ilya picks up, already speaking. “She is my friend since childhood, from Russia. But she lives here in Boston now. Svetlana.”

Taking a deep breath, remembering something, Shane asks, “Your best friend?”

“Da. Yes.”

“The best friend that you said loves having sex with you?”

There’s a pause, then Ilya laughs. The sound calms Shane’s nerves, just a bit. “Yes, her. But we do not do that anymore. She knows I am, um—”

“Taken?”

“Da. Taken. I had to tell her after she tried to have threesome with me and Marly."

"What—"

"I told her it is serious. Us.”

Shane takes a second to catch up to Ilya's words, and smiles once he does. Serious. Ilya Rozanov is telling people not only that he’s with someone, but that it’s serious? So often these days, Shane feels like he’s dreaming, like he might wake up any second and be thrust back into real life—before the video. Maybe even before Ilya. In the days right after the video leak, Shane had wanted so badly to wake up from a life that had become a nightmare. Even with his heart pounding, he knows he's far from that nightmare now. But it’s still a kind of dream.

“You’d feel better if she knew?”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone; Shane can almost understand the feeling. It would be easier, maybe, if Shane’s friends knew. Even just one. He could speak openly with Hayden for once, without deflections or long pauses where he needs to find the words of a normal person. It might be nice to use his own words for once. Shane sighs. Why are all his closest friends hockey players—or married to them?

“I think… you are not dirty secret. To me. I would like to… share?” Ilya sounds uncertain, feeling out his words.

“Nobody else knows?” Shane asks.

“No. Well, I told my father. But then he died—maybe it killed him, I do not know.”

“What—”

“No, no, I am joking. Maybe.”

Shane laughs more from nerves than from finding any humour in the joke. Whenever he thinks of Ilya's dad and the fact that Ilya can never see or speak to him again, he feels something cold and sharp twist inside him. Grief, followed by terror. What if he could never see his own parents again? Would this secret—him and Ilya—seem so insurmountable then? Or would he just regret keeping it from them? More than he already does. Fuck, why does he feel like crying all of a sudden?

"You can tell her," Shane says. "Maybe... maybe I'll tell someone, too?"

"Yes, okay. Who?"

Shane hesitates, pushing thoughts of his parents away. That seems like something he needs to work up to. He remembers Jackie's words about Hayden: he would be okay to tell. Would he? "Maybe Hayden," Shane says quietly.

The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. Still, it's better than Ilya immediately shutting down the idea, which is what Shane expected.

Finally, in a cautious tone, Ilya says, "If you trust him."

Shane wants to trust him.

——

"Fucking Comeau, I swear he's got CTE—how many times does Theriault have to remind him to shut the fuck up?" Hayden glances at Jackie, sitting next to him on the couch. "The twins aren't even in the house! No swear jar tonight."

They’re all in the living room, relaxing after dinner. Jackie’s mom has the twins for the night.

Jackie laughs, holding up her hands. "Fine!" She places a hand on her belly. "But if this one's first word is 'fuck', I'm blaming you."

Hayden points at her, scandalized. "Swear jar!"

"Fuck off," she says, smiling.

"Twins out of the house for one night, and she turns into a sailor," Hayden tells Shane. He leans over and rests his hand over Jackie's on her stomach. "If 'fuck' is his first word, it'll be both our faults."

"It's not the twins being gone, it's my mom being gone." She glances at Shane and rolls her eyes. "I love her, but she's a lot. She's convinced I'm going to go into labour early so she basically won't leave my side. Which is sweet, but also kind of suffocating."

Shane frowns, thinking of her emergency doctor visit the day Ilya was over. "But everything's okay?"

"Yes! Everything is good, we're healthy. The only issue is..." She sneaks a glance at Hayden. "If everything stays on schedule, I'm due during the playoffs. So, not that I'm rooting against you guys or anything, but..."

"Honestly, I'm kind of rooting against us, and not just so I'm here for the birth," Hayden grumbles.

Shane knows the feeling. But he stays quiet, like he's been all day, and all throughout dinner—the dinner he'd basically invited himself to. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he'd taken a seat on the couch so he could have this conversation without having to look Hayden in the eye. He's been waiting for the right time to slip in 'hey, I've been fucking our biggest rival since before we met', but it turns out... the opening for that just doesn't come up naturally in conversation. Not so far, anyway.

Jackie tilts her head at Hayden. "I thought it was getting better."

He shrugs, glancing at Shane. "Kind of. They've mostly moved on from calling me Shane's bitch or vice versa, but I think it's only because Theriault is pushing us so hard. Some of the guys think he's even bugged the locker room, but I'm pretty sure they're just being paranoid." He laughs. "But hey, if paranoia gets them to shut the fuck up."

"Not Comeau," Shane mutters.

"Well, yeah," Hayden agrees. "Except him. But Theriault still hasn't benched him, so he thinks he can get away with shit."

"He thinks he can because he can." Shane suspects that if he said anything back—in front of Theriault, at least—he'd be the one getting benched instead. But maybe that's just his own paranoia talking. The Metros have plenty to go around lately.

"This just reminded me," Hayden says, taking a sip of beer, "he was trying to tell people you had handprints on your ass!" He bursts out laughing. "Like, what the fuck, as if he's never had weirdly-shaped bruises. One time, the puck hit me right above the knee, and I swear the bruise fucking looked like an upside-down—"

"They were handprints."

Hayden chokes on his beer. Jackie looks at Shane with her eyebrows raised, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Not the smoothest transition to getting to what's been on Shane's mind for weeks now, but it'll have to do.

"What do you—uh—" Hayden leans forward and gently places his drink on the table. Staring back at Shane is a face of pure confusion. "Handprints?"

Maybe this wasn't the best opening to take. Shane clears his throat, his face growing hot. "Yeah, um..." He wonders if it's too late to take it back. Or come up with another explanation for why he'd have handprints on his ass.

"From hockey?" Hayden asks, mystified.

Shane glances at Jackie like she can save him. She nods at him encouragingly. He would be okay to tell.

"Okay, so, you know Lily?" Shane has no idea where he's going with this. "She, uh—" Doesn't exist, she doesn't exist. 

"Lily did that?" He just looks more confused. "How hard did she—I mean, not that I've done that a lot, there was this one girl in high school, but she didn't—"

Jackie takes his hand and squeezes it. "Hayd, shh. We don't want to hear about you spanking your high school girlfriend. Let him talk."

Grateful and terrified, Shane tries again. "Lily is a fake name. She doesn't exist. Never has."

Hayden narrows his eyes. "What do you mean? She was just at your place." Now it's Shane's turn to be confused. At Shane's blank stare, Hayden says, "That day with the twins? They kept mentioning Lily after. Said she helped them draw and they had so much fun." He turns to Jackie. "Right?"

She nods, biting her lip like she's holding something back.

Shane feels like he's jumped out of a plane and has yet to pull the cord for his parachute—it's too late to get back in the plane. Too late to undo this conversation. He has to pull the cord. Rip off the Band-Aid. And countless other stupid idioms telling him to just fucking say it. Maybe the parachute will have a tear in it and Hayden will reject him. Or maybe he'll land softly. Then he’ll have to jump out of another plane when it comes time to tell his parents. Shane shakes his head. Enough with the fucking metaphors.

"Lily is a guy and has always been a guy." He holds his breath.

Hayden stares at him, digesting his words. After a long moment, he asks, "What does that mean?"

Jackie sighs.

Shane clicks his tongue. He can only imagine the face Ilya would be pulling right now if he was here for this conversation. "Lily is a guy that I've been... sleeping with."

"Fucking?"

"Yes, that's what 'sleeping with' usually means."

Hayden suddenly jumps to his feet. Jackie catches his hand. "Sit down," she tells him gently. He looks at her, surprised, like he'd forgotten she was there, then sits back down, as though he isn’t entirely sure why he stood up in the first place.

His knee bouncing restlessly, he turns his attention back to Shane. "You've been texting Lily for years."

"Yes. And I've been sleeping with him for years."

"Didn't you used to talk about some girlfriend? Before Lily?"

"Jessica. I dated her in high school, and for a while after. I broke up with her after I met him."

Hayden leans back against the couch, still holding Jackie's hand. "What—how—why didn't you tell me?"

With a sigh, thinking through all the possible answers to that question—some more obvious than others—Shane just says, "I'm telling you now."

"Okay," Hayden says. From his tone, Shane's not entirely sure it is okay. Hayden straightens, leaning forward. "So he bruised you? When you're already getting enough shit from the guys, he did that?"

"Hayden," Jackie warns.

This takes Shane off guard; this isn't supposed to be the focus of the conversation. "I asked him—" He shakes his head impatiently. "It's not about that." Shane had wanted those bruises, and some part of him even wanted them to be seen—he can't listen to Hayden speak about them like they're something to be ashamed of.

"Shane, I had to come to your house and basically force you to let me help you with your shoulder that one time. The bruises you had... I mean, things were just starting to cool off, and then this guy just adds to it—"

"He's not just some guy!" Shane stands up, feeling a little shaky. Hayden already hates the guy—finding out it's Ilya Rozanov is only going to make things worse at this point, that much is clear. Shane mentally kicks himself for taking the mention of the handprints as a good opening—what was he thinking? There was never going to be a good opening for this conversation, but fuck if he didn't pick maybe the worst possible one.

Shane wants to sit back down and explain exactly what Ilya means to him, and he wants to run out the front door and never speak of this again. Not with Hayden, not with anybody. Shane takes a deep breath as he feels the two directions pull at him.

"I'm just tired of lying," he says to Hayden. "I love him. And he's the only reason I've made it through all this shit, and I thought my best friend might want to know that. Maybe even be happy for me."

Hayden opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Shane feels very tired all of a sudden. "Look, let's just... call it a night, okay? Thank you for dinner; it was great, Jackie."

Jackie gets up and steps around the coffee table to pull him into a hug. "I'll talk to him," she whispers in his ear. "Love you."

Shane squeezes her a little harder, then pulls back and nods. "'Night."

With one last glance at Hayden—still sitting on the couch, looking shell-shocked and avoiding his gaze—Shane heads for the front door. He feels like he's moving in slow motion, fighting his way through quicksand. He'd run through so many worst-case scenarios—Hayden kicking him out, maybe even punching him, yelling at Shane for lying to him all these years. Shane hadn't expected silence.

He slips his shoes on, pulls on his jacket, and just as he's reaching for the door, a hand clamps onto his shoulder and pulls him around. Hayden crashes against him with a hug that knocks the breath out of Shane.

"Buddy, I fucking love you no matter what, okay? I just—I wasn't expecting any of that, and I'm still... I don't know what to say. Obviously. But I love you. And I'm happy for you—or I want to be. I mean, I don't know—you know?"

Hayden says all of this while squeezing the life out of Shane, the words muffled against Shane's hair. Shane just squeezes him back.

When Hayden pulls away, Shane gasps for air. "That's probably going to leave a bruise," he says, wincing as he rolls a shoulder.

Hayden grins. "Fuck off."

——

I finally told Hayden
kind of

kind of?

that I'm with a guy, not that it's you

you are afraid you will kill him like my father?

that's NOT funny

is a little funny
was he good about it?

I think so
it could have gone better
but he said he loved me no matter what

oh did he 😒

as a FRIEND
and I hope he means it
he might change his mind when he finds out it’s you
you could try being nicer to him?

we do not play against each other again until next season
unless we are both in playoffs
no time to be nice to pike

there’s awards shows this summer

i will be too busy being nice to YOU during boring awards
or not nice if you want 😈
facetime? I can be nice to you right now

don't you have a flight in like 5hrs?
go to sleep

seeing you will help me sleep, ptichka 

google translate says you’re calling me a bird?
??

Chapter End Notes

Hayden's trying, okay?
🏳️‍🌈💜💙happy pride month!💛🏒💕

Chapter 23: i guess

congratulations on playoffs
do you have any time before first game?

thank you! any time for what?

maybe i come see you?
for luck 😏

Ilya stares at his phone, holding his breath. He needs to see Shane, touch him, kiss him, as soon as humanly possible. It’s been too long since they last saw each other in person, and right now, it feels like the only thing in the world he has to look forward to.

The Raiders hadn’t made the playoffs this year, much to everyone’s disappointment. The last half of the season had mostly fallen apart after their starting goalie blew out his knee and never fully bounced back. The Metros clinched their playoff spot weeks ago and just finished their last regular season game tonight. They might have a small window of time to see each other.

basically just tomorrow for a recovery day
you want to come here for 1 day?

Ilya would fly there for even an hour with Shane right now.

yes.

Ilya suddenly gets self-conscious about asking—maybe Shane needs the recovery time. Or he might just want to be alone to get into the mindset for the playoffs. Ilya knows plenty of players with rituals and superstitions they swear help them win—and that’s during the regular season. The playoffs are a different beast altogether; some players get real weird with it. Ilya doesn’t know if Shane is one of them, though. He seems too grounded and practical for that. But during past playoffs, they didn't speak the way they do now. They didn’t really know each other yet. There’s still so much about Shane Ilya doesn’t know. And just as much that Shane doesn’t know about him.

Ilya rubs his necklace between his fingers, staring at the screen. He’s about to text Shane and tell him to forget it, that they can talk after the playoffs, when Shane replies.

ok! see you tomorrow 🙂

——

The second Ilya walks into Shane’s place, he takes Shane in his arms and kisses him hard before the door even closes behind them.

Shane laughs against Ilya’s mouth, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. Ilya’s younger self—the one this beautiful Canadian man had awkwardly walked up to all those years ago, holding out his hand like a lifeline—would never believe he'd end up here. Even present-day Ilya has a hard time believing it himself sometimes. He tilts his head, pressing kisses along Shane’s neck while holding him closer. Finally, he pulls back just to look at him, his hungry gaze roaming over Shane’s freckles and the easy smile tugging at his lips.

"I missed you."

Shane, his smile even bigger hearing that, says, "You smell like cigarettes again."

"Again?"

"You haven’t smelled like them the last few times."

"Oh." Ilya had been trying to quit, off and on, since before his father’s death—since a doctor told him it increases the chances of getting dementia. His father had smoked throughout Ilya’s life, and probably the entirety of his own.

The smile falls from Shane’s face. "I didn't mean—I wasn’t criticizing. I mean, you shouldn’t be smoking, but… the smell always reminds me of the first time we met."

Ilya remembers that day like it was yesterday. He thought Shane was trying to fuck with him at first, because why else would he come up to Ilya and shake his hand? Where would they be now if Shane hadn't just been that fucking nice?

"These remind me of the first time we met—they were all I could focus on." He reaches up to brush his thumb over Shane’s freckles. "Well, almost all," he says before leaning in to place a soft kiss against Shane’s mouth. Shane tangles his fingers in Ilya's hair, pressing their faces together as the kiss deepens. He reaches down and fumbles one-handed with Ilya's fly.

"Someone is in a hurry," Ilya says, pulling away with a grin.

Shane smiles back at him. "You flew here for one day, I don't want it to be for nothing."

Ilya places his hand over Shane's, stilling his attempts to unzip Ilya's jeans. "You think I came to see you just for sex?"

"Yeah. I mean, no! Not the only reason, but—"

"But what?"

"You know your reputation. And now that you're only seeing me, you must be... I don't know, frustrated? And that's probably an understatement." Shane tries to go again for Ilya's fly, but Ilya tightens his grip on his hand. Shane rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to help."

Ilya would be lying if he said he wasn't frustrated. Getting laid after a game, to celebrate a win or to make a loss sting less, had been a staple of his career for so many years; the lack of it lately is certainly noticeable. Cigarettes have been taking some of the edge off. But all those hookups are nothing compared to what he has with Shane. And what he has with Shane isn't just about the sex; he didn't book a last-minute flight just out of horniness.

Fighting a grin, Ilya takes a step back. "Playoffs start tomorrow—you should not be fucking. Need to save that energy and use it on ice, yes?"

Shane's eyebrows shoot up. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. We did not fuck during playoffs last year, and you won. If you expect to win again..."

Taking a step forward, Shane says, "Okay, but it's not the playoffs yet. Today doesn't count."

Ilya takes a step back. "Playoffs Eve." He lifts his hands and shrugs—he doesn't make the rules. "Is there food? I did not have breakfast yet, just cigarettes."

"So your friend was okay with it being me?" Shane asks, absently moving his empty coffee mug around the table, looking deep in thought.

Ilya takes the untouched slice of toast left on Shane's plate for himself. "She did not believe me at first. Now she's jealous—just like Marly, she thinks you're very hot. Will not stop mentioning it."

A look of alarm crosses Shane's face; he sits upright in his chair. "Did you tell Marleau?"

"No! He is just obsessed with you."

The thought had crossed Ilya's mind, though. Marly had stopped by recently to talk about asking out Svetlana. He'd been genuinely worried Ilya might secretly be in love with her and didn't want to cross any lines. Instead of telling him, Marly, I am secretly in love with Shane Hollander, not Svetlana, Ilya had said, "Marly, you two have been fucking for months. You do not need my permission to ask her on a date." But he'd given it anyway because Marly had been so insistent.

Shane slumps back in his chair with a relieved sigh. "Okay."

"Pike still doesn't know?"

He shakes his head. "No, I think he's still adjusting. I'll tell him after the playoffs. Maybe."

"Do we need to go over fighting again?"

Shane glances up, his brows furrowed. "What?"

"Toronto play dirty. I can show you how I broke Kent's nose; you can repeat if needed."

"I can handle Kent," Shane says with a laugh. "I'm not worried about the Guardians. The Metros may not like me, but they won't hang me out to dry during the fucking playoffs. We all want to win." Shane stares at Ilya for a moment, studying his face. He purses his lips, then says, "I asked to be traded."

Ilya chokes on his toast. "Traded? To where?" He can't imagine Shane in anything but a Metros jersey. Not that he hasn't fantasized about him in Raiders gear...

"Anywhere," Shane shrugs. "I asked a while ago, when things were worse. I haven't told anybody else, not even my parents."

Ilya reaches his leg out under the table, finding Shane's foot with his own. "Did they agree? To trade?"

Shane shakes his head. "No. I don't know if they will or not. I don't even know if I still want them to."

Rubbing his foot against Shane's, he tells him, "Maybe you should come to Boston."

"I doubt they can afford me, especially after I win another Cup this year. Unless they trade me for you."

Ilya laughs at the idea of him playing for the Metros—he'd never be able to show his face in Boston again. But then his stomach sinks as the reality of what Shane just said settles over him. No, the Raiders couldn't afford them both. Being just a few hours apart is difficult enough; what if Shane gets traded to the other end of the country? Then again, he could end up somewhere closer in the US. Either way, Ilya knows Shane deserves a better team than the Metros. Any team that doesn't treat him like shit would be an improvement.

"Where would you want to go?" Ilya asks.

Shane looks past Ilya, out the window, a wistful expression on his face. "I don't know. Ideally, nowhere. I'd rather the guys just went back to being nice, or pretending to be, like they used to." His mouth settles into a frown. "I keep thinking if I just keep my head down, play better, they'll forget it and move on. Be themselves again."

Anger bubbles up in Ilya, but he keeps his voice low and controlled. "I think maybe they have always been assholes. And you cannot fix that, no matter what you do. Is... not about you."

"It is about me, though. They've made that very clear, and keep making it clear in case I missed it the first time."

Ilya clenches his jaw. "Ah, okay. Then just stop being you. Then there will be no problem, right?" Shane says nothing to that, and Ilya feels regret in the pit of his stomach. "Sorry." He gets up and reaches for Shane's hand, pulling him up from the table and into a hug. "Listen. You have tried being nice, being rude, you always play well. You dragged them to playoffs for second year in a row. Yes? Metros are still shit. What more can you do?"

They sway together, Shane burying his face in the crook of Ilya's neck. "I can win the playoffs."

Ilya wants to shake his head, wants to take Shane by the shoulders and shake him. But he just sighs. "And then what? You all live happily ever after?"

"Maybe?"

They spend the rest of the day playing video games together and watching clips of the Toronto Guardians' recent games. Eventually they fall into a rabbit hole of compilations featuring the hardest hits Dallas Kent has taken—many of them courtesy of Ilya. They end up in a fit of laughter on the couch, replaying the one where Ilya caught him in the nose.

It's only hours after dinner and after they climb into bed that Shane asks, "Are you really not going to fuck me?"

Ilya scooches closer to Shane, nudging him onto his side to spoon him. He brushes his fingers over Shane's bare back, noticing the scar on his shoulder—the scar left from Drapeau shoving him against his stall that one day. Ilya kisses the raised skin there, like he'd kissed the bandages when the wound was still fresh. "Was today a good day?"

Shane nods.

"That is what I flew here for."

"You flew here for my shitty cooking and to watch YouTube with me?" Shane asks with a scoff.

Ilya pulls him closer and squeezes. "Yes. To see you, talk to you, kiss you. Give you luck for playoffs."

Shane rolls over to face him. "You're mad I said you came here just for sex?"

"I am not mad," Ilya says, running his fingers lightly over Shane's arm and waist. "Just teasing."

Nodding, but looking unconvinced, Shane says, "I never thought that's the only reason you came. I just know you gave up a lot for me, and I don't want you to feel like you're missing out."

"I have never said I am missing anything because of you." He leans in to kiss Shane, but Shane pulls back.

"Yeah, but you don't have to say it. I know."

"You know what? That I no longer fuck strangers? You think that is big loss?" He cups the back of Shane's head so he can't pull away, and kisses him until Shane relaxes into it. "You think any of them were as good as you?"

Shane smiles, his lips wet and his face flushed. The sight is almost too beautiful for Ilya to comprehend—how did he end up in this gorgeous man's bed? How could Shane possibly think anyone else compares?

"You know, if you're serious about giving me luck for the playoffs, I have a couple of ideas..." Shane trails off as he draws Ilya into a slow kiss, caressing their tongues together, running his hands over Ilya's chest, tracing the contours of his muscles.

Ilya tugs Shane's pyjama pants down and pulls him closer by his waist before squeezing the firm flesh of his ass. Shane moans into Ilya's mouth, grinding against him.

"Tell me your idea," Ilya murmurs. He feels Shane's lips curve into a smile against his.

"Spank me."

Ilya raises his eyebrows. "You want more bruises right before playoffs?" He squeezes his ass harder. "Right there?"

Shane nods, his breath hitching with excitement.

"You've been bad? You want to be punished?"

Shane shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "I've been good."

Ilya's cock twitches. "You have been good, and getting spanked... is your reward?"

Biting his lip, Shane nods. Fuck.

"Hmm. You say you have been good, but I think you need to show me." Ilya almost feels light-headed with how turned on he is. "Be good for me."

Shane reaches into Ilya's briefs, taking his hard cock in his hand. "You want me to earn my reward?"

Ilya lets out a shaky breath as Shane begins stroking him. "Yes, ptichka. Show me how good you are."

Shane spends the next few hours doing exactly that.

Ilya rewards him as promised.

