Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Hayden Pike, Dallas Kent, Luca Haas, Carter Vaughn, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

AU, Shane Hollander is not a basket case, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Second Chances, Light Angst, tables are occasionally turned, HEA, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, Confident Shane Hollander, Ily and Shane take New York, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, New York Admirals Player Ilya Rozanov, Sports Reporter Shane

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-03 Completed: 2026-05-19 Words: 55,523 Chapters: 21/21

Lights, Camera

Summary

“Why did you want me to meet you here today?” Shane asked. When he’d heard the request, he’d had the same thought as Jared. Was he trying to rub it in? One last chance to retaliate for a long ago rejection?

Shane had almost made it to Rozanov’s room that night in the hotel in Toronto. But when the elevator doors opened, Shane’s feet had stayed glued to the ground.

He’d been so afraid of ruining everything, only to have it ruined for him barely a year later.

 

Shane does not hook up with Ilya in Toronto. Six years later, his hockey career is long over and he has found a new calling that puts his media training, and his pretty face, to good use.

Consider this a remix of sorts.

 

Content warnings: homophobia and associated use of slurs

Notes

Did you ever wonder if hockey ruined Shane's life a bit?

This is my first foray into fan fiction, be nice!

Chapter 1: you again

September 2011

 

“Tough news from Ottowa this morning. Hockey phenom Shane Hollander has ended his contract with the Montreal Metros and dropped out of the MLH entirely, citing an unspecified medical issue.”

 

“Sad all around—for Shane Hollander, for the Metros, and for hockey in general.”

 

“This one is a bit of a mystery, John. It doesn’t sound like this is hockey-related.”

 

“That’s right, Jack, and our thoughts and prayers are with the Hollanders, of course.”

 

“Montreal must be reeling. They’ve got nothing against Ilya Rozanov, now.”

 

“Sure looks like Boston’s got a clear path to the playoffs for the next year, at least.”

 

 

October 2016

 

The rink still felt like home. Do you miss it? people always asked, their faces so careful and kind. Shane preferred to make a joke in response, because he was still an expert at graceful misdirection even if it was no longer happening on the ice.

 

“Shane, hi. Great to see you.” 

 

Jared Fowler, head of PR for the New York Admirals, approached with his hand extended for a shake. He was wearing those track pants made to look like slacks and a quarter zip, the pro sports business uniform, and Shane absent mindedly smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket.

 

“Rozanov will be out in a minute. I have to say again—I’m sorry about all this. I still don’t know why he insisted on your first meeting being here instead of a sit down. You know, with—”

 

There it was, the face.

 

“It’s fine, really. Probably just wants to show off now that I can’t beat him on the ice.” 

 

Jared flashed a relieved smile.

 

“I don’t need to show off. You already quit rather than compete with me.”

 

Shane turned around to find Ilya Rozanov skating in lazy, loopy circles. He had his pads and sweater on but no gloves or helmet, yet. His stick hung loose from one hand, dragging behind him. He looked the same as Shane remembered, the rugged lines of his face softened by his light brown curls and blue eyes.

 

“Roz—” Jared started, his cheeks turning pink.

 

“Maybe it was an act of mercy,” Shane answered, smiling. “Gave you a shot at beating my records.” 

 

Jared laughed too hard.

 

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “Always so smooth for the cameras.”

 

“That’s why I’m here.”

 

“Well,” Jared says. “I’ll be up in the office if you two need anything.” He made off at record speed, gone before Shane could even say ‘thank you.’

 

“You don’t want to do this at all, do you?” Shane asks. Rozanov was halfway across the rink now, drifting on momentum with his head hanging back, face toward the rafters.

 

“No. But Jared says I must be…you know, made human.”

 

Shane didn’t answer. They both knew that this series was about rehab. Rozanov was traded to New York after a rough last season with Boston, which began with a record number of penalty minutes and ended with a bar brawl that put Rozanov out for the playoffs with a broken hand. One of conditions of the trade to New York had been that Rozanov put in some work with the PR team to repair his image.

 

“How is your hand?” Shane asked.

 

Rozanov stopped and flexed his left fingers into a fist. “My thumb cracks when I bend it.”

 

“Serves you right.” Shane bit his lip; he shouldn’t have said that. But Rozanov was always able to get under his skin.

 

Rozanov turned and skated a straight line toward Shane. “So you will make me soft and cuddly, yes? Like fun Russian Uncle?”

 

Shane shrugged. “Maybe. The point of the series is to show what life is really like for pro athletes. If the Admirals think this will make people like you more….”

 

Shane had his doubts about this as a PR strategy, but the series was his baby and Rozanov was an excellent subject. He was charismatic, and had some name recognition outside of hockey. He was also obnoxious, and arrogant, and, apparently after just a few short minutes in his company, still able to set Shane on edge. But Shane would manage, just like he would manage the rest of his hockey-related baggage.

 

“People love me already,” Rozanov said, flashing a lopsided grin. “I am Ilya the Great.”

 

“I thought it was Ilya the Terrible?”

 

He grinned. “Either way, I am czar.”

 

“Why did you want me to meet you here today?” Shane asked. When he’d heard the request, he’d had the same thought as Jared, at first. Was he trying to rub it in? One last chance to retaliate for a long ago rejection?

 

Shane had almost made it to Rozanov’s room that night in the hotel in Toronto. But when the elevator doors opened, Shane’s feet had stayed glued to the ground.

 

He’d been so afraid of ruining everything, only to have it ruined for him barely a year later.

 

Rozanov lifted a shoulder in response. “Is easier for me. Practice starts in twenty minutes. Efficient.” Rozanov’s gaze searched over Shane’s shoulders. “No cameras?”

 

“Not today,” Shane said. “I thought we’d talk a little first, lay some groundwork.”

 

“Ah, so you want to get to know me first. Little romance before the—” he made a crude gesture, and Shane fought not to smile.

 

“Yeah, exactly. It can be tough for some people to relax when they’ve got a camera pointed at them.”

 

“Never seemed to bother you,” Rozanov answered.

 

“No, not really,” he said. Shane was never uncomfortable talking about hockey, cameras or no. He’d taken to media training nearly as well as he’d taken to the ice, because it was training—they say this, you say that, just like learning plays. It was the other conversations that were hard for Shane, even still, because he was always afraid of giving too much of himself away.

 

“I thought we’d start with a few meetings here, talk about hockey and your team. Then, if you’re up for it, we’ll get some footage of you at home.”

 

Rozanov looked down and fiddled with a loose bit of tape. “What else?”

 

“Well..everything else. Charity events, nights out. Coaching staff has agreed to let us accompany you on a road trip after Christmas.”

 

“So you’ll be following me around, like a little puppy?”

 

Shane nodded. “More or less.”

 

Rozanov looked up and smiled. The glint in his eye was a little worrisome. “Maybe won’t be so bad.”

 

—---------

 

Ilya skated like a demon at practice, possibly because Hollander lingered in the stands, watching. It had been two weeks since Jared sat him down and told him he had to play nice with ESPN, and he had been gleefully brainstorming ways to torture whatever reporter was thrown in his path until Jared had said Shane Hollander and Ilya’s brain had skidded to a stop.

 

He was over the thing in Toronto. He thought he’d seen something, and he made his move, and Hollander didn’t show and that was that. It had been dumb anyway, reckless even for him, considering how hard the league was leaning on their rivalry before they even started playing.

 

But Hollander was still so pretty. It had been years, but he still had the puppy dog eyes, brown and shining like he was always close to tears, and those damn freckles that Ilya had never stopped obsessing over. And now there was no baby fat to soften the effect. He looked like a movie star, it was no wonder that ESPN wanted him on TV. 

 

It was a shame about hockey, though. Hollander would have been one of the greats, and Ilya had felt robbed of the chance to play against him for longer. No one else in the league challenged him on the ice like Hollander had, and Ilya was probably a worse player for having lost him as an opponent so early in his career.

 

Hollander must have been devastated. Ilya was a great hockey player, but hockey was also his job—a way to get rich, and to escape from Russia. Hockey had obviously been Hollander’s calling, maybe even his whole life.

 

Well, not anymore. Something about his heart, Ilya had heard. Ilya had faced off with some mediocre import from Switzerland when they first played the Metros that season, and spent most of the night afterward trying to find more information about Hollander’s condition online.

 

Hollander certainly looked like he was in good health. Maybe a little leaner than before—reasonable, given he was no longer slamming 200lb-opponents into the boards—but still rosy-cheeked in the cold air of the rink. Perfect posture. Manicured fingernails.

 

Five years later, and Ilya was still dying to know what Hollander was really like, underneath all that composure.

A few sessions at the rink, then some time at Ilya’s apartment. Shane Hollander at Ilya’s home. It wasn’t the first time it occurred to him, if Ilya was honest with himself.

Chapter 2: nothing changes if nothing changes

“What’s he like?” Rose asked as she snatched a handful of ties off the table.

 

“Just like he seems—cocky, kind of an asshole. He’s always been like that.” Shane answered, picking up a grass green tie with a goldenrod floral pattern.

 

“I always forget that you knew him before.” Rose was the only person who didn’t tiptoe around Shane’s past hockey life, and he loved her for it. She snatched the tie out of his hand. “No - that green is not for you. You need to go darker.”

 

She paused in front of a deep purple dress shirt.

 

“No,” Shane said, before she could pick up.

 

“But this would be such a great color on you.”

 

“I’m not going on the air dressed like I manage a jazz club.”

 

“I swear, why do you even pay me anymore?”

 

Shane had hired Rose as a stylist a year and a half ago. When he’d just been writing his blog, sweatpants and t-shirts had been fine. But then he had started meeting with editors at other publications, and ESPN had come knocking. He wanted to look better, more grown up, but he had spent his life in activewear and had no idea where to start.

 

It turned out that he loved clothes. Loved dressing up. Loved looking in the mirror and seeing a polished, handsome man staring back at him.

 

He did like the purple shirt. But it still wouldn’t work on air.

 

“I just like hanging out with you,” he said.

 

Rose huffed. “Then why aren’t we just going for coffee or something?”

 

Shane ran his hand over a wine colored cashmere sweater, then turned to her and smiled. “OK, you’re fired.”

 

She broke into a huge grin, then hopped over and threw her arms around his neck.

 

“What’s this for?”

 

“We’re officially friends now!”

 

Shane checked the price tag on the sweater and winced. He was making decent money now, finally, but that didn’t mean he could spend $1200 for a top. Maybe he could find the same color in merino somewhere.

 

“Oh, you’d look so good in this.”

 

Shane looked up to find Rose caressing a magenta silk shirt. The buttons started halfway down the placket, and it had oversized french cuffs on the sleeves.

 

Hockey Shane would have run screaming from this shirt. He walked over and pinched the thin fabric between his fingers.

 

“I can’t wear this on the air, either.”

 

Rose rolled her eyes. “You do other things. You could wear this to dinner with me. Or, you know, on a date with Miles.”

 

Shane glared at her. “You don’t need to set me up.”

 

“I know I don’t need to. All you need to do is flutter those eyelashes south of 23rd St and you’ll be set upon by hordes of suitors. I just think you’d like him.”

 

It wasn’t that Shane didn’t date. He’d even had a couple boyfriends. But since he’d moved to New York, he had sort of been set upon by hordes of suitors and had found it very uncomfortable. 

 

Rose had shown him a picture, and Miles was really handsome. But he was also a fashion designer, and very flamboyant. Shane didn’t particularly like himself for thinking this, but he still needed to exist among pro athletes, even if he wasn’t one himself. He needed them to think he’s sort of one of us, and that might be a lot harder if he was traipsing around town with a boyfriend who regularly wore a tiara to his own fashion shows.

 

He wanted the pink shirt. It would look good on him. He checked the price tag—salvation.

 

“It’s too expensive,” he said.

 

Rose sighed and moved on to the next rack.

 

“I’m supposed to be looking for a gray suit,” he said, and held up a dove gray jacket. It had a nearly invisible butter yellow pinstripe; he loved little hidden touches like that.

 

Rose scrunched her nose. “Ew no, that color washes you out. You need something a little darker, I think - maybe with a bit of blue. Let me find Benjamin, he said he’d be here today.”

 

As she disappeared to hunt down her favorite salesperson, Shane turned back to get one last glimpse of the pink.

 

Rozanov would like that shirt, he thought.

 

—--

 

Hollander was wearing a maroon sweater when Ilya met him in the assistant coach’s office. The color made his freckles pop.

 

Ilya was wearing workout clothes, because he was going to train right after this. But now, face to face again with Hollander’s perfection, he wished he’d at least kept his jeans on.

 

It was tight quarters in the room. Hollander and a camera person were crammed into one corner, standing awkwardly, and two desk chairs had been set up facing each other.

 

“Where should I sit?” he asked.

 

Shane gestured at the chair facing the window. “Dan says you can’t be backlit.”

 

The camera guy grunted and fussed with the lens. Hollander slipped by him gracefully and sat in the other chair. Their knees nearly touched. Hollander straightened his posture and propped one ankle on the opposite knee.

 

“So, how is it going?”

 

Ilya shrugged. “Fine.”

 

“You were with Boston for a long time. What’s it like being on a new team?”

 

“Will be fine, once they agree to do everything my way.”

 

“Scott Hunter is the captain,” Hollander prods.

 

“Yes, and?”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to do things his way?”

 

Ilya smiles. “His way is prehistoric. They will see.”

 

“Are you aiming to get the C?”

 

Ilya shook his head. “No. Not this year, at least.”

 

“You’ve devoted a lot of energy in the past to antagonizing Scott Hunter. How do you think he feels about you joining the team?”

 

Ilya sighed. He’d been asked a version of all these questions a hundred times. “Scott Hunter wants to win, and he knows that with me, the Admirals can win.”

 

“Do you think you’ll go to the finals this year?”

 

“My team always goes to the finals. Remember?” He couldn’t resist the chance to take a little dig, see if he could still summon that indignant flush that Hollander used to get when teased him.

 

This gets a smile out of Hollander. “You mean, do I remember when you tripped my left wing and lost us our spot in the playoffs in 2010?”

 

“Yes, that is what I mean. But I did not trip him, he fell. So clumsy.”

 

Hollander smirkedagain. Ilya had always enjoyed dragging those little smirks out of him. Hollander was hockey’s golden boy, so well-mannered, but Ilya knew he had a mean streak. It was probably the most interesting thing about him.

 

“New York’s style of play is pretty clean,” Hollander presses on. “How do you fit into a system like that?”

 

Ilya rested his elbows on his knees. “They are too clean. Puts them at a disadvantage. That’s why I am here, no?”

 

Hollander raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

 

Ilya froze. How much did he know? The Raiders didn’t want the details of last season getting out any more than Ilya did. It was mutually assured destruction, a PR cold war. So Ilya would play the fuck up and Boston would pretend to be fed up, and Scott Hunter would save the day by cleaning up Ilya the Terrible once and for all. 

 

“I am excited to be here,” he said, evening his tone, shaving off a bit of his accent. “New York is a great city and the Admirals are a great team, and I know we’ll play good hockey.”

 

Dan chuckled behind the camera, and Hollander raised his eyebrows.

 

“See?” Ilya said. “I do the media training. I can be hockey golden boy, too.”

 

“Sure, but you don’t want to.” Hollander was curious, Ilya could tell. He was looking at him with the little furrow between his brows, the same one that used to pop up as he watched the game from the bench, scheming at how to dismantle the opposition’s defense. But Ilya couldn’t afford to have Hollander trying to dissect him that way.

 

“So, you’re on TV now,” Ilya said. “Where were you before? Between, I mean.”

 

Hollander started a little. “Are you interviewing me now?”

 

“You ask a million questions. I should get to ask one.”

 

“I guess, why not?” Hollander says, shifting in his chair. Maybe Ilya could see a bit of that old tension, the way he used to be drawn so taut all the time.  “After my surgery, I took some time off. Then I started my blog.”

 

“Blog?” Ilya asked. He got his news from a combination of alerts on his phone, his teammates, and a few Russian news sites.

 

“I was writing online, about hockey.”

 

It took most of Ilya’s willpower not to whip out his phone and search for this blog immediately.

 

“I see. Must have been very boring—technique and plays and all your other favorite things?”

 

Hollander looked disconcerted for a minute, like he is confused to be the subject of the questions. “I—uh, no, actually. It was more about hockey culture.”

 

“Culture, like…?”

 

Hollander tensed, and Ilya couldn’t figure out why. Whatever his blog was, it was clearly good enough to get him on ESPN in the span of only a few years..

 

“Well, after I stopped playing, my parents and I had to figure out some financial stuff, and I really started to think about how much they’d spent on hockey while I was in juniors. It was crazy. So I started writing about how the pipeline leaves out so many kids who can’t afford it, and how so many families invest all this money and then their kids don’t make it to the MLH.”

 

It hadn’t really been like that in Russia. Talented kids were swooped up by programs that paid for everything, the unspoken agreement being that the coaches had free rein.

 

“Then I started to write more about inclusivity, and those were the posts that really got attention.”

 

“Inclusivity?” Ilya asked.

 

“You know, whether hockey is, uh, comfortable for all different kinds of players. Players who aren’t white, who aren’t, uh—”

 

“Straight?” Ilya supplied. He shouldn’t have said that, not after Hollander had been making that puzzle-solving face at him. Apparently the freckles still had the power to make him do very stupid things. But now Hollander was blushing, so maybe it was worth it. 

 

“Yeah, that too. I think if I were still playing I’d probably still be in the closet.”

 

Ilya sat up straight. “You are bisexual?” Ilya asked. He had a vague memory of a girlfriend, a paparazzi photo here or there.

 

Hollander actually laughed. “No, not bi. Gay. Definitely…definitely gay.”

 

“And you are, how you say it—everyone knows?”

 

“Out,” Hollander supplied. “Yeah.”

 

Ilya stares at Hollander. There was barely any hint of the kid who’d been trying his best not to look at Ilya in the shower that day, the one who stopped breathing for a solid minute when Ilya gave him his room number in the locker room afterward. “New Hollander is very different from old Hollander.”

 

“Yeah, sure. A lot has changed.”

 

“Not me, I am exactly the same.”

 

Hollander’s brow furrowed again. Uh oh. “Maybe, for now. Maybe not by the end of this season.”

 

“You’re right, by the end of the season I will have two cups. Very different.”

 

Ilya had said something similar to a half dozen reports since the trade was announced. It earned him another smirk from Hollander.

 

Hollander guided them deftly back to hockey, drawing Ilya into a technical discussion that Ilya suspected might be more about personal interest than the silly TV show. Ilya truly did believe he could help the Admirals win. Scott Hunter was a good player who was too dedicated to the high road; if he insisted on keeping his hands clean even in dirty games, he needed at least one other person on his team who was willing to make a mess. 

 

Last spring, Ilya had been worried that he’d fucked it up for good. That everyone would find out what happened, and there would be no new contract, and he would end up back in Russia with his father and Alexei and all the other worst things in his life. He had been angry, and afraid, spiralling.

 

New York was the softest landing he could have hoped for. Ilya had a great loft apartment in Queens with a view of the skyline. The bars were open late and it wouldn’t be quite as cold, and Hunter would thaw eventually. 

 

He even had Shane Hollander back, with his maroon sweater and his little smirk.

 

Definitely could have been worse.

Chapter 3: once more unto the breach

“And they told me you were shy!”

 

A huge hand clapped him on the back, right between the shoulder blades, hard enough that Shane had to clench his ab muscles to keep from stumbling forward. Thank God for Pilates. The blow knocked his earpiece out, and Shane gathered the coiled cord and unclipped the mic pack from his belt.

 

Jeff Lynch had played twenty years of pro hockey, and been on ESPN for another twenty He was at least five inches taller than Shane, wore garish suits, and rarely cut his hair. When Shane had met with the executives after his trial period, they had described Lynch as the old hockey, whereas Shane would be the new. Lynch was hulking, and white, with an ope let me schooch right by ya there accent as thick as it was the day he left North Dakota, and Shane was none of those things. Shane was young, and sleek, and, as far as hockey was concerned, exotic. New.

 

He thought they were being a bit optimistic, maybe, about how eager hockey was to be new. But he wasn’t about to pop that bubble now.

 

“Only at parties,” Shane answered. This was true, but everyone always thought it was joke. And Lynch laughed back, booming like Shane had told the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

 

“You’re a natural. I’ll tell ya, my first few years I was just terrible. Just rambling on, sweating my balls off. They only let me stay on the air because no one else wanted to do the hockey segments.”

 

“Thanks. I’m really enjoying this.”

 

“Shame about the ticker, kid. I remember your rookie season, really good stuff.” Shane offered a neutral little smile. They’d been on for a couple hours, and he was too tired to make his usual deflections. Lynch slid off his stool with a grunt and limped a few steps before his gait evened out. “But hey - look on the bright side. You won’t be looking at a hip replacement before you turn 60.”

 

Shane laughed, but Lynch was hobbling off and he knew it hadn’t really been a joke at all.

 

He snatched his tablet off the desk on the set and made his way back to the desk he’d been given. The studio wasn’t what he had expected, more like an office building with sets hidden away in corners and behind random doors. There was no green room, and Shane was still getting the hang of doing his own makeup. He’d blanched when they said he couldn’t go on the air barefaced, until they’d shown him what he looked like under the harsh lights, in high definition. 

 

Sometimes he would pull up a YouTube tutorial on how to blend foundation, and then a full hour later he would find himself watching while someone carefully painted on a cat eye and glitter eyeshadow. A few weeks ago, he’d ordered a liquid liner pen from the sephora website. It was hidden in his bedside drawer. He hadn’t decided whether he was ever going to try it.

 

He hung his jacket up on his desk chair and grabbed a clean shirt out of the bottom drawer, because the makeup always got on his collar. In the bathroom, he changed and cleaned his face with a makeup remover wipe. He watched as the freckles reemerged in the mirror; they made him look younger.

 

He was young. Not even thirty.

 

I have to figure out a whole other life now, he’d told his mother. What if I can’t do anything else?

 

Yuna, of course, had made a list of ideas. Coaching. College. Teach English in Japan. He couldn’t imagine any of it. From his hospital bed, he could only see an endless expanse of blankness. He wasn’t a teacher, or a coach, or a student. He was a hockey player and had never contemplated being anything else.

 

He spent the next year watching hockey, reading about hockey, and otherwise obsessively consuming whatever hockey media he could find. His parents told him to stop, his therapist told him to stop, but it was like there was a hockey vacuum in his head, and the laws of nature demanded that it be filled. Every day of his life for the last fifteen years had been dedicated to hockey, and didn’t know how to exist otherwise.

 

Finally, his therapist tried another approach: Shane was directed to write down everything he wouldn’t miss about hockey, and everything he could do now that he wasn’t playing anymore.

 

He still had the list in the top drawer of his bedside table.

 

The blog had been contentious. At first, everyone wanted him to move on, and then, as his writing became more critical, his parents fretted that they had forced him into hockey and ruined his life. This is the whole point, Mom! Shane had argued. It’s just a sport and it shouldn’t be able to ruin anyone’s life!

 

Even as he wrote about hockey’s many problems, he realized that he didn’t want to give it up entirely. He still loved the game, and he didn’t want to spend his life avoiding it. So he kept watching games, and listening to podcasts, in his own version of exposure therapy. He needed to build up the calluses, and if that meant enduring a few blisters, it would be worth it.

 

It didn’t mean he didn’t get wistful watching the team do speed drills. He missed the feeling of flying over the ice, muscles and lungs burning. He missed the moment when he launched over the boards and into the game, surrendering his mind and body to the flow of the game. But he was not the only person in the world who played a lot of hockey and then stopped. His heart condition precluded him from being a player, but it didn’t need to preclude him from being a fan.

 

He walked the short distance to his miniscule apartment in the financial district. It was an alcove studio in a new building, and if he stood at just the right angle and pressed his face up against the window, he could see a bit of the Brooklyn Bridge. 

 

He took his shoes off and refilled the food dish. He had about ninety minutes before he had to leave for the Admirals Foundation’s annual autumn gala, which every player was required to attend. The team would shake hands and tug at their bowties and drink free drinks until the donors were satisfied. 

 

Shane could see it now: Scott Hunter, square-jawed and tense. Rozanov flirting with every old lady in sight.

 

Rozanov flirted with everyone.

 

Shane’s thoughts drifted back to the night of the draft, sitting on a grimy hotel gym floor across from Rozanov and his fucking smile. That night had opened up the first crack, and Shane had seen the world differently after. Suddenly there wasn’t just hockey and everything it could give him, but there was hockey and everything it could give him and the few things—big things—that it was going to take away.

 

He made himself a protein shake so he wouldn’t eat too many canapes, and drank it while he exchanged a couple texts with one of the producers about the footage he was looking for from the event. Then he took a long shower and dressed carefully. He’d spent a whole paycheck last year on his tux—barely worn but second hand Prada—and wanted to make the best of it.

 

He summoned an Uber and took the elevator down with his coat slung over his arm. A woman in the lobby did a double take as he walked by, and he assumed that was a good sign.

 

Dan met him in the hotel lobby and they mapped out a rough coverage plan. It was only a few minutes into the gala and the ballroom was mostly empty still, the place settings immaculate and waiting.

 

Shane had hated this sort of thing once, the evenings where everyone dressed up and announced they were finally going to talk about something besides hockey, as if that was supposed to be fun. A room full of people chatting about nothing was torturous; Shane much preferred one-on-one conversations, where we could focus on a person and maybe begin to figure out what makes them tick.

 

The players all started to stream in at once. Shane watched them spread out to the tables where they would receive the donors who were now trickling in. Biggest names at the front, of course, except for Ilya, who wasn’t yet among them.

 

Shane made his way to the front of the room, where Scott Hunter was waiting by Table 1, looking annoyed.

 

“Rozanov isn’t here yet,” he said as Shane approached.

 

“I can see that. I just wanted to say ‘hello’ before things got going.”

 

“Right, yeah. Sorry. It’s good to see you around again—sorry about, you know.”

 

“Thanks, but it’s OK. How are you feeling about the start of the season?”

 

They’d been playing for a few weeks, and the Admirals were playing well.

 

“It’s been good,” Scott said, though to Shane it sounded like he was loath to admit it. “Rozanov’s definitely brought some good perspective, something new. Just working out a few kinks.”

 

Shane could imagine. He’d watched all the games, some more than once, and saw the way Rozanov flitted in and out of the neat and tidy plays like a butterfly. Sometimes it worked, and he made one of those ridiculous plays that shouldn’t have worked but did because it was Rozanov, and other times he scuttled a decent set up for what seemed like no reason. But it also looked to Shane like things would come together soon enough.