Chapter 24: there's just no getting through

Chapter Notes

tw/cw: brief mention of suicide right at the beginning of the chapter (assholes joking about it)

The Metros lost Game 1 against Toronto. But they recovered quickly to win Game 2, and now, back on home ice for Games 3 and 4, they're finding their rhythm again. They just won Game 3 and the locker room is buzzing.

Shane wraps a towel around his waist after his post-game shower and heads back to his stall. They won tonight in no small part because of Shane's two goals, but all the congratulations are directed at Gagnon, who scored one—off Shane's assist, not that he's keeping track. He should be used to this by now; it shouldn't matter. It's a team sport, he reminds himself. Even if the team is a bunch of dicks. A loud voice cuts through the chatter in the room—and Shane's thoughts.

"Holy shit, did you hear about the Centaurs coach? He fucking died," Comeau says, looking up from his phone.

Drapeau laughs. "Did he kill himself? I would too if I had to coach that team."

"Fucking disrespectful," JJ mutters in French, shaking his head.

"That’s fucked up, man," says Andropov. "He used to be a good player for Detroit."

Comeau rolls his eyes. "Yeah, maybe like twenty years ago. It sure didn’t translate to his coaching ability."

"No coach can fix that team," Drapeau says. "Besides, he wasn’t even there that long, was he? The Centaurs are cursed—can’t win shit, can’t keep a coach, now they’re just dropping dead."

Andropov grabs his phone from the stall, probably to check the news for himself. "Jesus. He wasn’t even sixty. Had a heart attack." He scrolls for a moment. "And they just won the draft lottery, too. Some fucking luck, that's like some monkey paw shit."

"Like having first pick will help them anyway. Well, on the bright side, he’s in a better place now. Anywhere but Ottawa!" Drapeau bursts into laughter at his own joke. Only a few players around him join in; everybody else gets back to their own business, and the mood in the room grows noticeably quieter.

Shane tries to ignore all of it, standing motionless in front of his stall. He doesn’t want to hear about any more death, doesn't want to think about it, not after Ilya's dad—but still, the bitter thought of if a coach had to die, why couldn’t it have been... crosses his mind. He ignores that, too.

Hayden comes out of the showers a moment later, clearly having missed the mood shift, because when he comes up to his stall next to Shane, he spanks him with a loud slap that everyone hears. "You fucking killed it tonight, buddy. Good goals! We're going to get that fucking Cup."

The surprise—and the force—of it makes Shane stumble forward. Catching himself to stop from falling into his stall, he shoots a confused look at Hayden, then glances around the room. Comeau is staring at them both with disgust, but says nothing as he turns away.

Shane snaps his head back to Hayden with a quick glare—what the fuck?—before getting dressed in a hurry.

"What?" Hayden asks quietly, also pulling his clothes on at record speed. When Shane doesn't respond, Hayden lowers his voice even further. "Can we talk?"

In the parking garage, Hayden climbs into Shane's passenger seat as Shane stares straight ahead.

"Okay, so I guess that was the wrong move?" Hayden asks, trying to make Shane laugh. When Shane doesn't laugh or respond, Hayden sighs. "I don't know, I thought maybe that could help? Like it would explain... you know."

This draws a reluctant laugh from Shane. "We've just been through months of those guys thinking we're gay for each other, and you thought spanking me in front of them—to explain hand bruises on my ass—would somehow help that impression?"

Hayden slumps down in his seat. "Yeah, okay, I didn't think it through."

Shane shakes his head, trying to understand Hayden's thought process, but only ends up dissolving into a fit of laughter. After a few seconds, Hayden joins in. It goes on for just a little too long, but they both need the tension release.

Finally, after they calm down and catch their breaths, Shane drops his head against the headrest, smiling. "Fucking idiot."

Hayden nods. "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot lately." At Shane's sidelong glance, he explains, "Jackie told me you told her a while ago. And that when the girls were talking about 'Lily', they said 'he' a few times. He helped us draw, he told us jokes, and I just... didn't fucking notice. To be fair, they'll say 'yesterday' about something from weeks or months ago. My brain just fills in the blanks, I guess. Jackie called it 'autocorrecting my blind spots'." He furrows his brows at Shane. "What I don't get, though, is if Lily is a fake name, why did he go by it that day with the twins?"

Shane wasn't prepared for that question, even though he should have been. "He didn't. It's... just a similar name."

"What guy's name is similar to Lily?"

Shane licks his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. He's not ready for this conversation, not yet. "Can we come back to that later, maybe? I want to know we're good with the general guy thing first, before getting into specifics."

Hayden stares at him for a long moment. He nods, then turns to look out the window, watching more players file into their cars. "I grew up in a small town in Alberta, you know?" he says, like he's explaining something. "And the hockey world, well... it’s really not that different. Jackie has friends that are—I mean, they’re my friends too. Fuck! I’m bad at this."

Shane nods slowly. “You really are.”

"I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be. I am okay with the general guy thing, okay? It's just... the handprints thing kind of freaked me out."

"'Freaked out', past tense? Really?" Shane asks, raising an eyebrow. "It's just the 'handprints thing'? If they were from a woman, would you still be freaked out?"

After a pause to think about it, Hayden says, "If Lily was a woman, I'd have way more questions, like what—"

"Actually, you know what, I don't want to talk about the handprints anymore," Shane says, waving his hand. If he could go back in time, he definitely would have chosen a different way to tell Hayden, without bringing spanking into it.

"I just don’t like seeing you hurt," Hayden says slowly, talking around it. "You gave me a lot of information at once, okay? To me, it kind of came out of nowhere. And maybe that makes me an idiot, but I was... not prepared. And I latched onto the wrong thing. I’m sorry." He meets Shane's eyes and tilts his head. "Okay? I'm okay with it, I promise—I'm just dumb. But I'm trying."

"Okay," Shane says with a nod, feeling some weight lift from him. He smiles. "At least you know you're dumb. That's more than some hockey players can say." Shane's distracted when he sees Comeau step into the parking garage and head for his car. He thinks back to his conversation with Ilya. "Was the team always like this?"

"Like what?"

Shane gives him a look. "Assholes," he says flatly.

"I don't know. I think they're just... like any other team."

Shane shakes his head. "No. Remember right after the video came out? When we were getting the worst of it? It wasn't every team. The Admirals were fine. Minnesota..." Shane tries to remember who else hadn't immediately resorted to throwing slurs his way and upping the violence.

"The Raiders were weirdly normal," Hayden offers.

Shane bites back a smile. He wonders how Hayden would react if he knew how much of that was because of Ilya. "Yeah." He meets Hayden's gaze, looking at him seriously. "What does it say that our biggest rival team, the one that's supposed to hate us the most, was nicer than the fucking Metros?"

"Saying they were nice might be an overstatement. But they weren't..."

"The fucking worst? Like our own team?"

"Yeah," Hayden says, sounding dejected. They sit in silence for a few minutes, and just as Shane's getting ready to say good night, Hayden asks, "Was Man-Lily upset about the Raiders?"

Shane's stomach drops. "What do you mean?"

"He lives in Boston, doesn't he? I assume he's a hockey fan. He must be if he's with you, so... was he upset they didn't make the playoffs?"

Taking a deep breath, Shane forces himself to shrug casually. "Yeah, uh, a little upset, I guess. There's always next year." A laugh escapes him. "'Man-Lily'? Really?"

Hayden laughs too. "Well, if you won't tell me his real name, what am I supposed to call him?"

——

“We just need one fucking goal,” Theriault tells the locker room. The Metros and Guardians are tied 2-2 in Game 4, and period 3 is about to start. If they win tonight, they’ll only be one more win away from eliminating Toronto. There’s a visible vein throbbing on Theriault’s sweaty forehead, and it was the only thing Shane could focus on throughout his entire speech. “No more stupid fucking penalties, don’t give the Guardians even a hint of a chance to score. They’re trying to rile you up, don’t take the bait.”

Shane sneaks a glance at Comeau, the only one on the team who has been taking any stupid fucking penalties all night.

“Go out there and fucking win this thing!”

From the start of the period, it’s clear the Guardians are starting to panic. The series has been quite physical on both sides up to now, but the Guardians step it up, desperate not to lose another game in a row. Gagnon gets tripped with no call. Andropov gets crosschecked nowhere near the puck—also no call. Halfway through the period, Kent catches Comeau with a high stick and splits his lip open. That one, at least, draws a penalty. Theriault is screaming at them from the bench not to waste this chance. Shane doesn’t intend to.

In the two minutes that Kent sits in the penalty box, Drapeau blocks a slapshot from Troy Barrett, and Shane picks up the rebound. He takes off down the ice with the puck, the rest of the Guardians too slow to keep up with him. He takes the shot, and a split-second later the arena erupts in raucous cheers at his tie-breaking goal. A split-second after that, as Shane is turning to find JJ and Hayden to celebrate with, time slows down.

The first thing he’s aware of is the wind being knocked out of him. The second is that he’s moving in the wrong direction. Hayden is skating toward him from halfway across the ice, but Shane is inexplicably getting farther away—sliding backwards. He turns his head. Dallas Kent is right beside him, driving him toward the boards. Kent had burst out of the penalty box and gone straight for Shane. He was too late to stop the goal, but followed through on the hit anyway.

The third thing Shane is aware of in this excruciatingly slow stretch of time—even though he knows it’s only been seconds—is the crack. It’s horribly loud—so loud it overtakes the sound of the crowd until all Shane hears is ringing in his ears. He hears it the second he and Kent hit the boards together, Kent’s weight crashing into the back of Shane’s leg. Disoriented, he wonders if they’d somehow managed to crack the boards.

Shane crumples to the ice as the sound of the arena rushes back in—they’re still cheering for his goal, but the sound shifts as Shane tries to stand up, only to immediately fall back down. There’s booing mixed in now, directed at Dallas Kent, who’s standing over Shane and arguing with the refs.

More players keep joining the developing scrum, and everybody is yelling—the crowd and players alike—but the only words Shane can make out come from Kent: “What a fucking dive! Get up, Hollander!”

The skates of other players keep nudging Shane around as fights break out all around him. He tries again to get up, but his leg gives out beneath him. He glances up, feeling like he’s somehow stuck in a slower timeline than everyone else. Hayden is pushing his way toward him through the crowd of bodies, looking terrified, but a Guardians player grabs him before he can get any closer. As Shane tries—and fails—to stand again, he catches Troy Barrett’s eye while Barrett is tussling with Gagnon. Someone else’s skate pushes Shane closer to the boards. Barrett immediately shoves the player back—Shane can’t see who it is, but he’s in a Guardians jersey.

“Everybody back the fuck up!” Barrett calls out, getting in front of the players and spreading out his arms, trying to make space between them and Shane.

“He’s doing a fucking dive!” Kent yells, still looming over Shane. A ref grabs Kent by the jersey and starts pushing him away just as Comeau skates up. He barely spares a glance at Shane, not looking overly concerned about what happened. "Typical fag Metros," Kent shouts over the ref's shoulder. "Have to dive to win!" Barrett jerks his head up at that. Comeau immediately goes after Kent.

Barrett manages to push the scrum a little farther away from Shane, and a linesman finally leans down to check on him amid the chaos. Shane says he’s fine, reaching for the linesman’s arm. He feels fine, nothing hurts, so he should be able to get up. He falls on his ass again.

“Stop fucking fighting!” Barrett yells.

The linesman is waving for medical help, and Shane wonders vaguely who it’s for. Comeau and Kent are shoving each other as the ref tries to separate them. One of them clips Shane’s leg as they stumble around him, and a sharp flash of pain finally cuts through the adrenaline coursing through his body. Shane yelps and reaches for his leg, trying to manoeuvre out of their way, but he’s trapped against the boards. Barrett skates around him and drives Kent back. “Back the fuck up, he needs help!”

“What fucking team are you on?” Kent snarls before giving Barrett a hard shove, sending him stumbling backward.

The last thing Shane sees is Troy Barrett’s body falling over his.

And the last thing he hears is the crack of a helmet against the ice.

Chapter End Notes

oops I wanted to get this chapter done before the actual playoffs ended, but close enough! Congrats to the Canes, and particularly former Jet Nikolaj Ehlers who was the inspiration for Barrett stepping up to protect Shane from the rest of the clueless fighting players: as seen here trying to protect Jake Evans (just a pic-look up the actual hit at your own discretion because ow)

Chapter 25: nice try

"Since when do we cheer for the fucking Metros?"

Ilya shrugs at Hammersmith. "Like Toronto is any better? Do not tell me you’re rooting for Kent."

“Nah, fuck that guy. Why are we watching this at all? We should go out.”

“Feel free,” Ilya says. He flicks a withering stare to Svetlana, who’d just walked back into the living room after leaving for a cigarette. “Not like I invited anybody here.” Ilya had been looking forward to watching Game 4 of the playoffs alone. Instead, Svetlana invited herself and Marleau over, followed by Marleau inviting over Hammersmith and Connors, all of whom were currently spread out on his couch, eating his food, and getting in the way of Ilya properly enjoying Shane’s performance on the ice.

Svetlana gives him a withering stare right back and tells him, “I didn’t invite them either,” in Russian.

Marleau, the person she had invited, playfully pulls her into his lap on the couch. “English, please! Even though I know you two are only saying nice things about us, right?”

Ilya says something to Svetlana in Russian, in a tone of voice that sounds anything but nice. Marleau only laughs and snuggles his face into Svetlana’s neck while she swats at him, laughing as she wriggles out of his grasp. She sits next to him, smoothing her outfit, then rolls her eyes at Ilya, who is watching them with amusement. He had never seen her in a relationship before—if whatever was going on with Marleau could even be called a relationship—but they were being disgustingly cute together. And her embarrassment about it only made it cuter. Ilya turns his attention back to the game, suddenly wishing Shane was here in his lap so he could tease him into blushing like that. What he wouldn’t give right now to brush his thumb over Shane’s freckles as he laughed and tried to squirm away. But Shane has a Cup to win.

“Whoo!” Ilya inadvertently shouts when Comeau takes a high stick to the face from Kent.

“Now who’s rooting for Kent?” Connors jokes. He stands up and stretches. “Anybody want another beer?”

Ilya dismissively shakes his head, locked in on watching the power play after Kent gets in the box. “The Guardians are so fucked,” he says to no one in particular, grinning. Shane on a power play is unstoppable. He catches Svetlana watching him with a knowing smile, probably the same one he’d given her earlier. He shrugs, turning back to the game. He’s watching his boyfriend get one game closer to the Cup; Ilya is allowed to be a little excited about it. His smile grows wider as Shane takes off on a breakaway with the puck. He scores.

"Ha—" Ilya's celebratory laugh dies in his throat as he watches Kent come out of nowhere and slam Shane into the boards.

"Fucking asshole, the puck was already in the net!" Marleau shouts at the TV.

Connors comes back with a beer and drops onto the couch. "What'd I miss?"

"Just Kent being a fucking idiot as usual," Hammersmith tells him.

Ilya jumps up from the couch, his heart suddenly racing. Shane falls trying to stand up; he looks dazed as players crowd around him to fight each other. Ilya holds his breath as he watches Shane try and fail again to get up, only to be jostled against the boards by players who don't seem to realize he's even there. Get up, get up, get up—Ilya tries to will the thought all the way to Montreal, to Shane.

A Guardians player appears to be trying to help Shane, pushing other players away from him. Ilya's heart is pounding in his ears; he's only vaguely aware of what the announcers are saying, but he catches: "Hollander looks like he might be hurt—seems to be having trouble getting up." The insane urge to try crawling through the TV to help him is suddenly overwhelming.

A hand closes around his. He glances away from Shane just long enough to find Svetlana looking up at him with worried eyes. He turns back to the TV. The player who'd been helping Shane—Troy Barrett, Ilya now realizes—is shoving Dallas Kent. And Dallas Kent shoves him right back. Ilya can only watch, his heart in his throat, as Barrett loses his footing and falls right on top of Shane.

"What the fuck!" he cries out. Svetlana's hand tightens over his, a gentle reminder they're not alone. But Ilya can't worry about anything other than the fact that Shane doesn't appear to be moving as the medical team finally surrounds him and Barrett, who does appear to be alert, if sluggish. Shane is loaded onto a stretcher and taken off the ice. Barrett is helped toward the Guardians tunnel in the opposite direction, bent over and gripping the arm of one of the trainers. Ilya's chest heaves with shaky breaths as the broadcast cuts to commercial.

"Damn, playoff hockey is fucking insane," Hammersmith says, like Ilya's world isn't crashing around him. "This'll be us next year, boys!"

Ilya grabs his phone from the coffee table and rushes to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Even if Shane is perfectly fine—he's not fine, something terrible happened and is still happening—Ilya knows he doesn't have his phone on him. But he calls it anyway, each unanswered ring taking another hour off his life. He hangs up when it goes to voicemail. He texts Shane.

call me when you can

If you can—Ilya shakes away the horrible thought. He's being dramatic. He himself has been taken off the ice on a stretcher before, and everything ended up fine. Shane will be fine. But what if he isn't? Ilya pulls up the game on his phone, angry to see the remaining players finishing out the period like everything is normal. The world should have stopped for them like it did for Ilya. But he watches, waiting to hear an update that doesn't come.

The Metros win 3-2. The arena is deafening in their celebration as the team laughs and hugs each other. Ilya hates them all.

There's a gentle knock at the door, and Svetlana steps into the room. "I sent them home," she says softly in Russian.

Marleau appears behind her in the doorway. "What's going on?"

She sighs. "Most of them."

Ilya turns away, gripping his phone in his hand, willing somebody, anybody, to call him to let him know Shane is okay. But who would call? Everybody who knows about them, except for Shane, is in this very room. Ilya feels the burn of tears in his eyes. Had he even cried when he found out his father died? At the funeral? After? Ilya can't remember. He doesn't think so—he'd been too numb. He wishes he felt numb right now, instead of the hot panic coursing through him with nowhere to go. The most important person in the world to him is probably lying in a hospital somewhere, or on the way, and nobody knows to call Ilya. And Ilya has nobody to call—he doesn't even have Hayden fucking Pike's number.

He allows Svetlana to take him by the arm and gently guide him to sit on the bed. She takes his phone and sets it on the bed beside him before taking both of his hands in hers. Looking him in the eye, she quietly asks, "Are you okay? What can I do?"

Ilya lets out a shaky breath. He has no idea. His mind is blank except for one thought. "I will go to Montreal."

Svetlana nods, but purses her lips. "Are you sure that's a good idea? His team will be there. And his family."

His fucking team won't be there, Ilya thinks bitterly. "I have to go."

Ilya pushes himself to his feet, already halfway to the airport in his mind, when he notices Marleau is still in the room, leaning against his dresser, watching them confer in Russian. For once, he doesn't tell them to speak English.

"I doubt there are any flights until the morning," Svetlana says. "Sit back down."

"Then I'll drive!"

She approaches him, taking his hands again. "Ilya. I won't let you drive like this. And they won't let you see him so late anyway. Fly there in the morning. I'll take you to the airport then." She pulls him into a hug. "He'll be okay."

Ilya hugs her back, some of his panic subsiding in the comfort of her embrace. She knows about them, and it's fine, and Shane will be fine.

Marleau joins the hug, wrapping his arms tightly around them both. "Listen, I have no idea what you guys are talking about, but is everything okay?"

"Yes—" Svetlana begins to say in English, but Ilya cuts her off.

"No! Shane is hurt, and I am going to Montreal to see him."

“Hollander?" Marleau asks, brows furrowing. "Since when are you guys friends?”

Ilya just sighs, not even sure how to begin to answer that question. Had he and Shane ever been friends? They’d gone from fucking each other to being in love with each other to actually enjoying each other's company—had that been the order of things? He supposed friendship also grew to exist somewhere in there along the way, like flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. One day they're just there.

Ilya extracts himself from the hug, turning toward his dresser. He opens a drawer—Shane’s drawer—and pulls out his Montreal Metros hoodie. He hands it to Marleau, like it should explain everything Ilya can’t.

Marleau just stares at it, then at Ilya, even more confused.

”I am in love with him, Marly.”

Marleau looks back down at the hoodie, his face scrunched in thought. “With Hollander?”

“Yes,” Ilya says impatiently. “I am in love with Shane Hollander.”

Marleau fidgets with the hoodie in his hands. “Does, uh... does he know that?”

"What? Of course he does," Ilya snaps, confused about the question. But his stomach immediately sinks as he realizes that no, Shane doesn’t know that, because Ilya has never told him. His panic rises again. How could he have never fucking told Shane that he loves him?

"They're together," Svetlana explains.

"Together?" Marleau stares at Ilya. "For how long?"

Ilya shrugs. "A long time."

"'Long time' like more than a year?" Marleau asks, handing the hoodie back.

Ilya nods. A long time and not nearly long enough.

"So... that video. That was for you?"

Ilya tosses the hoodie back in the drawer, then looks at Marleau, studying his face. There's no judgement in his eyes, though Ilya wouldn't care at this point even if there was. "Yes, it was for me."

With a grin, Marleau claps Ilya on the back. "Bro, that's so fucking hot. Shane Hollander? Nice!" He pulls him into another tight hug. "Can I do anything?"

Ilya shakes his head, but then a thought strikes him. "Can you call LeClaire and have him find out Shane's room number?" Ilya doubts the hospital would give out that information to just anybody. But their head coach could probably get it from the Metros. "Just tell him you want to send flowers or something, I don't know."

Marleau nods. "I got you, brother."

Svetlana holds out her phone. "Earliest flight I could find."

Ilya pulls her into the hug, grateful she'd invited herself and Marleau over tonight after all.

— —

Ilya hates hospitals. He navigates the endless, sterile hallways while trying not to think of the last hospital he’d been in. Trying desperately not to think about his father or how he'll probably associate hospitals with death for the rest of his life. He sighs and turns around, glancing at his phone again for the room number Marleau had texted him earlier that morning. Wrong floor.

He knows Shane is fine, after staying up all night waiting for an update or a phone call. Only an update had come from the media a few hours after the game: Shane Hollander had suffered a lower-body injury. Whether he'd play again in the playoffs was unclear.

Ilya steps off the elevator on the correct floor, stopping to double-check his phone yet again after a few steps. If he didn't know better, he'd think he'd never looked at a map in his life—something about hospitals makes him feel small and stupid.

"Ily!"

Ilya jerks his head up to see a little face peeking at him over somebody's shoulder. The little girl smiles and waves. The person carrying her turns around, and Ilya finds himself staring straight at Hayden Pike. Fuck. Ilya sets his jaw and walks over to him.

"Rozanov?" Hayden asks, looking just as exhausted as Ilya feels. "Why are you in Montreal?" The toddler in his arms turns around and reaches for Ilya, making grabby motions.

"Hi!" Ilya says brightly to her. "Nice to see you again, um—" He doesn't know which twin this is, and gives Hayden a questioning look. Hayden reluctantly mouths Ruby at him. "Nice to see you, Ruby! What are you doing here?"

"Mommy's in labour," Ruby says matter-of-factly, leaning out of Hayden's grasp, arms still outstretched toward Ilya.

Hayden gives up and hands his daughter over, looking suspiciously at Ilya. He rubs his hands over his eyes, like he's trying to wake up from a bad dream. "This is Lily?" he asks Ruby.