 

“And how is it in the locker room?”

 

Hunter was watching the door intently, tracking the guests as they found their tables and shook hands with the players. “Actually, it’s been good.”

 

Shane laughed. “You sound surprised.”

 

Hunter slid him a look. “I am, a little, to be honest. Rozanov is such a menace on the ice, I just thought…but the guys love him. He could be an assistant captain next year if he wanted.”

 

“Or even captain?” Shane prodded.

 

Hunter slid him a look. “Don’t push it.” They stood in silence for a minute. “You know, the thing about Roz is that he has fun playing. He loves it out there. You were like that too, I remember.”

 

Hunter stood up a bit straighter and pasted on a big, Captain America-style grin. The team owners were approaching, with another older couple in tow. Hunter introduced Shane, Shane made a joke about making everyone look good, and everyone laughed. 

 

Just as one of the donors asked, “Where’s Mr. Rozanov?” Shane caught a flash of white at the entrance. There he was, sauntering across the room in an ivory dinner jacket, preening for the bystanders. 

 

The whole room seemed to pause to look. Rozanov’s stride was languid, bubbling with power underneath, and Shane felt the same punch of charisma that had hit him when first watched Rozanov play so long ago at the Prospect Cup. 

 

Shane had learned to handle himself well on camera. He had learned how to fuse his discipline and anxiety into one, an iron-clad, pretty-faced facade that was pleasant and inoffensive to viewers and subjects alike. He thrived because he excelled at smoothing over as many rough edges as he could, and hiding the rest under good manners. Rozanov, however, was loud and unapologetic and bare in a way that fascinated Shane to this day. He could hardly fathom the confidence—the bravery—that would be required to spill yourself out in front of the world and dare it to offer a critique.

 

Goddammit, he was sweating. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs, wondered if he had quit hockey just so his cursed left ventricle could give up the ghost because Ilya Rozanov was wearing black tie. It was just like night in the gym all over again.

 

He swallowed hard as Rozanov shook hands with everyone. Took a few steps back, so maybe they would forget he was there for a bit. All professional, of course. He was there to observe, to absorb. But then the group was shuffling to sit, pulling the chairs out from the table, and Rozanov turned to face and his eyes crawled slowly over Shane, down and then up again, and oh God was his mouth watering?

 

Rozanov was wearing a solid back shirt under his jacket, fitted so closely Shane could see a tiny crease  just under the lapel, where the fine fabric was pulling across Rozanov’s pectoral muscle. He knew he was flushed, because when Rozanov’s eyes finally landed on his face again, his lips ticked into that little half smile, the one that was so knowing, the one Shane had been looking at that day in the showers when Rozanov had crashed through every one of Shane’s meticulously constructed walls.

 

Finally, Rozanov turned away and sat at the table, and Shane was able to breathe again.

 

“Mr. Hollander,” the owner of the Admirals called. “I believe this is your seat, right here.”

 

He frowned. “That doesn’t—I don’t need…”

 

“What, you’re going to float around all evening and not eat anything? My daughter was supposed to be here, but her flight from Minneapolis was cancelled because of snow. Sit, have some champagne, then you can get back to work.”

 

“Well, in that case…” He made his way around the table to the open seat. “I feel honor-bound to tell you that I will ask you a lot of questions if you let me sit here.”

 

The older man grinned up at him. “You may ask them but I may not answer.”

 

“Deal,” Shane answered as he sat. He was directly across from Rozanov, who at least had the decency to spare Shane any more of his perusal. Instead, he turned toward the owner’s wife and began flirting. It took less than thirty seconds for her to turn bright pink and start giggling.

 

“Shame about your career. Really.”

 

Shane took a long swallow of champagne and clenched his teeth. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

 

Shane survived another three minutes of prying, after which the owner repaid him with a solid ten minutes on camera. After the main course was served, there was a brief live auction for a handful of big ticket items, and Hunter made a short speech about the importance of building support systems for young players who had none. 

 

Dan was doing an excellent job lurking, catching Rozanov in bits of candid conversation, following at a distance when he started circulating throughout the room, charming women left and right—and honestly, men too—and making his teammates laugh. Shane took the opportunity to sneak off for a breather in the lobby, where he found a bench tucked next to a potted tree and tapped out a few notes on the footage he wanted to look out for when they were editing.

 

Roz has just got, like, life force, Carter Vaughn had said. Hard to resist, man.

 

Shane, of course, agreed. Probably more than Vaughn would ever guess.

 

Shane had suggested Scott Hunter for the first season, partly because he had a history of choking after the All Star break and Shane was dying of curiosity as to why such a good player couldn’t keep it together for a whole season. But then the Admirals had called and no one could say no to the blockbuster that would be Ilya Rozanov and here he was.

 

Shane had no doubt they would lean into Rozanov’s bad boy image: Rozanov as a live wire who was as likely to jump start the Admirals offense as he was to burn the whole club down, Rozanov as a party boy and a locker room clown, and these were all things that he was.

 

But Shane was beginning to suspect they weren’t the only things that he was.

 

He let his head fall back onto the grasscloth, and closed his eyes. One more minute, and he would go back.

 

“Are you dead?”

 

Shane opened his eyes and there was Roz looming over him. His bowtie was gone, his top two buttons were undone, and whatever product he’d use to tame his hair was failing, allowing two or three curled tresses to fall back over his brow. He looked debauched, like he’d spent the evening drenched in models at a nightclub rather than charming pledges out of ladies who lunch.

 

“Not yet,” Shane said, hoisting himself off the bench.

 

“Sorry…what is it, bad taste?”

 

“In poor taste, yeah.”

 

“What was it?” Roz asked. Now that Shane was standing, they were rather close, but Shane couldn’t create any distance without sidling out awkwardly from between Roz and the bench.

 

“What was what?”

 

“Why did you have to stop playing? Everyone just says it was your heart.”

 

“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

 

Roz blinked at him. “Okay. And that is…”

 

“The walls of one part of my heart are prone to get thick and stiff. It can cause arrhythmia, and other issues.”

 

“So will you die young?”

 

Roz was eying him closely, and it made Shane stand up a bit straighter and tug on his shirt cuffs. “Probably not.” Shane didn’t enjoy talking about his condition. Partly because he’d spent what felt like years talking about it ad nauseum with doctors and teams and lawyers and his parents, and partly because it made him feel delicate. In a matter of days, he’d gone from an athlete and the peak of physical condition to something weak and breakable, and he preferred not to remember that feeling of helplessness..

 

“How did you find out? Did you have a…what is it, heart attack?”

 

“Not quite,” Shane said. Roz was definitely too close, he could even smell a whiff of cologne, or maybe aftershave, and his eyes kept catching on the thick cords of Roz’s neck, and the bit of collarbone that was peaking out from his open shirt. Shane surrendered, and shuffled to the left, holding his breath for the half a second during which they were chest-to-chest.

 

He felt a little bad about the quizzical look Roz was giving him, so he offered up a little more. “I was on a run with a friend and I sort of fainted. I thought it was just the heat, but…”

 

Rozanov didn’t respond. “I should get back. Are you leaving?”

 

He shook his head, and lifted his left hand. Shane saw that he held a pack of cigarettes.

 

“I can’t believe you’re still smoking.”

 

Rozanov actually blushed a little. “Just sometimes. Like when I am so bored I think I might die.”

 

Shane allowed himself to smile. “Right, so tedious to be admired for hours on end.”

 

“Exactly. You know this, I’m sure.”

 

Shane’s brain skidded to a stop. Rozanov was close again, as if Shane had never maneuvered awkwardly to the side, and Shane’s eyes slid down to his lips. They were lush, with a deep cupid’s bow, incongruously soft nestled between sharply angled cheekbones and a squared off jaw. And now Shane was eighteen and confused and back in that locker room in Toronto, staring up at Rozanov from the bench, watching his lips as he gave Shane his room number.

 

“I better get back in there,” Shane said. He was pleased with the smoothness of his tone.

 

“Of course.”

 

“See you next week.”

 

But Rozanov was already walking away, and only flicked a hand over his shoulder in response.

 

Shane breathed in through his nose on a five count, then out again.

 

On his way back into the ballroom, he pulled up his phone and opened his text thread with Rose.

 

Shane: Fine, give Miles my number

 

His phone buzzed in response before he could even put it back in his pocket.

 

Rose: omg yeeesssssss don’t hate me i have already picked out my dress for your wedding

 

He spent another half an hour at the gala, then sent Dan home after he promised to upload the footage for him to review the following morning. As he made his way through the lobby again, Shane found himself wondering if there was any chance that Rozanov was still outside with his cigarette. But the sidewalk was empty, and Shane waited alone for his car to pull up, coat pulled tight against the cold.

Chapter 4: only a person who risks is free

Ilya had three favorite things about New York City so far: there was good food everywhere, people wore nice clothes, and it wasn’t so cold in January that he couldn’t run along the river. Sometimes he just needed the frigid air burning in his lungs.

 

He set out from the arena and got on the Hi Line. The wind was blowing hard today, enough to drown out most of the music in his headphones, but he needed that. When he was punishing his body in the gym or on the ice, he wasn’t thinking about Shane Fucking Hollander and his doe eyes.

 

Hollander was so smooth. So calm. He kept his cool even when people asked him rude questions and never smiled with his whole face. Before he’d been jittery and tense—was it gone, or just concealed? After all these years, Ilya still wanted to unravel him. Wanted to see those doe eyes flash.

 

But that would be even stupider than what he’d already done. Far stupider than getting drunk and kissing a teammate where any asshole could see. 

 

So he ran instead, until his calf started cramping and wouldn’t stop, and he limped down the stairs into Chelsea in search of something to drink. He walked a couple blocks until the street grew dense with restaurants, bodegas, and pedestrians, and found a coffee shop advertising smoothies on a sign outside. He ordered something with papaya and banana and found a place to wait, hugging the wall. It took an eternity for them to make his drink, long enough that his calf had more or less recovered. Then someone laughed, and for some reason the sound carried over the rest of the noise in the shop, and Ilya’s eyes drifted over to two stools at the bar by the window. 

 

It was Shane, talking to an incredibly handsome man with deep brown skin, eyes that tilted at the corners like a cat’s, and close cut hair. Shane was wearing his maroon sweater, and Ilya felt a jolt of possessiveness: that was his sweater. The other man was flirting shamelessly, tapping Shane’s shoulder and leaning in when he laughed.

 

Shane looked like he was enjoying himself. Happy. Confident. But…that was his TV smile. He was still smooth.

 

Ilya turned away. They weren’t paying attention to the other customers, he could still get out of here without acknowledging them. But then the barista slid a cup of orange sludge across the counter and yelled Ilya at the top of her lungs, and Shane’s head whipped around to the counter.

 

Ilya found that satisfying. It felt like a crack in the armor. So when they made eye contact, he waved, and approached the two men like it was nothing.

 

“Hollander,” he greeted, taking a long sip from his straw.

 

“Rozanov. This is Miles; Miles, this is Ilya Rozanov.”

 

Ilya nodded. Miles was giving him a long once-over, eyes skimming over the ridges of muscle beneath Ilya’s compression shirt.

 

“Sorry, I am very sweaty,” Ilya said.

 

“Cold day for a run,” Shane said.

 

Ilya shrugged. “I am from Moscow. This is nice day.”

 

Miles laughed, maybe a little too hard, and Ilya tried not to glare at him. He took another long pull from the straw, and found that he’d drained the cup already. Twelve dollars worth of smoothie, gone in less than three minutes.

 

“I’m interrupting,” Ilya said, checking Hollander’s face for any kind of reaction and getting nothing in return. “See you tonight?” That got him a little pause, just a quick flutter of the lashes.

 

“Yeah, tonight.”

 

“Nice to meet you Miles,” he said. The other man responded with a nod and a hmm that made Ilya worried he was being obvious.

 

He tossed his empty cup in the trash on his way out and turned his music back on. He run up and down the stairs three times before he started running again and practically sprinted back to the arena, but this time even the burning in his legs and screaming his lungs couldn’t banish the image of Shane Hollander, smiling easily at another man.

 

—--

 

Shane took too long at the gym, then he took too long of a shower afterward, and now he was tight on time. He was never late, and the compression in his usual schedule was making him tense.

 

Though it may have been something else. He’d been off-kilter since he ran into Rozanov while he was out with Miles. Rozanov’s face had slid into a half-smirk, half-sneer that Shane had seen before, usually when Rozanov was starting to get uncomfortable with Shane’s questions. It was armor, and Shane was an expert in this kind of armor and could spot it a mile away.

 

But why would Rozanov care that Shane was on a date? He knew Shane was gay. Had possibly known Shane was gay before Shane even knew it.

 

He sat on the bed with a towel around his waist and checked his phone. Somehow he had accumulated fourteen text messages since he got in the shower. Two were from his mom, and ten of them were from Rose.

 

Rose: how was it?????

Rose: I have to know!

Rose: Isn’t Miles amazing

Rose: Though I can’t hang out with him too often because he makes me feel so gross and frumpy

Rose: What did he wear?

Rose: What did YOU wear?

Rose: Is there going to be another date

Rose: Did you guys kiss

Rose: Shaaaaannnnne

Rose: You’re being mean!

 

He wrote back.

 

Shane: It was nice, Miles is great, he wore a green turtleneck, I wore my crimson sweater, I don’t know, no

 

The last two messages were from Ilya Rozanov. He opened them expecting some change in logistics, maybe pushing out the date for Shane’s first visit to his apartment yet again.

 

Rozanov: How was your date?

Rozanov: He is very handsome.

 

The phone slid out of Shane’s hands, landing with a thump on the rug in front of him. He bent to retrieve it, but stopped halfway down and sat up again. Then he breathed in on a five count, and stood up from the bed and got dressed. Boxer briefs, socks, undershirt, dress shirt, pants. He laid his sweater and jacket on the bed. Combed a little pomade into his hair. Put on some moisturizer.

 

Walked over to the kitchen, drank a few sips of water. Took another breath.

 

Then he stalked back over to the bed and picked up the phone.

 

“Fucking coward,” he muttered to himself.

 

Shane: He is, isn’t he?

Shane: Should I go out with him again?

 

Shane hadn’t asked Rozanov about his sex life or his sexuality, but he knew something from that locker room so long ago, and he knew that Rozanov had shown up at a coffee shop in Chelsea on a random Thursday, when his apartment was in Queens and the rink was twenty blocks north.

 

Did Rozanov want to come out? It had never once occurred to Shane that this series might put him in possession of such a spectacular scoop.

 

Rozanov: No, definitely not

 

Shane waited, but no new dots appeared.

 

Shane: Why not?

 

Rozanov: what if he distracts you from my show? You must work very hard to make me look good

 

No one needs to work hard to make you look good.

 

No, no. He would not send that. It would be the stupidest thing on earth to send that, even if it was true.

 

Shane: *your* show?

 

Rozanov: yes. Obviously everyone will watch to see me be fun and excellent at hockey, and very handsome.

 

Rozanov: maybe they will be curious about beautiful freckled man who appears sometimes

 

Rozanov: but still my show

 

Shane let out a little breath. Beautiful.

 

There was no good reason for his heart to be beating this fast.

 

It certainly hadn’t behaved this way when Miles had told him he looked like a movie star and kissed him on the cheek after their coffee date.

 

He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another.

 

God, Shane was terrible at flirting. 

 

Though he really shouldn’t be flirting at all.

 

Shane: The world is your show

 

There, he was proud of that.

 

Rozanov: [sunglasses emoji]

 

Shane: Ready for the game tonight?

 

Rozanov: You should come out with us after

 

Rozanov: You can bring sad camera man

 

Shane’s thumbs were hovering, ready to decline. Clubs weren’t his favorite to begin with, and he didn’t want to think too hard about the idea of watching Rozanov get drunk and dance with beautiful women sounded so very unappealing.

 

But it would be fantastic footage. Rozanov in his element.

 

He could send Dan without him.

 

Should send Dan without him.

 

Shane: make sure its ok with the other guys first

 

Rozanov: will be fine. They are all mad that I am the one who gets to be on TV

 

Shane glanced at the time—almost running late. He had an appointment to do sit downs with two of Ilya’s teammates before they warmed up for the game.

 

He grabbed a snack pack of trail mix and headed out toward the subway. He was keyed up, the same way he felt right before he went on the air, like he had once felt heading through the tunnel toward the ice.

 

He had to focus. This series was a phenomenal opportunity. Shane had no intention of reporting on hockey alone for the rest of his life; if he’d wedged a hockey stick in the door at ESPN, he intended to push it open until he could fit all the way through.

He put his phone on Do Not Disturb.

Chapter 5: love in this club

They won the game in overtime, and the guys were going wild.

 

Ilya bought another round of shots—was this four? Maybe five—and licked salt off a heavily made up brunette to his right. There was a rookie on the dance floor having the time of his life, and another looking terrified, inching his way toward the exit. Scott Hunter had come, wearing a polo shirt, and stayed for approximately fifteen minutes before disappearing.

 

Shane Hollander was camped at the bar, sipping something that supposedly had liquor in it but Ilya strongly suspected was just plain ginger ale, while the sad-faced camera guy weaved in and out of the crowds. Every few minutes, a woman would approach Hollander, and he would turn his good boy smile on her and decline whatever invitation she had made, and she would pick her second choice at the bar or on the dance floor.

 

Ilya should be on the dance floor. But he was here, instead.

 

Hollander hadn’t even changed his clothes. The jacket and sweater he’d had on at the rink were gone, and three buttons on his dress shirt were undone, revealing the neckline of his undershirt. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, neatly, like a model in a magazine, and Ilya could not stop himself from staring at his wrists and hands. Hollander was slender, and the clean lines of his face and his TV grooming made him very elegant. But his forearms were corded with muscle, and his hands were solid with squared off fingers and knobby wrist bones. They looked strong.

 

Every time he saw Hollander, he was so fucking perfect. Never a hair out of place, never a clumsy step or a wrong word out of his mouth. Ilya was desperate to see him just a little bit off-kilter. What would it look like if someone touched him just that way, whispered just the right thing in his ear? 

 

He turned away for the tenth time that night and scanned the crowd. There must be a woman in here who could distract him. But for some reason they all looked the same tonight, a blur of long hair and tight dresses and his attention kept slipping back to the bar, where Hollander stood watching.

 

“Rooooooooz!” Carter Vaughn crashed into from the left, at least one tequila shot past his limit. “Why aren’t you DANCING?”

 

Fuck this, he thought, and followed them into the fray.

 

Soon his arms were around a woman, someone tall and slender, with brown hair that kept getting in Ilya’s mouth. He could hardly see her face in the flashing lights, but she pressed her breasts against his chest and he let her, and for a few minutes it was like nothing had changed. He surrendered his body to the music that thundered in his ears, and allowed his new friend to snake her hand inside his shirt and graze her long, fake nails across his chest. Finally, the restlessness began to fall away and he was feeling something he understood—the cocktail of adrenaline and liquor making its way through his veins, the promise of being skin on skin heating his blood.

 

The bass fell out and the strobe light stopped, and the club was bathed in a warm purple glow while the music built again from the bottom. The crowd at the bar had thinned, more bodies on the dance floor, and all of a sudden he could see straight back to where Shane Hollander was still perched at his little lookout, still working on his ginger ale, but something was different.

 

He was staring toward the dance floor, but his serene little TV smile was gone. Instead, his eyebrows were drawn together and his lips were turned down at the corners while he looked into the crowd—looked, maybe, at Ilya? He brought a hand up and ran it through his hair, leaving a deep furrow in the sleek black, and then his eyes seemed to land on Ilya’s face and he turned away.

 

The music was crescendoing, but Ilya was drifting away, toward the edge of the dance floor, even though the woman had a hand around his wrist and was tugging him back. Twenty feet away or so, Hollander hunched over the bar for a moment, then rolled his shoulders and stood up straight. The furrow between his brow was gone, but the TV smile had not returned. He flicked his eyes in Ilya’s direction one last time, then turned and stalked toward the hall that led up the stairs to the exit.

 

Ilya shook off the woman’s hand and followed him.

 

—--

 

It was the crowd. It was the music. It was the heat. Shane recited it to himself as he jogged up the stairs to the next level, where the only hint of the dancefloor was the base thudding against the floorboards. He ran a hand through his hair again, then both hands.

 

What the fuck?

 

Ilya Rozanov had every right to dance with whomever he pleased. It was Shane who had turned him down six years ago. They had talked of nothing but hockey for the past three months, with the exception of a handful of text messages.

 

There was no reason, no reason at all, that the sight of Ilya Rozanov with a woman wrapped around him, should make Shane angry.

 

Rozanov’s head had been tipped back, the waves of purple light moving through the mess he had made of his curls. Shane could see the sweat glistening on his neck, and he’d wanted so badly to lick it that he could practically taste the salt on his tongue.

 

Shane had escaped the hockey world’s homophobia. It had been five full years since he first kissed man. He lived in a city that was teeming with attractive gay men. But he still wanted Ilya fucking Rozanov.

 

He dropped his head into his hands, and laughed, then heard the stomp of footsteps on the stairs.

 

“Hollander!”

 

Shane turned and swept toward the bathroom. He ran, because he just needed a minute to remind himself that he had already stopped himself once from allowing the temptation of Ilya Rozanov’s dick to ruin a promising career, and he could do it again.

 

He pushed the door open and hit the opposite wall with a crack, but Ilya was right on his heels.

 

“What’s wrong?” Rozanov demanded.

 

“What? Nothing,” Shane said, even though he could feel the flush creeping up his neck.

 

“You ran up here like someone was chasing you,” Rozanov said.

 

They were standing no more than two feet apart. Rozanov’s shirt was open over nearly down to his waistband now, one shoulder threatening to give up and slide down his bicep. Shane tracked a bead of sweat as it dripped slowly from behind Rozanov’s ear, down toward his collarbone.

 

Salty.

 

Shane swallowed.

 

“I needed a break from the heat,” he said weakly.

 

Rozanov took a step forward. “Yes, is very hot down there. Your ginger ale did not help you cool down?”

 

“I don’t drink when I’m going to be on air the next day.”

 

“Right,” Rozanov said. “Then you would not look perfect.”

 

Shane snorted. “I do not look perfect.”

 

Rozanov took a little step forward. “You’re right. On TV, I cannot see your freckles.”

 

Shane must have stepped closer, too, because now they were just inches apart. Rozanov was close enough for Ilya to see the damp hair curling at his temples, and he was huge. A few inches and twenty or thirty pounds or so didn’t seem like so much when they were sitting across a table from one another, or walking down the street, but now…

 

Shane swallowed. “What do you care about my freckles?”

 

Ilya lifted a hand and traced his thumb across Shane’s cheekbone, tender and reverent, and before he could stop himself, Shane turned into the touch, nuzzling his way into Rozanov’s large, open palm.

 

Rozanov lifted his other hand, cradling Shane’s face.

 

“We can’t,” Shane whispered.

 

Rozanov laughed softly. “Who says?”

 

Shane closed his eyes. He had no chance of making the right decision if he was looking at this man’s face.

 

“We shouldn’t. The series—” he started. But the objection dwindled to nothing, because now Rozanov’s thumb was tracing over Shane’s bottom lip, tugging gently.

 

“I won’t tell anyone. Will you?”

 

Their lips were so close that Shane could feel the puff of Rozanov’s breath on his cheek.

 

“No,” Shane sighed.

 

“Our secret, da?”

 

Shane gave up, and tilted his head up and fell forward because he knew Rozanov would catch him. He had been expecting a show of strength, that famous Rozanov life force, but it was gentle. Disconcertingly soft lips, a gentle press, the light sweep of Rozanov’s tongue across the seam of Shane’s lips. His first, overwhelming feeling was one of relief, the first sip of water on the hottest day of the year.

 

Shane parted his lips, and Rozanov’s tongue swept inside with the same care. It wasn’t until Shane set his hands on Rozanov’s waist that the kiss intensified. Rozanov crowded in toward him and soon enough Shane was enveloped in those huge arms, pressed up against a wall of sweat and muscle, Rozanov invading every bit of his senses. 

 

The kiss grew sloppy, tongues and teeth and lips scrabbling for more. Shane pulled away and trailed his lips down the cord of Rozanov’s neck—salty—to the base of his neck, pulling on the warm skin, not caring whether he left a bruise. Rozanov groaned, and suddenly Shane was being lifted, long, strong fingers wrapped around his thighs, set down on the cool black counter next to the ridiculous gold sink. He grabbed Rozanov’s face in his hands and pulled him back toward him, pressing his tongue deep, wanting more than he had any right to want. 

 

He was rock hard, and when Rozanov stepped between his thighs, the friction made him whimper.

 

Rozanov pulled back and pressed his forehead to Shane’s. One of his hands appeared between them, and Rozanov traced a long finger gently down the wrinkled placket of Shane’s shirt. “Look at you,” he whispered reverently. “You’re all mussed.”

 

“Come back,” Shane whispered. Rozanov groaned again, a deep, pained noise that came directly from his chest, and Shane had to grab at Rozanov’s shirt to stop himself from smashing into the mirror behind him.

 

Then there was a burst of voices in the hall. Rozanov stepped away, his eyes wide, and ducked into one of the stalls. Shane hopped off the counter just as the door cracked open, and whirled around and started the faucet.

 

It was a group of three men, no one they knew. Two went directly to the urinal, and the other into the open stall.

 

“Did you see them? The Admirals?”

 

“Admirals? Like, boats and shit?”

 

“No asshole, the hockey team. Bunch of them are here. Ilya Rozanov was down on the dance floor with some chick all over him.”

 

“That’s kind of his whole deal, right?”

 

Shane bit his lip. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands and made a break for it.

 

A few minutes later, Shane was in a cab on the way home. His sweater, jacket, and coat lay discarded on the seat next to him; even though it was barely twenty degrees outside, he was still too hot.

 

His phone buzzed.

 

Ilya Rozanov: chicken

 

Shane: I thought we said our secret

 

Ilya Rozanov: da. Give me your address please

 

Shane laughed out loud.

 

Shane: What, you’re not even going to buy me dinner first?

 

Ilya Rozanov: dinner is not what you want

 

Shane: not tonight

 

Ilya Rozanov: this means another night?

 

Shane: maybe

 

Ilya Rozanov: i think yes

 

Ilya Rozanov: goodnight Hollander

 

Shane: goodnight Rozanov

 

Ilya Rozanov: I will watch tomorrow, see how pretty you are

 

The cab pulled up to Shane’s building and he crawled out and up to his apartment.

 

He drank a glass of water, hung up his jacket, and put his sweater in the dry cleaning pile because now it smelled like sweat and terrible goulash of colognes, then washed his face and applied his many creams so that he would, in fact, look pretty on TV. When it was all done he stood in the harsh light of the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror, searching to see if he looked as different as he felt.

 

He should be angry with himself. He should be freaking out. But that could wait until tomorrow. 

 

He went to sleep smiling.

Chapter 6: reaching

Three days later, Shane went to see Ilya. At his apartment.

 

He had been so proud of himself for not freaking out about the club, but then he spent forty five minutes trying on shirts, and had to admit that he could not avoid thinking about the kiss forever.

 

Well, really, he thought about the kiss every two or three minutes. But he also had to think about the consequences, not just the way Rozanov’s lips had felt when they first touched, like he was handling something precious with great care.

 

Shane was a disciplined person. He enjoyed being a disciplined person. But he intended to be a journalist and he’d made out with one of his subjects in a bar bathroom and that was not the sort of decision a journalist made.

 

It hadn’t felt like a decision at all, at the time.

 

He took out his phone and texted Rose.

 

Shane: Don’t be mad at me

Shane: I do think Miles is great

Shane: But I kissed Ilya Rozanov

 

He felt a little lighter immediately. He tossed his phone on the bed and finally picked a shirt from the pile, a close-fitting silk and cashmere polo shirt that he’d bought after he got his first paycheck from ESPN.

 

Rose: Ummmmmmmmm

Rose: I realize he is super hot

Rose: But is that wise????

 

Shane: No it's definitely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done

Shane: I am going to his house today for more interviews

 

Rose: you know what, babe? You’ll be fine.

Rose: three years ago I slept with my best client for two months and it was actually fine

Rose: everyone is an adult here

 

Shane: no i need you to tell me this is stupid and can never happen again

Shane: i almost hooked up with him before our rookie season but i didn’t. 19 year old Shane cannot be smarter than 26 year old Shane

 

Rose: no one is dumber than a 19 year old boy. 19 year old Shane was probably just chickenshit

 

Shane held the phone in his hand and thought back to that night in the locker room. Rozanov had caught him looking in the shower, took himself in hand and started stroking. In a single moment, everything Shane had been working so hard to bury in himself had exploded. And after Rozanov offered up his room number, Shane had spent two hours telling himself he wouldn’t go only to end up in the elevator on his way. And when he’d turned around at the last minute, slinking back to his room, he had still gotten himself off in the shower thinking about what might have happened if he had knocked on Rozanov’s door.

 

Shane: you’re probably right.

 

Rose: i mean, rozanov isn’t going to tell anyone. Wouldn’t it be worse for him?

 

Shane: yeah, maybe

 

Rose: miles would totally understand, he’s got a thing for jocks.

Rose: just make sure he wears a condom because i am in a reddit hockey gossip rabbit hole and that man is a total slut

 

He had spent so long panicking that he ran out of time for breakfast, and had to grab a protein bar from his stash to eat on the way.

Rozanov’s apartment was in Long Island City, not a terrible subway ride away. The building was large and low-slung, probably a converted warehouse, a few blocks from the train station and not far from the new park on the East River. He met Dan in front and they rang the buzzer.

 

Even though it was just one floor up, they took a freight-sized elevator up. The doors opened directly into a wide open loft. One side was anchored by a gleaming kitchen, with heavily veined white quartz on the counters and black cabinetry, and a chrome and glass dining table lingering nearby. There were two distinct seating areas, one facing an enormous flat screen TV and the other clustered near the window, where if you looked down the block you could see the river and a chunk of the Manhattan skyline.

 

All of the furniture was low-slung and modern, and upholstered in leather. The coffee table was also made of glass.

 

It didn’t suit Rozanov. Honestly, it felt more like a place Shane would live.

 

Rozanov emerged from one of the few closed off rooms. “It came furnished, is terrible.”

 

“It’s not so bad,” Shane said.

 

“Should I give you the tour?”

 

Shane looked at Dan, who already had his camera up.

 

“Sure, let’s get started.”

 

“This is the one big room,” he deadpanned. “Kitchen, furniture, windows, furniture.”

 

“It’s a nice space,” Shane said.

 

Rozanov wrinkled his nose. It was actually…cute. “It’s too big, I think. I think I will buy two or three motorcycles, and park them here,” he gestured to an expanse of open floor between the couch areas.

 

“Interesting,” Shane answered, very amused. Although honestly, that would be sort of cool.

 

Rozanov walked toward the kitchen and Shane followed.

 

“I don’t cook much,” he said. He opened the massive refrigerator to demonstrate; it was about one third full and most of what was inside was cans of Coke.

 

“Do you order takeout?” Shane said.

 

Rozanov sighed. “No, I have fancy meal plan. Chef makes healthy dinners and they are delivered here every couple days. Now I am old, and can’t eat McDonald’s all the time.”

 

“We’re not old,” Shane said. He knew a lot of things about Ilya Rozanov from their days as rivals in juniors, including his birthday. Rozanov was two months younger than Shane.

 

“No, you are not old because you do not play anymore and live in the regular world. I am rickety old man because I play hockey. Is like dog years.”

 

“Noted,” Shane said. 

 

“Look at this. My agent got it for me for housewarming.”

 

Rozanov ducked down and opened one of the lower cabinets. When he stood he was heaving the largest blender Shane had ever seen.

 

“My God. Is that a jet engine?”

 

“She said is for protein shakes. For the whole team, maybe?”

 

“Have you ever used it?” Shane asked.

 

“No.” he paused, tilting his head at the massive appliance. “Maybe I will have a party. Make margaritas.”

 

He pivoted again, moving toward the very back of the space where there was a hallway. “This way to the bedrooms.”

 

One room was windowless, very small, and filled with hockey equipment. Another was empty.

 

“This is my room,” Rozanov said.

 

Shane didn’t know what he expected to find when the door swung open. Satin sheets, clothes strewn all over the floor. A sex swing?

 

But it was just a room. There was a king sized bed, unmade, a pale blue linen duvet piled in the middle. A half full glass of water and a phone charger on one night stand. A flat screen TV mounted above the dresser.

 

No photos, no knick knacks. It felt lonely. He didn’t like the idea of this being in the show, and not for journalistic reasons.

 

The trio returned to the one big room, where Rozanov offered everyone something to drink. Dan and Shane spent a few minutes rearranging one of the seating areas so he could film Rozanov and Shane in the same frame, then Dan went to retrieve the rest of his gear from where he had left it by the elevator doors.

 

“So, you are TV star now,” Rozanov said.

 

He hadn’t mentioned the club at all. They hadn’t stood close enough to touch since Shane arrived at the apartment. But there was a glint in Rozanov’s eye and Shane knew he was thinking about that kiss.

 

“I am not a star of any kind. I am occasionally on TV.”

 

“Whose idea was that? Is your mother still your manager?”

 

Shane huffed. “My mother was never—no. She is not. Actually my parents are not convinced about any of this.”

 

“No? They do not want you to be famous?”

 

Shane brushed an invisible bit of lint off his pants. He was getting the same itchy feeling he always got when people started asking him personal questions. But he didn’t reach for one of his deflections. The thing was, Rozanov might understand what happened to Shane better than anyone else in the world. People often wanted it to be about money, or fame, or even just health. But Rozanov would know exactly what Shane had lost: the entire scaffolding of his life, including the parts that sometimes felt like a cage.

 

“They are worried it will be hard for me to stay this close to hockey.”

 

Rozanov didn’t answer at first. “You seem okay.”

 

Shane relaxed a little. “I am, thanks.”

 

“OK, all set,” Dan said. 

 

Rozanov made a bit of a show of sitting up straight. “Do I look like a good boy?” he asked Shane. This, of course, made Shane’s cheeks warm and there was that look again—I made you think about it, didn’t I?

 

“Is that what you want to look like?”

 

“Interrogation starts so fast,” Rozanov said.

 

Shane smiled. “You knew what was coming.”

 

“Yes I’ve watched some of your interviews. You are very…probing.”

 

Shane paused.

 

“It’s a Saturday. You’ve got a day off before a four day road trip that goes straight into the All Star game. Tell me what Ilya Rozanov does on a day like this.”

 

“Are you sure I can say it on TV?”

 

Shane answered with an obligatory chuckle. “There must be something PG in there.”

 

He shrugged. “I sleep in. I work out. If it’s not too cold, I will run along the river. Come home, eat, watch a movie. Maybe go out at night.”

 

“Do you spend time with any of the Admirals outside of games and practice?”

 

Rozanov narrows his eyes. “We celebrate wins together. But we are together a lot—need a break from the team sometimes, yes? You remember.”

 

It was actually hard for Shane to imagine Rozanov spending the day alone, shuffling around the one big room. He always seemed to feed off everyone and everything around him. What would he be like in a quiet house, doing nothing?

 

“Have you done any sightseeing?” Shane asked. He always liked to keep things light at first, until his subjects relaxed. And Rozanov was not relaxed. His eyes kept flitting to the camera, and he was running a fingernail along the seam in the sofa’s leather cushion.

 

“No time,” he said. “Maybe you will take me on a tour?”

 

Shane narrowed his eyes. There was a bit of flirtation buried in there.

 

“Well, I can show you the routes I take from my apartment, to the arena, and to the studio. Afraid I don’t get to see much more of the city.”

 

“You work too hard, then.”

 

“I’m sure you do, too.”

 

They talked for another few minutes about Rozanov’s training regime, how he got himself in the right headspace on game days. He came off as uncomplicated and friendly, just a generational talent who had no need of some of the regular athletic neuroses about which skate to lace up first, or wearing the same socks for every game.

 

“Are you in touch with any of our teammates from Boston?”

 

This made Rozanov’s expression darken noticeably. “One or two,” he said. 

 

“Word was you were very well-liked in the locker room there.”

 

He smiled, but it seemed forced. “I am well-liked in the locker room everywhere. Very fun guy.”

 

“There were some reports that the bar fight you were in in Boston was with some of your teammates.”

 

Rozanov’s face shuttered instantly. Shane almost felt guilty. But honestly, he had figured it was a bullshit report, just gossip, and that Rozanov would laugh it off.

 

“Obviously not,” he muttered eventually.

 

“Were you unhappy in Boston last season?”

 

“Why does that matter?”

 

Shane shrugged. “It looked to me like both the quality of your play and your communication with your team eroded toward the end of the season. Team chemistry can be a sensitive thing.”

 

Rozanov glared at him, and then his phone started to buzz. He pulled it out of his pocket and grimaced at the screen, then cleared his throat. “Let’s take a break.”

 

“Why don’t I run out and get us some coffee,” Dan said. He took orders from Shane and Rozanov and disappeared into the freight elevator.

 

Rozanov greeted someone in Russian as he walked toward the bedroom. Whoever it was was yelling loud enough that Shane could hear them from the other side of the room.

 

He’d spent a good amount of time in Rozanov’s company over the past three months, and had learned very little about him, personally. He was a beast about hockey, focused and driven, and a generous and supportive teammate. He was rarely still, and if it was quiet, Rozanov would fill the silence. In short, he moved through life with the same vigor that he had when he was nineteen.

 

But it had been three months, and Shane hadn’t heard a word from Rozanov’s mouth about his family or friends in Russia, about his childhood, even about what he did in the summers.  Personal questions, even questions like do you like this TV show, got answered with a joke. Increasingly, Shane wondered what was obscured by all of this life force. Rozanov burned bright, so much so that Shane couldn’t see what was behind the corona that surrounded him, and Shane was starting to suspect that this may have been intentional.

 

Ten minutes or so later, Rozanov emerged wearing a sweatshirt and looking exhausted.

 

“I do not want to talk about Boston,” he said.

 

“That’s your choice.”

 

Rozanov nodded. There was a shaft of late afternoon sun coming through the window and slicing across his face. His lips were set in a line, jaw tight. In the stillness, the corona had finally faded a little.

 

“But if something happened in the locker room, you might want the opportunity to tell your side of the story.”

 

His face collapsed into a sad little smile. “There are no good sides to the story. We will leave it, for now.”

 

Shane nodded, and didn’t press. He rested one arm on the back of the sofa and drummed his fingers.

 

“We are off the record until the camera boy is back, yes?”

 

“His name is Dan. And sure, if you want to be.”

 

Rozanov opened his mouth like he was going to speak, but then he closed it again and ran a hand over his jaw. Another moment of silence passed.

 

“Why didn’t you come to my room?”

 

Shane blinked. “What?”

 

“In Toronto. I thought then maybe I had misunderstood, but…” he finished his sentence with a little flip of his hand, a gesture that said now you go on dates with fashion designers in Chelsea.

 

“You didn’t misunderstand,” Shane said, trying to keep his tone even. “I was afraid.”

 

Rozanov smirked. “Afraid of my dick?”

 

Shane shook his head, because he wasn’t about to let Rozanov weasel out of this by being snide. He’d asked the question, and he would have to listen to the answer. “I was afraid it would ruin everything. At that point, I hadn’t even allowed myself to think about the possibility that I might be gay, because as far as I was concerned, there was no such thing as a gay hockey player.”

 

“Obviously there are gay hockey players.”

 

“Yes, I realize that now.”

 

“There are bisexual hockey players.”

 

Shane froze. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known this. By all accounts, Rozanov had fucked half the female population of Boston, but he’d also stroked his cock in a locker room shower while Shane watched. Not only were there bisexual hockey players, but the most famous active hockey player in the world was one of them.

 

Did he want to come out? Shane didn’t really think so. He’d watched Rozanov do this over and over again since they’d started working on the series: he would side up to a topic, make allusions, and as soon as someone grabbed on to it and asked a direct question, Rozanov would turn away. Make another joke, head out to the ice, order another drink and head to the dance floor.

 

Turn the light up, so everyone was blinded.

 

Shane glanced at the elevator door, then back at Rozanov.

 

“Have you been with many men since you started playing in the MLH?”

 

Rozanov laughed, sort of, or maybe it was a sigh, and shook his head. “Barely any.”

 

Shane nodded. “I get it.”

 

“So,” Rozanov said, crossing one leg over the other. “I get to be a hockey player, but you get to suck dick.”

 

Shane nodded. “Kind of bullshit, right?”

 

Rozanov nodded thoughtfully and his eyes drifted over Shane’s shoulder to the window. He was thoroughly splayed on the couch cushions, arms thrown out to the sides, his long legs eating up space even with one bent in half. That shaft of sun was working its way across his torso, cutting a golden, glowing streak through his dirty blonde curls. He looked fierce, and powerful, and very alone, a Shakespearean king in sweats. The light had dimmed for now, and Shane could finally see a bit of what was underneath the glow.

 

Without thinking, Shane took out his phone and snapped a picture while Rozanov was lost in thought. The sound of the shutter snapped Rozanov out of his reverie. 

 

“You take picture for later? When are home in your bed?” Shane rolled his eyes. “Perhaps is unnecessary, da?”

 

Shane couldn’t tell if this was bravado, or mockery, or something else. Maybe Rozanov couldn’t, either.

 

But then Rozanov said, “come here,” and the words were soft and maybe a little bit pleading, and Shane’s body obeyed without even consulting his brain. He stood from the sofa and took a couple steps forward. Rozanov tilted his head up to look at him as he approached, and uncrossed his legs so Shane could step between them. 

 

Shane reached out and threaded his fingers through Rozanov’s hair. It was soft, and the sun from the window skipped across the strands like glitter. When Shane looked down, Rozanov’s eyes were closed. A sort of purr rumbled in Rozanov’s chest as Shane’s fingers grazed along his scalp, and Shane watched from above as the tension drained from Rozanov’s face and shoulders. Now he looked soft, and sort of dreamy, like a figure in a Renaissance painting.

 

He felt a tug on his other hand, and Rozanov was drawing him down. Before he knew it, his knees hit the plush rug, and he was kneeling in front of Rozanov with a hand resting on each of his knees. It felt a little like he was waiting for instructions, and he did….not mind it at all. Intriguing.

 

“You are very pretty like this,” Rozanov said. He brought one hand to rest on top of one of Shane’s, curling his fingers to stroke it. “You’ve always been so pretty.”

 

Shane pushed his hands slowly up Rozanov’s thighs, pressing down gently, worshipping the solid heaps of muscle underneath. “You’re one to talk,” he said quietly.

 

Rozanov sat up, and brought a hand forward to brush the side of Shane’s face. “Don’t argue with me, kotik.”

 

Shane looked up expecting to see at least a hint of Rozanov’s usual smirk, but instead his face was painted with such raw need that it nearly knocked Shane back on his heels. He looked like Shane felt. “Ilya—”

 

That was when the freight elevator started to rumble.

 

—----

 

Hollander sprang to his feet, and in a few seconds he was across the room, lingering in the kitchen.

 

Ilya understood, of course. Hollander hadn’t come here to suck his cock, or if he had even a little bit, he probably didn’t intend to do it with Dan the camera boy as an audience. But Ilya still felt a sting as he pulled away, and he hated that he was still such a weak, foolish man. A boy, revelling in a bit of light petting.

 

If he wanted to touch someone, he could call up a few of the guys and drag them downtown tonight. He could be back here with a beautiful woman in his bed in—he checked his phone—as few as five or six hours.

 

Why had Hollander done it? Did he want to fuck him, or had he seen—fuck, Ilya used to be better at hiding all his bullshit.

 

Except six years ago, in Toronto, when those brown eyes had been shining at him and he’d done something phenomenally reckless and stupid in a public locker room. 

 

Hollander wasn’t a jittery teenager anymore. He was smooth and shiny and full of aplomb, which was a word that had come up on Ilya’s English vocabulary app the other day. But Ilya was still tantalized by the tiny cracks in the armor—then it was the nervous glances (and growing hard on) that day in the shower, now it was the anguished look on his face in the club. Hollander was a universe hidden behind a secret door, and only Ilya knew it was there.

 

“Dan I think we’ll be done in an hour, maybe less.”

 

“Sure,” the camera guy said with a wave. He took one look at the rectangle of sunlight that was beaming onto Ilya’s couch, grumbled, then set to work adjusting the camera lens and the lights.

 

“Actually,” Hollander said, “I thought we could watch a bit of the game. Pittsburgh is playing now, third period.”

 

“Yeah, it’d be great to get away from this window.”

 

While camera guy Dan moved his equipment around, Ilya found the game on TV. Pittsburgh was up by two, and it was immediately obvious that Carolina had no chance of catching them.

 

Hollander sat on one end of the new couch, so Ilya took the other.

 

“Shane, if you want to be in the same shot, you guys will have to sit a little closer.”

 

They each scooted a couple inches without turning away from the game.

“Closer,” Dan said.

 

A couple more inches.

 

“Just a little closer.”

 

When Ilya turned his head, Shane was looking at him and grinning. They were sitting maybe two feet apart.

 

It was so easy to talk about the game. They gossiped about who was probably injured and who was having a bad night, and made their Stanley Cup predictions. 

 

When Ilya slung his arm on the back of the couch, he was careful to make sure it stayed high, away from the back of Hollander’s neck.

 

The game ended and they both stood. Ilya puttered in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water he didn’t want, while Hollander muttered with Dan, who was already packing up.

 

“Thanks. I think we got a lot of good stuff this afternoon.”

 

“Yes , the people will love my very exciting empty refrigerator and ugly waiting room sofas.”

 

“You really hate the furniture?” Hollander asked after a pause.

 

“I do,” Ilya responded, wondering where this was going.

 

Hollander pulled up his phone and tapped away for a second. “There is a place near here, it’s open for another hour. My friend Rose showed me.”

 

He approached and handed Ilya his phone. The screen showed a vintage furniture warehouse that was only a few blocks away.

 

Dan paused in his packing. “Are you gonna need me for that?”

 

Hollander looked a little startled, and Ilya allowed himself to think that maybe he’d forgotten that Dan was even there. “Uh, no, it’s fine. I can always get something on my phone.”

 

“Great.”

 

They took the elevator down with Dan but turned the opposite way when they got to the street. The temperature had dropped considerably, and Shane’s cheeks turned pink in the cold. They both leaned into the wind as they walked.

 

“So,” Ilya said, “you like to go…uh, shopping for old things?”

 

“Antiquing,” Hollander supplied. “Not as, like, a hobby. My apartment is pretty small, no room for a lot of stuff.”

 

“Where do you live?” Ilya asked. Suddenly he was consumed with curiosity about Shane Hollander’s apartment. Very clean, for sure, and the bed always made. Everything gray and blue. 

 

“Financial District.”

 

“Boring,” Ilya answered.

 

Hollander laughed. “How do you even know? You’ve lived here for like, five minutes.”

 

“I know by the name. Financial! Boring bankers in their boring suits. Everything closed on the weekend.”

 

“Well, that’s true,” Shane said. “But I’m usually working for part of the weekend anyway. And it's close to all the subways.”

 

They arrived at a building that looked like Ilya’s building must have looked before it was turned into luxury condos. They were a bit further from the river, in a sort of no-man’s land squeezed between two pockets of shiny new skyscrapers. Hollander opened the heavy metal door and held it open for Ilya.

 

Inside, it smelled like Ilya’s grandmother’s apartment had smelled, a mix of old paper, dust, and wood polish. It was poorly lit and haphazardly arranged, with furniture in roughly-formed aisles on one side and smaller items piled high on rickety shelves on the other. Ilya loved it.

 

“Rose has a friend who does set design, she said all the movie and theater people come here to buy props and stuff.”

 

Ilya had spoken with an interior designer shortly after he bought his apartment. She had quoted him an absurd amount to redesign his loft, and then showed him sketches that looked like  fancier version of the dumb furniture he already had. But Ilya didn’t want minimal, with really clean lines, masculine like the designer had promised. He liked the things around him to be soft.

 

Hollander had wandered toward the southern side of the building, where art was tiled across every inch of wall space and canvases were lined up along the edge like file folders in a drawer. Ilya didn’t know where to begin.

 

“Close in thirty minutes, fellas,” a raspy voice called from the northwest corner, where a small desk was buried.

 

Ilya set off down the aisle. There was just so much stuff, and he’d hardly thought at all about what sort of furniture he might actually want. Maybe he just needed a different designer, who would actually ask him questions.

 

Then, at the end of the aisle, he saw it. A dining table.

 

It was made of a dark, rich wood he couldn’t identify. It maybe even had a hint of…red? Or purple? Underneath. Something that made it look alive. A house that had this table in it would feel warm, not cold. People would sit at the table and eat together. There would be more rugs, the kind from his father’s apartment which had been imported from Afghanistan, with the patterns and the fringe at the ends, 

 

“Excuse me,” Ilya called. “I’ll take this.”

 

There was a rustling noise over by the desk, and a scrape of the chair. A minute later a petite older woman appeared. “Solid rosewood. Good eye. I’ve got two leaves in the back. It’s forty five hundred, another three hundred for delivery.”

 

Ilya had no idea if that was a good price.

 

“It’s nice,” Hollander said from behind him.

 

Ilya turned. Hollander was holding a small picture in a frame, but it was facing his stomach. “What is that?” Ilya asked.

 

Hollander smiled a bit sheepishly, and turned the painting around. It was an old-fashioned portrait of a black and white duck. Ilya squinted at it. “Why does it have red eyes?”

 

“It’s a loon. We have a lot of them in Canada. They’re like, on the money and stuff.”

 

“Canada is so weird. National animal is devil duck?”

 

Hollander laughed. “Wait until you hear the noise they make.”

 

They made their purchases. The woman handed him a flimsy yellow receipt and told him someone would call on Wednesday to schedule the delivery.

 

It was dusk when they left the store. 

 

“Wow,” Hollander said as they looked west, where a pink and orange sky was glowing in the canyons between buildings.

 

Ilya should have teased him about it, a grown man mooning over a sunset, but it was pretty beautiful.

 

“I can take the E, it’s just—” Hollander tipped his head head up the block, in the opposite direction of Ilya’s building.

 

Ilya felt the sting again, this time right behind his ribs, but that was stupid. Did Ilya think Hollander would spend the night? Pajamas, face masks, late night confessions in the dark?

 

“Thanks for showing me,” Ilya said, gesturing toward the furniture store.  

 

“I’m glad you found something you liked.”

 

“You’re coming on the road trip this week?” Ilya asked, and there it was again, the reaching. So embarrassing. 

 

He would not allow himself to look forward to seeing Hollander again, unless maybe Ilya could get him back on his knees.

 

“Yeah,” Shane answered. Six years ago, Shane’s eyes had given everything away. He’d seemingly managed some discipline in this regard, except at this moment, Ilya thought he saw something, a little hint of the glassy, hungry expression he used to wear, at least when Ilya was around. “And then the All Star game.”

 

Maybe Shane was reaching, too.

 

Then it was gone. “We’ll get lots of great stuff for show.”

 

They said their goodnights, and Ilya trudged home in the bitter cold. He didn’t call any of the guys, and he didn’t go downtown, and he didn’t bring a woman home to keep him company. Instead he watched a little bit of hockey, thought about Shane Hollander’s split second of doe-eyed longing, and slept like a rock.

Chapter 7: desire is hunger (a fire I breathe)

Flying all the time had been on Shane’s list of things he wouldn’t miss about hockey.

 

The travel schedule for this trip was brutal. It would be a nice injection of realism for the show, but Shane was exhausted. His back hurt, his suitcase and everything in it smelled like jet fuel, and his skin was somehow both dry and oily from the onslaught of recycled air.

 

It wasn’t until the last stop, in Columbus, that there was any time to relax. They landed midday and the game wasn’t until the next evening.

 

“Of course we end up with time to kill in Ohio .What are we supposed to do tonight?” one of the rookies whined.

 

“There’s gotta be something—” someone else said.

 

“Not worth it, guys,” Hunter said. “Get a drink or something but anyone who’s hungover tomorrow has to do Gibson’s laundry for a week.”

 

Shane sighed through the chorus of groans. He didn’t have the strength for a club tonight.

 

Although….

 

No.

 

He should not be looking for opportunities to kiss Rozanov again.

 

He didn’t know what he had been thinking when he was at Rozanov’s apartment. Only, he’d sort of hated that place. It was so cold and boring and hostile, and Shane had developed an absurd but very stubborn notion that being there made Rozanov sad, and Shane had wanted to fix it.

 

Then he’d ended up on his knees, overwhelmed by all that life force under his fingertips, and his mind had gone a little fuzzy…it was probably best that Dan had returned when he did. 

 

No, definitely best. Definitely.