Ruby shakes her head. "Ily."

"Ilya," Hayden says slowly. Ruby nods happily, turning back to Ilya.

Ilya's heart is racing, but he wants to skip all this and just get to Shane. He adjusts his grip on Ruby before handing his phone to Pike. "Give me your phone number."

"What?" Hayden asks even as he takes the phone.

"I could not reach Shane last night. Put in your number." He glances at Ruby, her little hands playing with his necklace. "So you are going to be big sister? Are you excited?"

Ruby babbles at him as Hayden puts his information in Ilya's phone, looking a little dazed. He hands it back.

Ilya nods and slips the phone in his pocket. "Take me to Shane."

Hayden hesitates, still processing what's happening. His eyes fall to his daughter, talking happily at Ilya like they're old friends. He fixes his gaze on Ilya. "Lily?"

"Yes." They stare at each other, Ilya's impatience growing by the second. "Shane?"

Hayden seems to snap out of it and turns down the hallway, motioning for Ilya to follow him. "We were just heading back over there. Rubes wanted to see him again."

"He is okay?"

"Yeah," Hayden says, not sounding overly confident. He stops in front of a door and opens it for Ilya.

Ilya holds his breath as he walks through it, imagining the worst. But Shane is sitting up in bed, his injured leg elevated on a pillow, a walking boot strapped around it instead of a cast. His face brightens the second he sees Ilya, then immediately switches to alarm when he notices Ruby in his arms and Hayden following behind them. Ilya wants to wrap his arms around Shane, but he's currently holding Ruby, and doesn't know how comfortable Shane would be with that in front of Hayden. So he gingerly walks over and takes a seat in a chair by the bed, adjusting Ruby on his knee.

Shane glances between Ilya and Hayden, looking unsure. He can't fight the smile on his face as he finally settles his gaze on Ilya and asks, "You flew here? Again?"

Ilya nods. He wants to make a joke about frequent flyer miles but feels too choked up—and a little ridiculous for being choked up— to get it out. Shane is fine. Apart from his leg, the only evidence of injury is some bruising on his face from Barrett falling on him, but he's still as beautiful as ever. If not more so. Shane reaches out his hand for Ilya, but Ruby leans over and takes it first. Ilya is finally able to laugh for the first time since last night as the weight of his worry for Shane melts off his shoulders. Shane laughs too, and shakes Ruby's hand as she excitedly says hi to him.

Hayden drops into the chair next to Ilya, and as he gently picks up Ruby to place her in his own lap, Ilya finds himself appreciating Hayden Pike's presence for possibly the first time in his life. He reaches for Shane's hand and squeezes it, relief flooding through him at finally being able to touch him, to feel his warmth and know he's okay.

"How's Jackie doing?" Shane asks, squeezing Ilya's hand right back.

Hugging Ruby, Hayden says, "Still a long way to go." He covers Ruby's ears. "She's only like three centimetres dilated."

Shane laughs. "I don't think you needed to cover her ears for that." He glances at Ilya. "I feel guilty—I think she went into labour early because she was stressed about me."

"She swears it's not related, it was hours after the game!" Hayden says with a smile. "And she's not that early, her doctor said everything's fine." After a moment, he looks at Ruby. "Well? Should we go check on Mommy? See what Grandma and Emma are doing?" Ruby nods, and Hayden stands up. He pauses, looking uncertainly at Ilya.

"Go see Jackie," Shane tells him, giving Ilya's hand another squeeze.

Hayden opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. "Okay, I'll come check on you later." He glances at Ilya, giving a curt nod. "Rozanov."

Ilya nods back. "Pike."

"Okay, say bye to Uncle Shane!" Hayden says to Ruby. "And... Ilya," he adds a little awkwardly.

Shane and Ilya wave bye to Ruby. The second the door closes behind her and Hayden, Ilya is out of his chair, leaning over the bed to kiss Shane.

"Thank you for coming," Shane says between kisses.

"Tell me you are okay." Ilya pulls back to really look at Shane.

He nods, smiling. "I'm okay."

"Your head is okay? Concussion?"

"No concussion," Shane confirms. "I blacked out a bit from the pain, I think. But my head's fine, it's just the leg."

Ilya narrows his eyes. "Why are you so sweaty?"

"I don't know, it's hot in here?" Shane says with a shrug. Ilya places the back of his hand on Shane's forehead—it's something he's seen in movies. Shane doesn't feel overly warm, but Ilya's not sure exactly how warm he should be. Under Ilya's skeptical stare, Shane rolls his eyes. "Okay, I told them not to give me too many painkillers. I need to see if I can walk on it. Maybe I can skate on it and play tomorrow."

Ilya kisses Shane's forehead before sitting back in his chair. He eyes Shane's leg. "What is it? A sprain?"

Shane shakes his head. "No, some kind of fracture, but nothing crazy."

"The doctor said you can skate on it?"

Shane purses his lips.

"Who wants you to skate on it?" Ilya asks, like he doesn't already know.

"I do!" Shane says, sounding flustered. "Oh, don't give me that look. It's the playoffs. Players have played with broken wrists, broken ribs. This is just a fracture."

"English is my second language and even I know fracture still means break. You play on a fractured leg and something happens, will only make it worse."

"It's just a minor injury."

"Minor injury now. You go back out there with it, against Toronto of all teams, will not stay minor. Did Theriault tell you to play through it?"

Shane ignores the question. "Kent's gonna get suspended for sure. Barrett got a concussion. With both of them out, we can win. It's just one more game. But without me..."

Ilya crosses his arms, sinking into his chair. "It's not just one more game. One more against Toronto, if you win, sure. You are only in Round 1, Shane. Your leg is broken." Ilya is trying to be gentle because he'd probably be thinking the same way in Shane's position. But he doesn't think Coach LeClaire would ask him to play through an injury like this. Well, maybe if there really was only one game standing between the Raiders and the Cup. But at the end of the first round? It's too much to ask of one player.

Shane leans back against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. "Fucking Kent. I could've fucking won this thing. I could've proven..." He sighs again. "I don't fucking know."

"Shane, you have nothing to prove. If you had something to prove, your coach wouldn't be begging you to play through a broken leg. They need you to win. They should maybe be worried about proving themselves, ah? Is not your problem. Are the Metros worth fucking up your leg for the rest of your career? Would you ever tell anybody to skate on fractured leg?" Shane keeps his eyes on the ceiling, so Ilya repeats the question. He wants an answer. "Would you?"

"No."

There's a knock at the door, startling Ilya into sitting up straight. Shane also jolts upright and stares at the door wide-eyed as it opens. Ilya is half-expecting to see Shane's parents walk in, but it's just a nurse holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers. Shane visibly relaxes as she places it on the counter with a big smile. "Somebody's popular!" she says, handing him the card. "Did you want to up the painkillers yet, or are you still doing okay?"

Shane glances at Ilya, considering it. Ilya gives him a small smile—hoping it looks encouraging rather than sad—in return.

"Yeah, I think we should up them," Shane tells the nurse.

"Okay! I'll be right back."

"Good," Ilya says softly, taking in Shane's sweaty face. It's a sight he's enjoyed in many other contexts over the years; right now, it only fills him with concern. He places a hand on Shane's cheek, tenderly brushing his thumb over his freckles. Shane smiles at him, leaning into his touch.

"Who are the flowers from?" Ilya asks.

Shane pulls the card from the envelope and reads it out loud.

Hollander, get well soon! Love, The Raiders

Chapter 26: now get out the way

“Feeling better?”

Shane nods slowly, his head feeling pleasantly heavy. He hadn’t expected the painkillers to kick in so fast, but yes, he was feeling much better—the insistent throb of pain in his leg now numbed to a dull pinch. “Yeah. I’m going to try to walk on it.” Shane swings his legs around the side of the bed and is reaching for his crutches when Ilya is suddenly in front of him looking alarmed.

“Should you?”

“Yes.” Shane gives Ilya a reassuring smile. “It’s not the drugs talking, don’t worry. I’m allowed.” He gestures at the crutches leaning against the wall. “Can you hand me those?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ilya slides the crutches over to the bed, then helps Shane up onto his good leg as he arranges the crutches under his arms. “Okay?”

Shane winces as he tries to take a tentative step with his walking boot. “Fuck, ow.” Turns out painkillers can only do so much. With a sigh, he says, “Okay, maybe I was being a little ambitious about the skating tomorrow thing.”

Ilya laughs, and with a wince of his own, says, “Yes, please do not do that.”

A rush of disappointment floods Shane as it finally hits him that, for him at least, this year’s playoffs are truly over. There’s a sick sense of relief buried somewhere in the disappointment—relief that he doesn’t have to carry the weight of the team’s success on his shoulders anymore. It’s out of his control and all up to them now. Let’s see how well they do without me, Shane thinks, a little bitterly. Just a little. “Can you check that bag for my phone?” he asks. “Hayden brought my stuff last night, but my phone was dead. He said he'd bring me a charger, but I think he forgot.” Which was completely understandable with Jackie unexpectedly going into labour—a dead phone was probably low on Hayden's list of priorities this morning.

Ilya digs through the bag, pulling out Shane’s phone. He shakes his head after pressing the power button. “Dead.” He rifles through the bag a little longer before checking the side table, but there's no charger. Shane is about to ask Ilya if he can go find Hayden when Ilya pulls out his own phone and, with a mischievous grin, says, “I will text him.”

“Text who? Hayden?” Shane hobbles back to the bed, keeping his weight off his fractured leg, and sits down heavily.

Ilya nods, tapping at his screen.

“Since when do you have his number?”

“Since today.” Ilya glances up, the grin dropping from his face. “I was watching the game last night. And when I saw you get hurt, I had no one to call. No one to tell me if you were okay. So… now I have Pike’s number.”

“Oh.” Shane suddenly feels sick at the thought of being alone at home and watching Ilya get carried off the ice. Who would he call? He pulls his leg up and props it back up on the pillow, trying to ignore the fresh throbs of pain from his brief excursion. “I need someone’s number, then. Maybe your friend Svetlana?”

Ilya nods, smiling. Shane smiles back. “Oh! Marly knows now. I will give you his number, too.”

Shane’s smile drops. “Marleau? Is he…” He’s not sure what word he’s looking for. Safe? Trustworthy? Hayden knowing is one thing—Shane knows Hayden, he trusts him—but too many hockey players having this information feels dangerous to Shane. And apparently ‘too many’ means anyone else other than Hayden. After years of listening to shit-talking in locker rooms and airplanes—not to mention everything he's gone through since the video leaked—Shane knows hockey players are some of the gossipiest bitches alive. And finding out that the two captains of the MLH’s biggest rival teams are together? That information getting out would be an even bigger scandal than Shane's video leak. He can't go through all that again—worse, he doesn't want Ilya to have to go through it.

“Shane?”

He glances up with a start, Ilya’s voice breaking him out of his impromptu panic spiral.

"I trust Marly," Ilya says, watching Shane carefully. “You do not have to worry about him. Okay?”

Shane takes a deep breath and nods. He trusts Ilya. And if Ilya trusts Marleau… “Okay.”

They both jump as the door suddenly opens.

“Look who I found!” Hayden says as he steps into the room, tossing a charging cord at Shane. Shane catches it, but Ilya immediately snatches it from his hands and turns to find an outlet.

Troy Barrett walks in after Hayden, looking a little embarrassed. He gives Shane a small wave. “Hey, man.”

“I found him wandering the halls,” Hayden says with a laugh. He takes a seat at the end of Shane’s bed, being careful not to jostle his walking boot.

Troy’s eyes fall on the huge bouquet of flowers. “You got those, too? From the Raiders?” Without waiting for an answer, he reaches for the card, wrinkling his nose as he reads it. “Are they fucking with us? I couldn’t tell if it was sarcastic or not.”

Ilya, having found an outlet to plug Shane’s phone into, drops back into his chair. “No, we are not being sarcastic.”

Troy startles, his attention finally landing on Ilya sitting beside the bed. “Oh shit, Rozanov? Sorry, I didn’t see—what are you doing here?”

Ilya smiles easily, not showing any hint of the nerves currently gnawing on Shane’s insides. “I am just visiting.”

“Me!” Hayden chimes in a little too enthusiastically. “He's just visiting me. And uh, my wife, I mean. Who is also in the hospital right now. Rozanov is, uh, a good friend of ours.”

Shane bites back a smile at the grimace that crosses Ilya’s face at hearing the words good friend come from Hayden’s mouth. And at Hayden’s equally pained look while saying them.

“Oh. Well. Thanks, uh, for the flowers.”

“It was Marly’s idea,” Ilya says with a dismissive wave of his hand. But then he glances between Troy and Shane and sits up straighter in his chair. “But I did want to say thank you for…” His gaze lingers on Shane’s face before sliding down to his leg. He clears his throat, flicking his eyes back to Troy. “Thank you.”

Troy nods, his eyes turning to Shane as well. “Well, I’m not sure I actually helped more than I hurt. Sorry about…” He gestures to the bruises on Shane’s face.

“He’d look worse if he took a skate to the neck,” Hayden says, his voice suddenly quiet.

Shane shifts on the bed, uncomfortable at everybody staring at him. He remembers flashes of the night before—the confusion of not being able to stand while players fought above him like he wasn’t there, of their skates circling him like sharks. And Troy stepping up to keep them back.

“I guess,” Troy says with a slight shrug, looking at his shoes.

Pushing the unpleasant memories away as best he can, Shane leans forward and holds out his hand to Troy. “You helped. Thank you.” Troy steps over and shakes his hand, then takes a seat in the chair Hayden gestures to.

“And how are you doing?” Hayden asks him.

“Concussed, so out for the rest of the playoffs.” After a pause, and with a pained look, he adds, “And maybe the team.”

Hayden looks confused. “What do you mean? Why? They want you off the team for helping Shane?”

Troy’s face grows red. “I don’t know. They said something about not being a team player—I was kind of out of it at the time.” He shrugs. “Whatever. It’s been kind of tense for a while, maybe it’s time for a change anyway.”

Shane knows all too well about the effect a tense locker room can have on a player, but he can’t bring himself to say anything. Thinking about what Troy might be going through with an unsupportive team only reminds him of his own. He doesn't want to think about it.

Hayden scoffs, looking disgusted. “That’s coming from your coaches, not just Kent? Crazy they’d back the guy who just got himself suspended during the playoffs over you.”

“Yeah, well… he’s the captain. They love him.”

Something tight and bitter twists in Shane's stomach at that. Being captain certainly hadn't done him any favours on the Metros; it didn't protect him. Hearing that a piece of shit like Kent gets a pass just because of the C on his jersey makes Shane feel sick. And maybe a little jealous.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Hayden mutters. The sentiment hangs in the air for a moment before he stands up. "Anyway, I have to get back to Jackie." He squeezes Shane's shoulder, telling him he'll text him later, then extends his hand to Barrett. "And thanks, man. Hope your head feels better soon." They shake hands, then Hayden's out the door.

"I should probably head out, too. I—"

Troy is interrupted by the door swinging open again, and Shane finds himself wondering if hospitals have 'do not disturb' signs. 

"Capitaine!"

JJ and Gagnon walk into the room, JJ beelining for Shane with a big smile on his face. Shane reaches out for a handshake, but JJ leans over and pulls him into a tight hug instead, telling him in rapid-fire French that he looks much better than last night and how much he scared him. Gagnon shakes Troy's hand and thanks him for helping Shane. Then the two of them straighten up and notice Ilya at the same time, the lively chatter in the room going dead in an instant.

"Rozanov?" JJ asks. He shoots Shane a questioning look. Shane's mouth is suddenly dry as he looks at Ilya, trying to come up with a reason for why the Raiders captain would be in his hospital room. He hadn't been expecting any Metros to show up.

"Uh—" Shane's mind is completely blank.

Gagnon shakes Ilya's hand, captain to captain. "What are you doing in Montreal?" he asks.

Ilya shrugs casually, like being in a hospital in Montreal is a completely normal place for him to be. He gestures to the flowers. "Doing special delivery." He stands, glancing at Shane before flicking his eyes to the charging phone on the table, one eyebrow lifting. Shane gives him a slight nod, answering his silent question—he'll text him when it's clear. "I will take my friend Barrett back to his room."

Troy stands, looking confused, but follows Ilya without protest.

Gagnon reads the card next to the flowers with a frown. "The Raiders have their fucking captain hand-delivering flowers? That's some next-level trolling." He sounds a little impressed.

“I didn’t know he was friends with Barrett,” JJ says. “Then again, I thought Barrett and Kent were super close, so what the fuck do I know?”

Shane just shrugs. He’s stopped trying to guess where any hockey players’ loyalties lie; they can change in an instant. “So what are you guys doing here?”

JJ gives him a surprised look. “Checking you’re okay, duh.”

“Theriault said it might be a fracture?” Gagnon asks, eyeing Shane’s boot.

“It is a fracture,” Shane mumbles.

“Oh, he was acting like you’d be playing tomorrow,” JJ says with a frown. “No concussion though, right?”

“No, no concussion.” Shane pushes through the guilt to add, “But I won’t be playing tomorrow—I can barely walk on it, never mind skate.”

“The team doctor can probably brace it or something—he had me skating through my sprain at the beginning of the season. He gave me some shots too that would probably—”

JJ smacks Gagnon’s arm. “It’s a bit more than a sprain, non? If Shane can’t play, he can’t play.”

Gagnon nods, holding up his hands to Shane. “No, totally! I was just saying if you wanted to try, there’s probably stuff they could do. I mean, we just need to win one more, you know? Do you think you could power through for just one?”

Shane slowly shakes his head, the heavy feeling of it from the painkillers no longer comforting. He wants to explain himself, repeat all the things Ilya said to him earlier that had made perfect sense at the time, but now feel like excuses. “Not tomorrow.”

"Yes, you rest, Capitaine. Have some faith in us, Gagnon! We can win without him." He winces and gives Shane an apologetic look. "No offense."

“None taken,” Shane says with a relieved laugh. He wishes JJ had come alone—maybe he could have explained the real reason Ilya was here. Maybe it would be okay for a few other people to know. Maybe it’s just the drugs talking.

It’s probably the drugs.

JJ and Gagnon hang out for another fifteen minutes; once they're gone, Shane texts Ilya to come back. Then he texts his parents.

"Barrett seems like a nicer guy than I thought," Ilya says as he takes his seat next to the bed. He leans in and gives Shane a quick peck on the lips. "Or maybe concussion fixed his personality."

Shane laughs, taking Ilya's hand in his own and squeezing it. "So... my parents are staying at my place. They're going to come pick me up and take me there."

"Okay," Ilya says with a nod. "I will find hotel and—"

"I want you to come with us."

Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Do they know about us?"

"No."

"You are planning to tell them?"

Shane opens his mouth, but no words come. He wants to tell them. "I—No, I don't have a plan. But I want you there." All of last night after the hit, with his parents, coaches, doctors surrounding him, all he wanted was Ilya. And now that he's here, Shane doesn't want him to go. Doesn't want him to be anywhere but right next to him.

"I think maybe you have a lot going on right now," Ilya says tentatively. "You are hurt, and—"

"You think I'm too drugged up to know what I want?"

Ilya smiles. "No. I just do not want to add to... stress of everything right now."

"Ilya." Shane tugs Ilya's hand, pulling him close. He kisses him softly, then a little less softly, his fingers threading through Ilya's curls. They pull back just enough for Shane to rest their foreheads together. "You take stress away," he whispers. "Come home with me, please."

Ilya pulls back a little further to look into Shane's eyes, studying his face. After a moment, he nods. "Okay."

Shane can't stop smiling. He's not worried about anything right now, not his leg, not the playoffs, not his parents finding out. Ilya is here in his hands, and he's going to come home with him. "I'll just tell my parents... you needed a place to stay. Or something, I don't care. We'll figure it out."

He pulls Ilya back into the kiss, melting into it like climbing into bed after a long day—warm and safe.

Chapter 27: good job

To say the ride from the hospital to Shane’s place was awkward would be an understatement.

Shane’s parents sit up front, with Shane and Ilya in the back, and most of the drive passes by in uncomfortable silence. Ilya tries to psychically will one of Shane’s parents to at least turn on the radio, but it doesn’t seem to occur to either one of them. He does see them exchange a few glances at red lights and stop signs, David's eyes occasionally flicking to Ilya in the rearview mirror; Shane’s cover story—that Ilya was supposed to be staying with Hayden and Jackie, and Hayden volunteered Shane’s place as a substitute when Jackie went into labour—didn’t quite ring true, even to Ilya. But really any story starting with the premise of Ilya being friends with Pike wouldn’t sound quite right to him. Luckily, they were so concerned about Shane and his leg that they didn’t outwardly question it.

Shane seems oblivious to the awkwardness, his head resting against the seat with his eyes closed. Ilya would think he’s sleeping if not for the fact that every time they hit a bump or take a corner, he winces in pain, gripping the seat with white knuckles. Ilya suspects Shane’s painkiller dosage could still be higher.

When they get to Shane’s place, his father—David, Ilya has to remind himself—helps Shane out of the car while his mother, Yuna, goes to hold the door of the building open for them. David opens the trunk to get Shane’s bag, but Ilya rounds the vehicle to take it from him. “I can carry this, you help Sh—Hollander with his crutches.”

David quirks an eyebrow at him before glancing back to scan the empty trunk. “You don’t have a bag of your own?”

Ilya hesitates for just a second before telling him, “I, uh, travel light.” In truth, he had boarded the plane to Montreal with only his phone and wallet with him because packing hadn’t occurred to him. Nothing had occurred to him at the time other than his need to get to Shane and make sure he was okay.

“Oh.” David nods and closes the trunk before helping Shane out of the vehicle. David and Ilya flank Shane, both hovering close as he manages himself and his crutches up the few steps to the front door of the condo building.

Once they’re all inside Shane’s place, Yuna ushers Shane into the living room, getting him set up on the couch with his leg elevated. She presses the back of her hand to Shane’s forehead, just as Ilya had done earlier, but he suspects she gleans more from this action than he had. Frowning, she digs through her bag for Shane’s prescription, which they’d stopped to pick up at a pharmacy on the way. She shakes a couple of pills into her hand and says, “They said you’re supposed to take two of these now, and another two before bed.”

Shane shakes his head. “Let’s just do one for now.”

Ilya sighs without thinking, and David turns his head to look at him. Ilya pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Shane, honey, please take them both. You don’t have anything to do today except rest, and I know you didn’t get any sleep in that hospital.” The bags under Shane’s eyes are evidence enough of that. “Are you boys hungry?” she asks, squeezing Shane’s shoulder. She turns to look at David, then her eyes flick to Ilya, a little surprised, like she'd forgotten he was here, too. “I can make us a late lunch.”

David glances at his watch. “I think we can just call it an early dinner at this point.”

“Dinner then.” She turns back to Shane. “You need to take these with food anyway. I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

Ilya steps aside as she passes on her way to the kitchen. He almost wishes Shane had told them the truth just so he could feel awkward in a slightly different way than this, a way where they didn't have to act like strangers—how well are they supposed to pretend to know each other? Ilya wants to go sit next to Shane on the couch, check how he’s doing, hold his hand, but that would be a strange thing for a friend-of-a-friend who just needs a place to crash to do, probably.