 

They were at the hotel in under an hour. Shane unpacked, sent a couple things down to be laundered, and undressed with the intention of taking a ridiculously long shower and maybe doing a face mask. But his phone buzzed.

 

Ilya Rozanov: Hotel bar, fifteen minutes

 

He groaned out loud, because he really didn’t want to go down there and also, he sort of did. And he should. The team would be loose tonight, tired and eager to blow off steam.

 

He texted Tyler, a different camera operator who had come for the trip because Dan had two small kids at home and didn’t do extended travel. Tyler spent most nights on a never ending video chat with his girlfriend, and would no doubt be annoyed.

 

Shane looked at the suits hanging in the closet, and the few things still folded in his suitcase. He really, really did not want to put on a suit again. Or a dress shirt. Or really….anything with buttons.

 

Fuck it. If the guys were going to be loose, he could be loose too. He changed into a pair of slim black jogger pants and a t-shirt, and headed down to the bar.

 

There were four guys already getting started when he arrived, but Rozanov wasn’t there yet. He took the opportunity to ask them a few questions about him, and they were nice and warmed up when Tyler arrived ready to shoot. Two of the younger guys obliged by doing an extended bit about their theory that Rozanov was a Russian spy who played hockey by day and executed covert ops by night.

 

Shane spotted Rozanov behind them, but he lifted a finger to his lips and Shane didn’t say anything. Rozanov leaned in behind the kid’s ear and said in a low, menacing voice “One day soon you will serve at the pleasure of Mother Russia”, and the rookie did a full spit take and jumped nearly a foot in the air. Gold.

 

Before Shane had a chance to order anything, someone pressed a cold glass in his hand. Ginger ale? He took a sip: ginger ale and vodka. He sidled over to the bar in the growing crowd and tried to set the glass down, only for a long-fingered hand to land on his wrist.

 

“So boring,” Rozanov said. “You are not on the air tomorrow.”

 

That was true. He kept his hand on the glass, considering.

 

“Just one tiny bit of vodka. Respect for me, and for Russia.”

 

They were standing close, the way people get crammed up next to each other at a bar. But the bulk of Rozanov’s shoulders was blocking Shane off from the rest of the group, and made it feel a little like he and Rozanov were alone. He tried to meet Rozanov’s eyes, but Shane’s gaze drifted down instead, to the cupid’s bow in his lips, down his neck and across his collarbone, resting on his chest, where his t-shirt pulled at the ridges of his pecs.

 

Shane swallowed, and Rozanov smirked. Below, Rozanov nudged Shane’s foot gently with the side of his shoe.

 

“Come on,” he said. “Is just one drink. For fun.”

 

She sighed, and lifted the glass from the bar. “For fun.”

 

“Yoooo Hollander!” Carter Vaughn barreled toward them and slung his arms around both men. “Remember when you were better than Rozanov?”

 

Rozanov snorted. “He was not.”

 

“Yeah, Roz had the most goals that year,” someone else piped in.

 

Shane smiled to himself just as one of the rookies piped up, “But Hollander had more points.”

 

“And Montreal made it to the playoffs, and Boston didn’t,” someone else said.

 

Rozanov looked back at his team, indignant. “You are traitors.

 

“That’s why Roz had to take me out of contention,” Shane said, shooting a sly smile toward Rozanov. “Didn’t want to be second best for his whole career.”

 

“Right, was that some Russian spy shit, Roz? Did you poison his protein shake or something?”

 

Shane took the opportunity to drift the group. Hopefully his absence would lead them to another topic. Half an hour later, just as he was finishing his vodka and ginger ale, he got roped in to doing a shot of Crown Royal with the other Canadians. He coughed as the liquor burned its way down his throat; he hadn’t done a shot in years.

 

“This is why you should only drink Russian vodka,” Rozanov said in his ear. When had he gotten over here? There was a bloom of warmth in Shane’s chest, and he didn’t know whether it was the whiskey or the puff of Rozanov’s breath on his earlobe.

 

“Next time,” Shane said, and dammit the booze was already making him reckless. He shouldn’t be drinking with Rozanov, not when the sort of drinking he was imagining had nothing to do with camaraderie or journalism and everything to do with the possibility of the two of them sitting close on one of Rozanov’s leather sofas, sipping something cold, letting things take their course.

 

Rozanov lingered at Shane’s side. The music was loud now that it was later; it probably just looked like he was leaning in to make himself heard.

 

“Next time in my room? One hour?”

 

Shane meant to say I can’t, or we shouldn’t, or even maybe in two years, after the show airs and I have a book deal and someone has invited me to report on the 2018 Olympics. But he couldn’t form the words because they were stuck somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he said instead.

 

Someone dragged Rozanov away, and Shane took a minute to compose himself. Then he found Tyler, told him to call it a night, and escaped to the lobby to text Rose.

 

Shane Hollander: Tell me again that I won’t ruin my career if I go to Rozanov’s room tonight

 

Rose: Stop being such a loser and get some ass

 

God, she was a bad influence.

 

His phone buzzed again.

 

Ilya Rozanov: 1221

 

Forty minutes later, Shane was in the elevator, fighting a brutal wave of deja vu. The elevator dinged at the twelfth floor, and the doors opened, and he took a breath.

 

—-

 

“He’s not going to come,” Ilya said into the bathroom mirror. “You know this.”

 

He could not allow himself to feel that sting again. It was too mortifying. Too much of a reminder that his father was right about him — you are too weak, you are too soft, just like your mother.

 

“He is boring Canadian. Too scared. He is not going to come, and you will not care.”

 

It was 12:37am. He had made his invitation one hour and seven minutes ago. 

 

He turned on the shower, and brushed his teeth. He would get ready to sleep, watch some TV, maybe call Sveta because she was in LA this week and it wasn’t very late. He would not fix his hair and wait for Shane Hollander.

 

Just as he spit his toothpaste into the sink, there was a knock at the door.

 

And there he was. 

 

How could Hollander look so neat and tidy in his sweatpants and a t-shirt? But he was here, and maybe he was here to let Ilya mess him all up.

 

The shower was still running in the bathroom. Hollander crooked his neck to look over Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m nine minutes late and you have another guest?”

 

“Oh,” Ilya said, “I assumed you were going to chicken out, so I was going to take a shower.”

 

“Hm,” Hollander said, moving past him and into the hotel room while Ilya went to turn off the water. “Listen, we should probably talk.”

 

“Hollander, I did not invite you here to talk,” he said.

 

“Talk first,” he clarified, blushing.

 

“Like I said before, we will have same secret. You do not need to worry.”

 

“OK, yeah, I know.” His hands were still in his pockets; this didn’t seem like a good sign.

 

“And you are out, no? Going on dates with men in public, yes?” Ilya said, because the idea of Miles still annoyed him like a papercut.

 

“It’s not about that, I mean for me. But the series is important for my career.”

 

Ilya had honestly not really thought of that. The series felt like background noise, but of course it was Hollander’s entire reason for hanging around.

 

Wasn’t it?

 

“I promise not to be mad if you say mean things about me on TV,” Ilya answered.

 

“I—uh, good. But also, it’s not like there are a lot of gay men doing sports journalism. I don’t want it to be a big joke if they find out….”

 

“That we let one handsome gay man into the locker room and he immediately turned the world’s best hockey player gay?”

 

“I mean, yeah. Sort of.”

 

“Come on, Hollander, would be impressive. You would be world’s most powerful gay.”

 

That made him crack a smile. Ilya couldn’t help but remember the photo shoot, when an uptight, tightly-wound young Hollander had dissolved into giggles with him.

 

Ilya took a step forward, so they were only standing a few inches apart, and lifted Hollander’s chin with one finger. “No one would be surprised,” he said. “They would take one look at your pretty face and say, we understand.”

 

He let his hand slide down Hollander’s neck to his shoulder, where he met a solid knot of muscle. His t-shirt was tight, and Ilya could see the outline of a lean, chiseled chest underneath. Hollander was slender, much less muscular than when they’d played together, but Ilya had never been able to see all these muscles when he was trussed up in his suits and dress shirts. 

 

His hand drifted lower, fingers searching under the cotton hem, grazing along the taut ridges of Hollander’s abs.

 

Hollander’s breath was coming faster now. “You are very fit,” Ilya said. “It is safe for you to exercise?”

 

“Yeah,” Hollander breathed. “Just not, like, super intense cardio, or long distance running.”

 

“Is there anything I need to be careful of?” he asked.

 

Hollander cocked his head, his eyes clearing and looking straight at Ilya. “No, but thank you for asking. I do—I have a scar, though.”

 

Ilya grabbed at the hem of Hollander’s t-shirt and asked, “yes?” When Hollander nodded and raised his arms, Ilya pulled it up and over his head.

 

There was a fine red line, about three inches long, on his sternum. Ilya traced a finger down it. That summer after their rookie season, he had gone back to Russia. He’d spent six weeks drinking and smoking and glowering at Alexei and his father, and all the while Shane Hollander had been doing this. Getting cut open, his heart left trembling in the open air.

 

“Was it painful?” he asked quietly.

 

The corners of Hollander’s lips quirked up. “In Canada we have this thing called anesthesia….”

 

Ilya shoved him gently. “After. Was it painful after?”

 

“For a couple days. The incision itched a lot, and that sucked. But I was thinking about other stuff, maybe it was a distraction.”

 

“Because you couldn’t play hockey anymore.”

 

His lips worked, a ghost of an old grievance. “That is what the MLH said, yes.”

 

“Not what you said?”

 

“My cardiologist thought it was possible, if we did the right kind of monitoring and I took this one medication. But none of the teams wanted to risk it.”

 

Ilya couldn’t help it, he laughed. Hollander’s face immediately scrunched up in outrage. “You’re laughing? At my serious health condition and the end of my pro hockey career?”

 

He covered his face with his hands. “Hollander, you had a heart attack when you were twenty years old, then you had heart surgery, and you’re mad that the MLH wouldn’t take you back? Maybe was good for you to lose hockey. Maybe you love it too much.”

 

“Good for me,” Hollander said, deadpanned.

 

“They don’t want you to drop dead on the ice. Traumatize the fans. You can understand, yes?”

 

Hollander’s eyes slid down to the ground. “I know. I know.”

 

Ilya put his hands on Hollander’s waist. “Think about the benefits—you are still beautiful. Maybe if you keep playing, you have more scars. Broken nose. False teeth. Ugly like the rest of us.”

 

Hollander’s eyes glazed over with that soft, loopy look again. Ilya filed it away: likes compliments, even if he won’t admit it.

 

“You know that you aren’t ugly.”

 

Ilya smiled at him. “What was that? Say again, please?”

 

One of Hollander’s hands reached up between them, and now it was his turn to finger the hem of Ilya’s t-shirt, let it ride up so his knuckles brushed against Ilya’s abdomen. “You aren’t ugly, and you know it.”

 

“No? Maybe I need, how you say it…reassurance?”

 

Hollander surprised him by wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck and lifting up to kiss him.

 

In the bathroom, Hollander had been so nervous and anxious and ruffled, and Ilya had loved it. But maybe he loved this even more, because Hollander seemed so sure of what he wanted—so sure that he wanted Ilya.

 

That thought surged through him as he crushed Hollander’s lips with his own. Weeks of deprivation poured out of both of them, and it wasn’t long before they were grasping and clamoring and stumbling toward the bed. Ilya’s knees hit the mattress first, and he reached for Hollander as he dropped down to sit on the edge, but Hollander stepped back instead.

 

“Off,” he said, pulling at Ilya’s t-shirt. By the time Ilya tossed the shirt in the corner, Hollander was already sinking to his knees between Ilya’s legs. Ilya shoved at the waistband of his sweatpants, lifted his hips so they could slide past. He looked down and saw Hollander staring intently at his dick, which was already rigid and resting thick against his lower abdomen. His eyelids were low over those dark irises, his hands running up and down Ilya’s bare thighs just like they had a week ago in his apartment.

 

Hollander’s lips were already pink and shiny from Ilya’s kiss, then his tongue darted out and wetted them again. “Can I—” he asked tentatively.

 

“If you don’t, I think I will die,” Ilya said, probably a bit too honestly.

 

When Hollander’s lips touched the tip of his cock, a shudder rolled through Ilya’s whole body. It was embarrassing how long he had wanted this, how many times he had jerked himself off thinking about this exact moment.

 

Then Hollander was taking him in, his mouth wet and tight, and Ilya couldn’t think of anything at all. He started with the head, sucking gently, swirling his tongue around and under. Then he slid down deeper, taking Ilya all the way in, all the way into his throat, pulling back slowly and then again—and again—and—

 

Ilya groaned, put a hand on Hollander’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “Too much, it's too soon—”

 

Hollander pulled off immediately, and Ilya guided him to stand. He hooked his fingers under Hollander’s waistband and pulled down, then, when his pants and briefs were gone, guided Hollander to straddle his thighs. Hollander leaned in to kiss him and Ilya pulled him in, crushed him against his chest, while Hollander sucked Ilya’s tongue into his mouth. When their cocks brushed between them, Hollander hissed hard through his teeth and whispered, “Please.”

 

Ilya dropped back onto the bed, taking Hollander with them, then rolled them over. Hollander inched up toward the pillow and Ilya followed, crawling, until he could nuzzle into the rough dark hair at the top of Hollander’s thighs. He lavished the skin with kisses, licking, until he was high enough to tongue gently at Hollander’s balls, which made Hollander arch off the bed with a loud groan. Ilya took Hollander’s cock, hot and hard, in his hands and licked again, feeling them tighten under his tongue.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Hollander rasped.

 

Ilya worked his way up Hollander’s shaft, licking and nipping, and then took him in his mouth. He ran a hand up Hollander’s stomach, reaching for his chest, but Hollander caught Ilya’s hand in his own and squeezed his fingers in a vice grip, murmuring “oh my God don’t stop, it’s so good,” and even though Ilya’s cock was hanging untouched and heavy underneath him, he thought he might come just from those rough, desperate words alone.

 

Hollander tugged on his hand. “You should—I’m going to—” But Ilya only doubled his efforts, hollowing out his cheeks, and when Hollander came he let out one of the filthiest moans Ilya had ever heard, and Ilya swallowed him down.

 

Ilya sat up and took in the sight of Hollander sprawled out in front of him, pink and sweaty, his legs splayed. It was glorious. 

 

“Come,” Hollander said softly, grabbing Ilya’s hand again and dragging him up until he had a knee on either side of Hollander’s waist. “Like this,” he whispered, “I want to see it.” Ilya groaned, and took himself in one hand while he reached the other up to Hollander’s face, nudging the thumb into his mouth.

 

Hollander sucked the tip between his lips, and Ilya moaned, hand flying over his cock, completely lost and totally, totally fucked because he would never recover from the sight of smooth, perfect, elegant Shane Hollander underneath him, shameless and pleasure-drunk and waiting for his come.

 

He finished with a rough shout, painting Hollander’s chest and chin, and when the white spots in his vision receded and he was finally coming back to earth, Hollander’s tongue stuck out again, grabbed a bead of Ilya’s release, and dragged it back up between his lips.

 

Ilya collapsed to the side, breathing hard. “You’re much dirtier than I expected.”

 

Hollander chuckled. “Should I be flattered?”

 

“Yes, probably.”

 

Ilya forced himself to stand up, and went to the bathroom to get Hollander a wet towel. When Hollander was done cleaning himself off, he draped a forearm over his eyes and said, “I’ll leave in a minute, I promise.”

 

Ilya opened his mouth to answer, but he closed it again without speaking because he couldn’t be sure what words would come out of his mouth.

 

You don’t have to leave

Want to watch a movie?

I’m tired of sleeping alone

 

The silence stretched a moment, long enough for Hollander to make a very reasonable deduction about what Ilya wanted him to do next.

 

Hollander had to leave, obviously. Ilya’s situation would have been enough, but Hollander had his career to think about, too. They could not spend all night cuddling, go down to breakfast together in the morning.

 

Hollander quietly swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.

 

Ilya went into the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face and listened to the noises of Hollander getting dressed. When he came back out, they were both standing in the little hotel room foyer, by the door to the hall.

 

“Well, uh…thanks?” Hollander said, a blush washing across his freckles. “Sorry, I’ve never been good at this.”

 

“Good at sneaking back to your room after hooking up with the world’s best hockey player? Clearly. You must practice.”

 

That made him smile, which made Ilya smile.

 

Ilya was a gentleman, so it was he who opened the door and poked his head into the hall. The coast was clear, so he waved Hollander through.

 

On his way past Ilya, Hollander lifted up on to his toes and kissed Ilya on the cheek, and said “goodnight.”

 

Never been good at this.

 

Hollander was so full of shit.

Chapter 8: shane hollander is a hottie

Because the All Star game wasn’t team travel, they all flew back to New York from Columbus on the charter, even though a few of them, and Shane, would be turning around the next day to fly to Tampa Bay for the All Star game.

 

Shane got home around noon and made a mad dash to his building’s laundry room. Once he had crammed his t-shirts, underwear, and socks into one of the industrial-sized front loading washers, he ran out to get a haircut, grab a few groceries for dinner since he couldn’t stand the thought of more restaurant food, and to pick up a few clean dress shirts and a clean suit at the dry cleaner.

 

As he was moving his clothes to the dryer, his phone buzzed.

 

Rose: omg babe, i know you’re going to hate this, but it's going to be ok

 

Shane: i’m going to hate what?

 

Rose: ….did you forget about the Out Magazine story?

 

He had totally forgotten about the Out Magazine story. Months ago, they had interviewed him along with a few other queer people in sports. Shane hadn’t had a great experience, in part because the interviewer repeatedly suggested that Shane would have an easier time of things, whatever that meant, because he had been in the club. When Shane had suggested that being in the club had meant living the closet, the interviewer had asked if he felt lucky that his career had ended early.

 

And that had been before the photo shoot. That had started out okay; Shane had actually sort of enjoyed getting dressed up by the stylists, and the part where a friendly make-up artist dusted his cheeks with blush and highlighter and dabbed his lips with a rose colored stain so you don’t look like a vampire. But then the photographer had been blasting dance music and shouting for them to do all sorts of awkward poses, leaning on things, tugging on one another, making exaggerated faces.

 

He had successfully managed to block it from his memory, but he would have to face the music because the issue was coming out—oh God, it was coming out today.

 

Shane: How bad is it? Do I need to move to Antarctica

 

Rose: are you insane? It’s not bad. You look extremely hot

Rose: you look so hot that you are maybe going a little bit viral?

Rose: but don’t freak out! It’s a good thing!

 

Shane stared at the messages for a minute. What does “a little bit viral” even mean? Wasn’t that like “a little bit pregnant”? Why would the world even care about some random spread in Out Magazine? Shane wasn’t, like, famous.

 

He didn’t have notifications turned on for his social media apps, because he did have a bit of a presence, especially on Twitter, because of the blog, and didn’t like his phone buzzing all the time just because someone had retweeted something or mentioned an old post. When he checked, he usually had a few dozen mentions, five or six retweets, and maybe a few DMs. Today he had 3,572 mentions, 145 retweets, and 73 DMs.

 

He opened the mentions and scrolled. They were all more or less versions of the same thing, posting about how hot he looked in the photo spread from the article. As he looked through, though, he was confused to see that they weren’t all gay men—in fact, maybe they were mostly not gay men?

 

@ModernMilly: I would complain a lot less about my husband watching SportsCenter if all the anchors were this hot

 

@gimmekiss: the article says he was a hockey player. Is he like a glitch in the matrix or do I need to start watching hockey?

 

@mamajamma: straight ladies i need you to back away and let us have nice things

 

The pictures were tiny on his phone. He clicked on one to make it bigger, and zoomed in until he found himself on the right. The set for the photo shoot had been a little rectangle of turf and a set of bleachers. In this picture, Shane was sitting on the steps with one leg bent and the other stretched out in front of him. He was wearing a suit, but they had begged and begged on set for him to go shirtless underneath, and now his chest was just…there. It didn’t look bad. Actually, his pecs looked kind of great.

 

And whatever they had done to his hair wasn’t so bad, either.

 

Rose texted again.

 

Rose: you’re not having a panic attack or something, are you?

 

Why had he been so uncomfortable on the set? In the picture, it looked like they were all having a great time. Had it been that they were pushy, or had he been uneasy with the whole vibe? Even though he’d been out for a few years, Shane really hadn’t spent a lot of time around other queer people, and often felt like he wasn’t very good at being gay. 

 

Maybe he hadn’t shaken off hockey’s homophobia as thoroughly as he’d always thought.

 

Shane: No, I’m OK. I mean, it's weird that so many people are looking at me shirtless, but they’re being nice about it right?

 

Rose: they are not ‘being nice.’ they are thirsting so hard. they are dying of thirst. they are desiccated skeletons buried in the sahara. 

Rose: has your hot russian bf seen this

Rose: i bet he will lose his mind

 

Shane: he is not my bf, and I do not think Ilya Rozanov subscribes to Out Magazine

 

Rose: but he does go on the internet, right?

 

Did Ilya Rozanov go on the internet? If so, Shane probably should have been following him already. Shane’s Twitter was mostly about sports culture and occasionally a bit of gossip, and chances were high Rozanov would have provided plenty of material.

 

But it’s possible Shane had an old habit of avoiding even the idea of Rozanov, for a confusing mess of reasons.

 

He found it right away: @IlyatheTerrible81

 

It was immediately obvious that Rozanov spent a good amount of time trolling people on the internet, and most of it wasn’t even about hockey at all.

 

But if he had seen the magazine article and photos, and had something to say about it, wouldn’t he have texted Shane? Shane knew that Rozanov liked watching him squirm (not that way—no, actually, maybe that way, too), so he couldn’t imagine he would have passed on the opportunity to chirp at him about being shirtless in a national publication.

 

As he was scrolling, the numbers in the bubbles kept increasing. He spent about two minutes looking through DMs before he moved on, horrified by the mix of horniness and homophobia that had taken over his inbox.

 

There was a mention with a different photo. This was a close up of his face, and somehow they had caught him making a kissing face at the camera. When had this even happened? Was it photoshop sorcery, or had Shane gone into some sort of Madonna-induced fugue state while they were shooting?

 

Literally, as he was staring at the phone, his feed refreshed and that picture appeared again at the top. This time, someone had tagged Rozanov.

 

@HockeyFights93 @IlyatheTerrible81 can you believe this is what happened to Shane Hollander?

 

There were already three replies. Shane clicked on the tweet, and they appeared below

 

@GoRaiders7516 this is probably why he stopped playing

 

@Metros4eva ugh man I used to have his poster on my wall

 

@IlyatheTerrible81 yes he was fired from the mlh for being too sexy. Very tragic.

 

Shane took a screen shot, and texted it to Rose.

 

Rose: i’m sorry but defending your honor on the internet seems like something a bf would do

 

Shane responded with an eyeroll emoji and started the dryer.

 

Back in his apartment, he made a salad and a protein shake for dinner, and finished reading an article about the yips that had run in the New Yorker the year before. After the door closed on hockey for good, Shane had figured he would go to college. He thought psychology might be interesting, specifically sports psychology. But then the blog had taken off, and he’d gotten an email from the editor at Deadspin, and then an executive at ESPN. Another career had materialized in front of him, and he relished the feeling of being good at something again.

 

So now he was thinking maybe he would write a book. Actually, he had three or four good book ideas rattling around. It would probably sound crazy to most other people, but he liked reporting and writing for many of the same reasons he had liked hockey. It was the process of building the whole picture from little parts, digging things up and tying them together until it all just flowed.

 

He managed to avoid checking Twitter again until he was getting ready for bed. I’ll just look once, he told himself, so I can go to sleep.

 

The mentions and DMs had tripled in the last few hours. He was surprised to see the same post that had tagged Rozanov at the top of his feed, but he realized immediately why it was there: it now had more than a thousand comments.

 

He opened the thread. Most of the comments were nestled under Rozanov’s original response. Most people thought he’d made a hilarious joke about Shane being sexy, some others agreed enthusiastically, and then there was Rozanov himself, in an all-out war with someone, spanning several hours.

 

@HockeyFights93 can’t believe i have to listen to this f*g talk about hockey now

 

@IlyatheTerrible81 this f*g scored a hat trick on hall of fame goalie in his fourth MLH game

 

@HockeyFights93 you must be one too if you want these guys hanging around the locking room 

 

@IlyatheTerrible81 one what? One very talented hockey player? Yes is true. Many good hockey players hanging around mlh locker rooms

 

It went on and on. Shane laughed out loud at least a half dozen times. Rozanov destroyed this man, whoever it was. Hockey fans and random Russian accounts and Shane Hollander’s new gay fan club arrived in droves, piling on. He had been reading for nearly thirty minutes, and the thread showed no sign of ending.

 

He opened his text messages.

 

Shane: I can’t believe I didn’t know about your Twitter account until now

 

Ilya Rozanov: Jared has sent many angry text messages. Wants to take my phone away

 

Shane: did they know about your trolling habit

 

Ilya Rozanov: did they know about your sexy photo shoot habit

 

Shane: i did not expect the photo shoot to be so sexy

 

Ilya Rozanov: you are not wearing a shirt

Ilya Rozanov: unless this is how you usually go on tv

Ilya Rozanov: maybe I will begin watching boring sports news

 

Shane: ESPN is not gay enough for shirtless Sports Center

 

Ilya Rozanov: yet

Ilya Rozanov: [image]

 

A picture popped up; it was the new dining table.

 

Shane: looks great

 

Ilya Rozanov: come over and see in person

 

Shane: can’t, early flight tomorrow

 

Ilya Rozanov: [frowning emoji]

 

Shane: when are you getting to Tampa?

 

Ilya Rozanov: afternoon. Will you go to welcome dinner?

 

Shane: no, MLH said no press for that

 

Ilya Rozanov: maybe i see you after

Ilya Rozanov: ?

 

Shane: maybe

 

Ilya Rozanov: you should send me a picture

Ilya Rozanov: to hold me over

 

Shane: can’t you just get a copy of out?

 

Ilya Rozanov: no magazine stores by my house [frowning face]

 

Before he could chicken out, Shane turned on his camera and snapped a selfie. He was shirtless, again, but he was wearing his glasses, which kept the vibe from being too sexy. He sent it.

 

Ilya Rozanov: GLASSES

Ilya Rozanov: this is dirty trick

 

Shane: are they really that bad?

 

Ilya Rozanov: you will bring them to Tampa, yes?

 

Shane: probably

 

Ilya Rozanov: you will bring them

 

Shane: where is my picture?

 

A minute went by.

 

A dick pic arrived.

 

Shane didn’t exactly mind.