David glances again at Ilya, his gaze lingering on his empty hands. “You didn’t bring anything? Not even a change of clothes?”

“Shane, you don’t have enough vegetables in your fridge,” Yuna calls from the kitchen. “Or—anything.”

“It’s the playoffs, Mom. The team’s been feeding me,” Shane calls back, the eyeroll clear in his voice.

Yuna rushes back into the living room, reaching for her bag, saying, “Okay, well, I’ll just run to Metro and get some stuff—”

“I can do it,” Ilya chimes in, a little desperate to step out and get some air—and a cigarette.

“Oh, thank you. But you don’t need to do our grocery shopping, you’re a guest!” Yuna gives him a tight smile, her hand subconsciously finding its way back to Shane’s shoulder. She clearly would rather stay here with her injured son than run to the store.

Ilya shakes his head. “No, is okay. I need to pick up things for myself anyway.”

Shane turns to Ilya, giving him a small smile before schooling his expression back to one of an acquaintance’s polite indifference. “You can take my car.” He glances at his mother. “If it’s here?”

“Yes, we went to the arena last night after the hospital and drove it back for you,” David says, rummaging through his pocket. He hands a set of keys to Ilya.

“Hollander has my number, so just text me what you need and I will get it,” Ilya says to Yuna.

She seems to consider it for a moment before looking down at Shane, who gives her a nod. She turns back to Ilya. “I would really appreciate that, thank you,” she says, the smile on her face more relaxed now.

“Of course,” Ilya says, already opening the front door. He gives David a curt nod before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Only once he’s in the elevator does he allow himself to take the slow, deep breaths he needs to relax. This was not how he’d envisioned meeting Shane’s parents for the first time—not that he’d spent a lot of time envisioning it, but on the rare occasions he had, it went much differently than this.

He needs a cigarette.

Once Ilya gets everything on Yuna’s list—and picks up a few necessities for himself including some basic clothes, a toothbrush, deodorant, and, most importantly, cigarettes—he lingers in the parking lot to smoke for a minute before heading back to Shane’s.

Ilya had never been brought home to be introduced to a partner’s parents before—an easy enough life step to miss what with never having had a partner before. Partner. He’d always preferred the simplicity of single life, the independence of it. Maybe even the loneliness, sometimes. It was familiar. It was easier to not have to worry about anyone other than himself. Now, he worries about Shane all the time—how his team is treating him, how other teams are treating him, whether he’s taking care of himself, whether he’s happy. It gets overwhelming sometimes; it almost brings him back to being a kid, feeling so worried about his mother all the time, but not knowing how to help. You take stress away, Shane had said. Ilya hopes that’s true. It hadn’t been enough for his mother.

Ilya stubs out his cigarette, waving his hands around himself as if that’ll air out the smell. He’s supposed to be making a good impression, and something tells him the Hollanders are not fans of smoking, if their son’s attitude toward it is anything to go by. Ilya tosses the butt in the trash, then drives back with all the windows of Shane’s boring car rolled down, hoping the smell won’t linger long enough for Shane to notice the next time he drives.

When he opens the door to Shane’s apartment, Yuna is at his side almost instantly, taking the bags from his hands. Ilya peeks into the living room to see David on the couch next to Shane, watching TV. Shane’s eyes are closed.

“He is sleeping?” he asks quietly, following Yuna into the kitchen.

“Dozing,” Yuna says. “I gave him some toast and got him to take both pills, so he’ll be a little drowsy.” She empties the groceries onto the counter, rifling through the empty bags for something. “Do you have the receipt? How much do I owe you?”

Ilya laughs. “Do not worry about it.” At her skeptical look, he adds, “MLH pays well, is not a problem.” Before she can protest, he asks, “Can I help with anything?” Ilya would rather stay in the kitchen with Yuna than be left alone with David and more of his very valid questions about why Ilya came to stay with a friend in Montreal without so much as a backpack on him.

She studies him for a moment, then nods. “You can wash and chop these vegetables for the salad if you’d like.” She pulls a colander from the cupboard and hands it to him before turning her attention to the other groceries. “Did anyone give you any lip when you were out?”

Ilya pauses, holding the colander full of vegetables under the tap. “Lip?”

“Like, give you any trouble?” Yuna raises her eyebrows at him. “You’re not exactly in friendly territory here.”

It takes a second for Ilya to understand she's referring to the Boston/Montreal rivalry. “Oh, right,” Ilya says, his stomach doing a small flip anyway. His mind had gone to Shane first, and he’s not quite sure yet if he's in friendly territory here with Shane’s parents. “No, no one recognized me. No trouble.”

“Oh, Hayden texted Shane while you were gone—Jackie had the baby! They named him Arthur, and they’re both healthy.”

Ilya smiles. “Good to hear. Emma and Ruby will be happy to have a little brother to play with, even if they were not very excited before.”

“Yes, Shane told me they weren’t too happy about the idea,” Yuna says with a laugh. “So how did you and Hayden become friends?”

Ilya, his back to Yuna, makes a disgusted face as he turns off the water. “Oh, just… from hockey.” He internally shakes his head at himself—coming up with convincing lies on the spot is harder than it seems. Shane's hasty cover story suddenly sounds a little less silly; Ilya wouldn't have done any better.

“Oh,” Yuna says politely.

She and Ilya finish preparing dinner in only slightly tense silence, but he doesn't mind it, glad to have something to do. They bring spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad out to the dining table, which had been set while Ilya was out shopping.

David gently jostles Shane awake, and helps him to the table, leaving the crutches leaning against the couch. Shane gives Ilya a tired smile as he takes a seat, and Ilya immediately claims the seat next to him.

They all eat quietly for a few minutes until David says, "Ilya, I was so sorry to hear about your father's passing."

"Thank you," Ilya says quietly, keeping his eyes on his plate.

"How's your mother doing with it?" Yuna asks.

Ilya feels Shane go tense next to him, his fork hovering in the air. "My stepmother," Ilya corrects. "She is... a bit lost since it happened." Truthfully, she'd reached out to Ilya for money a few times, but supporting his brother—and by extension, his niece—is all Ilya can stomach now. His stepmother is still a beautiful woman, and still young—Ilya's sure she can find another wealthy man to marry.

Yuna nods sympathetically. "Is your mother still in Russia?"

"Mom," Shane warns. He slides his foot next to Ilya's under the table—he'd told Shane not too long ago about how his mother had died.

Ilya looks up, meeting Yuna's eyes. "She died when I was young," he says, pressing his foot against Shane's.

A look of horror crosses Yuna's face at the same time a sympathetic one crosses David's. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says, frowning. "I didn't know."

"It's okay."

Shane, looking exhausted, does his best to steer the conversation over to hockey for the rest of the meal. David and Yuna follow his lead, asking Ilya questions about the Raiders and Boston. He's just starting to relax when Yuna steers the conversation right back.

"Do you have any family in Boston?"

Shane sighs, looking up at the ceiling.

Yuna fixes him with a glare. "You'll have to excuse my son, he's forgotten what a polite conversation is."

"Giving a guest the third-degree is not polite, Mom," Shane mumbles, still looking at the ceiling.

"No family, just friends," Ilya says, a little too brightly, hoping to stop an argument before it begins. Shane is tired and in pain, which is making him crankily overprotective of Ilya. Ilya finds it sweet, but doesn't want to risk Shane saying too much in his mildly drugged state.

"Friends are just as important as family," David says with a kind smile. Such a sentence would never have found its way out of Ilya's father's mouth. Ilya gives him a smile back.

"Absolutely," Yuna agrees, shooting a look to Shane like 'see? polite'. "And is there anyone special in Boston?"

Ilya furrows his brows. "Special?"

"A girlfriend?"

"Oh." Ilya clears his throat. Maybe it would be smarter to lie, say no, change the subject. "Yes, I have someone special."

Yuna smiles, sitting back in her chair. "Good. I don't know what I would have done without David when my mom passed away. It's important to have people." She shoots a quick, worried glance at Shane, who's looking down at his hands, before standing up.

Ilya stands too, and helps her clear the table. He wants to continue helping with the dishes and putting away leftovers, but she shoos him away to the living room. "I'll bring out tea in a few minutes!" she calls from the kitchen.

Ilya buys himself some time by going to the washroom. He splashes cold water on his face, surprised to see that he looks almost as tired as Shane. Being here with Shane's family, having dinner and answering their questions, as awkward as some of them had been, is awakening something within him. Even while surrounded by his family at his father's funeral, he'd been on guard, performing, playing the role of the stoic, grieving son. Since losing his mother, the one person who had ever made him feel warm and loved, 'family' had been synonymous with 'duty'. He'd forgotten family should be warm. Comfortable. Like being with Shane.

When Ilya comes back to the living room and sits on the couch, a few spaces away from Shane and David, he's not surprised to see that Shane is already starting to doze off again.

"Maybe we should get you up to bed," David suggests.

Shane immediately sits up straighter and shakes his head, trying to stay awake. "I think I'll sleep in the guest room down here," he says, his voice thick with exhaustion. He gestures to the stairs leading up to the second floor. "Easier than walking up and down those. You guys take my room."

Yuna comes in with the tea then, placing it carefully on the table and dropping herself onto the couch next to David. She tilts her head toward Ilya. "And where is he sleeping? Did you ever get that fold-out for the office?"

Shane shakes his head, looking at Ilya like it hadn't occurred to him they wouldn't be sharing a bed. "No, I never got around to that. It's not like I usually have a ton of guests at once."

"The couch is fine," Ilya says, grinning at Shane when his parents aren't looking. "I am not picky, can sleep anywhere."

"The couch?" Yuna asks skeptically. "You're sure a hotel wouldn't be more—"

"Mom! If he says the couch is fine, it's fine. We stay in enough hotels all year."

"I was just saying," Yuna says, holding up her hands. "Okay, the couch then." She pours the tea and hands everyone a cup. Ilya takes his gratefully, warming his hands around it as David searches for a movie for them all to watch. Before long, Shane falls asleep, and then it's just his parents and Ilya for the next couple of hours watching an overdramatic thriller, making fun of the nonsensical plot in hushed voices so as not to rouse Shane.

"Ilya," someone whispers. There's a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Ilya opens his eyes—Yuna is looking down at him. He slowly sits up, glancing around the room, but Shane and David are gone. The TV is off; only a lamp lights the room, the rest of the condo dark. He's not sure when he fell asleep, or for how long. Yuna places a pillow and some folded blankets next to him, whispering, "It's bedtime." She points to the blankets. "David said you didn't bring many clothes with you, so I also brought down some of Shane's pyjamas if you need something to wear." She pats his arm. "Do you need anything else?"

Ilya shakes his head, unsure how to respond to such kindness. "Thank you."

"Thank you for helping with dinner. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

——

Teeth brushed, pyjamas on, Ilya settles onto the couch with his phone—now the only light in the room. He texts Marleau and Svetlana, updating them about Shane and letting them know he's got their numbers now in case of emergency. He's fighting the urge to go check on Shane when he gets a text from him:

come in here

Ilya tiptoes past the stairs and down a short hall to the guest bedroom, quietly easing the door open. He peeks in. "Shane? Do you need water or something?"

"Get in here," comes Shane's whispered voice, impatient.

Ilya chuckles softly and steps inside, closing the door just as quietly behind him. He squints in the dark, padding barefoot over the plush carpet to the bed where Shane is sitting up.

"Why are you not asleep?" Ilya asks.

"Because I already slept all evening." Shane holds out his hand and Ilya steps forward to clasp it in his own. "And now I'm not tired."

"Did you take your other two pills? They should make you tired."

"I'll take them in the morning."

"Shane." Ilya is surprised Yuna hadn't found a way to force them down his throat.

Shane squeezes Ilya's hand, pulling him closer to the bed. "Were you really just going to sleep on the couch all night?"

"Well, yes," Ilya says. "What if they come downstairs, see me gone?"

"They won't come down until the morning." Shane drops Ilya's hand and reaches for his waist, his fingers slipping inside his waistband. "I've been dying to touch you all day."

"I have, too," Ilya says, his breath catching in his throat as Shane's hand ventures lower. "But is maybe not a good idea with your parents here."

"We'll be quiet," Shane whispers. "Please, just let me..." He trails off as he pulls Ilya's body close to him, curling his hand around the back of Ilya's thigh. He leans at a slightly awkward angle from his sitting position, his elevated walking boot restricting his movement, to nuzzle his face against the bulge in Ilya's pants. Ilya sucks in a breath as Shane mouths at him over the fabric, threading his fingers through Shane's soft, thick hair. Any thoughts of protesting this turn of events vanish from his mind.

After a few seconds more, Shane tugs Ilya's pyjama pants down his thighs, then wraps his lips around Ilya's hard cock with a needy moan. Ilya gasps, the sudden heat of Shane's mouth on him making him feel almost lightheaded. "Shh, ptichka," he whispers. He tightens his grip on Shane's hair, gently guiding him into a slower pace. He's not going to last long.

Shane's hand travels up Ilya's thigh to his ass, squeezing it hard as he takes Ilya deeper and sucks harder, all the while making soft, eager noises that Ilya can't get enough of. "Fuck," Ilya breathes out, right on the edge. Shane moans in response, the soft vibration all Ilya needs to let go. He spills deep inside Shane's mouth with a shudder, every muscle in his body going taut. He releases his grip on Shane's hair, breathing hard, and Shane drops back against his pillows with a sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Thank you," Shane says, licking his lips.

Ilya lets out a soft laugh as he bends over to pull his pants back up. "Do not thank me yet, I will earn it." He gently climbs onto the bed, on the opposite side of Shane's boot, and pulls Shane into a filthy kiss, pressing his tongue deep where his cock had just been, tasting himself there. "Fuck, I missed you."

"Mmm," Shane agrees. Ilya closes his eyes, lost in the taste of Shane's mouth, the feel of his hands gliding hungrily over his face, neck, and chest, touching him everywhere. Shane grabs Ilya's hand and places it over his crotch, showing Ilya just how much he missed him. Ilya can take a hint. He kisses his way down Shane's chest and stomach, too eager to take it slow or tease him. They both need it right now.

Shane pushes his shorts down, his cock springing free, precome already leaking freely from the tip. Ilya slides his tongue over the length of it, slowing down just a little to make Shane squirm, then laps gently at the head before taking him in his mouth. Ilya groans softly as Shane grabs his head with both hands; he doesn't try to move Ilya, just gently toys with his hair as Ilya tongues and sucks every inch of Shane's cock while massaging his balls. Ilya relaxes his jaw to take Shane as deep as he can, and Shane arches on the bed, the involuntary movement jostling his walking boot off the pillow it's been elevated on. Shane lets out a sharp grunt of pain as it hits the mattress.

Ilya immediately takes his mouth off Shane. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Shane says, his face still tight with pain—from his leg or the interrupted blowjob, Ilya's not sure. "Keep going."

Ilya doesn't have time to double-check or argue, because Shane's hand is back in Ilya's hair, firmly guiding his mouth back where Shane needs it. Ilya picks up where he left off until Shane's breathing becomes ragged, his entire body tensing, and it doesn't take long until Ilya is happily swallowing every drop of Shane's release.

"Oh, my fucking god," Shane breathes weakly as Ilya kisses his way back up his body.

"Now you can say thank you," Ilya murmurs, smiling against Shane's neck.

Shane lets out a quiet laugh, turning his head toward Ilya. They share a soft, unhurried kiss.

"Thank you."

Chapter 28: just take a fucking hint

Chapter Notes

“I should go back to the couch,” Ilya says, making no move to do so. He doesn’t want to leave and go sleep on the couch alone, not when he’s warm in bed with Shane’s arms wrapped around him.

Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s temple, tightening his grip on him. “No,” he says, his voice slightly whiny. “Stay here with me.”

Ilya turns his head on the pillow, looking into Shane’s eyes. “I will stay… if you take your pills. Both of them.”

“That’s blackmail.”

Ilya laughs a little too loudly and clamps his hand over his mouth. “Shh!” he tells Shane, as if Shane’s the one being loud. “That is not blackmail. What is wrong with taking pills?”

Shane stares at him for a moment, biting his lip. “I don’t like being, I don’t know, unaware. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never been a big drinker—I don’t like… not feeling in control of myself.”

“I thought you just did not like empty calories,” Ilya says, playfully nipping at Shane’s ear.

“That too,” he mumbles, tilting his head to encourage Ilya to keep his mouth on him. Ilya kisses his neck, breathing him in—not being able to touch Shane all day had been torture.

“And if I didn’t take the pills, I wouldn’t have been asleep all fucking day, leaving you alone with my parents. Sorry.”

Ilya kisses Shane’s shoulder. “We had a good time, no reason for sorry. All you missed was a terrible movie.” He thinks for a moment. “What did I miss? When I was shopping?”

“You’re asking me what they said about you while you were gone?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

Shane laughs. “Nothing bad. Just trying to understand why a millionaire would stay with a stranger he supposedly hates instead of just getting a hotel or something. And I told them we don’t hate each other.”

“What, because we bonded over friendship with Pike?” Ilya asks, fighting the urge to gag.

“Something like that,” Shane says, smacking Ilya lightly on the chest. “Anyway, then Hayd texted baby pictures and it distracted them. And then I guess I fell asleep.” He reaches over Ilya for his phone on the nightstand. “Do you want to see?” He scrolls through his phone, then holds the screen in front of Ilya’s face, showing a picture of Jackie Pike, looking red-faced, exhausted, and wildly happy with a tiny baby bundled in her arms, and a teary-eyed Hayden Pike standing beside them with a huge smile.

Shane flicks through a few more pictures of close-ups of the baby himself, not looking dissimilar to a wrinkled raisin, but Ilya can’t help smiling. His niece, Alisa, had been equally wrinkly, but she’d grown into the cutest kid.

At another picture of Jackie, Ilya mutters, “She can do better.”

“Ilya.” Shane turns his phone off, dropping it back on the table. “Don’t be a dick. Hayden’s my best friend.”

“Hm, apparently he is mine, too.”

Shane shakes his head, annoyed but still smiling a little. “I’m surprised he took it so well, finding out you’re Lily.”

“I think he was too shocked to process. Also, his wife was in labour at the time. Do not give him too much credit, he can still fuck it up.”

“Did Marleau really have a good reaction?” The worry is clear in Shane’s voice. His fingers brush lightly over Ilya’s necklace before tucking it back underneath his shirt, his hand coming to rest on Ilya’s chest.

“Yes,” Ilya says, placing his hand on top of Shane’s. “He likes you, maybe too much. Now I can make him jealous.” He moves to get out of bed, but Shane holds him back. “I am just going to get your pills.”

“I didn’t agree to take them yet.”

“Then I will sleep on couch.”

Shane loosens his grip on Ilya. “Fine, I’ll take the fucking pills,” he grumbles. “I can smell the cigarette smoke in your hair, by the way.”

Ilya smiles to himself as he tiptoes out of the room.

“So how is this going to work?” Shane asks, his head resting on Ilya’s shoulder. He’d taken his pills with some yogurt Ilya brought from the kitchen. He sounds sleepier already, but whether that’s from the pills or his orgasm earlier, Ilya’s not sure.

“What?”

“This. Us.” He tilts his head to look at Ilya. “We’re doing this, right?”

Ilya stares into Shane’s eyes, the words he’s been meaning to say, aching to say, since the hospital hovering somewhere in the back of his throat. He swallows them for now, and says, “Yes. We are doing this.”

“So… how?”

“How we have been already—calling and texting, seeing each other when we can.” What they have now is more than Ilya ever dared hope for since falling for Shane. Of course he wants more, but with their careers and the crazy schedules that come with them… “What else can we do?”

“I don’t know,” Shane says, reaching out for Ilya’s hand. Ilya clasps it between both of his and settles back against the pillow, reminding himself he can’t fall asleep here; he’ll go back to the couch once Shane is sleeping.

Ilya absentmindedly strokes the back of Shane’s hand. “You will tell your parents?” Shane doesn’t answer, so Ilya gives his hand a gentle squeeze, asking, “You think they will not accept?”

“No, I… They would accept me. I think they would. I just—I don’t know, I’m still scared. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Ilya murmurs, brushing a kiss over the top of Shane's head. “Change is scary.”

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I think I’ve had enough change this year. The Metros turning into assholes, my coach fucking hating me, the whole world listening to me jerking off—”

“This could be good change,” Ilya breaks in. “Not all change is bad. Your parents love you, is obvious. What if you let them know the real you, and they could love you better?”

Shane takes a deep breath but stays quiet. Then, softly, he asks, “Could you ever, like… be out?”

Ilya tenses a little. “Out like how? Marly and Svetlana know about me now.” He frowns. “And Pike.”

“I know,” Shane says, his voice gentle, like he knows he’s stepping too close to a landmine. “I guess I mean… with your brother? Or anybody back home?”

“No.” The word is out of Ilya’s mouth before he even has time to think about it. No. “He would not accept me,” Ilya says plainly, no emotion behind it. It’s just a fact. “And even if he did, Russia would not. The public cannot know, if that is what you are asking.” He glances down at Shane. “Even here, could either of us? With MLH?”

Shane has no answer to that. They both know there are no out gay or bi hockey players in the MLH. It’s just a fact.

With a sigh, Ilya continues. “I will be American citizen soon, probably by end of next year.” He thinks of Sasha and the mess he’d found himself in, unable to return home. If something like that were to happen to Ilya, at least he’ll have the safety of another citizenship. And after his father’s funeral, it had occurred to Ilya that he could leave Russia one last time and never return. Not if he didn’t have to—not if he didn’t want to. And part of him certainly doesn’t want to. But another part… “But I would like to be able to keep visiting Russia. For my niece. I want to be in her life; I want her to know she has someone… else. If she ever needs. Like I did not have, after my mother was gone.”

He squeezes Shane’s hand, and in the minutes of silence that follow, wonders if Shane had fallen asleep.

“I’d like to meet her one day,” comes Shane’s sleepy voice. “Your niece.”

A lump forms in Ilya’s throat. He nods. “I would like that, too,” he says, not knowing or caring how impossible the idea feels right now. Maybe one day.

After another few minutes, Ilya is sure Shane is asleep, his breathing slow and even, tickling Ilya’s neck. He gently nuzzles his mouth against Shane’s hair and whispers, “I love you.”

——

Ilya opens his eyes to the dark room—he's not on the couch where he should be. He'd fallen asleep in Shane's arms because of course he had. Trying not to wake Shane, Ilya slowly and quietly slips off the bed. He takes a moment to stretch his arms and roll his neck from side to side while watching Shane—he's still in the exact same position he'd been in when they fell asleep, his leg propped up keeping him in place. If they get any time alone today, Ilya makes a mental note to massage the stiffness out of Shane's neck and anywhere else he might need it. Sleeping with that boot can't be comfortable.