Chapter 9: supernova

In Ilya’s mind, hockey meant bitter cold that seeped in through the concrete walls of Soviet-era hockey rinks. Ilya remembered the fathers huddled in the stands with vodka on their breath, and the way his fingers and toes were stiff for hours after practice. Hockey was the perfect game for Russia, an exercise in brutality and endurance that reserved its highest honors for players willing to absorb the most punishment, especially if they took it with a smile.

He still thought it was weird to play hockey in places that were hot. But even though Tampa made his hair frizzy, he liked the All Star weekend. Players brought their families, and Ilya loved to meet their wives and girlfriends and play with their kids. Nothing was more fun than chirping at an opposing player when you could use his wife’s real name.

 

The welcome dinner had been boring. After, he’d lingered at the hotel bar with a few guys, hoping Hollander might show up, but he’d given up after an hour and spent the rest of the night in his room watching reruns of Friends, which had always been his favorite for learning English idioms. Then his father had called, confused about why Ilya had missed his curfew and railing about his mother’s permissiveness, even though his mother had been dead for fifteen years. Ilya called Alexei, who complained for five minutes about babysitting their father, then demanded twenty-five thousand dollars. Ilya called him greedy, and Alexei called Ilya a cocksucker, and they hung up. 

 

But now he was at the pool, wrangling a dozen MLH children for a poorly-regulated game of Marco Polo, and it was hard to fret about his terrible brother when the kids were squealing and splashing all around him. The pool wasn’t huge, but Ilya crept slowly and flailed and splashed to make the kids laugh. After an hour or so, Shane Hollander appeared, wearing khaki pants and a white linen shirt, open over a t-shirt. He sat down at one of the round tables with Hayden Pike, a second rate player who had somehow managed to become captain of the Montreal Metros after Hollander left, and chatted while Ilya convinced the kids to race toward where they sat at the opposite end of the pool. When he was nearly there, he pretended to get eaten by a shark while the kids swam past.

 

He knew Hollander was looking, so he made a point to hoist himself out of the pool rather than use the steps a few feet to the right. He might not have been invited to the gay sports photo shoot, but he knew he had nice arms.

 

“No cameras, Hollander?” he asked, dripping.

 

“Tyler is on his way down,” Hollander said. “Rozanov, do you know Hayden Pike? He’s a friend from the Metros.”

 

“Hello, Pike. Is Jackie here this year?”

 

Hayden narrowed his eyes. “No. Why?”

 

Ilya grinned. “I met her last year. Very nice. Very beautiful.”

 

“Don’t be an asshole, Rozanov,” Hayden said through gritted teeth. “Jackie stayed home because she’s pregnant.”

 

Hollander’s eyes widened. “Again?”

 

Hayden turned toward him. “Dude.”

 

Hollander laughed. “I’m sorry, but isn’t Arthur, like…six months old?”

 

“Seven months,” Hayden murmured.

 

“You’re going to have so many kids,” Hollander said, still laughing.

 

“Speaking of which, Jade and Ruby have been asking when you’re going to visit again.”

 

“I can come for a couple days after the season, on my way to see my parents.”

 

Ilya broke in. “You know Pike’s children?”

 

Hollander looked up at him. “We stayed in touch after I left the league.”

 

Hayden looked over. “Yeah, because I forced you to.”

 

“How are you feeling about the format this year?” Hollander said, changing the subject quite neatly.

 

Ilya made a face. “We’ll see.”

 

“Oh yeah, you’ve gotta play with some of the Boston guys, huh?”

 

“It’s fine,” Ilya shrugged.

 

It was sort of fine. He wouldn’t mind seeing Cliff Marleau, at least.

 

“You will not swim?” Ilya said, his turn to change the subject.

 

“I’ve got to head inside in a bit, do some set up for tonight.”

 

“Sad. So hot out here.” Ilya took a step toward the table.

 

“Rozanov…” Hollander warned.

 

“What? Don’t you want to cool down?”

 

Hollander put his hands up just as Ilya reached up and shook the water from his curls, showering Pike and Hollanner with droplets of pool water.

 

“You’re such an asshole,” Pike grumbled, wiping water from his face.

 

But Hollander was smiling.

 

—-

 

On one hand, the set up for this year’s All Star game was absolute gold, as far as Shane’s series was concerned. For the first time in a decade, the players were divided east-west, which meant Rozanov would be thrown back with the teammates he’d left in Boston, including known asshole and, if the rumors were true, other side of Rozanov’s infamous bar fight, Dallas Kent.

 

On the other hand, Shane felt a bit worried for Rozanov. Something had obviously gone down in Boston that he didn’t want to talk about, and here it all was getting forced down his throat on what was supposed to be a fun, relaxing weekend break from the long grind of the hockey season.

 

At the moment, the teams were lined up on the bench waiting for the shot accuracy competition to start. Rozanov was squished between Scott Hunter on one side and Kent on the other, and looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

 

Hunter went first and broke his own record by a tenth of a second. Then Ilya went, and broke Hunter’s new record by three tenths of a second. He returned to the bench where Hunter nudged him, and Shane thought he may have caught an actual real smile pass between the two for the first time.

 

Then Kent said something, and Hunter’s face went a deep red and he was mouthing something that did not look at all collegial over Ilya’s shoulder pads. Ilya sat between them, hunched over and looking disconcertingly morose.

 

Shane wondered if Tyler had caught the exchange, and then he felt sort of bad for wondering.

 

This was exactly why hooking with Rozanov was a bad idea.

 

Although, if it were only hooking up, he probably wouldn’t have felt bad at all. That was an issue on multiple fronts, both personal and professional, that Shane had resolved to ignore, at least until the end of the weekend.

 

After the competition was over, there was a luau-style party set up on the beach at the hotel. Shane spent the first half an hour after he arrived in a gaggle of WAGs who descended to compliment the Out magazine spread. He eventually freed himself and made a few rounds, talking with some old acquaintances, but he couldn’t find Rozanov. 

 

He saw Scott Hunter at the bar. “Having fun?’ Shane asked.

 

“These things make me feel ancient, and I’m only 31.”

 

“Bring anyone with you?”

 

Hunter shook his head.

 

“What happened on the bench with Kent and Rozanov?”

 

Hunter raised his eyebrows. “I guess you really are a reporter now.”

 

“Well?” Shane pushed.

 

But Hunter shook his head. “Kent is an asshole, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

 

Shane snorted. “That’s a matter of public record, don’t worry. Did you get any background on what happened in Boston?”

 

Hunter narrowed his eyes at him. “If I did, that’s team business.”

 

“Sure,” Shane said. “I get it. Just obviously some bad blood between them.”

 

“Happens sometimes.”

 

“And it looks like you were pretty riled up, too.”

 

“Jesus, I think I liked it better when you were terrorizing us on the ice.”

 

Shane smiled. 

 

“Let it go,” Hunter warned. “Really. Some things are bigger than your little show.”

 

Shane conceded and found Tyler, who told him Rozanov had arrived early and stayed for only about fifteen minutes before sneaking off to the beach.

 

Shane tracked him down about ten minutes later, sitting in the sand watching the tide go out. The rumble of the waves drowned out the dim noise from the party, and Shane took a minute to breathe in the salt-scented breeze before he plopped down beside him.

 

“Not a fan of luaus?” he asked.

 

“I hate pineapple,” he answered.

 

“And Dallas Kent?” Shane asked quietly.

 

“And Dallas Kent.”

 

“You can tell me what happened in Boston, and tell me not to put it in the series.”

 

Rozanov turned and looked at him. For a moment, his features were set in those same hard lines Shane had seen so many times before: on the ice before the face off, in the press pool after a loss, any time Shane asked him a question he didn’t want to answer. But then the hardness faded and his expression became pensive.

 

“Do you think you would have come out if you kept playing?” Rozanov asked.

 

Shane had started to wonder if the closet was getting to Rozanov. Just because he could be with women doesn’t mean he didn’t want to be with any men. Maybe that’s what had happened in Boston: an ill-fated love affair, scuttled in some way by Kent, or just the general presence of Kent and other men like him.

 

“Probably not.” Rozanov didn’t say anything, so Shane kept talking. “You—you saw what I was like,” he said carefully. “I don’t know if I would have even acknowledged it to myself.”

 

Rozanov’s lip tipped up at the corner. “Your dick acknowledged it to me.”

 

Shane chuckled, but he was glad that Rozanov probably couldn’t see him blush in the dark. “Bodies don’t lie very well,” he said.

 

“You should let me fuck you tonight,” Rozanov said, so softly Shane barely even heard.

 

Usually, the thought of doing this with someone new made him anxious. He knew what he liked and wasn’t particularly prudish, but if he didn’t trust someone yet he was usually too nervous to really enjoy himself.

 

Rozanov had never made him nervous. No, in fact, he’d been drawn to Rozanov like a magnet ever since the day of the draft. He had so many things Shane wanted—the brash confidence, the easy sense of humor—but underneath it all was a gentleness that he couldn’t entirely hide. Rozanov teased but never ridiculed; he pushed people, but never in a direction they didn’t already want to go.

 

“We’ll see,” Shane said, because no matter how badly he wanted it, some part of him knew it was still a terrible idea to let this, whatever it was, go too far.

 

They watched the water in silence for a minute or two. Shane could stop his gaze from drifting to Rozanov’s legs, thick and powerful stretched out in front him, then further up to where his chest rose and fell with every breath. His lips were pouted slightly, in profile, a few curls loosened by the breeze and dangling in front of his forehead.

 

Shane wished he could crawl into his lap right now.

 

“Is not just because of hockey,” Rozanov said quietly. “Is not good for that sort of thing in Russia.”

 

Shane bit his lip, trying to bring himself back to reality. “Right. That would be pretty bad, I guess.”

 

Rozanov nodded silently. 

 

“Would your family be able to help, if something happened?”

 

“No. My father is police, and my brother, too.”

 

Shane swallowed. Even if Rozanov wasn’t giving a warning on purpose, it felt like one. Certainly this thing between them, whatever it was, had to be a secret for now, as far as Shane was concerned. But that was a lot different from keeping that kind of secret indefinitely. Shane would know—he’d met his first boyfriend before he had come out to any of his friends or colleagues, and that guy had bailed after only a few months of hiding.

 

This was so stupid. He was being so absurdly stupid, so reckless, but also, it was too late. The window for rational decisions had closed long ago, longer than Shane was ready to admit.

 

Shane scooted his hand a little closer to Rozanov’s. These little wisps of sadness that Rozanov’s voice took on sometimes unlocked something strange and tender in Shane, which made him want to wrap Rozanov up in his arms and squeeze as hard as he could.

 

When he left Rozanov’s pinky brush against his, he hooked his own on top and pulled gently. “Let’s go upstairs,” Shane whispered.

 

Rozanov nodded, stood up without another word, and walked back toward the hotel. A minute later, Shane’s phone buzzed.

 

Ilya Rozanov: Penthouse 2

 

He waited another five minutes, and made his way back to his room. He did his best to shake the sand out of his slacks on the small balcony, took a quick shower, then put on his joggers and a t-shirt and a pair of flip flops.

 

In the elevator on the way up, he waited for his nerves to set in. He baited himself with reminders of what a bad idea this was: you are ruining your new career, he will never be your boyfriend, are you seriously going to start fucking hockey players of all the people in the goddamn world, but none of it worked. When the elevator dinged and the doors open, he didn’t hesitate at all before stepping off and into the quiet, dark hall.

 

He turned left toward Penthouse 2, and knocked gently on the door.

 

Rozanov hadn’t changed clothes, but he smelled like cigarettes.

 

“You took so long,” he said, and Shane was certain he caught a little bit of a whine in there. “I thought you were chicken again.”

 

“I took a shower,” he said.

 

Rozanov grinned. “So well prepared.”

 

Shane blushed.

 

Rozanov lifted a finger to Shane’s chin and tipped his head up to face him. “We don’t have to,” he said.

 

“Kiss me,” Shane answered.

 

Rozanov crashed into him, kissing him hard against the wall by the door. Rozanov tugged at Shane’s t-shirt and yanked it off between kisses, and Shane followed suit so they were skin to skin. It was warm in the cage of Rozanov’s arms, heat rolling off his solid chest, and Shane grasped and grabbed at his biceps, wanting more of everything.

 

Rozanov’s hands slid down Shane’s sides, paused to grip hard at his hips, then those long fingers snaked around his legs and he was being lifted again, pressed so hard into his wall that it squeezed a bit of breath from his lungs.

 

Shane wrapped his legs around Rozanov’s waist and squeezed hard, desperate for friction, for more of the hard ridge of Rozanov’s erection. Rozanov groaned into his mouth, “Hollander.”

 

“Bed,” Shane gasped between kisses, then surrendered to his own moan and Rozanov pulled  them away from the hall and started walking toward the bedroom. He buried his face in Shane’s neck as they moved haltingly through the room, licking and sucking at the tender skin, pulling whimpers from Shane’s throat.

 

When they finally got to the bed, Rozanov set him down gently, looming over him and delivering one more long, pulling kiss before his lips started moving down the column of Shane’s neck and across his collarbone. He paused at the top of Shane’s right pec, suddenly sucking hard. That will leave a mark, Shane thought, and the idea spread through him like fire, because Shane was his and even though it was impossible, he wanted everyone to know.

 

When Rozanov moved on, his tongue was featherlight across Shane’s stomach, searching, wandering down, following the faint v-shaped line from Shane’s hip down between his legs that he had worked on in the gym for months, after searching exercises for adonis belt on YouTube.

 

Rozanov’s progress slowed to a crawl, and Shane pushed his hips up in frustration, eliciting a low, rough chuckle from Rozanov. “So impatient. Desperate for me, Hollander?”

 

God, he was such a mess already and it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. 

 

“Drawer on the right,” Rozanov said, still nuzzling lazily between Shane’s legs. “Lube.”

 

Shane stretched to reach the drawer pull, but had to inch up the bed to get his hand inside. When he tossed it down toward Rozanov, it bounced off his shoulder, which made Rozanov laugh again.

 

He heard the pop of the cap, then Rozanov’s fingers were sliding between the cleft of his ass, circling around his hole, and everything around him went sort of fuzzy. “Oh God, Ro—”

 

Wait, no. That didn’t feel right. Shane froze, just for a split second, and Rozanov stopped immediately and looked up. “Is okay?” he said.

 

“Yes, it's very okay. Only—can I call you Ilya?”

 

Rozanov’s face was completely still, but he swallowed hard. “Is Eel-yah.”

 

“Ilya,” Shane repeated, trying to let the vowels open up and the ell move smoothly across his tongue.

 

Rozanov—Ilya grinned. “Such a good student. You deserve reward, I think?”

 

Shane let his head fall back on the pillow as Ilya started again on his task. He teased Shane gently, with just the softest touch, a finger circling, pressing, until Shane writhing with need. Then, just as he pushed one finger gently inside, he took Shane’s red, swollen cock into his mouth. Shane arched fully off the bed, crying out, but Ilya was relentless, working his hands and mouth until Shane was practically delirious.

 

“Please, I can’t—” he groaned. 

 

Ilya raised his hand, slowed the onslaught of his fingers, and looked at Shane with open concern.

 

“Is too much?”

 

“I need—” Shane croaked, but he couldn’t finish the thought. He felt too exposed.

 

“Need what? Tell me.”

 

“Ilya,” breathed. “I need you. Inside me.”

 

Now it was Ilya who groaned, low and needy, and Shane’s moment of doubt passed. Ilya slid on a condom and fumbled with the bottle of lube, slicking himself in his fist, and then he was there, thick and heavy against Shane’s entrance, pushing forward by millimeters, his face flushed and arms shaking. Shane rolled his lips, looking for more, savoring the pressure of Ilya, hard and heavy inside him, and Ilya answered him with a swift, powerful thrust that wrung a keening cry from Shane’s throat.

 

“Okay?” Ilya asked.

 

“Yes, just like that,” Shane panted.

 

Ilya’s brows furrowed together and he dropped his head down and did it again, and again, and Shane reached for him, grasping whatever pieces of him he could get his hands on. When Ilya leaned forward, close enough that the gold cross he always wore scraped against Shane’s collarbone, he grasped the back of Ilya’s neck and dragged him into a kiss. The kiss was foolish, because it contained so much of what Shane couldn’t and shouldn’t say, but for the moment he let himself think that the tight grip of Ilya’s hand on his thigh and the rough noises coming from his throat might mean that Shane wasn’t the only one who was a fool.

 

Ilya was relentless. He listened to every desperate, pleading word and whimper that fell out of Shane’s mouth and reacted accordingly, until every motion he made was dedicated to wringing the last ounce of pleasure from Shane’s body. It didn’t take long for Shane to be shaking, on the brink, and when Ilya looked down at him with those mischievous pale eyes and growled do it, Shane came without so much as the graze of a finger on his dick, and it felt like he was shattering into a million little pieces. And the way Ilya watched, with his mouth half open and that hungry look on his face—it was nearly enough to start Shane all over again.

 

“Can you—” Ilya said, and Shane followed the gentle nudges of his strong hands until he was on his hands and knees. Ilya pressed in again, and when Shane sucked a sharp breath in at the new intrusion, he paused. Ilya’s hand came up and he grazed his palm gently across Shane’s back, then he leaned forward and placed a series of featherlight kisses along his spine, and Shane was pressing back again, seeking Ilya—needing him.

 

It was so slow at first, maddeningly slow, with Ilya bent forward and murmuring low words of praise in Shane’s ear—you’re so tight, look how you good you take it—until it was Shane begging Ilya for more, harder. Shane felt the moment Ilya finally let himself go, when he set his legs a little wider and squared his hands on Shane’s hips, and after that there was nothing but the sensation of being totally and completely full, and, finally, Ilya’s deep, plaintive groan as he came.

 

Ilya collapsed next to Shane, both of them breathing hard.

 

“That was—” Shane started, at the same time Ilya said, “Are you okay?”

 

Shane laughed softly. “I am very okay.” Without even really thinking about it, he found Ilya’s hand between them and grasped it with his own. “Are you okay?”

 

Ilya turned to face him. Their faces were only a few inches apart, and Shane could see the deep pink flush on Ilya’s cheekbones, and the glassy sheen in his eyes and on his lips.

 

“I am very okay,” he said softly. They tilted toward each other into a kiss so soft, so tender that it made Shane ache all over.

 

Only a few moments later, Ilya rolled to the side and swung his legs over the bed. “Shower,” he mumbled, and…maybe it was sort of abrupt? And this little bit of cooling, combined with Ilya’s sudden absence, left a tragic opening for all of Shane’s worst thoughts to rush right in: I’m in too deep, this is so stupid and reckless, I’m about to get my heart broken into a million pieces.

 

He listened to the water turn on in the bathroom. God, he was sticky. He hated being sticky. He was looking around frantically for something to clean himself with when Ilya emerged again, holding a wet washcloth. Shane reached out for it, but Ilya sat on the edge of the bed and ran it softly over Shane’s stomach himself. It was sweet, except that Ilya wasn’t looking at his face.

 

“Thank you,” Shane said.

 

“Da,” Ilya answered, before he disappeared around the corner again.

 

Shane sat up and pressed his face into his hands. He gave himself exactly ten seconds to freak out about whatever was happening because what the fuck? 

 

This was why he was guarded about sex. When he could let himself go, let his mind go blank and his body take over, every sensation was magnified a hundred times and it was…incandescant. The danger was after, when he was raw and exposed and at risk for serious damage. 

 

He stood and found his clothes, suddenly desperate to dress, to feel like he was no longer on display.

 

He sat down on the end of the bed to put on his sneakers, then paused. Should he leave while Ilya was in the shower? No, that was a bridge too far as far as dickishness went. But it felt weird to sit around, too. He pulled out his phone and scrolled. The mentions on his Twitter about the magazine spread had died down considerably. He had an email from one of his producers at ESPN saying they should meet for a status update, which normally would have sent Shane into a spiral, but he could really only handle one spiral at a time. And there was a text from Miles.

 

Miles Baker: Hi, no pressure at all, this is not a dating text it is a professional text. My PR person is losing her mind about the Out mag spread and asked me to invite you to my show in two weeks. It’s part of a showcase of Black designers at the Park Ave Armory, there will be a red carpet and you will need to send me your outfit for approval

 

Miles Baker: Rose is coming

 

OK, this sounded pretty fun. Shane was thinking about the magenta shirt again.

 

Shane: I’m sorry I have to ask a terrible question - on a scale of 1-10, how gay will this be? I’m testing the limits of the ESPN execs I think [sad face emoji[]

 

Miles Baker: that is a terrible question but i get it. It will not be gayer than any other fashion show, so like a 5 or 6

 

Shane: I’m like a 90% yes, just have to check my schedule. At the all star game in Tampa for another day and half

 

Miles Baker: is that a sports thing?

 

Shane: yes

 

Miles Baker: are there so many hot guys

 

Shane eyed the bathroom door. It was very quiet in there.

 

Shane: yes but don’t bother, athletes are the worst

 

Finally, the door opened. Ilya was wearing loose cotton shorts which he must have taken in there with him while Shane was still coming down from the best sex of his life.

 

Shane stood and they stared at one another. Four or five feet of distance had never felt so vast.

 

“I should—” Shane gestured toward the door.

 

Ilya nodded. “I should sleep, for tomorrow.”

 

That was ridiculous. Half the players were probably still downstairs taking shots of rum. But Shane would take whatever excuse was on offer at the moment.

 

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

 

Ilya didn’t answer, but when Shane glanced back through the closing door, he was still standing in the same spot.

Chapter 10: stardust

The All-star game was bullshit, and everyone knew it, but Ilya was still skating like his life depended on it. Anything to keep him from remembering Shane fucking Hollander, all neat and tidy and covered up, having the nerve to just stand there looking normal when Ilya’s world had been turned inside out.

 

It wasn’t just that it had been a while since he’d been with a man. It was that something about fucking Shane Hollander specifically had left him flayed open, raw and utterly defenseless, and that just could not be.

 

He could not be reduced to a sniveling mess, not after what had happened in Boston. He was stronger than that. 

 

Men do not cry for their mothers, Ilya. My son will not weep like a pussy.

 

Ilya had been on the verge of tears when he lay next to Shane, their fingers intertwined. He didn’t even know why, really, only that it was unacceptable. Then he’d stood up to get cleaned up and the little line had appeared between Shane’s brow, and even though he had felt a little less afraid, he’d also felt much more alone.

 

It was better this way. Shane Hollander was not going to be his boyfriend. Maybe they would fuck sometimes, because Shane was very hot and very present, and no more interested in anyone finding out than Ilya was.

 

He was sitting on the bench, his leg bouncing rapidly. Shane was probably up in the booth now, wearing one of his little suits, looking perfect and making little jokes with the other news people.

 

“Jesus, Rozanov. It’s not that serious,” Cliff Marleau said, and nudged his elbow.

 

He could do this. He could be normal, he could be Rozanov. Hockey was fun, Cliff Marleau was fun. “Hockey is always serious,” he said, letting his accent thicken. “We will not allow East team to be covered in shame.”

 

Cliff smiled big, like he always did, and laughed. Such a funny joke, and also the sort of thing Ilya’s father would say in utter seriousness.

 

Damn, he shouldn’t have thought about his father. Papa wasn’t doing well, Alexei said. Barely knew his name most days.

 

The whistle blew and someone nudged him and he went over the boards. The best thing about hockey is that it just happened. It was like it lived in his bones, and he could just let his body take over because it always knew what to do. 

 

Sort of like sex.

 

Hockey and sex, the only two things he’d ever been good at. And yet, Shane Hollander still got dressed and walked out the door without batting an eye.

 

Ilya scored three goals, and the East won 7-4. When the team poured on to the ice at the end to celebrate, Dallas Kent made a point of avoiding Ilya like he was nuclear waste, which elicited a curious glare from Marleau.

 

“We gotta talk, man,” Marly said as they walked through the tunnel.

 

“Sure,” Ilya said, suddenly feeling exhausted. He didn’t want to spend another hour lying or evading or avoiding Marly’s questions.

 

Maybe he wouldn’t, maybe he would just vomit it all up and see what happened.

 

Maybe Marly already knew. Gossip traveled fast in the locker room, after all. And if he did, he didn’t seem horrified. Or he didn’t know, and he would be horrified. But either way, Ilya wouldn’t have to hide for that hour and maybe that would be worth it.

 

Marly waited for him in the locker room after the game, and practically dragged him into an uber to the restaurant where a late dinner was planned.

 

“Where the fuck did you go, Roz?” Marly asked as soon as the door closed.

 

“Uh, New York?” Ilya answered.

 

“That’s not what I mean. Just because we’re on different teams now doesn’t mean it’s illegal for you to answer texts.”

 

Ilya knew he should have responded to Marly’s messages. He just didn’t want Marly to ask any questions that Ilya couldn’t answer without fucking everything up, again.

 

“We miss you, man,” Marly said, simply. Ilya had always marveled at how honest Marly was. He was a big guy, powerful and relentless on the ice, but good-natured and relaxed otherwise. Really, he was kind of a softie, which Ilya always assumed was in part because he had four older sisters, all of whom babied and bullied him in equal measure. 

 

“You miss the goals that I score,” Ilya muttered.

 

Marly made a face at him. “Come on, Roz. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

 

Ilya swallowed. When he was a boy, his father had lectured Ilya and Alexei constantly on the things men did and did not do. Men were strong and proud, they did not cry, they did not bitch and moan about their feelings. Feelings were the domain of the weak and frightened, people like Ilya’s mother, who brought shame to the family with her frailty.

 

But had his father ever attempted to share one of his feelings with someone? Ilya was approaching thirty years old and had spent most of his life being pummeled on the ice by large opponents moving at high speeds. He had still never encountered anything quite as frightening as telling another human being what he felt.

 

“None of the Admirals are as fun as you are,” he finally said.

 

Marly held out his hands. “Well, obviously. You’ll get them in shape though. I mean, it’s New York! At least the women are super hot.”

 

The women were very sexy. Ilya liked that they were fashionable, too, and a little bit mean. He had, of course, taken advantage of the elite offering, though maybe less so lately. Actually, not really at all, lately.

 

“Yeah,” he said.

 

“So, are you gonna tell me what happened?” Marly said. “I know it’s like, a big secret, but all the guys know that it was Kent you were fighting with. What did he do?”

 

Ilya shrugged. He had signed about a thousand pieces of paper saying he wouldn’t talk about the events with anyone. Even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t imagine saying the words out loud. “You know Kent, he was an asshole. I was tired of his shit.”

 

Marly was skeptical, but he didn’t push. “Sure, OK. I’m sure he deserved it, but—fuck, man.”

 

“I know, it was stupid.”

 

“I wish they’d never traded for him. We had a great thing going those first few years.”

 

“Yeah,” Ilya sighed. In his rookie season, the Raiders locker room had been like nothing Ilya had encountered in hockey. The coach was stern, but he treated the players like men rather than livestock, and the guys gave each other shit, but it was fun. Marly took Ilya under his wing immediately, got him set up with a good apartment and showed him all the best clubs and bars. A few of the guys met on off days to run along the Charles River, and St Vincent’s wife hosted Friendsgiving and Orphan Christmas for players who didn’t have anyone nearby to spend holidays with.

 

He had assumed he would spend his whole career with Boston, until last season when Dallas Kent had dropped into the locker room like a nuclear weapon and blown it all to bits.

 

“Hey, at least the Admirals are good,” Marly said.

 

Ilya smiled, happy to be back in more familiar territory. “Of course we are, because I am on the team.”

 

They pulled up to the hotel and Marly paused before he got out. “We’re in New York end of March. We will hang out.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Ilya said.

 

“Not kidding, Roz.”

 

“Okay, okay, I get it. You are very sad now that I am gone and have no friends. I will hang out with you.”

 

Ilya felt a little better at dinner, even though Dallas Kent was braying from a table across the restaurant, drunk and loud enough that Ilya could still hear him call someone a fruit, which sounded like something someone from 1960 would say. Marly got too drunk and had to be escorted to his ride by two defenders, one to prop up each shoulder. Scott Hunter spent half the night on his phone and disappeared before dessert was served. Ilya rounded up the few rookies who had been invited, bought them a round of expensive Russian vodka, and posted a selfie with the group to his Instagram.

 

Most of the guys had early flights, and Ilya helped arrange a caravan of rideshares back to the hotel.

 

Marly was a good guy. Ilya could probably tell him everything, and he would say holy shit and then clap him on the back and try to set him up with hot guys the next time they went to the club. But Marly was just one guy. He couldn’t guarantee that Ilya would get signed again, or that he would be able to go back to Russia safely when the time came.

 

He got in the last car, so he could ride alone. Once the quiet settled in, he took out his phone, but he didn’t open it at first. He was not expecting Shane to text, but he also didn’t want to unlock the screen and confirm that he hadn’t.

 

He wanted to go back in time and stop past Ilya from rolling off the bed. Or from kissing Shane while they’d been laying side by side. Or maybe from kissing him at all, because Ilya was in over his head with Shane and his little smiles and his stupid, beautiful freckles, and maybe it would have been that way no matter what happened, or when.

 

He took a breath and unlocked the phone, rushing his way into his text message thread with Sveta, his best friend, before he could check any others.

 

Ilya: Can I call you in a few minutes?

 

Svetlana: yes please, i need to get rid of this date

 

Ilya: Did he take you to a bad restaurant?

 

Svetlana: No restaurant was good. I brought him home and we fucked and now he won’t leave

 

Ilya smiled as he walked through the sliding doors into the lobby. He headed for the elevator bay only to see a knot of men in suits huddled at the hotel bar. Shane was one of them, with the rest of the broadcasters. A few of the other men were telling a story, waving their arms and nudging one another, while Shane clutched a ginger ale and nodded absently in the direction of the merriment.

 

Before Ilya could turn away, Shane’s eyes locked on him. It was only a second, but a flash of hurt passed through those doe eyes before he could school his face. And for the first time in twenty four hours, Ilya wondered why Shane had gotten dressed and bailed out like the police were on their way to raid Ilya’s room. Maybe it wasn’t because he’d gotten what he wanted from Ilya, and wanted to get out. Maybe he’d gotten hurt, too, which meant that maybe he cared.

 

God forgive him, but this thought made Ilya a little giddy. He pursed his lips in an air kiss, reveled in Shane’s look of confusion, then stepped around the corner to the elevator.

Chapter 11: deja vu all over again

The Admirals were on a tear. Since the All Star break, they’d won five in a row, mostly because both Hunter and Ilya were racking up an absurd quantity of points, both on their way to setting new personal records.

 

The streak also gave Shane a great excuse to make himself a bit scarce. Everyone knew about athletes and their weird superstitions, and Shane needed a minute to regain his sanity. It wouldn’t hurt to have some plausible deniability at his meeting with the series producers, either.

 

Much to Shane’s chagrin, two executives had asked to join the meeting but refused to come to the Seaport studio, which meant that Shane had to find his way to Connecticut for the day. The campus there was sprawling but bland, and Shane found himself hoping he never had to work from here regularly.

 

Being on TV had sounded so cool when ESPN approached him about doing hockey commentary. And he did like being in the booth. But he didn’t like that there was never any time to go in depth, or that certain subjects were generally acknowledged to be off-limits.

 

When he finally arrived at the conference room, all three producers and two executives who managed features, Bill and Kevin, were waiting for him. He started preparing himself for an ambush. Maybe they would show him a supercut of Shane staring longingly at Ilya, and it would all be over before it even started.

 

“Shane, have a seat.”

 

There was hand-shaking, and small talk, but it settled down rather quickly, before anyone even mentioned the goal ilya had scored in overtime the night before, and this more than anything told Shane he was in for an uncomfortable conversation.

 

Bill, who was older and more senior, began. “Listen, first I want to say that you’re really doing exceptional work on this project.”

 

Oh, well that was a nice surprise.

 

“Rozanov has always been a tough nut to crack, even though he likes to mug for the cameras,” one of the producers said, “and you’ve gotten some really good stuff. A lot more than he’s given anyone else.”

 

Shane swallowed. How could they have found out? Maybe Dan or Tyler said something. The camera guys saw everything, they just usually didn’t care enough to get involved.

 

“You’ve probably heard the term ‘access journalism,’” one of the executives said. “Sometimes people say that in a derogatory way, but the fact is that all good journalists are bartering for access, even if they cover politics or international affairs or whatever. We all need people to talk to us.”

 

But you’ve gone too far. We said talk, not fuck.

 

“It can be a hard line to navigate, especially when people are new to the process,” the other executive said. Shane held his breath, waiting for the death blow.

 

“But you’ve done a really spectacular job getting to know Rozanov. He obviously trusts you, and you’ve developed a rapport.”

 

Yes, well. Not so hard to have a rapport once someone’s dick had been in your mouth. Shane bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh.

 

“You know that we’re fully supportive of your…situation.”

 

Wait, what? For a second, Shane thought Bill might offer an…endorsement of sorts. Great job, young man. Really going above and beyond!

 

“The company has a commitment to diversity, and we think representation is extremely important. We want to show the viewership that men like you belong in sports as much as anyone else.”

 

Oh, that situation. The situation of Shane being gay, not specifically the situation of him being extremely fucking gay with hockey’s biggest star.

 

Though he didn’t really know where they were going with this.

 

“We know we approved your participation in the Out Magazine article…” the first suit said.

 

Jesus Christ. Shane had spent so many days fretting that he was about to get scolded for his wildly unprofessional behavior and removed from his own project that he hadn’t spent one second wondering if this meeting could be about something else. He certainly had not had generalized homophobia on his radar.

 

“....though we’re not sure we anticipated the particular angle that they chose to take”—they hadn’t expected Out Magazine to take the gay angle?—”or the amount of attention it received.”

 

Shane must have looked confused, because one of the producers—the best one, in Shane’s opinion—sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. “Listen, Shane, there is some concern that Rozanov and his teammates might be less comfortable with you now.”

 

Shane blinked. “I have not noticed that.”

 

“You haven’t done any one-on-ones since before the All Star game.”

 

Shane shrugged. “I didn’t want to upset the winning streak. But Rozanov is giving me more time at his apartment next weekend.”

 

This seemed to mollify the suits, who were nodding along.

 

“Has he ever mentioned…it?” Bill asked.

 

“It meaning….my being gay?” 

 

Bill nodded. Shane hesitated. “Maybe once or twice. We’ve known each other a long time, though. We’re not strangers.”

 

“That’s right,” he said to himself.

 

“I really don’t think it's an issue,” Shane answered, because he couldn't say don’t worry, Ilya Rozanov knows all about loving cock.

 

“Sure, sure. Definitely,” Bill said, but it was clear that he had not been mollified.

 

Kevin jumped in. “Even if the Admirals go all the way, we’re talking about another three months. I think we can all agree that it’s go time. There’s an opportunity to get some really great stuff, and we don’t want anything to interfere with that.”

 

Shane nodded along. Every atom of his body was focused on keeping a straight face.

 

“You know we love this series, and you’re the perfect guy to do it since you’ve been there. So if this turns out well, we’ll definitely consider a longer contract.”

 

This put on a damper on the humor of it all. It was a clumsily done threat, and Shane didn’t appreciate the attempt at bullying. But—and this surprised him a little—the prospect of getting cut off after one season didn’t really bother him. He had believed in this idea, but if it meant squeezing himself into a sliver of allowable queerness, he could figure out other ways to do it.

 

He’d taken much bigger losses in the not so recent past.

 

“Absolutely. I know this is something we’ll be really proud of,” Shane said, the right words falling from his mouth just like he’d practiced. Sometimes he hated the way it was so easy for him to tell people what they wanted to hear, especially since there had been a time in his life where it had been hard to tell the difference between that and what he really wanted.

 

“Great. Thanks for coming out.”

 

Shane stood and shook hands with Bill and Kevin. Since he had already dragged himself out to Connecticut, he and the producers planned to spend the next couple hours going through the recent footage, sketching out some episode scripts, and making a shot list that they thought might round out what they already had.

 

Shane found it oddly hard to watch. He didn’t mind seeing himself on screen, but so much of the footage was of Ilya…being Ilya. Before, Shane might have rolled his eyes and made a jab about showboating, but now he found himself looking for the flashes of realness that he’d been collecting, like a prospector panning for gold. Did the producers notice the way Ilya kissed his gold cross whenever he first stepped on the ice? Did they see the way he fell quiet whenever the other players talked about their families?

 

He knew that Ilya said almost nothing about his family in Russia, and that he was reliably tense and aloof after speaking with his father or brother. Shane knew that Ilya had been the de facto social director in Boston, hosting parties and planning nights out, but that no one from the Admirals had ever been to his place in Long Island City. And Shane maybe didn’t know, but strongly suspected, that Ilya cranked his wattage up as far as it could go when he didn’t want anyone to see the man behind the glow.

 

They got to the footage from the All Star weekend. Tyler had gotten some good establishing shots from the luau-themed party: the string lights against the inky night sky, Shane surrounded by WAGs, a handful of guys from the West team taking shots and commiserating about Ilya’s backhand. Then there was Ilya, hovering at the edge of the party, unusually subdued, searching the crowd. His eyes landed on something and he smiled. Not the big, shark-like grin he flashed during the games, but something small and private. Tyler panned slowly across until the camera landed on Shane, at the other end of Ilya’s gaze.

 

Shane’s heart began to race. This was going to be it: any second now the producers would turn around and shout, in unison, what the fuck is going on. But they didn’t say anything; they didn’t even appear to notice it. One of them makes a joke about Ilya searching for his next victim—tasteless, and also, if they only knew—and the others laugh and grumble that guy gets so much pussy.

 

They didn’t even know what they were looking at. Good news for Shane, but sad news for sports journalism.

 

Shane took an Uber to the train, because he was only a contractor at ESPN and they would not pay for a car all the way back to the city. He was supposed to be making script notes on the footage he’d just watched, but he didn’t even pick up his phone.

 

He had a pretty high tolerance for homophobic bullshit. And he shouldn’t have been surprised at all by the warnings from Bill and Kevin, because it he’d gotten a speech in the same tradition when he had signed his contract (we are really excited to diversify our on-air talent in a way that feels organic to the network), and when he had run the Out Magazine feature by them (we wouldn’t interfere with your other projects, but we encourage all of our talent to consider how their off-air decisions impact their fan base). So why was he so pissed off now?

 

It was because of Ilya, and the way his face had darkened at the mention of Dallas Kent. And the way Ilya often seemed so alone, even in a room full of people. Shane had a strong feeling about what had happened in Boston, or at least, what type of thing had happened in Boston, and the ESPN guys giving vague warnings about not being too flaming on—or off—the air wasn’t not related to Dallas Fucking Kent doing or saying something awful enough that Ilya broke his nose in the alley behind a night club. Guys like Bill and Kevin made excuses about discomfort and brand image, and a ways down that same road, Kent was mouthing what was most certainly a slur at Ilya on the ice at the All Star game, with no repercussions at all.

 

Shane remembered how he’d white-knuckled it through his rookie year, praying every day to a higher power that he would finally meet a woman he wanted to fuck so he could be normal, that the guys on the team wouldn’t figure it out, that he could somehow just be a hockey player and not a gay hockey player.

 

The last thing on his list of things he could do now that he was no longer a professional hockey player was ‘be gay.’ He had crossed it out, then written it again, and underlined it.

 

As the train squeaked into Grand Central Station, he realized that he would not stay with the series if ESPN opted in to more seasons. Maybe he would keep doing commentary occasionally, but he didn’t want his career to be in any way dependent on an organization that was so scared of someone being gay in the vicinity of professional athletes. He didn’t want to worry about whether Miles’s fashion show was too gay, or whether guys would clam up if he was in the locker room.

 

He should be able to look hot in the occasional magazine, or wear the fucking pink shirt, or ride on top of a hockey skate-shaped float in the Pride Parade wearing nothing but a jock strap and his pads, if he wanted.

 

I mean, he probably wouldn’t want the last one. Pride was a lot for him, even fully dressed. But Ilya would probably be into something like that.

 

Ilya hadn’t texted him sent the All Star game. Shane had taken out his phone a half dozen times, but every time he went to type something, he saw Ilya practically leaping off the bed in the hotel room in Tampa. Maybe it wasn’t just about being closeted, maybe he’d only been in it for the chase, and lost interest once he’d gotten what he wanted. Shane had met a couple guys like that, who thought his preference for taking it slow was something like a personal challenge.

But then there was also the beach. And the air kiss in the hotel lobby. And the blissful look on his face when Shane had run his fingers through his air that first time he visited the apartment in Long Island City

 

Fuck, why couldn’t he just be dating Miles?

 

He took out his phone.

 

Shane: I’m a yes for the show

 

Miles Baker: Your TV daddies are OK with it?

 

Shane: I decided its none of their business

 

Miles Baker: yas queen! 

 

He texted Rose to tell her he would be there.

 

Rose Landry: omg you’re amazing! We will get ready together. What are you wearing?

 

Shane: I don’t know, maybe my gray suit? Is that boring?

 

Rose Landry: YES ITS BORING. Don’t even bother I am in charge now.

 

He lost service briefly on his way through the tunnels to the subway, only for his phone to start buzzing at the top of the steps down to his platform. He checked it before descending, assuming he’d have a string of photos from Rose.

 

But he had a different message.

 

Ilya Rozanov: what are you doing right now

 

Shane’s heart accelerated instantly. 

 

Shane: just got back to the city from a work thing

 

Ilya Rozanov: come to my house

 

Shane had no illusions about what this was. He should say no. He should insist they should talk first. He should be an adult and not repeat the same mistakes twice just because now he was thinking about Ilya’s lips working their way down his spine, one vertebra at a time.

 

Shane: I'm at Grand Central now, I’ll be there in 20

Chapter 12: dangerous liaisons

Ilya looked out the window at the darkening sky. Shane said he was at Grand Central like that was relevant, so Ilya had googled it and realized that he intended to take the subway. But there weren’t always a lot of people around Ilya’s neighborhood at night—was it safe for him to walking around alone?

 

No, he would be fine. He was only a couple inches shorter than Ilya, and maybe he wasn’t hockey player solid but he was still pretty strong. It’s just that sometimes there were guys that hung out around the convenience store a couple blocks away—

 

He couldn’t meet him at the station. That was ridiculous. He just wanted to get his hands on him again, because he couldn’t stop thinking about fucking him. He did not need to escort him through the streets like a fucking bodyguard.

 

The buzzer sounded, rescuing him from his worst impulses.

 

The elevator door opened a minute later. Shane was wearing trousers and a sweater over a collared shirt, but he looked a bit rumpled. This was Ilya’s second favorite Shane, when he was tired and loose and there was a possibility that something might slip past his otherwise iron-clad screen of good behavior.

 

Obviously his first favorite Shane was the one he’d met the night of the All Star game, flushed and panting and desperate.

 

Now that he knew that first favorite Shane was the promise hinted at by second-favorite Shane, second-favorite Shane was even hotter.

 

“Hi,” he said. He had stepped off the elevator, but only taken a few steps into the loft.

 

Ilya was still nearly fifteen feet away, near the kitchen. Now that Shane was here, he felt an odd jolt of embarrassment, like he’d put his heart on sleeve just by texting him. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know what might come out of his mouth if he opened it, and he didn’t know why proximity to Shane Hollander and his preternatural calm seemed to crack Ilya wide open.

 

So he kept his mouth shut, and walked toward the elevator. When he was close enough, he pulled Shane in by the back of the neck and kissed him, harder than he had meant to. He was going to pull back, but Shane was responding in kind, grabbing fistfuls of Ilya’s sweatshirt and shoving it down off his shoulders, and straining upward to kiss him harder.

 

Ilya tugged at his sweater until Shane paused just long enough to pull it over his head, then fumbled desperately at the buttons on his shirt.

 

“Whoa, wait,” Shane said, and Ilya’s heart stopped in his throat. But then he started on the buttons himself, methodically, and said, “this is like my favorite shirt.” Then he peeled it off his shoulders and draped it with great care over the back of the sofa. Ilya grabbed him again when he was done, forcing himself to slow down so he could kiss him deeper this time, probing slowly with his tongue. He worked on Shane’s belt, and they paused again so Shane could step gingerly out of his pants and lay them alongside his precious shirt. Now Shane was down to his socks and briefs while Ilya was still in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, but he didn’t have any time to care about that. 

 

The lights in the kitchen area were on, and one lamp that sat by the sofa near the TV. Other than that, the only light in the apartment was from the street lights, coming through the windows, and Shane was bathed in a dim gold that seemed to catch every line of muscle on his body. If Ilya took a picture, it could easily go straight into an ad for perfume, or underwear.

 

He sank down to his knees in front of Shane and dragged his mouth along the waistband of his briefs. Shane sighed and sank both hands into Ilya’s hair, fisting in his curls. The gentle tug made Ilya’s scalp tingle. He was already getting hard, and he didn’t even have Shane in his mouth yet.

 

He tugged the waistband of the shorts down just far enough to nuzzle his nose into the patch of dark hair.

 

“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane gasped.

 

He ran one hand lazily over the thin cotton, stroking and cupping. The noises Shane was making above him, gasps and hisses, sometimes a low moan or whimper, were intoxicating, and he thought maybe he could stay here all night, taking Shane apart bit by bit.

 

The firsts tightened in his hair. “Ilya, you have to—”

 

“Do I have to? This is very fun, listening to you become desperate.”

 

“Please—”

 

“Yes,” Ilya murmured, pressing his face into the very pointed bulge and inhaling deeply. “I thought you might beg.”

 

“Fuck off,” Shane said incredulously, but he was laughing a little and good God, Ilya was having a good time.

 

“Good boys ask nicely,” Ilya said. He proffered a long, sloppy kiss on the Shane’s length, soaking the fabric with his spit, and relished the tortured whine Shane made in his throat.

 

“Please, Ilya, I need your mouth. Please suck me, please—ah—”

 

Ilya pulled the briefs down with a sharp tug, letting them fall to the floor, and swallowed Shane in one smooth attack. He was rock hard and hot in Ilya’s mouth, and it only took a gentle nudge on the back of his thighs for Shane to surge forward, thrusting into the back of his throat. Ilya groaned around him, nudged him again, until Shane was hunched over, his grip still tight in Ilya’s hair.

 

“Yes oh my God Ilya—”

 

Ilya looked up. Shane was curled in toward Ilya, the muscles across his abdomen drawn taut. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and he was biting hard on his lip—maybe too hard, maybe he would break the skin and Ilya would smear a tiny drop of blood across his lips—

 

Ilya groaned, deep in his chest, and Shane must have felt it too because he started thrusting harder into Ilya’s mouth, nearly frantic.

 

“Ilya—I’m going to—you should—”

 

But there was nothing on God’s green earth that would have made Ilya stop. He sucked in his cheeks, pulling hard until he felt the pulsing at the base of Shane’s cock. A split second later, Shane nearly doubled over with a shout, one hand falling from Ilya’s hair to grip his shoulder, and came in long, thick spurts down Ilya’s throat.

 

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

 

Ilya stood. “Yes, I am very good at this.”

 

Shane put a hand on Ilya’s chest and shoved him gently backward, advancing in a glassy-eyed, hungry trance until the back of Ilya’s knees hit the couch and he fell down to sit. 

 

Shane dropped to the floor in front of him and tugged impatiently on his waistband until Ilya shimmied out of his pants and boxers. He paused for a brief moment, hands braced on Ilya’s knees just like they had been right here, six weeks ago now, but before Ilya could say something witty, or even finish his thought, Shane was pulling him deep into his mouth, sinking down until the head of Ilya’s cock hit the back of Shane’s throat.

 

Shane choked a little, and Ilya rested a hand on the back of his head with the intention of encouraging him to pull back. But Shane made a needy whining noise and sank down again, and when Shane looked up at Ilya through his thick lashes, his eyes were slightly out of focus, with tears gathering in the outer corners, and Ilya had never felt so treasured in his life. He’d gotten lots of blow jobs, but he had never felt…worshipped.

 

He let his hand relax and sift through the silky strands of Shane’s hair, but it didn’t take long for him to approach the edge of his orgasm. His dick was swollen nearly to the point of pain, throbbing and hot, and he couldn’t stop himself from bracing one hand on the couch cushion and pushing his hips up, just a little bit…

 

Shane lifted his hand and groped on the cushion until he found Ilya’s fingers, and squeezed hard. It was this—not the deep pull into Shane’s throat, or the slickness of his spit as Ilya pushed past his lips—that did it. Every one of Ilya’s senses seemed to implode at once, until the only thing he could perceive at all was the orgasm thundering through him, overtaking every nerve ending and every brain cell. Shane squeezed his hand even harder as he swallowed, and Ilya heard himself gasping Shane’s name.

 

Shane stood up in front of Ilya. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say my first name.”

 

Ilya let his head fall to the back of the couch cushion. “You earned it. Why are you not sitting down?”

 

“Honestly?” Shane said, blushing a little bit. “It’s too weird to sit naked on a leather couch.”

 

Ilya stood and swiped his discarded pants from the floor. “Come, we will watch TV in my room.”

 

He stopped when he realized Shane wasn’t following. When he turned to look, Shane was eying him carefully, assessing. “Maybe I should—”

 

Ilya felt sort of panicked at the thought of Shane leaving. “Is fine,” he said, trying and failing to fight off the warmth creeping up his cheeks. “Better than hotel lobby couch,” he said, gesturing to the leather sofa. “Are you hungry? I am going to order some food.”

 

He started walking toward the bedroom door. 

 

“Oh, that’s OK. I’ll be fine.”

 

“It’s dinner time, you should eat. What do you want? Tacos? Sushi?”

 

“Oh—I guess I could have some sushi.”

 

Ilya gave Shane his phone to pick from the menu while he looked around for something to watch on TV.

 

The movie was wall-to-wall explosions. When he was alone, Ilya usually tried to find movies with more dialogue to help improve his English, but this one was just a series of short phrases shouted between bursts of gunfire. He couldn’t even really tell who the villain was.

 

When Ilya’s phone started buzzing, he realized he’d dozed off. He looked over anxiously but Shane’s eyes were on the screen.

 

“Food is here,” he mumbled, swiping at his phone to open the door, and soon the elevator was rumbling in the other room. Ilya stood and grabbed a pair of shorts from the floor and went out to meet the driver.

 

Shane emerged from the bedroom just as the delivery guy got back in the elevator. Ilya turned and saw that Shane was wearing a pair of his sweatpants. They fit loosely and bunched at the ankle, and sight was both extremely arousing and something else. Ilya wasn’t sure he had the English word for it, but it made his heart squeeze a little inside his ribs.

 

“Thief,” he mumbled.

 

Shane shrugged. “You should put your clothes away.”

 

Ilya snorted.

 

“Hey,” Shane said. “Let’s eat at your table.”

 

Ilya blinked. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Yes, good.”

 

They carried their plastic trays of sushi to the table, and Shane prepared dishes of soy sauce and wasabi for them while Ilya went back to the kitchen for drinks. He sat down a minute later with a can of Coke for himself and a can of ginger ale for Shane.

 

He enjoyed the view of Shane sitting shirtless at the dinner table, maybe even more than he enjoyed the sight of him in Ilya’s sweatpants.

 

“Bon appetit," Shane said.

 

Ilya answered in Russian and stuffed a piece of sushi in his mouth.

 

Shane’s phone buzzed on the table, and a notification popped up showing a text from Miles.

 

Dammit, the sting. Ilya tried to ignore it. “You are still dating Miles?”

 

Shane shook his head, pretty adamantly, and that made Ilya feel better. “I’m going to his fashion show next week.” He checked the message quickly. “He’s just sending some details.”

 

“You are in the show? Actual model now?” Ilya asked. He would not survive the sight of Shane on a runway somewhere. He would have to go. Sit in the first row. He would give Shane flowers after, and everyone would know, and Ilya would not give one single fuck.

 

Shane laughed. “No, absolutely not. Just attending. He asked me to go after the, uh, magazine thing.”

 

Ilya grinned. “I see. You are famous now.”

 

Shane blushed. “I am not famous.” He ate a piece of sushi, clearly hoping to end the conversation.

 

“Does Miles know you are very boring? You know you can’t go to a fashion show wearing your nice red sweater, right?”

 

Shane laughed. “Fuck you. What’s wrong with my sweater?”

 

“Nothing is wrong. You look like very sexy school teacher. Not good for fashion show, though.”

 

“I’m not wearing the sweater to the fashion show. My friend Rose is shopping for me, she’s a professional stylist.”

 

Ilya’s eyes widened. “Your stylist?”

 

“Not anymore. I hired her when I started going on TV.”

 

“Will she make you very fancy?”

 

Shane nodded while he finished chewing. “I should probably be more worried about what she’s going to come up with. She always says I should be more adventurous.”

 

What would adventurous be? Maybe something colorful, or with a pattern, or a silk shirt that draped nicely over his square shoulders.

 

Maybe he would wear eyeliner, or jewelry.