Ilya steps softly across the carpet and eases the bedroom door, already open a crack, a little wider. He gives Shane one last glance before slipping into the hallway and quietly pulling the door shut behind him. The entire condo is still as dark as the world outside the windows, so Ilya relaxes. He pads down the hallway, past the kitchen, and freezes.

"Morning," David says quietly from behind the kitchen island.

"Good morning," Ilya says hoarsely. He clears his throat, glancing around for any plausible explanation for why he would be coming from the opposite direction of the couch, or the washroom. Why he's coming out of Shane's room. "Just... checking on Shane." Ilya's heart hammers in his chest. How long had David been up? How long did it look like Ilya had been ‘checking on’ Shane? And hadn’t Ilya closed the bedroom door last night? He can’t remember.

They would accept me, Shane had said. Maybe, but would they accept Ilya?

David raises his eyebrows.

"He, ah, is sleeping," Ilya says, wishing he could sink into the floor.

David nods, then gestures to the coffee machine behind him on the counter. "I'm just brewing a pot. Would you like some?"

"Sure, thank you." Ilya forces himself to walk over and take a seat at the island across from where David stands.

They look at each other. The room is silent but for the coffee percolating.

“How long have you been close with Hayden?” David asks.

Ilya sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It’s too early for this. “It does not feel like very long,” he says, avoiding David’s gaze. Instead, he watches the coffee pot slowly fill up.

“Were you around during the whole video thing? The leak? That was a difficult time for Shane—and for Hayden too, from what I understand.”

“Yes, I was around.” It was a difficult time for me too, Ilya wants to say. He remembers the worry he felt when he thought the video was made for Hayden, and the guilt—and relief—when he realized it was the video Shane made for him. Then there was all the worrying over Shane’s physical safety during games and around his team. As painful as all of it was, Ilya is sure he wouldn’t be here right now if none of it had happened. Then again, Shane’s leg probably wouldn’t be broken, either.

“You helped him through it?”

Ilya glances at David. Even in the faint glow from the city lights through the windows, his eyes are surprisingly bright, the icy blue so close to his own father’s eyes. They stare back at him with more warmth than he had ever seen from his own father, though. He’s not sure if David is referring to Pike or Shane, but Ilya nods anyway.

“And he helped you? When your dad passed?”

Ilya nods again.

David smiles. “Good.”

They eye each other cautiously for another long moment.

"My dad passed away when I was still pretty young," David says, his expression thoughtful. "In high school. Before I met Yuna. And I loved him, but he was... from a different generation, let's say. I'm not sure he would have approved of me and Yuna getting married. I'd like to think knowing her and Shane would have softened him up, opened up his worldview, you know?" He smiles a little sadly and shrugs. "Probably wishful thinking on my part, but I'll never know."

Ilya, having indulged in similar wishful thinking regarding his own father, knows exactly how David feels. He would also never know if his father could have grown to accept him as he is, though he suspects not. "He was old-fashioned? My father was the same. And now my brother too."

David looks sympathetic as he pours them each a mug of coffee. He gets the cream from the fridge, which Ilya takes gratefully before adding a scoop of sugar. After putting the cream back in the fridge, David leans against the counter with a sigh, mug in hand.

"When we had Shane," David continues, speaking quietly. "I always wanted to be better to him than my dad was to me. Be a better listener, be more caring, more open—all of it. It didn't always come naturally, though, and maybe I didn't quite..." He trails off, taking a sip, then shakes his head. "Anyway. Shane can be... Well, he doesn’t always share as much as we’d like him to. With us. About himself.” He gives an awkward smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I guess he gets that from me, along with my articulateness.” He clears his throat, his smile easing away as he purses his lips. “Shane takes things very seriously. Hockey being top of the list, obviously. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought he had to hide a, uh, friendship with someone from the Raiders from us. Yuna—well, both of us, really—we’ve certainly leaned into the whole Boston rivalry thing over the years. She grew up in Montreal, so she takes it a bit more seriously than I do. But the competitiveness and all that, it’s just supposed to be a fun thing. Or it should be. Sports can be its own world, though. Not that I need to tell you that.”

David pauses for another long sip, the silence settling over them. He locks eyes with Ilya. “Shane doesn’t have to hide anything from us, is what I’m trying to say. I wish he didn’t feel he has to.”

Glancing in the direction of the hallway, a thousand thoughts going through his head, Ilya asks, “Have you told Shane this?”

"Well," David says, hesitant. "Like I said, he gets his reticence from somewhere, and it's not his mother."

Ilya stares, unsure of the word.

"His quietness," David clarifies.

"Ah." Ilya takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. After this discussion, 'quiet' isn't a word he'd associate with David, but he understands that saying all of this to a stranger could, weirdly, be easier than saying it to a loved one. After all, hadn't Ilya himself told Svetlana and Marly—and even his unconscious father—that he loved Shane before ever saying it to Shane? Technically, he still hasn't said it to Shane. Not while he was awake to hear it.

Ilya looks down at his mug, trailing a finger around the rim. "I think Shane will tell you whatever he needs to tell you when he is ready." He glances up and meets David's gaze. "Soon." The same worry he always sees in Shane's eyes is staring back at him through David's. Yes, Shane clearly takes after his father. Ilya gives him a small smile, which David returns.

Soft footsteps make their way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Yuna, yawning, flips on the kitchen light. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asks as she heads directly for the coffee.

"Good morning to you, too," David says.

Yuna kisses him on the cheek. "Morning!" she says, turning to Ilya. "Is Shane up?"

He shakes his head, glancing at David. "Still sleeping."

"Oh good, I was worried he'd be up all night." She frowns. "He wouldn't take his pills before bed."

"He took them later," Ilya says.

Yuna stares at him, her eyebrows raised. "Last night?"

"Yes. I checked on him before I went to sleep. On the couch. Brought him some water." 

Yuna looks impressed. She glances at David with a smile before turning back to Ilya. "And you managed to talk him into taking his pills? What's your secret?"

Ilya hesitates at the question, every wrong possible answer coming to mind before he awkwardly says, "He just said his leg hurt, so."

"So what are we thinking, big breakfast today?" David asks, rescuing Ilya.

"Yeah," Yuna says, taking a swig of her coffee. "Ilya picked up eggs yesterday, and there's bacon and stuff in the fridge." She gives David a peck on the lips. "I'll go check on Shane, and then get started."

"No, check on Shane, and then go shower, and relax. Me and Ilya will handle breakfast, right? Do you cook, son?"

Son. The word throws Ilya off for a second. "Yes, sometimes," he says, regaining his composure. "Breakfast I can do." He stands up, taking his mug to rinse in the sink. David brushes past him on the way to the fridge, giving Ilya's shoulder a light squeeze.

Yuna takes her coffee down the hall. As Ilya and David get started on breakfast, he can hear her and Shane talking and laughing together from the other room. Before long, he and David are doing the same.

Ilya had never felt more at home.

Chapter End Notes

I had an idea that I was trying to make work where David would have also noticed something related to when Shane/Ilya were at their house in Ottawa, and David showed up to find Shane asleep on the couch and their used dishes etc were still on the dining table. But I could not come up with anything that didn't sound stupid lol, it ended up sounding like David was suddenly Sherlock Holmes noticing the specific way Ilya leaves a fork on a plate or something lmaoo. I couldn't get it to work, but just know that David sees things! he's been out here quietly and non-judgementally Observing and Noticing 👁️👁️

Chapter 29: i said i'll see ya

“You don’t want to watch the playoffs?”

Yuna is staring at Shane like he’s suddenly grown a second head. But he only has one, and he shakes it. “No. I’d rather just watch a movie.” He glances at Ilya, sitting on the other side of the couch—what may as well be the other side of the planet for how badly Shane wants to touch him. Ilya offers a sympathetic smile.

“But if the Metros win tonight you’ll move onto Round 2! You don’t want to see that in real time?” Yuna sounds completely flummoxed at the very idea. She looks to David for some backup, but he says nothing. She gives Ilya a thoughtful look, frowning, then turns back to Shane. “Are you just being polite because he’s here? I think he’ll survive watching one Metros game.” Her eyes flick back to Ilya. “Won’t you? If it’s a problem, you can always go—”

“Yuna.” David places his hand gently on her arm. “If Shane wants to watch a movie, we can just watch a movie. We’re leaving in the morning; let’s just have a nice night together.”

Yuna’s attention is still focused on Shane, as though she hadn’t heard a word her husband said.

“Mom, you can watch the game in my room if you want, but I don’t want to. Okay?”

It had been such a nice day with his parents and Ilya all under one roof. Shane had even managed to stay awake for most of it this time. But the later in the day it got, the more Yuna kept bringing up the Metros and tonight’s game. Shane doesn’t want to watch them win or lose—he doesn’t want to see them at all if he can help it.

He’d spoken to Theriault on the phone that morning and dealt with his not-at-all-subtle line of questioning about when Shane might be able to play next. The team hasn’t publicly said Shane is done for the season—even though Shane had told them as much—only that he’s recovering and taking it ‘day by day.’ I’ll play when my leg’s not fucking broken anymore is what he wanted to tell Theriault. My doctor has advised against it for now, but I’ll keep you updated is what he did say.

Yuna scoffs. “Honey, I know you’re upset you can’t play because of your leg. But that doesn’t mean you’re not still part of the team. Frankly, you should be at the game, supporting them in person.” At Shane’s glare, she quickly adds, “Well, not today, obviously. But when you’re feeling a little better, you should—”

“It is because of me,” Ilya pipes up. “Metros are terrible and I do not want to watch them play.”

Shane slides his glare from his mother to Ilya. “Rozanov. Don’t help,” he says, his voice flat.

David chuckles softly.

Ignoring Ilya’s comment, Yuna continues, “Shane, you were captain, you need to—”

“I don’t need to do anything!” Shane says a little too loudly, losing his patience. “I’m not captain, and the Metros don’t want my support. Where was their support while my fucking leg was getting broken?”

Yuna blinks, taken aback by Shane’s outburst. “What do you mean? Comeau went after Dallas Kent right after—”

“He only went after Kent because he called the Metros fags.” The experience after the hit and before blacking out was a bit of a blur, but Shane definitely remembers that part. “The only person actually trying to help me was Troy fucking Barrett, a guy who’s not even on my fucking team last I checked.” Shane wants to get up and storm out of the room like a petulant teenager, but he fights the urge—hobbling out on his crutches just wouldn’t have the same effect.

“Shane,” David says gently.

“Comeau was probably more upset that he wasn’t the one that got to do it,” Shane spits out bitterly, ignoring his dad.

“Do what?” Yuna asks, still looking shocked.

“Break my leg. Hurt me.” He stares at Yuna like these things are obvious. “What do you think’s been going on this whole season?” He holds her gaze, waiting for an answer. He wants somebody to explain to him what he'd done that was so wrong, so unforgivable, that his team—that he had won a Cup with just last year—could turn on him so easily. What was so wrong with him?

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Yuna asks, her voice suddenly quiet, the fight gone out of it. “We asked you so many times these last few months—What’s going on? Why aren’t you captain? How can we help? And what did you tell us? What did you tell me? Nothing.” Shane’s stomach sinks at the hurt on her face; he has to look away. She takes a deep breath, then turns to Ilya. “Ilya, could you maybe step out—”

“He can stay,” Shane interrupts. Ilya being here with him might be the only thing giving him the courage to finally say any of this out loud to his parents. Shane sighs. “What’s been going on is… the Metros hate me. Theriault hates me. They don’t want me on the team, and at the same time, they’re begging me to play through a broken leg.” Shane shakes his head. None of it makes sense.

“I’m sure they don’t hate you,” Yuna says softly. “Why would they?”

Shane leans back against the couch, his body suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. He looks to Ilya, holding his gaze for comfort. “I don’t know,” he says simply. He thinks back over the season, to Drapeau hurting his shoulder, to the team watching Shane’s video instead of game tape just to humiliate him, to the venom—and disgust—in Comeau’s voice whenever he spoke to Shane, to Theriault being… Theriault. “I don’t know,” he repeats. He meets Yuna’s eyes. “I didn’t want to ruin them for you.”

She just stares at him for a moment, her brows knit together. “Ruin them?”

“The Metros have been your favourite team since you were a kid. And for my entire life. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

Yuna blinks, her eyes suddenly glassy, and presses her lips together in a thin line. She clicks her tongue softly before coming to sit next to Shane, gathering him in a tight hug. Shaking her head against him, she mutters, “Fuck the Metros.” Shane laughs, surprised, and hugs her back. After almost squeezing the life out of him for another minute, Yuna sits back, keeping her hands on his shoulders, and looks him in the eye. “Fuck the Metros,” she repeats, her voice steady now.

“I have been saying it for years,” Ilya says.

Shane laughs again, and Yuna’s face finally breaks into a smile. She holds Shane's gaze, her expression turning serious. “Don’t try to protect me from people being shitty, okay? I’m the mom, that’s my job. If people aren’t treating my son right, I need to know about it. Even if I can’t do anything about it, I need to know. At the very least, so I know not to keep supporting them.” 

She lets go of Shane and leans back on the couch, mirroring his position before crossing her arms. “Your dad and I, we’re behind you no matter what. The three of us are a team, okay?” She looks at David. “Right?”

David nods, then leans over and gives Shane’s knee a squeeze. “Yes, you always have our support, Shane.” He smiles, sits back, and raises his eyebrows. “We can be even more supportive if we know what’s going on.”

Shane nods slowly. "Sorry."

The smile still on his face, David shakes his head. “No apologies—we could all do better in the communication department. It’s genetic.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m great at communicating,” Yuna says, offended. At a pointed look from David, she takes a breath and turns to Shane. “I need to do a better job at listening, though. Apparently.”

Shane grins at her, but his stomach flutters with nerves, wondering what conversation his parents must have had to make her say such a thing. Not that it isn't the truth. At her expectant look—clearly, she wants to start listening right this very second—Shane shrugs. “I, uh, think that’s plenty of communication for one night, if that’s okay? I really do just want to watch a movie.” He tilts his head in Ilya’s direction. “Plus, we’re making our guest uncomfortable.”

The Hollanders all turn their attention to Ilya, forgotten on the other end of the couch. He’s sprawled out with his arm over the back of it, looking perfectly comfortable. “I am fine.” He smiles at Shane, then sits up. “If we are watching a movie, I will make popcorn.”

Once he’s in the kitchen and out of earshot, Yuna leans into Shane’s shoulder to quietly ask, “Why is he in Montreal again?”

——

Shane gives his parents one last wave before closing the door and leaning against it. Ilya is walking toward him with a smile on his face. "Hi."

"Hi," Shane says, smiling back.

Ilya reaches him and immediately presses their mouths together in a hungry kiss. Shane sighs into it as he slides one hand up Ilya's back, letting the crutch under his arm fall to the floor with a soft clatter, and grips the back of his neck. It's the first time they've been able to touch all morning—Ilya spent the whole night on the couch despite Shane's objections, and even a little begging, saying he didn't want to risk it two nights in a row.

"So what do you have in mind for today?" Ilya asks as they pull away for a breath, one hand gently cupping Shane's face.

Shane leans into his touch with a contented sigh. "Well, I could really use a shower."

"Oh? Can you shower in your condition? Maybe you need sponge bath," Ilya says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Shane pulls away laughing. "Ew!" He can't think of anything less sexy than being given a sponge bath, even by Ilya. Shane pushes him away and nods toward the crutch on the floor. Ilya picks it up and hands it to him. "No, I can shower. I just need to use a stool." He heads toward the stairs.

"You do not want to shower down here?" Ilya asks, pointing to the downstairs washroom.

"No, the upstairs shower is bigger—more room for the stool." Shane makes it to the stairs and lifts himself up two steps before Ilya is next to him.

"I will carry you."

Shane snorts, waving him away. "I can walk up the stairs, it's fine."

"Yes, yes, you can," Ilya says, sounding playfully exasperated. "You are big, strong man. I know, I know. You do not need help with anything. But I want to help you. Will you let me?"

Shane pauses, turning to Ilya. He's looking back at Shane expectantly, one eyebrow raised. "You want to carry me up all these stairs?" Shane asks.

"Yes. You can think of it as helping me exercise, if you want."

Grinning, and with only the slightest eye roll, Shane leans his crutches against the railing and opens his arms. Ilya steps into them and, with a soft grunt, hoists him up before carefully making his way up the stairs, Shane's good leg wrapped around Ilya's waist.

Shane squirms in Ilya's arms once they cross the threshold into Shane's bedroom, but Ilya doesn't put him down until they're in the attached bathroom. At Shane's annoyed look, Ilya says, "What? We left the crutches on the stairs. Was faster like this."

Shane leans against the sink to keep weight off his leg, and pulls his shirt over his head. Ilya sidles up behind him, catching his eye in the mirror.

"What?" Shane asks, staring back.

Ilya shrugs. "Nothing. You are just very pretty." He leans in, wrapping his arms around Shane, and kisses his neck.

Shane smiles, but it's brief. His face is still bruised along his nose and cheeks from Barrett falling on him, and looking at it just brings him back to the moments before it happened. He scored the winning goal, and all he got for his trouble was a broken leg.

"Stop thinking," Ilya whispers, tugging Shane's pants down.

Shane takes his eyes off his bruises and focuses again on Ilya in the mirror. Speaking of pretty. "Is the stool already in the shower?" Yuna had run out to buy it yesterday, but Shane forgot to ask where she put it before they left.

Leaning back, his arms still around Shane, Ilya looks in the shower. "Yes."

"Well? Why am I the only one naked?"

Ilya playfully bites Shane's shoulder before letting him go, quickly stripping off his own clothes. Shane removes his walking boot, and Ilya helps him into the shower, making sure he's securely seated before turning on the water. Then he shields Shane from the spray with his body until the water warms up.

Ilya kneels in front of him, and Shane lets himself be washed and massaged without complaint. It's nice, and definitely better than a sponge bath. Shane wants to return the favour, to make Ilya feel as good as he's making him feel, but Ilya quickly washes himself in spare moments, never taking his attention off Shane for long.

He decides he'll make it up to Ilya—and then some—when his leg is better. While Ilya lathers body wash over Shane's thighs, Shane thinks about the many ways he could show his appreciation for Ilya, how he could pay him back for all his help... And then Ilya's hand is trailing further up Shane's thigh, reaching for his hardening cock. Shane sucks in a breath—he hadn't even realized he was getting excited. He lets the breath out once Ilya's hand is wrapped around him, stroking him slowly, his eyes fixed on Shane's face.

Ilya picks up the pace of his strokes as he moves closer to Shane, between his legs, and tilts his head up to find Shane's mouth. They kiss until Shane's breathing becomes too ragged to continue. He rests his forehead against Ilya's as they both watch Ilya's hand move in firm and steady strokes until Shane's entire body tenses and he erupts in Ilya's palm with a soft, shuddering groan.

Ilya holds his hand under the water, rinsing himself off, then pulls Shane into another kiss, this one slow and luxurious.

Shane reaches for Ilya's erection, but Ilya gently takes his hand and pushes it away. He shakes his head, letting out a soft laugh. "Not in here, you will fall over trying. I can wait."

They finish up, and Ilya helps Shane carefully step out of the shower before wrapping him in a towel. Once they're dressed in clean clothes, Shane wraps an arm around Ilya and hops alongside him to the bed, sitting down with a wince. Ilya brings the walking boot over and helps Shane strap it back on.

“How long can you stay?” Shane asks, hoping the answer is forever but knowing it’s probably a little shorter than that.

Ilya sighs. “Maybe a few more days. I still have meetings and end-of-season stuff to do with the team. But we will see each other again in June at the MLH Awards.”

Shane deflates a little internally at the thought of having to go over a month before seeing him again. “Are you going back home this summer?”

“Yes. But maybe I will make it a shorter trip and come back here to stay for a bit. Or you come to Boston?”

Shane scoots farther back on the bed, stretching his legs out in front of him. He tries to ignore the throbbing in his bad leg, aggravated by taking the boot off and back on. Then he smiles, catching up with what Ilya just said. Shane had been so consumed by the playoffs and then his injury that he hadn't given much thought to summer until this very second. He and Ilya will both have time off—real, actual free time—that they can spend together. Alone.

“I have a better idea,” Shane says, perking up. “I have a cottage about an hour and a half from here. We could go there this summer. If you want.”

Ilya climbs onto the bed, settling next to Shane, and pretends to think about it. "Hm, I don't know. What is there to do out there?"

"Swimming. Hiking. Barbecuing." Shane leans into Ilya. "Me. My leg will be good by then."

Laughing, Ilya says, "Okay, yes. I am there."

They sit in comfortable silence until Ilya asks, “Do you have an extra drawer?”

Shane glances at him, frowning. “A drawer?”

Ilya nods toward Shane’s dresser, his eyebrows raised.

“Oh.” Shane smiles, remembering the photo Ilya had texted him of Shane's clothes nestled in a drawer in Boston. “You want a drawer here?” He reaches out, brushing his fingers over the track pants Ilya is wearing—they’re Shane’s. “You didn’t even bring any clothes with you,” he says with a soft laugh.

“One minute.” Ilya jumps up from the bed and rushes from the room. He returns a moment later carrying a plastic shopping bag and tosses it on the bed next to Shane.

Shane dumps it out to find a couple of cheap black T-shirts and sweatpants, still with the tags on. And an opened pack of cigarettes. He gives Ilya a skeptical look. “You need a whole drawer for these?”

“It is not about needing,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Shane studies him for a moment before pointing to the bottom of the dresser. “That one. You can move whatever’s in there to another drawer.”

Shane watches fondly as Ilya carefully takes out the few folded clothes and moves them to the next drawer up—plenty of space. Then he places his freshly purchased clothing and cigarettes in the drawer, closing it gently. He turns back to Shane with a grin and rejoins him on the bed.

“Take the cigarettes when you leave, though. The smell will get on all my clothes.”

Ilya nuzzles his face into Shane’s neck. “Yes, is good thing. Then they will smell like me.”

Shane laughs and nuzzles him right back. Breathing him in, running his hand through his damp hair, he murmurs, “I prefer when you smell like soap, not cigarettes.”

He brushes his lips over Ilya’s, soft and sweet. Ilya leans into the kiss, returning it less softly, less sweetly. Shane’s fingers curl in Ilya’s hair, gripping him tightly as a low groan escapes his lips. Ilya’s mouth curves into a smile against his, and Shane is sure Ilya is about to make a joke or say something filthy, but Shane can’t stop himself from getting his words out first, blurting out his only thought:

“I love you.”

Ilya pulls back, looking into Shane’s eyes, the smile replaced with a look of… well, Shane’s not sure what expression is staring back at him. He bites the inside of his cheek, wondering if he’d said it too soon, or chosen the wrong moment—but it wasn’t a choice. He had to say it—needed to say it—whether Ilya says it back or not. Shane shakes his head a little and says, “You don’t have to say—”

“I love you, too,” Ilya says, his voice low and serious. A few seconds pass before Ilya’s inscrutable expression breaks into a beautiful, bright smile. “I meant to tell you earlier.”

Shane's smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. "Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you, too."

Ilya leans over him and they kiss in an uncoordinated mess of smiles and laughter and clacking teeth.

It’s the best kiss of Shane’s life.