 

Ilya’s skin was starting to tingle all over. “You should come over after, so I can see how pretty you are.”

 

Shane’s blush deepened. “Maybe.”

 

It wasn’t long before the food was gone and Shane was draining the last of his ginger ale.

 

It was getting late. The city lights twinkled at the end of the picture window.

 

Ilya consolidated the trash in the delivery bag and took the whole thing to the garbage can in the kitchen. While he was gone, Shane stood and Ilya could tell he was going to try to leave. They stood facing each other, frozen in a sort of stalemate.

 

“I should—” he started.

 

“You can stay,” Ilya said at the same time.

 

Shane swallowed. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

 

“Oh yes. I have many good ideas, you will see.”

 

Shane laughed. “You know what I mean.”

 

“Does not have to be a big deal. I am not through with you yet. You stay, leave early tomorrow.”

 

Ilya was doing it again, reaching. He was a weak, foolish man, and he braced himself for the sting.

 

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

 

Ilya took Shane’s hand, and led him back into the bedroom.

 

Chapter 13: the serpent in my garden

Shane really shouldn’t have spent the night with Ilya.

 

He was already in too deep with the text messages and the flirting and the sex—God just thinking about it still made him blush nearly a week later. But waking up with Ilya wrapped around him like a vine had been something much more dangerous. When Shane shifted, Ilya had snuggled closer, his eyelashes fluttering against Shane’s shoulder, and the surge of affection Shane felt had sent him into a mild panic. He’d extricated himself clumsily and mumbled something about getting home early when Ilya had whined for him to come back, half asleep and with his eyes still closed.

 

They hadn’t been alone together since, but it was rare that an hour went by without one of them sending a text. Ilya was reckless, winking at him during press conferences and even once during a game, but it all fit so perfectly amongst his other teasing that no one noticed. It was very clever camouflage, even if Shane didn’t know whether it was intentional. Was Ilya purposefully sneaking his feelings by a watchful public, or was the public uninterested in Ilya’s clear display of feelings?

 

Shane had become sort of obsessive about watching the footage before it went to the producers. He scoured it for any possible tells between the two of them, but there was nothing. Ilya was playful, but every flirtation could be read as a provocation. When Shane appeared on camera, he betrayed nothing.

 

When Ilya was around, Shane felt giddy, like his blood was fizzing and his heart was going to vibrate out of his chest. But on screen, none of that excitement was there. He had worked so hard for his equanimity, honed it carefully through a gantlet of rude questions and pushy friends and loved ones, and now it felt like a failure.

 

Did Ilya think he was unbothered?

 

Or perhaps Ilya was unbothered, and the winks and smiles and looks really were just teasing.

 

Why were they always hiding from one another?

 

He was on his second of three days off from series filming. He had thought a bit of time would help clear his head but it had not, mostly because he was missing Ilya.

 

But the fashion show was tonight, at least. Rose had insisted on planning his entire outfit and had refused to give him any hints. He trusted her to make him look good, even if he wasn’t entirely sure he would be in his comfort zone by the time she was done with him.

 

Rose’s apartment was bigger than Shane’s, but she lived in Brooklyn, so they had agreed to come to Shane’s apartment to get ready. She arrived ten minutes late, as always, holding three garment bags and wearing sweats. Her hair and makeup were already done.

 

“Okay,” she said, sweeping in past him. “I have one option which you should very obviously pick, and another in case you chicken out. And before you pick, just keep in mind that I called in a couple very valuable favors on this one.”

 

She hung both garment bags up on the top of the closet door, then pulled one zipper down with a big flourish.

 

“Ta-da!”

 

It was the magenta shirt. “Rose, I—”

 

“Please don’t talk yourself out of it! You’ll be so hot everyone will just die, and honestly I’ll be shocked if any of the bros at ESPN even see—”

 

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m definitely going to wear it.”

 

She beamed. “Oh my god! Put it on! Put it on!”

 

Shane took the garment back into the bathroom and got dressed. The slacks Rose had brought were a bit drapier than the skinny pants that were everywhere, but Shane loved it. The shirt was even better.

 

He opened the door and went back to the main room. “Do I look like a ballroom dancer?” he asked.

 

“Sort of, but it’s amazing! You like it, right?” she said.

 

“Yeah, I really do.”

 

“OK good because I have one more thing for you, and it’s going to feel like a lot but it’s very important that you man up and wear it.”

 

She pulled a small black shopping bag from behind her back. It said BVULGARI on it.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Just look,” she said, holding it out for him to take.

 

He reached in and pulled out a flat, square-shaped box. He snapped it open and inside there was a thick gold necklace shaped like a serpent. It was articulated all around, the head set with diamonds, just gently kissing a tail set with pink stones.

 

“Who did you kill to get this?” he whispered.

 

“Actually,” she said, “it’s a gift. For you.”

 

“Rose! You can’t—”

 

“It’s not from me, Shane. Look at the card.”

 

There was a small square envelope in the bag. The card inside was thick and embossed with the same logo as the bag.

 

Almost as pretty as you.

Remember to come see me after.

 

Ilya

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

The handwriting was boxy and tilted heavily to the right. Extremely him.

 

Shane slipped the card in his pocket and traced a finger down the necklace.

 

“I can’t wear this,” he whispered. “Can I?”

 

God, he wanted to. He was desperate to wear Ilya’s gift around his neck. The thought of it was threatening to make him hard. Jesus, was he getting off on the thought of being Ilya Rozanov’s mistress? Maybe a little.

 

“Of course you can, and you definitely should, because you are going to break the internet in that thing.”

 

“Did he buy this for me? It must cost like…”

 

“Yes. And don’t even ask.”

 

Shane was still ogling the necklace, thinking about what Ilya would do when he saw it, how maybe he would leave it on after everything else was off…

 

“Okaaaaaay…” Rose said, “this getting sort of uncomfortable so I’m going to finish getting dressed and when I come out of the bathroom you are going to be wearing that, and we’re going to do finishing touches, and we are going to get an Uber.”

 

He set the box down gingerly on the breakfast bar and picked up the necklace. It was heavy, and felt cool on Shane’s neck. The snake’s head dipped down perfectly in the open neck of the shirt. He had never felt remotely as sexy as he did at the exact moment.

 

Rose came out of the bathroom, looking extremely fashionable in a pair of lime green satin trousers and a slinky white t-shirt.

 

“Holy shit. Are you sure you’re gay?” she asked.

 

Shane smiled. “Very.”

 

“Fine,” she sighed. “Okay. You are going to close your eyes, and I’m going to do one last thing, and you are going to trust me unconditionally, yes?”

 

“Um, maybe. What are…”

 

“Ah ah! Unconditionally.”

 

Shane sighed and closed his eyes. “Fine.”

 

A moment later, he felt something thick and soft tugging on his eyelid. “Are you putting makeup on me?”

 

“Yes. Just go with it.”

 

She did the same to the other eye, then poked briefly at his eyelashes with something that smelled like melting rubber, which must have been mascara. A second later, a large fluffy brush ran across his cheeks and nose.

 

“Voila! Do you want to look?”

 

Shane ducked into the bathroom. At first he couldn’t even really see the difference, but then the light caught something shimmery on his eyelid, which made him notice how thick and long his eyelashes looked.

 

“I like it. A lot.”

 

She grinned. “I knew it. Are you ready to take first place in the samba competition?”

 

Shane held out his arm. “Let’s do it.”

 

~~~~~

 

For once, heaven smiled on Ilya, and Carter Vaughn had called him screaming about some club where some movie star was going to show up. Desperate for any possible distraction, Ilya had jumped at the chance to go out and headed downtown to what turned out to be less of a club and more of a lounge. It was low-ceilinged, with deep booths set along a wide, empty aisle. He didn’t entirely understand why the music was so loud if there was no dancing, but he found Carter and a few of the other guys easily.

 

“They say they only serve mezcal but I gave the bartender $100 and he had this.” Carter gestured to a bottle of acceptable Russian vodka, sitting untouched next to one empty glass and a small bucket of ice.

 

Ilya was sort of…touched. He had been brooding about Boston all year, and distracted with Shane, and he hadn’t even noticed that New York was becoming his team. He poured himself a vodka and took one deep swallow; maybe he would manage to spend a couple hours not thinking about Shane Hollander and whether he was wearing Ilya’s necklace.

 

It hadn’t been so hard to find Rose Landry on Instagram, and she had very kindly offered to take Ilya shopping for something that would go with Shane’s outfit for the show. It drove Ilya a bit crazy that he couldn’t be there.

 

Next time, whispered a little voice in his head. He shouldn’t have let it stand, but he was a weak, foolish man.

 

A gaggle of women appeared—someone’s girlfriend and her friends. It was tight in the booth, and one of the ladies sat on Ilya’s lap without being invited. She was beautiful, long-legged, with wide brown eyes that, of course, made him think of Shane. He was not interested.

 

After about an hour, the bar was filling up and, almost out of nowhere, the center aisle filled with people and the dancing began. Ilya leaned over to Carter and said (shouted), “this is the smallest club I’ve ever been to.”

 

Carter laughed. “Yea.h New York has these weird laws, so some places aren’t like, CLUB clubs.”

 

Ilya danced with the brown eyed girl, but she moved on to another one of the Admirals when he politely removed her hand from the front of his pants. He had two more vodkas, danced a little more, and forced himself not to check his phone for an hour.

 

When he did, he had a text from Shane. It said thank you, and had a picture attached of the necklace on Shane’s neck. It only captured his chin down to the top of a very pink shirt, but Ilya still stared at it for at least a minute solid.

 

He also had a text from Rose. 

 

Rose Landry: Show just ended, there is an afterparty but I doubt Shane will last an hour

Rose Landry: Also if you’re fucking with him I will have you blackballed from all those designers you love. You will go to the MLH awards in Banana Republic, so help me god

 

Ilya Rozanov: I like you Rose

 

Rose Landry: you better

Rose Landry: he loves the necklace

Rose Landry: don’t fuck it up

 

Ilya told Carter he was leaving, and Carter waggled his eyebrows, clearly making a mostly correct assumption.

 

He hopped in a cab a block away from the bar, did like Carter told him and didn’t tell the driver he was going to Queens until the meter was running, then gave him a $50 tip when they arrived at Ilya’s apartment.

 

I doubt Shane will last an hour. That was fifty eight minutes ago.

 

He paced. Suddenly, he was overcome with nerves. What if Shane didn’t come? What if he wore the necklace and then just went home—what if he went home with Miles? Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe sending Shane out into the world looking gorgeous would only attract other, better options. Men who were out and together and not desperate and reaching all the time.

 

But just as Ilya was really losing it, just as he was talking himself into putting on his sweatpants and brushing his teeth and maybe drinking vodka until he couldn’t remember what he was waiting for, his phone began buzzing.

 

Ilya nearly swooned from relief. He swiped at his phone and a few seconds later, the freight elevator rumbled to life. The doors opened and Shane stepped off looking like an angel, or maybe like pure sex. Both.

 

He looked like everything Ilya had ever wanted.

 

Shane draped his jacket on his usual spot over the back of the couch, and approached Ilya without saying anything. Soon they were standing chest to chest.

 

Ilya reached out and traced his fingers along the snake necklace.

 

“You look very tempting,” he said. “The serpent in my garden.”

 

Shane raised an eyebrow. “That’s very poetic.”

 

“Do you like it?” Ilya said. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Shane’s eyes, so he kept his gaze on where the necklace grazed his collarbone.

 

“I love it,” Shane said. “But it’s too much.”

 

“No,” Ilya said. Nothing is too much for you.

 

Shane swallowed. “We should probably talk about…this,” he said, though Ilya’s fingers were trailing up his neck now, and his breath was coming fast.

 

“About what?” Ilya said.

 

“Is this what we do now? Gifts?”

 

“We do what we want to do.” Ilya said. He had both hands on Shane’s neck now, wrapping his fingers around the nape, brushing his thumbs over his jawline and across his lips.

 

“As long as it’s a secret,” Shane said. “Right?”

 

Ilya stopped. He had not allowed himself to think very hard about this. If he came out he couldn’t go back to Russia, but he needed to play hockey so he could stay. Every time he tried to think about what would happen if he stopped hiding, his brain just went around in a loop until he gave up.

 

“For now,” he said.

 

Shane stepped back. “Seriously, we have to talk about this.”

 

“Later,” Ilya said, leaning in to kiss him. Shane melted into it immediately, but only for a few seconds.

 

“Seriously, Ilya. Not everything can be flirting, or a joke.”

 

Ilya stopped cold. It was not a joke that he wanted Shane like he wanted to breathe. Shane wanted to talk, but didn’t he understand that Ilya spoke so much better with his body—surely Shane was able to read every touch and kiss like words in a book? Ilya hid nothing of himself when they were together; his devotion was written all across their skin. “And you will lecture me on saying things you mean?”

 

Shane’s eyes narrowed. Maybe Ilya had overreacted. “What does that mean?” he asked.

 

“You always say the right thing, but is it always the true thing?”

 

Shane chewed his lip. “When it matters.”

 

Now Ilya raised his eyebrow. Why was he picking a fight? Now it was tense between them. But he refused to have have this what is going to happen conversation right now because—well, because it would ruin everything, and Ilya just wanted to hold on to whatever this thing was a little bit longer. He knew he wouldn’t get to have it forever, that’s just not how the world worked for him. But he wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet.

 

He put his hands on Shane’s waist.

 

“Tomorrow, I promise,” Ilya said. “But tonight you will let me kiss you, and suck you, and fuck you, because I have spent all these hours thinking about you wearing my necklace.”

 

Shane smiled, his soft little smile that meant Ilya had him in the palm of his hand. “I thought it was my necklace.”

 

“The necklace is yours,” Ilya murmured, leaning in to kiss Shane’s neck. He traced his tongue along the edge of the snake, up toward Shane’s jaw, where he let his tongue linger until he could feel the throb of Shane’s pulse against the tip. “Ty moya,” he said, in Russian, because he was a coward. You are mine. 

 

“I should have been there with you,” he continued in Russian. “Showing you off.”

 

Shane moaned softly, but Ilya was nuzzling so close could feel it vibrate inside Shane’s throat.

 

“You hide yourself so well,” Ilya murmured, in English again. He was also unbuttoning Shane’s shirt, slowly and carefully because he could tell how much Shane liked it and Ilya didn’t want it to rip. He ran his hands inside, across Shane’s bare chest, and reveled in the whimper that escaped from Shane’s lips when Ilya brushed his fingers across his nipples. “They don’t know what you are like when I touch you, how hard you get for me.”

 

“No,” Shane sighed. Ilya pushed the shirt gently off his shoulders, catching it and laying it gently on the sofa to collect later. Then he moved his hands down and cupped Shane through his pants. 

 

“Why don’t you show them?” Ilya asked. 

 

He leaned in and grabbed Shane’s lips in a kiss before he could answer. He’d meant it to be short, but as soon as Shane opened for him Ilya was captured. Shane kissed him deeply, desperately, and Ilya responded in turn until they were both breathless. Ilya found Shane’s zipper, pulled it down, and reached a hand inside, which made Shane pull back and gasp.

 

“Because it’s only for you,” Shane whispered. He brought his hands to Ilya’s face and said it again: “it’s only for you.”

 

Ilya groaned. He was completely undone, frantic and aching. He pulled Shane in hard for a bruising kiss, and they stumbled together toward the bedroom.

 

But once they were naked, skin to skin, everything slowed down. Ilya soaked up everything he could, every sigh and every moan, breathing in Shane’s scent, savoring the taste of Shane’s sweat on his tongue. And when Shane came with a hoarse cry, gasping Ilya’s name, he closed his eyes tight and willed his brain to write the memory in stone. 

 

They fell asleep pressed together, Shane’s back tucked to Ilya’s front, and Ilya gave himself eight more hours. Eight more hours until he faced the future.

 

Thirty minutes later, his phone rang. And rang again, and rang and rang until Ilya finally answered and Alexei’s voice came through the line.

 

Chapter 14: so far, and yet close

Chapter Notes

warning - light weirdness about food

Ilya’s father was dead. His brother had called in the middle of the night, and he’d immediately booked a 6am flight to Moscow out of JFK.

 

Shane had not been able to sleep after Ilya left for the airport. He had given up around five and taken the subway home. On the short walk from the station to his apartment, he ducked into a bodega and got himself a bacon egg and cheese for breakfast, one of his top three cheat foods.

 

It was clear from the few interactions Shane had witnessed since the fall that Ilya didn’t get along with his family. But his face had still crumpled when his brother delivered the news, and his voice had still cracked when Shane asked what happened and he murmured my father died.

 

Shane hated that there was nothing he could do. He also never knew what to say in these situations, and had managed nothing better than a weak I’m sorry. But at least he’d been able to rub his hand across Ilya’s back, and kiss his temple, and feel Ilya lean into him.

 

Now Ilya was on a plane, all alone, and Shane was staring at his text message screen trying to think of something he could send that might be even a little bit soothing.

 

Don’t overthink it. That’s what Rose always told him.

 

He started typing. 

 

Please call me if you need to talk. Anytime.

 

Before he could spiral, he hit send.

 

He didn’t have anything scheduled until he was meeting with Hank, his favorite of the series producers, at the Seaport studio to do some scripting for the first two series episodes, so he gave himself the morning off.

 

Shane wondered whether Ilya had informed the Admirals yet. They had a game tomorrow night, then a three-stop road trip. Barring a spectacular collapse—the kind that could come from losing a star player for a week or two—it looked like the Admirals were heading to the playoffs.

 

He got in a workout, and had a protein smoothie for lunch to atone for the bacon egg and cheese. He couldn’t manage to think too hard about getting dressed, so he ended up throwing on jeans and an oxford shirt for his meeting.

 

Hank was complimentary about Shane’s script notes and the interviews Shane had done before the season started. They agreed the first episode should be mostly about Ilya’s move to New York, and how the team felt about absorbing a player with such an aggressive style, and such a big personality.

 

Watching the older footage made it clear how much had changed since the start of the season. Hunter was tense and uncomfortable in the first one-on-one, circling back over and over again to the phrase fresh perspective even as he fidgeted frantically with the edge of the pocket on his hoodie. In some of the early practice footage, Ilya was stiff and distracted, and the coaches gritted their teeth while one play after another went awry.

 

“Did you get anything about what happened in Boston?” Hank asked.

 

“Not really,” Shane said. “He’s said a couple times he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

 

Shane could have confirmed, at least, that the gossip about Dallas Kent being on the receiving end of Ilya’s bar meltdown was true. But he had already drawn a thick wall between show Shane and Ilya Shane, and it had certainly been Ilya Shane on the beach in Tampa.

 

“And management didn’t give any details.”

 

Shane shook his head. “Locked down tight.”

 

Hank pursed his lips. “Must have been pretty ugly.” He drained his third Diet Coke of the afternoon. “We should really spend some time on it in episode one.”

 

Shane bristled. “You think we really need to? That’s not really what we’re here for.”

 

Hank sighed and rolled his eyes a little as if to say diva. “Listen, I know you had a concept going in. But with Rozanov, you’ve got this whole other through line and it would be stupid to ignore it. This is more compelling than a day in the life—everyone loves a redemption arc.”

 

“Redemption?”

 

“Yeah—he’s a bad boy, fucks up in Boston, lands in New York, cleans up his act, wins the cup. Well, maybe. You get it.”

 

“Has he cleaned up his act, really?” Shane asked. Ilya was still a menace on the ice, the sort of player the fans loved to watch and opposing teams burned in effigy before games. If the Admirals had been looking for a credible villain, they had gotten one.

 

“I was talking to one of the Admirals PR people, she was saying they were all primed to be doing damage control for Rozanov after every night out, but there’s been nothing. No fights, no scenes, almost no girls, even.”

 

Shane snorted, for show. He and Ilya had never talked about exclusivity, and Shane had expended a lot of effort not thinking about the many beautiful women of New York’s club scene, and how many of them had ridden in Ilya’s freight elevator.

 

“We can see if it works,” Shane mumbled. He hated the idea, because it’s lazy. Sure, Hank hadn’t seen as much of the footage as Shane had. But even the few clips they’d watched today were obviously good for more than hockey bad boy settles down with clean-cut captain and wins cup. That was a Disney movie, not journalism.

 

Of course, the story Shane wanted to tell was definitely not an option. A bigoted teammate, some sort of homophobic incident, the wrong player punished and exiled…

 

It wouldn’t be very good TV. Shane didn’t even know it was going to end. Likely not with a triumphant cup win and rainbow flags everywhere.

 

“Do you know why Rozanov is out for the next few games?”

 

“No.” It was such a small lie, a reasonable lie. But it still felt like shame, and Shane loathed it. It was the same way he had felt in those six or months or after he had started dating men but before he had come out to anyone except his parents, when personal conversations had become a minefield of fudged pronouns.

 

Ilya was still doing this—Ilya, who was so disinclined to spin of any kind that Boston’s press office had pulled him completely from post-game interviews, more than once.

 

“I wonder if the Admirals will make it to the playoffs without him,” Hank mused.

 

Before Christmas, Shane and Dan had convinced Ilya to wear a Go Pro camera on his helmet for a practice, and that footage was playing now. Ilya had the puck, and took it with him as the frame swooped around, then shot past a handful of practice jerseys, across the ice to the goal. It was frenetic and slightly nauseating, and painfully familiar. If Shane focused hard on the screen, he could almost imagine it was his hand holding the stick.

 

“They will,” Shane said. “Hunter’s been playing like a beast. He’s on a mission, I think.”

 

Hank sighed the specific sigh of many long-beleaguered New York sports fans. “Don’t get my hopes up, man.”

 

They finished earlier than Shane expected. He had plans to get dinner with Hayden, who was in town for the game that Ilya would miss tomorrow.

 

Shane and Hayden had been easy friends during his rookie season, and it was only because of Hayden’s tenacity that they remained friends after Shane stopped playing. Hayden had spent nearly a year texting Shane even though he never responded, moving on from concern and well-wishes and commiserating to bland updates on his wife, his kids, their effort to finally buy a house in Montreal, the winters, their summer vacations. Hayden never once mentioned a game, or another teammate, or something that happened in the locker room. 

 

I can’t be friends with a hockey player, Shane had told his therapist.

 

Sure you can, he answered. You can do whatever you want.

 

Shane had finally texted back.

 

At dinner, they talked mostly about Hayden’s kids and how hard the latest pregnancy had been for Jackie. Hayden asked if Shane was seeing anyone, and Shane offered up his date with Miles instead of the truth.

 

Shane went straight home afterward. He was in the booth for the game tomorrow, and needed to catch up on sleep. He spent too many minutes fiddling with his phone after he was ready for bed, and finally opened his text thread with Ilya.

 

Shane Hollander: Let me know if I can do anything while you’re gone. Call if you need, anytime.

 

Then he turned the ringer on.

 

He wasn’t sure what time it was when the phone rang, but it pulled him out of a deep sleep and he scrambled to grab it from the nightstand.

 

“Ilya?”

 

“Hi Shane,” he said.

 

“How are you?”

 

“Okay. Not good.” A sigh. “Probably bad.”

 

“How is your family?” Shane asked tentatively.

 

“Terrible, like they always are.” Another sigh. “I take care of everything, and it's never enough.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Shane answered. “That sucks.”

 

“Is okay. I found a picture of you online from the fashion show, and that made me feel better.”

 

Shane blushed. “Do I look good?”

 

“Very. You were delicious.”

 

Shane made a tsk tsk noise. “Flirting at a time like this.” Ilya laughed softly. “When is the funeral?”

 

“Day after tomorrow. I will be back next week, I think.”

 

“You should take more time.”

 

“I will be okay,” he said, sounding very sad. “Can I see your face?”

 

“Sure,” Shane said, scrambling to turn on the light.

 

The camera opened and there was Ilya, wearing the same clothes he’d thrown on the night before and looking exhausted, with deep bags under his eyes. “You were sleeping,” he said.

 

“Well, yeah it’s—” he checked the time—”two thirty in the morning.”

 

“I’m sorry to wake you up—”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“—but you look very sexy.”

 

Shane snorted. “I do not.”

 

Ilya smiled. “Don’t argue with me. Are you on TV tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah. For the game.”

 

“I should let you sleep, then.”

 

“No, I want to talk to you. Was—was your father sick? Or was this sudden?”

 

Shane watched Ilya’s expression closed for a moment, and thought he might dodge the question like he usually did. But then he ran a hand over his stubble and sighed.

 

“He had dementia,” he said. “For a while now. Was much worse this last year.”

 

“Wow, Ilya. That’s awful. I didn’t know you were dealing with that.”

 

He shrugged and let out a sad little chuckle. “I wasn’t, really. My brother was taking care of him. But Papa would call sometimes and ask why I wasn’t home, or where my mother was.”

 

“Is your mother there?” Shane asked.

 

“She died a long time ago.”

 

Wow. Ilya wasn’t even thirty, and his parents were both gone. Shane also suspected his brother was an asshole. Shane loved his parents, but he bristled at the way they hovered. It was like all the support and pride from his hockey years had shifted into worry about his health, both physical and mental, and even though it was borne of love, it still made Shane feel small. But really, it was a privilege to have people off in the wings, fretting about you.

 

Did anyone fret about Ilya? Except Shane, of course.

 

He didn’t know what to say. I wish I was there with you, you don’t have to be alone.

 

“I’m glad you called,” Shane managed, and Ilya’s face softened.

 

“I am too. But you will sleep now.”

 

“So bossy,” Shane said.

 

Ilya’s eyes glimmered. “You like it.”

 

“Yeah, I do.” Actually, he loved it. At first, Shane didn’t understand where this deep well of trust had come from, when he and Ilya didn’t know each other all that well. But now he could see how attentive Ilya was to every flinch and sigh, how he was always gentle even when he wasn’t gentle. And what had started as freedom in the bedroom (or other places) was spilling everywhere now.

 

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya said. He had a soft expression on his face, a rarity that Shane was learning to gather like treasure and hide away.

 

“You’ll call me again?” Shane asked.

 

“Yes, probably.”

 

“Bye, Ilya.”

 

Ilya’s face flickered away, and Shane set his phone down and turned the light off. As he drifted back to sleep, he thought about Ilya, five thousand miles away and yet still able to reach out, take Shane’s heart in his hand, and squeeze.

Chapter 15: hide your love away

Chapter Notes

Angst! But they're in it together!

The first truly warm day hit New York like a freight train. The population of the city seemed to double overnight, and the parks spilled over with people and little dogs and small children in strollers. It reminded Ilya of Moscow.

 

He had spent a week at home, and returned wrung out and angry.

 

He would win the cup with Scott Hunter, because his father’s old friends had lectured him all throughout the pominki about wasting his life in the lazy American league. He would find Shane and fuck his brains out, over and over again, because Alexei never missed an opportunity to call him a f*ggot.

 

He never wanted to go to Russia again. He was tired of visiting a country where everyone was certain he did everything wrong and calling it home.

 

His first day back with the team was an off day, and he ran up the Hudson River, four miles to a park where kids were playing soccer and the path was choked with runners and walkers and bicyclists. When he got back to the locker room, he ran into Shane in the hallway.

 

Shane looked around to check for bystanders. “That’s a slutty tank top,” he said.

 

Ilya had bombarded Shane with text messages as soon as he landed at JFK, most of them filthy, but Shane had insisted he sleep.

 

“I wore it just for you,” Ilya answered.

 

“Tonight?” Shane said quietly.

 

Ilya grinned. He hadn’t intended to kiss Shane, because he was very sweaty and Shane would hate that, but he found himself leaning in anyway. Then footsteps rang out on one end of the hall, someone coming fast, and he jerked away. He thought that maybe Shane flinched a little, but by the time they settled a respectable distance away, Shane’s face was a perfect mask of calm.

 

His TV face. Ilya hated watching his expression smooth over like that. At first it had been a fun game, watching Shane out in the world, so polished and poised and inoffensive, knowing that Ilya would take him apart later, until he was desperate and quivering under Ilya’s fingers. But now he also knew that Shane had a snarky sense of humor, that he had strong and correct opinions about how nearly every MLH team could improve their game, and that he thought it was bad for the players the way the media crowded them all into their little narrative boxes—golden boy, team leader, enforcer, menace. 

 

He didn’t like to watch Shane hide himself.

 

The footsteps belonged to one of the assistant coaches. “Roz, thank God. I need you to spend some time with Timmons, his shooting has gone to shit and he keeps telling me he’s trying to do it like you.”

 

Shane nodded to both of them without speaking, and Ilya let himself be dragged away.

 

After practice, he opened his texts with Shane and stared at the screen, willing Shane to issue an invitation. He always came to Ilya’s apartment, which was slightly better now that he had the dining table and, more recently, two new rugs. But he wanted to see Shane’s apartment. He could picture it in his mind’s eye, lots of sober blues and clean lines. A few family pictures, surfaces wiped clean. He’d suggested it once and Shane had laughed it off, insisting that his place was too small and there was nothing fun nearby.

 

Ilya didn’t care that it was small. He just wanted to be invited in.

 

While he was looking at the phone, a text popped up.

 

Shane Hollander: I’ll come by around 7? I’ve got another meeting then I have to go to the gym

 

Ilya wondered what his meeting was about. Did they sit and map out exactly how to make Ilya look good, or bad? Maybe it wasn’t even about this show. Shane probably had other projects. He still updated his blog pretty regularly—Ilya read it, of course, and occasionally left suggestive comments which were immediately removed by a moderator that was almost definitely Shane himself.

 

Maybe there was a desk by the window, where Shane tapped out his posts. Like the curly-haired woman in Sex and the City, which Ilya had watched in secret during his rookie season so the other guys didn’t tease him.

 

Ilya Rozanov: or i could come to you

 

Shane Hollander: I can’t tell if this is a pun or not

 

Ilya Rozanov: not

Ilya Rozanov: you should not waste time riding train

Ilya Rozanov: when you ride me instead

Ilya Rozanov: that was pun

 

Shane Hollander: yes thank you I realized

Shane Hollander: but I will come to your place

Shane Hollander: it’s more private

 

Ilya knew that Shane was being thoughtful, because he knew llya didn’t want to be out. But he was so fucking tired of being a secret.

 

No, he would not let a bad mood ruin things. He was home from Russia, he could have tacos for dinner, and in three and a half hours he would have his lips all over Shane and everything would be good again.

 