Chapter 30: wouldn't wanna be ya

Chapter Notes

The day after Ilya went back to Boston, Shane takes a seat in Theriault’s office. Even with a broken leg, the last few days with Ilya had felt like a dream, almost too good to be true. Shane either hadn’t realized, or maybe he’d forgotten, that life could still be good—that he could be happy—even when some things were less than perfect. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about the Metros and whether there was still a place for him there. Was another Cup really worth spending every day surrounded by people he could no longer stand—the feeling being extremely mutual? With Ilya’s support, Shane had come to a decision.

“Hollander.”

Shane nods in greeting. He’d decided before leaving his condo that the less he says in this meeting, the better for everyone. The Metros had lost the last two games and were now tied 3-3 with the Guardians. The last game is tomorrow—their last chance to avoid elimination from this year's playoffs altogether—and Shane knows exactly why Theriault called this meeting with him. He can hear his mother’s voice in his head repeating the words she’d successfully enmeshed in his brain since elementary school when discussing peer pressure: Just say no. He’d become very good at saying no throughout his life, at least in social situations.

Want a beer? No thanks.

Wanna try some weed? No thanks.

Want to skate on your fractured leg all so that the team who can’t stand you but needs you to win can pretend you had nothing to do with their victory if you succeed, and will immediately blame you for losing if you fail? Just say no, just say no.

Saying no in professional contexts had come less easily to Shane, not wanting to disappoint or rock the boat. He never wanted to be thought of as difficult, god forbid. More of his mother’s words over the years flood his thoughts, the mixed messaging of it all starting to give him a headache: you need to be easygoing, easy to work with, confident but not too confident, can’t be too full of yourself, can’t be too self-deprecating, don’t draw too much attention to yourself, try not to stand out, but remember how many eyes are on you, looking up to you because you do stand out and you should be proud of that, but only the right amount—none of it's fair, but remember to smile.

“I assume you’ve been watching the games?” Theriault asks, bringing Shane out of his thoughts and back into this stuffy room.

Shane nods even though he hasn’t been; he’s only been checking the scores the mornings after with a bitter satisfaction that the Metros couldn’t get their shit together without him, even with the Guardians down both Kent and Barrett.

“You’ve had some time now for your leg to settle,” Theriault says, looking Shane up and down, like he’s appraising him. Like Shane hadn’t just walked in on crutches, now leaning against his chair. It’s barely been a week since the fracture. “I spoke to the team doctor, and he thinks you could probably—”

“I’m not going to skate.” Shane sets his jaw. Ilya had told Shane to bring his agent with him to this meeting, and Yuna, and maybe even a lawyer or two, just to be sure to shut down any bullshit Theriault might try to pull. But Shane didn’t want backup. He didn’t want to hide behind his mommy. And he didn’t want Theriault putting on an act to make himself look presentable. Shane wanted them to be honest with each other.

“It would just be one night, and we could limit your minutes so you—”

“No.”

Theriault sits back in his chair, annoyance already clear on his face. “We’re trying to be accommodating. You can’t meet us in the middle somewhere? The team doctor’s here. If you could just let him—”

“My leg is fractured. I’m done for the season.” Shane stops himself from adding I’m sorry at the end—he’s not sorry. “I’ve been advised by mydoctor to stay off the ice for at least four weeks.”

Taking a deep breath, Theriault purses his lips and leans forward. “Should we pick up our earlier conversation about you wanting to be traded? Have you decided?”

“Yes, I would like to be traded,” Shane says, keeping his voice even. He’s had enough; he is as done with the Metros as they are with him. Wherever he ends up, Ilya assured him they’d figure out how to make it work. Together. And as long as he has Ilya, Shane doesn’t care where he ends up—just not here.

“Well,” Theriault says, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad to hear you’ve come to a decision. And let me say, Metros management would very much like to keep this amicable and work with you to find a good fit. Something that can benefit both teams.”

Shane stares, waiting for the catch.

“I think a good show of faith on your part, of also wanting to keep this amicable, would be showing up for tomorrow’s game.”

There it is.

“As I said, the team doctor’s here,” Theriault continues. “He can brace your leg, give you shots, whatever you need, and we can just run some drills to see where you’re at. If you really can’t play, then you can’t play. But the least you can do is try after all we’ve done for you.”

“After all you’ve done for me?” Shane spits out, incredulous. His pulse is racing; he can feel it throbbing, hot and painful, in his walking boot. There’s no way he’s putting on skates and getting on the ice for this man, for this team.

Theriault looks down his nose at Shane. “We were just starting to let you talk to the media again—”

“Oh, you were letting me do that?” Shane interrupts. “Wow, thank you.” His blood is boiling.

“And here it is,” Theriault says, stone-faced. “You ungrateful—do you even understand what your actions did to this team all season? You turned us into a laughingstock. Started a media frenzy that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with you. Then you ignored my very reasonable request, under the circumstances, to avoid the media until it quieted down. Instead, you went out on your own to do some magazine interview.” He spits out the word 'magazine' like it’s something dirty. “You just couldn’t let the attention die off—you needed to stoke the fire by publicly questioning management. Me. And now, what, you want more special treatment because your leg is a little sore? You are part of a team.” He jabs his finger at the desk on the last word. “This is not the Shane Hollander show. This is an original six fucking team that you should be grateful to play for. Players would kill to be here. They'd skate through worse to win a Cup here. And yet you sit here, acting like you’re too good for us?” Theriault stares at Shane as seconds tick by. “Are you going to skate tomorrow?”

Shane stares back, the image of calm in spite of what’s happening inside his body. “No. I’m not.”

Crossing his arms, Theriault lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that. In that case, I’m not sure a trade will work out at this time.”

Shane blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I’m under no obligation to trade you. I know you think the world moves at your whim, but that’s not how things work here. You signed a contract with us. If you cost us the Cup this year, maybe you can help us win it next year.” The ugly smile is back on his face. “Or maybe… you can watch from the bench. Or, even better, get sent down to the minors."

Shane shakes his head, unable to suppress a laugh. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, but at the same time can’t believe he hadn't anticipated exactly this kind of pettiness from his coach. “You’re so concerned about all the attention I’ve brought to the team this year—you’re not concerned what kind of attention sending me down to the minors would bring? I’m your best player.” Shane feels a little sick saying it—don’t be too cocky—but they both know it’s the truth.

“My best player who won’t get on the fucking ice—a lot of good that is. I could say this injury was worse than expected and you need more recovery time.” At Shane’s unimpressed look, he adds, “Or I could tell the truth and say you need an attitude adjustment.” He shrugs. “The rest of the league will see how much of a problem player you’ve become. You can rot on the bench while your production dries up. No other team will want you.”

Shane can think of multiple players who are way worse than even the imagined version of Shane that Theriault is talking about—Dallas Kent at the top of the list. He knows just about any team would be happy to take him, if they can afford him. But he’s still got years on his contract with the Metros, and Theriault can make those years difficult if he wants to. Shane takes a deep breath, trying to think of what he can say to any of this, how he can get out of the corner Theriault is backing him into.

“Just try skating,” Theriault says casually, his tone light again like he hadn’t just been threatening Shane’s entire career. “We can forget this whole conversation until after tomorrow’s game. After that, maybe we can start at square one, and discuss—”

“I’m gay.”

The rest of Theriault’s sentence catches in his throat. He stares at Shane, eyes wide, mouth open, completely taken off guard. “Uh…” He closes his mouth, gives his head a shake. “Sorry?”

“I’m gay,” Shane repeats. He suddenly feels giddy watching Theriault’s mind grind to a halt. It’s the first time Shane has said the words out loud, maybe even the first time he’s allowed himself to fully acknowledge the truth of them.

He’s in love with Ilya—he accepted that about himself quite a while ago. But being gay… that was something Shane had tried not to think too hard about. Something about it seemed so final; he used to think being gay would mean closing so many doors in front of him. Doors he used to think he’d walk through one day—like finding a woman he’d actually want to marry, because that’s what everyone expected him to do. That’s what he vaguely expected himself to do, eventually, before he fell so hard for Ilya. But loving Ilya—and it being returned—has opened so many more doors than being gay might have closed. And admitting he’s gay will open some doors, too. Maybe one of them leads out of the Metros.

Theriault says nothing as his look of confusion slowly morphs into one of barely-disguised disgust.

“Not many people know right now,” Shane says, sitting up straighter in his chair. “But it could become public in the near future. Could start another media frenzy all about me and not hockey.” He struggles not to smile as he throws Theriault’s own words back at him like a threat.

Shane has absolutely no intention of making his sexuality public—not if he can help it—not only because his relationship with Ilya needs to stay a secret for Ilya’s safety, but because Shane really doesn’t want the kind of media attention Theriault thinks he’s so starved for. After this season, he’s had enough to last a lifetime. He’s already expected to be a role model for one under-represented demographic in hockey; he’s not eager to add another to the list. Not right now, anyway. But Theriault doesn’t know that.

"And if everyone knows I’m gay, and they see you keeping me on the bench, or sending me down to the minors, after you found out… that probably wouldn’t look very good for a team that regularly participates in Pride nights." He raises his eyebrows. “Hockey is for everyone, right?”

Theriault crosses his arms, staring somewhere over Shane's shoulder.

Shane gives him another moment—Theriault stays silent—before saying, "When that information becomes public, maybe you'd rather it be a different team's problem."

Theriault's face is blank of emotion, and that's how Shane knows he's really mad. He's seen it enough during games where the Metros were fucking things up, and in the locker room afterward, just before Theriault unloaded his rage on them. He finally meets Shane's eyes.

"Get the fuck out of my office."

Shane gives a curt nod before standing and slipping his crutches under his arms as smoothly as he can. He pauses by the door on his way out and glances back with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Good luck in tomorrow's game."

The next day, the Metros are eliminated from the playoffs.

——

"You know I don't make that much less than you, right?" Hayden says, laughing at the obnoxiously large gift basket waiting for him on Shane's coffee table.

"Don't look at me, it's mostly from my mom." Yuna may have gone a little overboard shopping for Jackie and baby Arthur.

Hayden peeks inside before pulling his head back. "Okay, I just saw the words 'nipple cream', so I think I'll let Jackie open it." He drops onto the couch next to Shane with a wince. "If I can get it down to my car." His shoulder took a beating in the last game.

Shane chuckles, lifting up his boot. "I don't think I'll be much help with that. But it’s lighter than it looks, anyway; it's mostly baby clothes and stuff." He glances sidelong at Hayden. "Is Jackie happy you're done for the season?"

"Yeah, mostly," Hayden says, nodding. "She wanted us to win another Cup too, but she's glad to have me home. I told her me spending time with Arthur is more important than the playoffs, anyway."

Shane raises an eyebrow at him skeptically.

Hayden laughs. "That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!"

"So Theriault was pretty mad, huh?"

Hayden stops laughing immediately, his expression turning dark. "Understatement. He lost it on us in the locker room. Singled everybody out, told us everything we did wrong. The only compliment he gave was that at least we showed up, unlike Hollander who 'didn't feel like it'. Guy's a fucking asshole. Next season's going to be a complete nightmare with him."

"Yeah." Shane hasn't heard from Theriault since their meeting last week—he's not sure if that's a good or bad sign. He's keeping the trade request to himself until he hears one way or the other.

"So how's, uh, Rozanov?"

Shane smiles, surprised to be asked. "He's good. Why?"

Hayden shrugs. "You always ask me how Jackie's doing."

"Well, I actually care about how Jackie's doing, and want to know." Hayden looks a little offended at that. Shane studies his face for a moment. "We were both kind of surprised how chill you were that day in the hospital. You haven't really brought it up since." There's something Shane wants to ask, but he's not sure how to.

"I mean, I've been kind of busy with the playoffs. We haven't talked much until now."

"Right." Shane shifts in his seat. "If we did talk about it, how would it go?"

Hayden scrunches up his face. "We just did—I asked how he's doing."

"Okay... but do you have, like, any opinions you want to share, or...?" Shane's been waiting to get the third degree from Hayden, or for him to try talking sense into Shane. Hayden just accepting the Ilya of it all doesn't feel right.

"No," Hayden says simply. "But if you want to share anything, you should feel free."

Shane sits up, annoyed. "Okay, you're freaking me out."

Hayden lets out a surprised laugh. "By being nice?"

"Yes! You fucking hate Rozanov—he's annoying, he's full of himself—"

"He's a whore."

"Yes!" Shane says, relaxing. "Exactly! Where's that Hayden?"

"That Hayden is trying not to fuck it up twice. When you told me you were with a guy, I fucked that up.” He meets Shane’s eyes. “Then I find out it's Rozanov of all people..." He makes a face. "I do have thoughts, but I can keep them to myself and just support my friend. Plus, my kids like him for some reason. If you like him, and the twins like him, maybe there's something there."

Shane sits with that for a moment, grinning. "He's going to come stay at the cottage this summer. Maybe you and Jackie could bring the kids up for a few days, too?" He's excited to spend more time alone with Ilya this summer, but the thought of being themselves around friends—of feeling normal instead of hidden away—is equally exciting.

"Like at the same time as him?"

Shane snorts. "Jesus Christ. Yes, obviously."

"Just checking!" Hayden says, holding up his hands. He thinks about it for just a little too long before finally saying, "Sure. The kids'll love it."

"You might even have some fun, too," Shane says, rolling his eyes.

Hayden smiles, giving Shane a nod. "I'll try."

"Good, thank you," Shane says, clapping Hayden on his good shoulder. "And I'll tell Ilya to behave."

"Pfft, does that ever work?" Hayden asks.

"I guess we'll see."

Chapter End Notes

(so just assume in this universe NMCs/NTCs aren't handed out like candy and/or they work differently than in the NHL and/or shh shhhh just don't think about it, it's the MLH and they do what they want)

Chapter 31: nice try, get out the way

Shane walks into his condo, only limping a little, feeling better than he has in weeks. He’s been out of the walking boot for a few days, and today’s rehab session with his physio had gone even better than expected.

Slipping his shoes off by the door, he runs his hand through his hair, still wet from the pool where he’s been rebuilding his strength. He heads for the kitchen to make his pre-lunch smoothie, concentrating on his footsteps, trying to keep them even and fluid, just like his physio showed him, without favouring his uninjured side. Fuck, he’d missed being able to just move without thinking about it, without being weighed down by his boot, and without the resulting throbbing pain from doing too much. He feels lighter. Hopeful. Excited to get his skates back on for the first time since the injury in his next session.

Things are good. So good that when he sees a text from Ilya:

are you okay?

Shane thinks he’s just casually checking in on how today’s session went. He happily goes back to making his smoothie, in no rush, planning to call Ilya after he drinks it. He wants to hear Ilya’s voice, tell him how much better his leg is doing and how the physio had called him his best patient and it felt like he was being flirted with, and ask Ilya if that makes him jealous. Maybe they could video chat while Shane is in the shower—stool no longer required.

But then more texts flood in—texts from Hayden, from JJ, from his mother, and then a call from his agent, and then an unknown number. Shane immediately flips the phone over on the counter, face down, like he’s flinging away a hot potato. He takes a deep, steadying breath. His phone continues to vibrate with calls and texts as Shane stares at it, slowly sipping his chalky smoothie.

He has exactly one guess as to why his phone is blowing up right now, and he’s not in a rush to know the details. Schrödinger’s Hockey Player. Maybe he’s been traded. Maybe Theriault called his bluff and he’s being moved down to the minors. Maybe another sex tape of him leaked somehow—had he made another one and just forgot? Maybe the Metros released a statement apologizing for everything and welcoming him back as captain for next season. Shane scoffs to himself. A forgotten sex tape would be more likely.

He downs the rest of his smoothie and flips his vibrating phone back over. Steeling himself for whatever awaits, he answers his mother’s call.

“You got traded to Ottawa?” Her voice is too loud; Shane holds the phone away from his ear. Ottawa?

“Did I?” he asks. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

Yuna sputters on the other end of the line. “Nobody called you? It was just announced. They should have told you first! The GM’s going to get a piece of my mind. And don’t even get me started on Theriault!”

Shane’s not really processing his mother’s words. He’s still stuck on Ottawa. “Traded for what?”

“First overall pick, some top prospect—allegedly, I’ve never heard of him—from the minors, and Tanner Dillon.” She scoffs. “For you? No offense to Ottawa, but their entire roster isn’t worth one of you—” Shane can hear his dad sticking up for the Centaurs in the background—he’s a born-and-bred Ottawan, after all—but Yuna shushes him. “I mean, Tanner Dillon, really? And sure, first pick is great in theory, but they already had you. They’re shooting themselves in the foot.”

Yuna keeps talking, angry and indignant about what Metros management could possibly be thinking, but Shane isn’t listening anymore. He knows all of this already. Ottawa. He’s been traded to Ottawa. Shane can’t help himself—he starts laughing. It erupts out of him, wild and unbidden. Yuna abruptly stops talking as she listens to her son laugh and laugh over the phone with no end in sight.

Shane understands at once that this is intended as a punishment. Whoever pushed for it—the GM, Theriault—Shane can just picture them smugly signing the deal, probably delighted with themselves for banishing Shane Hollander, one of the league’s best players, to Ottawa. Ottawa, whose team can’t win a game to save their lives. Ottawa, who goes through coaches like dirty underwear and whose last lacklustre coach dropped dead. Ottawa, where hockey careers go to die—sometimes literally.

Shane is supposed to be humiliated by this. Put in his place, humbled. It’s supposed to be a punishment. But Shane is laughing with relief. Ottawa is where he grew up, it’s where his parents live. It’s in Canada, and Shane hadn’t realized until now just how much he wants to stay in his home country. Yeah, the Centaurs aren’t great. But neither were the Metros in the seasons leading up to Shane’s rookie year. Shane has done this before; he’s played for a shitty team that became less shitty. He can do it again. He’d fucking love to do it again. A fresh start away from the Metros, even in Ottawa—maybe especially in Ottawa—sounds like a gift.

Shane finally gets control of himself, still smiling so hard it hurts. His stomach is sore from laughing. “Mom. I’m gay.”

“Wha—honey.” There’s a pause. “Okay.” She says it like a question; Shane struggles not to start laughing again. He wonders if the novelty of being able to completely halt conversations with those two words will ever wear off.

“I’m going to come over, okay? I’ll leave now, and we can talk when I get there.”

“Okay,” Yuna says, still tilting the word up at the end. “Are you sure? We can come to you if—”

“I’m sure,” Shane cuts in. He suddenly feels like going for a jog, maybe a sprint, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the entirety of this past season. But his leg’s not up for that just yet. Driving for two hours instead will have to do.

“I love you, Shane,” she says.

“We both do!” his dad calls out from the background.

Shane smiles. “I love you guys, too. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

He quickly packs a bag—obviously he’s spending the night there, if not longer. As he’s zipping up his bag on the bed, the thought occurs to him that Yuna is probably already scouring real estate listings for him. He pauses, straightening up to look around his room. In just a couple of months, he’ll be in a different bedroom, in a different province. He takes a deep breath as the reality of the trade starts to hit him. He had only been thinking in terms of not playing with the Metros anymore. He’d been thinking about the ice, the locker room, and the people surrounding him—about getting away from them. He hadn’t been thinking about packing up his entire life to start over somewhere new.

Shane crosses the room and carefully sits on the floor, minding his leg, next to his dresser. He opens Ilya’s drawer just to look at the few clothes in it—clothes Ilya had never even worn—and the pack of cigarettes he’d left behind. Ottawa. It’s not much farther from Boston than Montreal is—not a huge change. They’ll make it work. He texts Ilya.

I’m okay. Going to see my parents in Ottawa, I’ll call you later <3

He quickly scrolls through his other texts, too overwhelmed to read them right now, and decides they can wait until later. Maybe tomorrow. Then he listens to a voicemail from an unknown number—a short and robotically professional message from the Metros GM thanking Shane for his time with the organization and wishing him luck with the Centaurs. Shane deletes it.

Then he drives to Ottawa.

——

"We were starting to think you changed your mind," David says as Shane walks through the front door of his parent's house.

What should have been a drive of two hours or less took over three hours—Shane was in no rush, taking every possible scenic route along the way. And once in Ottawa, he drove around for a while, seeing it with new eyes as he tried to picture it as his home again. He remembers Ilya telling him, when he'd been worrying about coming out to his parents, scared, that not all change is bad. He was right. It doesn't feel so scary anymore.

Just as he drops his bag by the entrance, Yuna is there pulling him into a hug. After a moment, she holds him at arm’s length, smiling as she shakes his shoulders. "You're coming home!" It seems she's decided to focus on the positives in the time between their call and Shane getting here—maybe with David's encouragement.

"Yeah," he says, smiling back. She gives him another tight hug before stepping aside to let David have his turn. The hug goes on too long, but Shane needs it, holding on until David's the one to let go.

"Are you hungry? Tea? Coffee?" Yuna asks, looking a little antsy.

"Sure, tea would be good," Shane says, nodding, if only to give her something to do while he gets settled for the conversation to come. He follows her into the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. "I talked to the Centaurs GM; he called while I was driving."

Yuna fills the kettle at the sink. "Oh? How'd that go?"

"Really good, actually." Shane had answered the unknown number expecting it to be someone from the Metros—he'd been on guard, expecting taunting, or an argument. "He sounded genuinely excited to have me, and asked about my leg. But, like, in a nice way—not pushy or annoyed at all. It was weird."

Yuna lets out a disbelieving laugh. "Your boss being concerned about you shouldn't be weird." She studies Shane for a moment. He looks away.

"Anyway, I told him I was already halfway to Ottawa. So I'll head over to the rink later this week, meet everyone in the front office, and get checked out by their doctor and all that. It's okay if I stay here?"

Yuna gives him a look. "Of course! I'd be upset if you didn't."

David joins Shane at the table, sitting across from him. "I put your bag in your room, and we put fresh sheets on your bed."

"Thanks."

They sit in silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Shane wants someone else to bring up the gay thing and get the conversation started for him—he may not be scared anymore, but it's still awkward. Once the kettle boils, Yuna gets the tea ready, bringing a teapot and mugs to the table. She takes the seat next to David. Shane’s reminded of that early morning months ago when they’d sat here just like this, on the cusp of another difficult conversation. Right before everything went to shit.

"If you, uh, want to ask me about Lily, I'll answer now." Shane feels a little silly, essentially speaking in code, but it's what comes to mind. After all, hadn't this all started with 'Lily' and that video? They must still wonder where 'she' fits in.

Yuna and David share a look, and she clears her throat. "Who is Lily?" she asks gently.

"Lily is someone I... have been in a relationship with for a while. Years, I guess." Shane presses his lips together. Technically it had only recently become an actual relationship, but they don't need all the details. His parents politely wait for him to continue. "Lily isn't their real name though, just how they're saved in my phone. That's why Hayden thought..."

"Why he thought you had a girlfriend?" David asks.

Shane nods. "Yeah. But I don't." His next words catch in his throat. Okay, maybe he's a little scared.

Yuna gives him a small smile. "It's okay," she says softly. "You can tell us."

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I have a boyfriend,” he says, keeping his eyes on his tea. Yuna reaches across the table and takes his hand. Shane glances up to see both of his parents smiling at him.

David raises his eyebrows. "So Lily's real name is...?"

Before giving it a second thought, Shane just says it. He's made it this far. "Ilya."

Yuna's eyes widen, staring at Shane like he might be joking. When he doesn't say anything more, her gaze flicks to David. Still smiling, he gives her a small, reassuring nod. She looks back at Shane. "...Rozanov?"

A laugh escapes Shane at the pure shock on her face, which probably doesn't help her disbelief. He bites his lip, trying to stifle his laughter. "Yes, Ilya Rozanov is Lily." Yuna’s grip is cutting off the circulation in Shane's hand; he gently wriggles it free before shaking it.

"Ilya Rozanov," she repeats, her brows knit together as she tries to make sense of it.

"That's why he was in Montreal when I was in the hospital. He came to see if I was okay."

Yuna sits back in her chair, dumbfounded. After a moment, David asks, "He makes you happy?"

Shane doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

David smiles. "Then we're happy for you."

Hours later, after dinner, they're relaxing in the living room together. "Ilya Rozanov?" Yuna asks.

"Mom."

She laughs. "Sorry! I just don't understand why you didn't tell us when he was right there. I was so confused about why he wouldn’t just get a hotel. You made him sleep on the couch!"

Shane starts laughing too, running his hand over his face. "I don't know, it made sense at the time. I was on painkillers."

"He didn't sleep on the couch every night," David says.

Shane turns to him, his stomach dropping. "What do you mean?"

David shrugs, looking a little sheepish. "I checked on you that first morning—I woke up early. Saw you two asleep together. It was sweet."

Shane can feel his face burning as Yuna leans over and slaps her husband's arm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't for me to tell," David says simply.

Yuna clicks her tongue, scandalized that David had kept that from her. She tilts her head to Shane. "Honey, I'm so sorry. It was enough you were already dealing with your leg, and the Metros. If I'd known..." She sighs. "I just wish I could've helped more. Or, I don't know, been nicer to Ilya."

Shane shakes his head. "You were nice to him." She gives him a look. "You were! Mostly. And you did help." Shane thinks back over those few days they'd all spent together, some of it muddled by the painkillers he'd been on, but most of it still so clear in his memory. "You know what one of my favourite nights was? The one where we all just watched a movie instead of the playoffs. Even if you didn't know we were together, it still felt... nice. I used to think something as simple as that, just having a movie night with family, was something I'd never get to do with him. But we did it."

"Shane—" Yuna's voice catches in her throat as she stands up from her armchair, her eyes glassy. She drops down next to him on the couch and takes his hands. "We're going to have him over again, as soon as possible, and do it right. You can actually sit next to each other and not pretend you barely know each other this time. Okay?" She wipes at her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Shane wraps his arms around her. "It's okay. That sounds great; we can do it this summer." She nods against his shoulder. "Mom, it's okay," he says, rubbing her back.

Yuna pulls away, covering her eyes. “Oh, my God, and I asked him if he had a girlfriend!”

David starts laughing and slips an arm around Yuna’s shoulders, gently pulling her against him. “And he said he had someone special. He was right.” He kisses the top of Yuna’s head as she drops her hands from her eyes, staring at Shane.

”Ilya Rozanov?”

”Yes,” Shane and David say at the same time.

——

“Capitaine!”

Shane turns from his conversation with Hayden just in time to catch sight of JJ before he’s engulfed in an almost violent hug. They’re at the afterparty for the MLH Awards where Shane had done his best to avoid most of the Metros.

JJ lets Shane go, smiling wide, and smacks him on the back. “I still can’t believe you won’t be with us next season. And Theriault’s fucking interview? Jesus.” He shakes his head, disgusted.

Theriault hadn’t made any public comments directly about Shane, but he’d just done an interview where he said he was looking forward to a healthier locker room for the Metros next season, with less dramatic personalities taking up space.

Shane rolls his eyes. Theriault’s not his problem anymore. “Yeah, it’s going to be an adjustment.”

“Ottawa.” JJ looks at Shane pityingly. “That’s gonna be rough.”

Hayden clears his throat and looks across the room. “Can you believe Rozanov’s fucking speech?”

JJ and Shane both laugh. Rozanov had won the Bart Moss Trophy for most points this season. His speech mostly consisted of very undiplomatically roasting other players for coming up short.

“Any other season, that award would’ve been yours,” Hayden says, glancing back at Shane.

Another uproar of laughter erupts from across the room, and they all turn to look. Ilya is standing with a group of players from the Raiders and Admirals; all of them—with the exception of a put-upon-looking Scott Hunter—are laughing hysterically at something Ilya said.

“That fucking guy,” JJ mutters, looking amused in spite of himself. He’s distracted by someone calling him over to the bar; after giving Shane another crushing hug and promising to call him non-stop this summer, he wanders off to join them.

Hayden tears his eyes away from Ilya and looks at Shane. “He better not have a big dick.”

Shane chokes on his drink. “What?” he asks, wiping his chin with his suit sleeve. He stares at Hayden, who looks annoyed just thinking about it.

“Rozanov. That fucking speech? His whole…” Hayden gestures vaguely. “I don’t know, vibe? Please tell me he’s overcompensating. He can’t be this full of himself and have a big dick.” He stares at Shane, his mouth set in a grim line, then lets out a sigh. “He has a big dick, doesn’t he?”

Shane just smiles in response.

“Goddammit,” Hayden mutters.

Shane keeps smiling to himself as he takes another sip of his drink, watching Ilya entertain the crowd gathered around him.

A moment later, Troy Barrett approaches with his hand outstretched. “Hey, man.”

Shane shakes it. “Hey. Did you find a place in Ottawa yet?” Troy was headed there too after his own recent trade to the Centaurs.

Troy sighs, looking off into the distance like he’s just been asked about his upcoming execution. “No, not yet. Honestly, I’m trying not to even think about it.” He shakes his head, meeting Shane’s eyes. “You?”

“No, my parents live there, so I’ve just been staying with them mostly. I’ve looked at a few places, but—” He shrugs. “Have you talked to the new coach?”

“Yeah, he seems okay, I guess.” Troy almost grins. “He told me he didn’t care if all his players were making ‘home movies’ as long as they’re putting up points.”

Shane grimaces. The coach—a former player and most recently an assistant coach in Toronto—had said the same to him. He even seemed to mean it. The Centaurs were clearly intent on fast-tracking a rebuild centred around Shane—and now Troy as well—but it’s still not the kind of thing Shane was comfortable being joked about, especially by a stranger during their first meeting. Still better than Theriault, though, which Shane supposes is a low bar.

“And Boodram seems cool,” Troy adds, his eyes on the Centaurs captain a few feet away.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees.

All the Centaurs players he’d met seemed kind and welcoming, if a little guarded. They’d probably been hearing all kinds of gossip about Shane this past season, and Theriault’s recent comments likely aren’t helping. Even the new coach had seemed to expect him to be a bit of a diva, surprised when he made no demands. But Shane had been guarded too; he’s not going to the Centaurs expecting to make friends. Every time he speaks to a player now, he has to wonder if they watched the video, if they’re joking about it when he turns around. He’ll just let his hockey speak for itself next season.

“Look! It is my good friend, Hayden Pike!” Ilya appears out of nowhere, wrapping an arm around Hayden to Hayden’s obvious chagrin. He hooks his other arm around Troy’s shoulders. “And my other good friend, Troy Barrett!” Troy looks confused. Ilya glances at Shane, like he just noticed he’s there as well. He nods politely. “Hollander.”

Shane nods back, fighting off a grin. “Rozanov.”

Hayden rolls his eyes, shrugging himself out of Ilya’s grasp.

“So, you two will be in Ottawa?” Ilya asks, focusing on Troy. The impending-execution expression is back on Troy’s face. He nods. “Ottawa is where they send players too good for their shitty teams, ah? Like, hmm, witness protection?”

The ghost of a smile appears on Troy’s face, and he glances at Shane. “I guess.”

Ilya playfully nudges Troy in the ribs. “You should be more excited—you will be playing with Shane Hollander, second-best player in league. This is step up from Dallas Kent, yes?”

Troy’s expression turns dark, but he nods, his lips still slightly upturned. “Big step up.”

“You two will make Centaurs real contenders.” Ilya eyes Shane, looking proud.

Shane’s grin wins the fight, and he smiles openly at Ilya. He’s excited for next season, excited to start at square one and build something new. Hopefully something better. He glances at Troy, who seems to have been studying him, and tamps down his smile. “Well, we’ll try, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Troy says before averting his gaze and reaching out for another quick handshake. “I’ll see you in Ottawa.”

Ilya watches him disappear into the crowd before turning to Shane. “This is a boring party. Come to my hotel room.”

“I’m still here, you know,” Hayden says dryly, taking a step away from Ilya.

“Mm, you are not invited.” Ilya pulls out his phone and taps at the screen. “Meet me there in twenty minutes,” he says without looking up, then walks away without another word. A moment later, Shane receives a text with his room number.

Hayden scoffs. “I don’t know what you see in him.” His tone is lighter than his words, and he fixes his gaze on Shane. “You can tell me, though.”

“Tell you… what I see in him?” Shane asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah, or anything. How many years have I gone talking your ear off about Jackie, or old girlfriends, or whatever? And you never really got to do the same.”

Shane sips his drink and shrugs. “I don’t know, talking about that stuff’s never really been my thing.”

“Okay, but is that because you actually don’t want to talk about that stuff, or because you’re just used to not being able to? You don’t have to, like, censor yourself. Not around me. Just saying.”

Shane smiles, considering his words. “So… do you actually want me to tell you about his dick?”

“No!” Hayden laughs. “Maybe let’s start small, like your first date or some shit.”

Since anything that could conceivably be considered his and Ilya’s ‘first date’ definitely involved Ilya’s dick, Shane can’t think of anything to share. At least not right now.

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

Chapter 32: you're in our way

"Marly and Svetlana said yes to July," Ilya says as Shane steps into his hotel room after a quick glance down the hallway, verifying no one is watching. Ilya can't remember whose idea it was to invite them, but with Hayden and Jackie coming to stay at the cottage for a few days, it only made sense to invite Ilya's best friends along, too. An entire weekend surrounded by friends where Shane and Ilya can be themselves—he can't wait.

"Good!" Shane says before pulling Ilya's face to his, clearly with more pressing priorities in mind than their summer plans. Ilya had already taken off his suit jacket and bowtie and undone the first few buttons of his dress shirt. Shane's fingers rush down Ilya's torso, unbuttoning the rest as Ilya unties Shane's bowtie, the two of them messily kissing all the while. Once his shirt is open, Ilya discards it to the floor as Shane's hands roam impatiently over his bare chest, brushing over his nipples, squeezing his pecs and biceps, his neediness almost painful as his fingers dig into Ilya's muscles.

They hadn't touched each other since Ilya had been in Montreal, and Shane's leg had been broken, though they'd enjoyed many filthy phone calls and video chats since then. But those were nothing compared to having Shane here in his hands, in the flesh, so warm and solid. Ilya hastily unzips Shane's pants and reaches inside, both of them letting out soft moans as his hand connects with Shane's hardening cock. Shane sucks in a breath, leaning unsteadily into Ilya as Ilya works him slowly in his hand, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of Shane's hair. He's looking forward to waking up to that scent in the morning, to having Shane wrapped in his arms all night like they so rarely get to do.

Shane doesn't still for long; he undoes Ilya's fly just as hastily while biting and licking at his neck, pulling Ilya's hand out of his pants before dropping to his knees in front of him. In a matter of seconds, Shane has Ilya's pants and underwear pulled down his muscular thighs, and his lips around Ilya's cock.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya breathes out, leaning back against the wall. He gently runs his fingers over Shane's soft hair, his breathing tight as Shane takes him deep in the back of his throat, so eager and impatient. He loves when Shane is desperate like this, when he so clearly missed Ilya, needs Ilya, just like Ilya needs him. But it's been so long, Ilya doesn't want to rush any of it, he wants to savour Shane and every minute they have together tonight. "Stop," he says, gently tugging Shane away.

Shane pulls his mouth off Ilya, a playful smirk tugging at his wet, swollen lips. "Too much?" he asks, his voice raw and breathy. He takes Ilya's cock in his hand, stroking him lightly with a loose grip, just to keep touching him.

Ilya nods breathlessly, licking his lips. Shane looks so fucking beautiful—he always does, but especially now, on his knees, gazing up at Ilya, face flushed with desire. Ilya feels tight everywhere, from his jaw down to his balls. He needs to be inside Shane as soon as possible. "Bed. Now."

The speed with which Shane obeys, standing immediately and stripping off his clothes on his way to the bed, makes Ilya’s breath catch. He kicks off his own remaining clothes before following.

Ilya grabs the lube and condoms from his bag as Shane sits on the end of the bed, watching. As Ilya approaches, Shane’s eyes drop to his cock. “Hayden asked me if you have a big dick,” he says with a soft laugh, reaching for it as Ilya gets close and tosses the supplies on the bed.

“Did he?” Ilya asks, enjoying the view of Shane’s hand sliding along his length. After a moment, he climbs onto the bed, pushing Shane back toward the pillows and grabbing the bottle of lube. Ilya brushes his mouth over Shane’s, kissing him softly, caressing their tongues together. He pulls back to look at Shane. “And did you tell him? Did you tell Pike you love sucking my dick? That you cannot get enough?” He reaches down, taking Shane’s cock in his hand and stroking it. “How it is so big but still you try to take it all until you choke?”

Shane breathes heavily, clenching his eyes shut as Ilya’s hand moves over him, firm and fast. “No. Stop talking about Hayden while you’re touching my dick.”

Ilya smiles, removing his hand to flick open the cap of the lube bottle. He squeezes some onto his fingers and gives Shane a few more strokes before moving lower. “You brought him up first,” he says, circling a slick finger around Shane’s hole.

Dropping his head back against the pillows with a shuddering breath, Shane plants his feet on the mattress, spreading his legs wider for Ilya. “Well, he brought you up first,” Shane mumbles.

Ilya spreads the lube around more before slowly pressing a finger inside Shane, watching his face, the way his brows furrow, the way his lips part, the sharp exhale that pushes through them at the delicate intrusion. “Maybe he wants threesome with us,” Ilya says thoughtfully, delving his finger deeper, “if he is so curious about my dick. Curious what you do with it.”

Shane opens his eyes, lifting his head just enough to give Ilya a look. “He didn’t ask me about that.”

Smiling at the bright red blush overtaking Shane’s face—whether from what Ilya is doing with his finger or at the thought of Hayden’s curiosity, he’s not sure—Ilya works a second finger inside. “No, but he is thinking it. Wondering.” Ilya leans over him, pushing his fingers deeper and scissoring them, gently stretching Shane open. “Straight men always with their questions. Always needing to know who puts what where.” He kisses Shane’s chest, then up to his neck as Shane squirms beneath him, clenching around Ilya’s fingers. “He is imagining us together—your dick in me, mine in you—wondering what we do to each other.” Trailing his tongue up Shane’s neck, Ilya whispers in his ear, “He maybe gets hard thinking about it.” Shane’s entire body shudders as a shaky breath escapes him. Ilya pulls back just enough, holding Shane’s jaw with one hand and fingerfucking him with the other. “But…” He moves Shane’s face, forcing him to look into Ilya’s eyes. “He will never know. Will never get to see this side of you. Not like this.”

Even if Hayden has watched the video, seen those first few seconds of Shane’s face, naked with desire, listened to him get himself off for Ilya, it’s nothing compared to this. Hayden could watch that video every day for the rest of his life and still never know Shane like this. This Shane is only for Ilya.

Shane opens his mouth, his breath ragged, and Ilya rubs his fingers over his lips before Shane leans forward to take them in his mouth. Holding Ilya’s gaze, he sucks greedily on them, moaning and writhing with need. He pulls his head back, gasping as Ilya’s fingers slip from his mouth. “Jesus Christ, just fuck me already. Please.”

Ilya is practically shaking as he removes his fingers from Shane’s ass to reach blindly behind him for the condoms. His hands slick with lube and spit, he rolls a condom on with some difficulty, but he manages it, never taking his eyes from Shane’s. “And my big dick is for you only, yes?” he asks, taking Shane’s hand and placing it on his cock. “This is yours.”

Shane stares at it, his mouth open, taking soft shallow breaths as he wraps his fingers around the hard flesh. He nods.

Ilya can barely breathe, every muscle in his body tightening. “Tell me.”

Shane’s gaze flicks from Ilya’s cock up to his face. “It’s mine.”

Ilya grabs the lube bottle again. “Good.” He squeezes it over his cock and Shane’s hand. “I got you ready, now get me ready.” He lets out a sharp gasp as Shane slowly strokes the lube over his length. Ilya feels like he’s going to explode, like he’ll die if he spends one more second not buried inside of Shane’s body. “Do you want my big dick?” he asks, his voice deep, accent strong. Every thought that isn’t about fucking Shane immediately is gone from his mind. Shane nods frantically. Ilya roughly flips him over onto all fours, his restraint hanging on by a thread.

Ilya arranges himself behind Shane in an instant, squeezing his ass before lining himself up. He slowly pushes in, letting out a desperate gasp as Shane’s warm, slick hole welcomes him with little resistance. A low moan escapes Shane as he pushes back against Ilya, impatient for more. But Ilya wraps his hands around Shane’s hips, gripping him firmly in place, and pulls out slightly before easing back in, letting Shane’s body adjust.

After a few more careful thrusts, Ilya folds over Shane to lay kisses along his spine and to the scar on his shoulder. He pushes in until his hips meet Shane's, and the two of them sigh with relief at being right where they belong. He holds himself there for a blissful moment before straightening up, tightening his grasp on Shane's body. He starts to move with a firm rhythm, pulling Shane against him with each thrust, staying deep in his inviting warmth. Shane drops his head onto the pillow, his arms going limp beside him as Ilya's hands roam the expanse of his smooth back, across his shoulders, then down to his ass. It strikes him that he can't remember the last time he'd seen Shane's skin so unblemished. There are no bruises, no scrapes, no lingering evidence of the violence of this past season, except for the raised skin on his shoulder. A blank canvas.

He squeezes the muscular flesh of Shane's ass and asks, "Have you been good?" Shane nods against the pillow. "Good enough to deserve a spanking?"

Shane turns his head so his breathless answer can be clearly heard. "Yes, I've been so fucking good."

"Mmm," Ilya murmurs, fucking Shane harder. Working up to it. He almost laughs, thinking about how nervous he'd been the first time Shane asked to be spanked, as worried about hurting Shane as he'd been the very first time they fucked. But they know each other better now. Ilya knows Shane's body like it's his own—knows what he wants and what he can take. And Shane trusts him with it. Ilya pumps into him again before pulling out and giving Shane's ass a sharp spank that skirts the edge of too hard. Shane jolts forward with a loud groan, then immediately bounces back into position on shaky knees, ass up. Ilya leans down, placing kisses over the reddening flesh, soothingly dragging his tongue over it as Shane gasps and claws at the bedsheets.

"More," Shane whimpers.

Ilya gives his own cock a few strokes before roughly grabbing Shane's other ass cheek. As he massages it, he slips his fingers back inside Shane's slick, open hole, circling the rim as Shane's body trembles at his touch. Ilya has to stop himself from coming right then. He pulls his hand away before bringing it right back to firmly spank the other cheek. And just like every other time, the sound startles Ilya for a second, until Shane's happy sounds soothe him, reminding him this is how Shane likes it. Ilya sinks into Shane again, giving him a hard spank on each side while thrusting hard and deep.

Shane cries out suddenly, his body tensing as his release bursts out of him onto the bedsheets below. "Oh, fuck, oh fuck." The words come out in broken gasps as Ilya runs his hands gently over Shane's sweaty back. "I didn't mean to do that," Shane says, sounding almost embarrassed.

"Is okay," Ilya tells him. He starts to pull out, but Shane pushes back against him, a hand finding Ilya's thigh to hold him still.

"No, stay. Keep fucking me."

"I will just finish on you—"

"No." Shane's voice is whiny. "Stay."

Ilya pulls out despite Shane's protests, but only to flip him onto his back, pushing back in as Shane pulls his legs up to his chest. Seeing Shane wince, Ilya shakes his head. "We can go again later."

Shane wraps his legs around Ilya's waist, gazing up at him with a determined look on his face. "Stay. Just give me a second."

With a sigh, Ilya settles over Shane, propping himself up on his elbows. Staring into his eyes, he says with an edge of annoyance in his voice, "I fucking love you." Holding himself still while Shane's body gently clenches around him is driving him crazy.

"I love you, too," Shane says with a radiant smile. Ilya leans down and kisses him hard; it's messy, they're both trembling, and Ilya can't stay still for another second. He grinds against Shane, rolling his hips as gently as he can for any friction he can get. Shane's cock twitches between them.

Ilya's breath hitches; he presses his forehead against Shane's. "Will you get hard for me?" he asks, his voice low and rough. He lets out a soft moan as Shane's body responds below him. Shane's smile is gone, replaced with that naked desire that makes Ilya weak—hard, yes, but weak. Shane nods wordlessly, his cock answering for him.

Ilya nods back, moving in him with longer strokes, thrusting harder as Shane's dick gets harder, until he's slamming into Shane and jerking his cock through his second orgasm. Watching Shane coat his own chest and stomach pushes Ilya into his own release, coming with a deep groan, his face buried in the crook of Shane's neck.

"What a mess," Shane breathes out just after Ilya collapses on top of him.

Ilya starts laughing; Shane is coated front and back. "Sorry. You are the one who wanted to keep going."

Shane huffs out a tired laugh, tracing his hands over the warm, sweaty skin of Ilya's back as their heart rates slow. "Just trying to make up for lost time."

After a moment, Ilya rolls off him, his own chest now just as messy. That doesn't stop Shane from shifting closer and draping his arm over Ilya.

“We have all night," Ilya says.

We have the rest of our lives, he thinks.

——

"Where do you think of as home?"

"Hmm?" Ilya had been on the edge of sleep, exhausted from their earlier activities on the bed, on the floor, against the wall, and finally in the shower.

"Home. Is it Boston? Russia?"

Ilya’s foggy mind has trouble grasping the question. "Why are you asking?" He pulls Shane closer, nuzzling his face against the back of Shane’s neck.

"I don’t know. Just thinking about moving back to Ottawa after being in Montreal for so many years... I don’t really feel that sad about it. Shouldn’t I be more attached? Even with my condo—I’m going to rent it out, I guess. But it just feels like… business." Shane sighs, his voice quiet with exhaustion. "Would you be sad leaving your place in Boston?"

"Leaving the house?" Ilya considers it, then shakes his head. "Not really, is just a house. There are others." Maybe that’s not the answer Shane wants because he says nothing. But Ilya knows he’s still awake as he’s absently running his fingers over the arm Ilya has wrapped around his waist. "Where do you think of as home? Ottawa?"

Shane settles a little deeper against him and shrugs his shoulder. "Maybe a tie between my parent’s house and my cottage," he says.

"Your cottage does not feel like just business, like your condo? Just real estate?"

Shane shakes his head, trailing his hand down Ilya’s arm until he finds his hand and laces their fingers together. "No. It’s more than real estate—it’s perfect. I had it built for me. It’s mine." He squeezes Ilya’s hand. "I can’t wait for you to be there with me." They lie in comfortable silence until Shane asks, "Is it like that for you?"

"Is what?"

"My parent’s place still feels like home because I grew up there, and now the cottage is like my adult home." Shane laughs. "That sounds weird, but you know what I mean. They’re like the two safest places in the world to me. Where I’m most comfortable. Is that like Russia and Boston for you?"

Ilya kisses the back of Shane’s neck as he thinks. He lives in Boston and feels comfortable there, sure, but it’s really just a place he lives for work, rather than what Shane seems to mean by home. Safe and comfortable. He likes his place well enough, but if he had to, he could pack up and be somewhere new without missing it for a second.

Ilya rarely feels particularly unsafe or uncomfortable; over the years of travelling for hockey, he’s gotten used to sleeping almost anywhere, including—but not limited to—hotels, airplanes, and the beds of strangers. And he’s always been able to talk to just about anybody. Even in his early years in the US, with his limited English, he always loved meeting new people, becoming friends—even if just for a night—and then being on his way to the next city, the next game. Never staying for long, never getting too close to anybody or anywhere. Feeling truly safe and comfortable just weren’t things he thought about. Since his mother’s death, they’d always seemed out of reach. Until now. Until Shane.

"I think… maybe home is not a place. For me. When I was young, maybe it was my mother. And now… I feel most safe and comfortable when I am with you." For just a second, he wishes Shane spoke Russian so that Ilya could properly get across his meaning. The words sound simple and stupid. Not enough for what he means. But Shane turns over in his arms, looking at Ilya with shining eyes and the faintest smile. It’s only when Shane reaches out to brush his thumb over Ilya’s cheek, wiping away a tear, that Ilya realizes his own eyes are wet too.

"You’re my home, too," Shane says, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to Ilya's lips.

Ilya has no more words left in him tonight; he pulls Shane tight against his chest, listening to him breathe until they’re both asleep.

Chapter 33: get lost forever

Chapter Notes

Yuna hands Shane and Ilya each a heaping bowl of ice cream, then just stands in front of them. "Ilya Rozanov," she says, watching Ilya like she still can’t believe he’s really there and really dating her son. Even after spending most of the day together.

"Mom." Shane can’t even stop himself from smiling as he says it. He can’t really blame her—he still has to pinch himself sometimes, too. Ilya Rozanov in his parents’ cottage, being given an after-dinner snack like they’re kids at a sleepover. Ilya just happily eats his ice cream, pressing his leg closer to Shane’s on the couch.

David comes into the room with a bowl of popcorn, gives Shane a quick smile, then takes Yuna’s hand and guides her over to their matching armchairs. "All right, is it movie time?" he asks, placing the popcorn on the small table between him and his wife.

"Yes, Mr. Hollander," Ilya says.

David smiles at him and says, not for the first time today, "Ilya, please call me David."

"David," Ilya says with a nod, the name still coming a little hesitantly—Ilya had told Shane he'd grown up mostly calling his own father 'Sir,' so this is an adjustment. "Heist movie, yes?" Ilya asks as David rifles through the pile of DVDs next to the television. David brought more movies than they'll have time to watch, but there's always next year.

As David gets the movie ready, Yuna asks, "You sure you two don't want to stay over? It'll be getting dark by the time the movie's done."

Shane smiles, pressing his leg against Ilya's. "It's a ten-minute drive, Mom. We'll be okay." He appreciates the offer but he's looking forward to getting into bed with Ilya later. They'll have guests at the cottage for a couple of days, so tonight is their last chance to be as loud as they want.

"Okay," Yuna says as David takes his seat next to her, pressing play on the remote. "But the offer stands if you're tired later."

Done with their ice cream, Ilya stacks Shane's empty bowl inside his and sets them both on the coffee table before settling back on the couch, one arm around Shane. Ilya's watching the TV, seemingly not even aware he's done it, but Shane can't help glancing at his parents, tensing slightly at the show of casual affection. His parents are focused on the TV, though, and Shane lets out a quiet breath, trying to settle himself. Trying to remind himself that this is normal and allowed. Ilya's fingers absently brush over Shane's arm, and Shane tentatively leans into the warmth of Ilya's body, smiling to himself. Halfway through the movie, Shane is resting his head on Ilya's shoulder, and only once does he catch either of his parents looking. Yuna glances at them with a soft smile on her face. He can practically hear her still thinking Ilya Rozanov? to herself. Shane returns her smile before they both turn back to the movie.

After the movie—which Shane may or may not have slept through the end of—they all crowd around the door as Shane and Ilya slip their sandals on. Yuna hands Shane a bag packed with leftovers before pulling him into a hug. "Text me when you're home," she says, rubbing his arm.

Shane laughs. "It's a ten-minute drive in the middle of nowhere with no traffic." Yuna just raises her eyebrows at him. "Okay, we'll text."

Yuna turns her attention to Ilya and pulls him into a hug next, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "And drive safe, okay?"

Ilya looks surprised, hesitating for just a second before wrapping his arms around her to return the hug. "Uh, yes, we will." Ilya glances at Shane as Yuna pulls away, only for David to immediately step forward and take her place.

Shane stifles a laugh at Ilya's expression as he's hugged by David, but then Shane sees Ilya's face fall and his jaw tighten, so he steps in. "Okay, okay, we're going," Shane says, taking Ilya by the shoulder and steering him toward the door. He quickly hugs his dad goodbye. "I'll text you!" he calls over his shoulder as he and Ilya walk briskly to the car, waving away mosquitoes. Once inside, he turns the key and glances at Ilya. "You okay?"

Ilya nods, looking down at the bag of Tupperware in his lap.

"They can be a lot sometimes," Shane says, pulling onto the gravel road. "But they mean well."

"I know." Ilya reaches over and squeezes Shane's thigh. "They're nice. I am... not used to that."

Shane places his hand over Ilya's. "Well, you're going to get used to it."

——

"Oh, fuck, Ilya!"

Ilya has Shane's ankles on his shoulders, but when Shane calls out, he drops them and moves over him, pushing them both farther up the mattress. They're both covered in sweat and barely hanging on, but Shane doesn't want it to end. They've never been alone together like this, with so much time ahead of them and no obligations other than getting lost in each other. They have guests coming tomorrow, but not until the afternoon, and they're only staying for two nights. Shane and Ilya will still have a week together after that—a whole week.

Shane wraps himself around Ilya, holding on tight as Ilya hammers into him. "Fuck," Shane breathes out, curling his toes. Ilya suddenly pulls back, looking at Shane with surprise. "Shit, sorry!" Shane says, letting go of Ilya's back. He'd grabbed him too tightly. "Did I scratch you?"

Ilya rolls his shoulder, still thrusting. "Maybe. It's okay."

"Wait, let me see." Shane sits up and peeks over Ilya's shoulder, wincing at the harsh red scratch across his shoulder blade. "Fuck, sorry. I'll put Polysporin on it."

"Hollander," Ilya says with a short laugh, pushing Shane back against the mattress, his expression turning serious. "Is little scratch. I don't care." He presses his lips to Shane's, silencing the objection before it comes. "In fact—" Ilya pulls back, pushing Shane's thigh up to fuck him deeper. Shane moans as Ilya continues, "Maybe you scratch me more?"

Shane takes hold of his own thigh, keeping it in place as Ilya lowers himself onto his forearms, pressing his body flush against Shane's as they move together. "What?"

"I marked you," Ilya says, grinding against him, Shane's ass still pleasantly stinging from his spanking earlier tonight. "You will be bruised. Scratch me—mark me back."

Letting go of his thigh to hook it around Ilya's leg, Shane slides his hands over Ilya's back, grinning. "You want me to scratch you?" He teasingly drags his nails down Ilya's back, enjoying the feel of Ilya's muscles flexing beneath his hands. Shane finds the idea kind of hot in theory, but when he increases the pressure, he cringes. It's one thing to do it accidentally. But on purpose? "I don't think I can."

Ilya kisses Shane's neck, then his mouth. "You can," he says against Shane's lips, smiling. "For me."

Shane tries again, digging his fingers into Ilya's flesh, but can't follow through. He shakes his head, looking into Ilya's eyes. "No, I don't want to."

"Okay." Ilya shrugs and leans in for another quick kiss before burying his face in the crook of Shane's neck, picking up speed.

"Okay?"

"Yes, is okay."

It occurs to Shane that even if he could do it, it's not the best idea the night before having a bunch of friends over. Shane's not even comfortable with PDA quite yet, never mind scratching up his boyfriend's back for the whole world to see—even if their world currently only consists of four friends and Shane's parents. "My shorts will cover my bruises," Shane says, his voice strained. "It's not like you're going to wear a shirt while you swim, right?"

"That is point," Ilya says breathlessly next to Shane's ear, his words clipped like they're a struggle to get out. "To be seen. Proof."

Shane groans as his cock rubs between their bodies. "Proof?"

"Of our love."

"Oh."

Ilya is panting hot breaths against Shane's neck; he's close. So is Shane.

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya's back, holding him tight, and presses his lips against Ilya's neck. He kisses him, then licks, letting out a soft moan at the salty taste of his sweat. Before he can think too hard about their friends seeing it, or his parents, Shane sucks on Ilya's skin right where his neck meets his shoulder. Ilya gasps, his hips snapping harder against Shane. This only makes Shane suck harder, his body tensing as he focuses on the feeling of Ilya sliding over him, his cock trapped and leaking between them.

"Yes, Shane," Ilya sighs softly, stilling inside him as he lets go. He reaches between their bodies, taking hold of Shane's cock and stroking it firmly until Shane drops back on the mattress with a gasp, erupting into Ilya's hand and over his own stomach. Ilya stares down, panting and stroking Shane until there's nothing left, before slowly pulling out. He goes to the attached washroom to discard the condom and clean up. When he returns, he tosses a washcloth to Shane before dropping heavily onto the bed and closing his eyes with an exaggerated exhale. "Jesus, Hollander. Sometimes I think you are trying to kill me."

Shane laughs as he wipes himself down and tosses the cloth on the bedside table. "Don't die. I want to go again later."

"Again? Yes, you are trying to kill me."

"Fuck off." Shane rolls onto his side to get a look at Ilya's neck. He huffs out a small laugh, reaching out to run his thumb over the tiny, barely visible hickey. "I don't think I sucked hard enough."

Ilya stares at him, his mouth twitching at the corners. "I have never thought this about you." At Shane's unimpressed look, Ilya starts laughing and pulls him closer. "Is a compliment.”

"Well, I tried," Shane says, settling his head on Ilya’s chest.

As his laughter dies down, Ilya nods. "Yes, thank you." He kisses the top of Shane's head. "We maybe try again after Pikes, Marly, and Svetlana leave?"

Shane relaxes at the thought, snuggling closer into Ilya. "Sure."

"Does not need to be on neck, either."

"Oh?" Shane smiles. "Where should we try next?"

"Surprise me."

——

"So the beds were okay?" Shane asks, handing Jackie a can of iced tea.

She takes it, trying not to jostle Arthur who is fast asleep in her arms. "Shane, you already asked. Yes, the beds are great. The showers are great. The kids are having fun. Relax!"

Shane laughs and takes the seat next to her on the deck, watching the twins run around the yard with Hayden. Marleau and Svetlana are swimming in the lake, and Ilya is starting up the BBQ for lunch. Jackie watches Ilya for a moment, then smiles at Shane. "You did good."

"At what?"

Jackie rolls her eyes and holds her drink out to Shane. He cracks it open and hands it back; she only has one hand free, with the other supporting Arthur. "At pulling the hottest man in the MLH. After my husband, of course."

"Oh, that," Shane says, glancing back at Ilya with a huge smile. "Yeah, I guess I did okay."

"Pike!" Ilya calls out to Hayden, holding up a pack of hot dogs. "Tell me, these are okay? I know size is important to you."

Shane shoots Ilya a look, then glances at Hayden to see him already glaring at Shane. Shane covers his mouth to stifle his laughter, not wanting to wake Arthur.

"What's that about?" Jackie asks with a wry smile.

"Nothing." Shane shakes his head at her skeptical look. "You don't want to know."

Jackie sips her drink, her eyes on the twins. "Okay."

"My parents are going to come by later; Mom really wants to see the twins and meet Arthur."

"Oh, good! I can thank her again for the baby gifts." Jackie looks over at Shane, her smile fading a little. "We're going to miss you when you're in Ottawa. I can't believe the Metros are so stupid."

Shane's stomach twists at the mention of the Metros; he hopes that eventually his body will stop reacting to the name. "We'll still talk all the time, and I'll be in Montreal a lot. I'll still see you guys."

Jackie gives him a pointed look. "You better." She brushes her hand over Arthur's back as he starts to stir. "I have to pee," she says, sitting up and carefully handing Arthur over to Shane. At Shane's terrified expression, Jackie laughs and tells him, "I'll be two minutes. Just don't drop him and you'll be fine." She waits for Shane to sit back with Arthur secure in his arms before she heads inside. The twins come chasing after her, yell-talking to each other and laughing, and follow her into the house. Hayden trails behind them, dropping into the chair Jackie vacated just as Ilya comes over and sits on the arm of Shane's chair.

"I can't believe you fucking told him what I said," Hayden mutters to Shane, deliberately ignoring Ilya as he says it.

Ilya smirks. "Is okay, Pike. Is natural to be curious about other men's dicks."

Shane makes a show of covering Arthur's ears before saying, "Can you both shut the fuck up about dicks, please?"

Ilya nods toward Marleau and Svetlana laughing and splashing each other in the lake. "Do you want me to tell you about Marly's dick? I have seen many times."

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Hayden says, looking a little like he wants to die.

"Lucky you have cute kids," Ilya says, smiling softly at Arthur and Shane. Hayden rolls his eyes, but then pulls his phone from his pocket and stands up to snap a picture of Shane and Ilya with Arthur.

"Send me that," Shane tells Hayden after he sits back down. Hayden nods and texts it to him.

Jackie comes back out to the deck with Emma in her arms and Ruby running ahead of her. "Ily!" she says, looking up at Ilya. He leans down to scoop her up.

"We will go swimming later, yes?" he asks, looking at the floaties on her arms. The twins have been wearing them all morning but haven't gone in the lake yet. Ruby nods enthusiastically.

Hayden stands up to give the chair back to his wife, then snaps more pictures of everyone, including Ilya with Ruby in his arms.

"Hey, send me—" Shane starts.

"Already texting them to you," Hayden says with an eye roll and a smile.

Ilya glances at him. "Send to me, too." Hayden nods.

Ruby starts reaching for Hayden, so Ilya hands her off, gives Shane a quick peck on the head, and heads back to the BBQ to get their lunch started. Nobody gives Shane any weird looks, and he relaxes when Hayden kisses Jackie on the cheek, too. So this is what it's like to feel normal. He could get used to this.

——

"I will get more drinks, ptichka. You just want water?" Shane nods, and Ilya walks back to the cottage. Everybody, except for Jackie and the kids who are already in bed, is gathered around the fire pit. It's their last night together.

After Ilya is inside, Hayden leans closer to the fire to ask Shane, "What is 'ptichka'?"

Shane shrugs. "I think it means bird or something?" He glances questioningly at Svetlana, who's leaning against Marleau, looking half-asleep.

She nods. "Yes, little birdie." She straightens up, stretching her arms over her head with a yawn, then reaches for the bag of marshmallows. Shane watches her roast a marshmallow over the fire and thinks, for possibly the thousandth time since meeting her, that he's never seen someone more beautiful in person. Even dressed down in an oversized Raiders hoodie, she looks like a model. Of course she's Ilya's best friend—but Shane's not jealous. Much. Besides, she and Marleau have been inseparable all weekend.

Hayden laughs. "Why is he calling you little birdie?"

"I don't know." Shane shrugs, smiling. "You'd have to ask him."

Ilya comes back with a small cooler full of ice and drinks, handing them out to everyone before settling back next to Shane. Shane wraps an arm around him without even thinking about it, watching the fire. He catches Svetlana and Ilya exchanging a look, and she says something to him in Russian.

"What was that?" Marleau asks, a half-eaten s'more in his mouth.

"She said 'we have let these Canadians tame us'," Ilya says with a laugh, leaning closer into Shane.

Marleau shakes his head, pointing the rest of his s'more at Shane. "Bro, I'm literally learning Russian so they can't keep talking about me in secret. Wanna join? We can be study-buddies, I'll text you the app."

Svetlana rolls her eyes, smiling. Marleau finishes his s'more and wraps her in a hug, saying something in Russian that Shane doesn't understand but that sounds wrong even to him. "Ew, your hands are sticky!" she cries out, laughing and pulling away from him. She grabs a bottle of water from the cooler, then stands. "I'm going to bed." She raises an eyebrow at Marleau. "Coming?" She heads for the cottage.

"Right behind you!" Marleau calls after her. He scoots over to sit on the other side of Shane. "We still on for that morning run?" He grips Shane's bicep. "It's crazy you kept it so tight even with a broken leg. Weight lifting?" Shane nods as Ilya smacks Marleau's hand away from him.

"I will also be on that morning run, Marly," Ilya says, a playful warning in his voice.

"Hell yeah, brother," Marleau says, reaching over to squeeze Ilya's leg. Shane has the urge to smack his hand away just like Ilya did, but he lets it pass. "See you guys in the morning! Pike?"

Hayden stirs in his seat, half-dozing. "Oh, no thanks, we're leaving pretty early tomorrow. I'd rather not be all sweaty for the drive. But I'll see you before we go."

Marleau waves goodnight and jogs after Svetlana.

Hayden pulls a beer from the cooler, shaking his head a little to wake up. Shane offers him the marshmallow bag, but Hayden waves him off. They stare at the fire in silence until Hayden says, "Honestly, man, I'm kind of jealous."

Shane startles at that, quickly glancing down at Ilya, who's fallen asleep against his shoulder. 

Hayden chokes on his beer and shakes his head with a laugh. "Fuck off, not of him. Of you going to the Centaurs."

Now it's Shane's turn to laugh. "Oh. I don't think there's much to be jealous of there. I'm going to the worst team in the league."

"They won't be the worst team for long. Not with you on the roster." He sips his beer. "And they seem like a good group of guys. That's what I'm jealous of."

"The Metros will probably be better with me gone." Shane tries not to sound bitter as he says it. Hayden gives him a skeptical look, so Shane clarifies. "Like, personality-wise. Maybe they'll go back to normal with me out of there."

Hayden shakes his head, making no effort to hide the bitterness in his voice. "I think this is their normal. We just didn't see it before."

"Well... maybe when your contract's up, you might consider Ottawa? What do you have, a year or two left? Just imagine you, me, and Barrett on a line."

"No," Ilya mumbles, sitting up straighter next to Shane. "No more of Pike imagining my boyfriend in any situations."

Hayden ignores Ilya, nodding. "That would be a hell of a line."

"I think is bedtime, ptichka," Ilya says, sleepily nuzzling his face into Shane's neck. Shane finishes his bottle of water, then reaches over for Hayden's empty beer bottle to take inside.

"I'll take care of the fire, you guys go ahead," Hayden says.

Shane pats Ilya's knee and Ilya pulls away from his neck. "Get the cooler," Shane tells him, standing. "'Night, Hayden. Thanks."

"Have a good night, guys. See you in the morning."

Ilya picks up the cooler, and he and Shane walk back up to the cottage, leaning against each other as they go. Shane's not sure he's ever felt more relaxed, more at home—definitely never happier—than he feels right now. They brush their teeth and wash their faces in comfortable silence, the smoke of the fire still clinging to them.

Shane flicks off the light and falls into bed next to Ilya, curling around him from behind. "I love you so fucking much," he whispers into Ilya's hair, breathing in the smell of the fire and sunscreen and lingering bug spray. Smells of summer, smells of home. He drapes an arm over Ilya, pulling him close.

"I love you too, Shane," Ilya mumbles, his voice heavy with sleep.

"This is going to work, right?" Shane asks. He's thinking about the long distance, living in Ottawa while Ilya lives in Boston, keeping their secret, their real relationship hidden beneath the manufactured public rivalry, he's thinking of starting over from the bottom with the Centaurs, what it will take to make them contenders, what it will take to feel comfortable with a new team, whether he'll ever really feel comfortable in a group of hockey players ever again, whether he can survive the next season without having this, right here right now with Ilya, every day, thinking that falling in love is beautiful and dangerous and maybe stupid but he wouldn't change a second of it, wouldn't ever risk not having Ilya in his arms like he is right now, he's thinking about what a future means for them, together, when the MLH would have the world believe a non-straight player doesn't exist, and Shane has had enough attention from the world anyway, he doesn't want them thinking about his sex life or really any part of his life that isn't about how many goals he's scored, he wants to be a number and an impressive one at that, but how does he reconcile that with the beating heart inside him and the love it holds, barely contains, maybe it'll burst—

"Yes, it will work," Ilya sighs, settling against Shane in the dark. "We will make it work."

Shane believes him.

Chapter End Notes

and that's it! I've never written something this long before and probably won't again lmao, so thank you for making it all the way to the end with me! This show/books/universe has crack in it, what do you mean I'm still rewatching a little 6ep show constantly like 7 months after it aired, what do you mean it still has me in a chokehold and won't let go!!! what do you mean I've read HR, TLG, and RM too many times and will continue to do so because I love all these characters too much WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!

Shout-out to my boring horrible job for allowing me so much time to write about hockey blorbos falling in love and exploring each others' bodies (not necessarily in that order) while on the clock like a respectable adult. Big thank you to the sweet lovely readers who were reading and commenting as we went <3<3 (comments keep the 'motivation to write' meter full so bless you and thank). Also bless and thank to Game Changers Library Server discord which also keeps the writing motivation meter high (but also the procrastination meter because the fic recommendations do not stop coming and I hope they never do lolol). It's full of amazing writers and readers and just general enthusiasm for this gay little world that has us all by the throat!! (plus cat pics)

There's one tiny little scene that's been sitting in my notes app that never quite fit anywhere but I think is cute so I'll just put it here—Shane gifts Jackie a little yellow baby sweater:
"Did you name Arthur after that bear?"
"What bear?"
"That bear in the yellow sweater. From TV."
Jackie stares at him. "Arthur isn't a bear, he's an aardvark."
"Oh." Shane doesn't know what the fuck an aardvark is.
The baby is named after Jackie's grandfather, but she laughs and loves the yellow sweater anyway. (so just know that happened offscreen at some point).

Anyway, this story was originally supposed to be SHORT with the vague premise "lol imagine if Ilya mistakenly thought Shane/Hayden were a thing... lmao and imagine if he brought it up while fucking Shane" and then figuring out the reason for why Ilya might mistakenly think that turned this into a whoooole other thing and now it's somehow 4 months later and idk what happened, I'm waking up from a fugue state. Ok thank you bye! <3