~~~~~

 

Shane paused before he pressed the buzzer for Ilya’s apartment.

 

Had he really wanted to come to Shane’s place? That just felt ridiculous. Why would they squeeze themselves into Shane’s tiny studio when they had this luxury condo to romp around in? Ilya’s block was quiet, his bed was huge, and Shane liked to look at the city lights through the window.

 

He also liked to guess which piece of furniture Ilya was going to replace next. The Design Within Reach catalog offering was disappearing bit by bit.

 

Maybe Shane could have him over next time.

 

Ilya buzzed him immediately and he rode the elevator. Shane was extremely curious about Russia, and Ilya’s family, but had resolved to limit himself to a few questions so Ilya didn’t feel interrogated. He must be jet lagged, and sad, and he probably just wanted to relax.

 

But when the elevator door opened, Shane barely made it three steps into the apartment before Ilya crashed into him with a bruising kiss. He enveloped Shane in a tight embrace, so tight that Shane’s breath was coming up short, though maybe that was because Ilya’s kissing was relentless, all tongues and teeth, and anytime Shane pulled away to gasp for air Ilya chased him down within seconds.

 

Without ceremony, Ilya hoisted Shane up off the ground. He broke the kiss just long enough to say “Legs” and Shane obeyed immediately, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist and squeezing as they lumbered toward the bedroom. He loved Ilya’s strength, the way he could cradle all almost-six-feet, almost-170-lbs of Shane in his arms so easily.

 

“How are you?” Shane murmured into Ilya’s curls.

 

“Better now,” Ilya said, nosing aside the edge of Shane’s t-shirt so he could press urgent kisses to the spot where his neck met his shoulder.

 

An hour later, panting and sprawled diagonally across the bed while Ilya cleaned up in the bathroom, Shane thought about the intensity of Ilya’s attention, the way he caged Shane between his muscled arms and caught his lips in his teeth.

 

This is what you want, yes?

Tell me how much you want it

 

Shane had realized some time ago that Ilya was a tactile person. In the old footage from Boston that Shane had been watching for the show, Ilya was affectionate with his teammates, nudging shoulders and ruffling hair, always hovering close to whoever was nearby. He preferred fleece and cashmere and silk, and inevitably reached for Shane’s hand when they were sitting around, so he could brush his fingers across Shane’s palm.

 

Yet he’d landed here in New York in this hard-edged loft, with new teammates who kept a respectful distance.

“You look so serious,” Ilya said from above him. Shane hadn’t noticed him come out of the bathroom. Ilya sat down next to Shane and ran a warm, wet washcloth across the sticky mess on his stomach.

 

Shane let his head flop over in Ilya’s direction. “I was just thinking that I missed you.”

 

No! That is not what he had meant to say. He could feel himself blushing, then blushing deeper when Ilya glued his eyes to Shane’s torso and wouldn’t look him in the face.

 

“I missed you too,” he finally said, so quietly Shane could barely hear.

 

He would take the win.

 

“I’m hungry,” Shane said.

 

“So needy tonight,” Ilya said, his lips already curling into a smile. “First you come here and beg for my dick, now you want me to buy you dinner, too?”

 

Shane sat up and scooted so his back was resting against the headboard. “I know how much money you make, don’t I?” He made an exaggerated pouty face. “Besides, I came straight from the gym.”

 

“I know. I scheduled a delivery for ten minutes from now.”

 

Shane grinned. “What are we eating?”

 

“Tacos. The good kind. Fresh and nice, not greasy. I know you don’t like that kind of food.”

 

Oh no, he was going to melt.

 

Ilya tossed him a pair of his sweatpants. “Here, your favorites.”

 

It was over, Shane was nothing but goo. He couldn’t risk opening his mouth, because God only knew what words would come out.

 

I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been

Are you as happy as I am

I think I might—

 

They migrated together to the one big room and found a channel playing a classic hockey game. The food arrived, and they ate tacos and talked about how different the play was in the pros now, and whether the Admirals had any real competition for the finals, and who was looking good in the West.

 

“You don’t mind, really?” Ilya asked suddenly.

 

“Mind what?”

 

“Talking about hockey all the time.”

 

Shane shrugged. “Not really.”

 

“You don’t miss it?”

 

He shifted in his seat. Thought of three neat deflections he could make, and forced them all aside. “Sure I do. But…I would still miss it if I never watched, or never talked about it. Maybe more.”

 

“You were very good.”

 

He sighed. “I was very good. I do….I do miss that. Being the best at something.”

 

“Second best,” Ilya said, grinning.

 

Shane leveled him with a look. “Sure.”

 

“You will be best sports journalist, then.”

 

Well, that was the plan. But he hadn’t really told anyone that yet. When he was a pro athlete, a certain amount of drive, and vanity, and competitiveness had been expected, if not encouraged. He missed that, too, since the same degree of intensity was often considered unseemly when you were just a normal person living a normal life.

 

Ilya’s phone rang. He shot an apologetic glance at Shane and answered it in Russian. He didn’t disappear all the way into the bedroom, but he stood and lingered in the kitchen while he spoke.

 

He sounded…nicer than he usually did when he answered the phone in Russian. Sweet, even. Shane had only been doing the Russian lessons on Duolingo for a few weeks, and he couldn’t understand anything.

 

“Who was that?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

 

“Sveta. Svetlana. She is close friend from Russia, she came to the funeral.”

 

“Oh, that’s nice. You must have known each other for a long time.”

 

“Yes, since we were children. She…understands.”

 

She understands. Shane tried and failed to beat back a wave of jealousy. Svetlana. Someone who understands Ilya. Someone he tells things to, probably. Things about his family and his real life.

 

“Were you guys ever….” Shane asks, and he doesn’t know why he is pressing because he knows he will hate it if the answer is yes, and doesn’t want to think about Ilya exchanging sweet-sounding phone calls with an ex-girlfriend who could go to his father’s funeral, or show up in the stands with the other WAGs without causing a scene.

 

“Yes. Well, sort of. We fucked sometime, but it wasn’t like that.”

 

How could it not be like that? How could anyone get fucked by Ilya and then say sure, that was fun, let’s be friends? Why, why had Shane asked?

 

“Hm,” was all he could manage. He could feel the tension seeping through his body, making him sit up too straight, like a serial killer.

 

“We are not—like that now,” Ilya continued. He sat back down on the couch, a few feet away. “You do not need to worry.”

 

Shane didn’t really know why he was panicking. Hadn’t he just been blissful and well-fucked, luxuriating in the feeling of being entirely Ilya’s? It was just that everything they hadn’t talked about was hitting him hard: the fucking necklace and Ilya being in the closet and whether or not Ilya was still fucking every other woman he laid eyes on.

 

“I mean, it’s not really like that, right? I can’t be jealous if we’re not…” he made a ‘you know’ sort of gesture, and hated that his words were failing him.

 

“We’re not what?” Ilya said flatly.

 

“We never said it was like that,” Shane said weakly. “If you want to keep fucking other people, you can.”

 

“I can.”

 

“Yeah, I mean, if you want.”

 

“Are you fucking other people?” Ilya said, his voice tight.

 

“I mean, no, but—”

 

“But you want to? Will you call Miles after you go home tomorrow?”

 

“What the fuck? No! I told you I wasn’t going out with Miles again.”

 

“You went to his fashion show,” Ilya said.

 

“Yes, with Rose.”

 

“Were there many handsome men at the fashion show? Maybe you got some phone numbers, or someone sucked your dick in the bathroom?”

 

“What the fuck Ilya? Why would you—what, did you want to come with me? Walk the red carpet with me in my pink shirt and my gold necklace?”

 

He looked away. “You know I can’t do that right now.”

 

“Exactly. What are we even talking about?”

 

“You were telling me I should go fuck other people.”

 

“That is not what I said.” Jesus, what was happening? This was Shane’s fault. He’d let his jealousy take over. But also, what the fuck did Ilya want from him? To sit around alone, waiting until Ilya summoned him to Long Island City for some fun?

 

“No, you are right,” Ilya snapped. “You are not my—my anything, so you can fuck whoever you want and I can fuck whoever I want.”

 

“Do you want me to be your—something?” Shane said. He had to calm things down. He never did well with arguments, they made him tongue tied and overwhelmed and he always ended up storming out and making everything worse.

 

“We can’t,” Ilya said shortly. “We can’t be anything. You know that.”

 

Ilya was right, Shane had known that. But when they were together, and Shane felt so easy and free, wrapped in all of Ilya’s warmth and care, it had been so easy to lie to himself. To tell himself that it was just fun, and so hot, and then to let his mind wander to what it might be like if he went with Ilya to pick out his new sofa, or brought Ilya to dinner with his parents the next time they were in town.

 

“I know. But…”—don’t say it—“would you want to be? If we could?” The words came out tight and strained, because Shane was on the verge of tears.

 

Ilya finally looked up at him and his expression was desolate. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t.”

 

Silence stretched between them. Ilya was on the other side of the sofa looking utterly defeated, and it was breaking Shane’s heart. He wanted to fix it.

 

“What did Dallas Kent do?” Shane asked softly.

 

But Ilya’s face darkened again. “You think you will fuck me and I will tell you everything and you will put it in your stupid show?”

 

“No—what?! Stop being an asshole, you know that’s not true. You can talk to me Ilya. Trust me, it helps.”

 

“I don’t need your help.”

 

Ilya turned his face away, toward the kitchen, and Shane watched as one of Ilya’s hands dug hard into his thigh.

 

Shane stood. His body screamed at him to leave, go home and lick his wounds and cry and text Rose and maybe eat a fun-size Snickers Bar from his freezer stash.

 

But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from Ilya, not when he was like this. Shane didn’t want to be another person who only showed up for Ilya when he was fun and charming. He didn’t want to walk away from Ilya at the exact moment he needed someone.

 

He took a few steps toward him, and waited to be sent away. But Ilya didn’t say anything, or even turn his head. So he took another couple steps, until he was standing right in front of him and their knees were touching.

 

“Ilya,” he said softly.

 

Shane could see now that Ilya’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but one tear had escaped on the right side. Slowly, he put one knee down on either side of Ilya’s hips, reached up to cup Ilya’s face in his palms, and swept the tear away with his thumb.

 

This was the language they shared. Shane’s body knew Ilya’s; there was no wrong thing to say or do, hovering just out of sight. Only the crystal clarity of instinct, the joy of certainty permeating every cell in his body.

 

It—well, it was like it had been when Shane played hockey.

 

He leaned in slowly and placed a light kiss on Ilya’s temple. Finally, Ilya turned his head back toward Shane, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him into a crushing embrace.

 

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmured in his ear.

 

“Izvini,” Ilya answered.

 

Shane didn’t know how long they stayed there, locked in one another’s arms. Eventually, Ilya’s lips began to move against Shane’s neck, the soft Russian rumbling through Shane’s skin. Then he was kissing him, not very gently, lips pulling and biting and he might even leave a mark, but Shane didn’t care. He buried his hands in Ilya’s curls and squeezed.

 

Shane was growing hard, but so was Ilya, and when Ilya bucked his hips they both hissed at the friction. “Again,” Shane whispered, “Let me—” and this time Ilya lifted long enough for Shane to pull down the waistband of his shorts and work his hand inside. 

 

He watched Ilya’s eyelashes flutter, and his mouth fall open as he stroked him, even though it was awkward and cramped. Soon Ilya’s hands were scrabbling at Shane’s waistband, and they paused so Ilya could tug his pants down.

 

Ilya grabbed one of Shane’s hands and spit into it.

 

“Gross,” Shane whispered, but he was smiling.

 

“Both,” Ilya answered. And when Shane wrapped his palm around them, together, the last wisps of pain fell away. He listened to Ilya’s low words of praise as he stroked them, until Ilya came with Shane’s name on his lips and Shane followed just after, cleansed of jealousy and despair and free, for the moment, from everything that could not be.

Chapter 16: baby steps

The Admirals clinched their playoff spot in early April. Even though Ilya would have been happy to take full credit, it was also due to Hunter’s unbelievable surge since the All Star break, a first in his career and a surprise to everyone, given how up until this year he had been famous for disintegrating in the second half of the season.

Hunter seemed looser, even laughed with the team when they teased him about needing Ilya to drag them to the Cup. He still never went out, but he also spent a lot of time smiling down at his phone, and Ilya was starting to wonder what was responsible for the turnaround.

The fact that they were in for the first round meant that Ilya got a bit of a break. His ice time dropped dramatically, and he was happy to sit on the bench for most of the game and let his bruises heal. If all went to plan, the playoffs would be a slog, and Ilya was getting older, for a hockey player.

Shane was happy about the playoffs, too—it was great news for his series. A day in the life, like he had first described it, but now also Ilya Rozanov takes the NY Admirals to the playoffs for the first time in ten years. Jared was ecstatic.

Shane hovered at the edge of the locker room, like he often did after home games. Ilya took his time in the shower, and getting dressed, until the room cleared out. He’d gotten an idea into his head involving Shane and the sturdy wood bench in the center of the room that he couldn’t rid himself of. Ilya thought that maybe, if he kissed him long and hard enough, Shane might, one day, be coaxed into trying.

“Oh, are you still here?” Ilya asked when he stood up to leave.

Shane snorted. “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

Ilya ambled closer to where Shane was leaning against one of the walls near the door. “Weird that you’re hanging out in the locker room. Very gay.”

Shane shrugged a shoulder. “Well, you know.”

Ilya leaned in close. “Do you like watching the big strong men?”

Shane smiled. “There’s this one player who’s super hot.”

“Oh yes? What’s his name?”

“Scott Hunter,” Shane deadpanned.

They both dissolved laughing, but Ilya didn’t step back. He had Shane caged against the wall, and he was clearly enjoying it based on the gleam in his eye.

Ilya leaned in and kissed him softly. It was by far the worst of the many bad ideas they had over the past few months, but he just couldn’t help himself.

They’d fought when he got back from Russia, but Shane had stayed. He hadn’t run away when he clearly wanted to, even though Ilya had said some awful things. Shane had stayed, and even though none of their problems had really been solved, everything was a little bit different now. They texted constantly, and grabbed time alone whenever they could. They’d even ridden the subway to a place called Jackson Heights for dinner, blissfully anonymous in a restaurant that played cricket matches on the TV above the bar.

They both knew they would have to cool things off when the playoffs started. And after that, in theory, Ilya would go home to Russia for another miserable summer.

He couldn’t ask Shane to keep this secret indefinitely.

The door handle started to turn, and Ilya did his best to wrench himself away and step back. He had a pro athlete’s reflexes, and he and Shane were a respectable distance apart by the time Scott Hunter stepped into the room, but that only gave them the thinnest of defenses. Shane was flushed, and Ilya’s hair was mussed, and they were both breathing far too hard to have been having a normal conversation.

Shane’s eyes widened, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“I’ve got to—I’m going to go,” he said hoarsely, then disappeared through the door before Ilya or Scott could say anything.

Ilya sighed. Shane was an idiot; that had definitely made it worse.

Scott Hunter was just looking at him, totally silent, mouth agape.

“So—” Ilya started.

“Let’s sit down,” Hunter interrupted.

There was a little seating area around the corner from the actual lockers, and they sat on opposite ends of a long sofa that smelled like Febreze and sweat.

“So,” Hunter began. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

“Talking to Shane Hollander?” Ilya answered. “I thought Jared said I had to.”

“Roz, don’t even try.”

“Just because Hollander is gay—” Ilya started, but Hunter held up a hand.

“Don’t try that with me.”

Ilya glowered at him, even though Hunter had done nothing wrong. But Hunter’s face softened. “Listen, I know we haven’t always, uh, gotten along. But if there is something you want to tell me, you can. Like, captain-player confidentiality?”

Ilya stayed silent. His neck and shoulders were so tense, it was starting to hurt. Telling Marly would be one thing, he was kind-hearted, and easy to please. But Hunter was such a stickler, the kind of player that coaches would always point to as a role model while bemoaning Ilya’s impulsiveness on the ice. He would not want something volatile like this upsetting his team’s long-awaited shot at the Cup.

Hunter’s eyes bored into Ilya’s, and he sighed deeply. “OK, let me tell you something first. And I’m going to assume that you’re not an asshole in real life, and that this will stay between the two of us.”

“Okay,” Ilya said.

“I’m serious, Roz. I am trusting you to be a decent guy.”

“Yes, yes, Hunter. I am a nice person, I think even you know this by now.”

He grumbled a little, fidgeting in his seat. “Ok, well. Here it goes. I’m gay.”

Now it was Ilya’s turn to stare agape.

“You are the first person I have ever said that to out loud. I have a boyfriend named Kip. He is the only man I’ve ever actually dated. I’m thirty-one years old and I’ve known I was gay since I was sixteen.”

“Wow,” Ilya said. He ran both his hands through his hair. “Okay. I will not tell anyone. Are you going to tell anyone?”

Scott pursed his lips. “Well, I have to. Because of Kip, and…I just have to. And honestly, I’m really tired of keeping it a secret.”

“Kip,” Ilya said.

“Okay, Roz. Your turn.” Hunter said.

“Did he take your virginity? Fifteen years is a long time to be gay with no boyfriend.”

“Jesus Christ, Roz. You don’t need a boyfriend to—no. We’re not doing this. Like I said: your turn now.”

Ilya ran a hand over his mouth, to buy himself time. “I am bisexual.”

“Ok. Great.” Hunter said, nodding. “Good talk.”

“That is all?” Ilya said as Hunter stood in front of him, obviously eager to escape. “You don’t want to talk about Boston?”

Hunter narrowed his eyes. “This has something to do with Boston?”

“What did they tell you?” Ilya asked.

“That you punched Dallas Kent in the face in the alley behind a bar, broke your hand, and fucked up their chances of winning the Cup.”

“You didn’t wonder why?”

Hunter blinked at him. “No. There are a million good reasons for someone to punch Kent in the face. Did he find out about you?” Ilya nodded. Hunter thought a minute, then his face scrunched in confusion. “I’m surprised you let him get to you.”

Ilya collapsed into the back of the sofa and ran a hand over his face. “It wasn’t just me.”

Hunter’s eyes widened. “Another player?”

Ilya nodded.

“Well, that was really dumb.”

Ilya nodded.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I’m not going to.”

Hunter nodded and turned to leave it at that. But he turned back with his hand on the door and said, “I know we’re not friends or anything, but…well, it did feel pretty good to say that out loud. So thanks, I guess.”

Ilya nodded. “Da, sure. Thanks.”

“It’s good that there are two of us, I think.”

“At least,” Ilya said.

Hunter chuckled. “Sure, at least.” Hunter drummed his fingers along the door frame. “I guess I should be relieved that Hollander is retired. But don’t tell him all our secrets.”

“I would never,” Ilya said.

The door clicked shut behind Hunter, but Ilya didn’t move from the couch.

Scott Hunter was gay, and he’d spent fifteen years hiding it from basically everyone that he knew. His first thought was that’s so sad, but then, wasn’t that what Ilya had been doing, too?

There were two of them, at least.

That was something.

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

this is a long one, and it switched POV twice, but there was really no sane way to break it up

Whenever Shane’s parents knew ahead of time that he was going to attend an Admiral’s game, they each texted him separately with bland messages that were actually words of encouragement in disguise.

 

Have a good time kid

Enjoy the game honey

 

He could feel them worrying through the phone.

 

The thing was, Shane was having a great time, mostly because he loved watching Ilya play.

 

He was a brilliant illusion as a player. It all looked like chaos at first, but Ilya was playing the long game. The other teams were focused on winning the game, but Ilya’s play was so varied that it was impossible for opposing coaches to plan for him. Even Boston wasn’t able to anticipate where he would be or what he would do, and he’d played with them for six years.

 

On top of it, he had weaponized his chirping brilliantly, using the trash talk as effectively as any other feint to distract his opponents from the real danger he posed on the ice.

 

Of course, it only worked because Ilya also had superior technical skills. He could waste a few seconds on a wide curve because he was faster than nearly everyone on the ice, his stick handling was elegant to the point of distraction, and his aim so precise that his shots almost never hit the same spot in the net twice.

 

Shane found it extremely attractive, and very distracting.

 

To be fair, though, they had more than enough footage for the show already, and there would be a lot more to come when the playoffs started. He could afford to spend a few games mooning over Ilya, along with half the spectators.

 

They did have to talk, though. Shane had avoided any tough subjects since their fight, because he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing that look on Ilya’s face again. But they couldn’t ignore this stuff forever, even if only because they were getting increasingly sloppy. I mean, Scott Hunter had basically caught them kissing a few nights earlier.

 

Accidental discovery aside, Shane wasn’t interested in staying in the closet with Ilya forever. After it had become clear that his MLH career was over, he’d had a recurring dream in which he had a heart attack at center ice. He would gasp for breath, shout for his teammates to help, but the game just went on without him. A few nights ago, he’d had the same dream, only it was Ilya this time, clutching his chest and crying out for someone to save him.

 

Shane didn’t want to sneak into the depths of Queens to go on dates, and he didn’t want to lie to his parents about being so busy anymore. 

 

If the Admirals won the cup—even if they made it deep into the playoffs—Ilya would get a lot of the credit for that. He was in the prime of his career, well-liked by his teammates and on his way to breaking a number of records. He could come out, and dare the league and the media to criticize him. 

 

And if it didn’t go the way they wanted, Ilya could fuck off to Canada and marry Shane and be eligible to apply for citizenship in three years. Shane had looked that up late at night on his phone, while he lay awake after the heart attack dream, and filed it away secretly in his mind as plan B.

 

Shane also wanted Dallas Kent to suffer for whatever it was he had done. Obviously Boston had swept something under the rug, and Shane wanted desperately to find out what it was that had turned Ilya, who was impulsive but not vicious, on his teammate. Even though it was unlikely the league would do anything about it, Kent could at least be tried in the court of public opinion.

 

The Admirals were playing Boston tonight. Ilya wasn’t on the ice much, but the second line put up a decent showing and they only lost by one. Shane benefitted greatly when Ilya had lighter games; he came to him brimming with pent up energy that needed somewhere to go, and Shane was happy to oblige.

 

Shane hovered near the player’s entrance waiting. He should probably just text him, but everyone was used to seeing him all around the rink. Besides, if Ilya was alone, he might be able to sneak a kiss.

 

He was not alone. He emerged with a couple of the younger New York players and Cliff Marleau. Shane greeted everyone, and made up a bullshit TV-related excuse as to why he’d been waiting for Ilya.

 

“Hollander! You’re a lot less scary off the ice,” Marleau said.

 

Shane laughed. “Uh, thanks?”

 

“Really though, that sucked. Loved watching you out there, man, even if you made the rest of us look bad. So you’re having a good time hanging with our boy here?”

 

Shane was standing next to Ilya, and he slipped his hands in his pockets just to make sure he didn’t touch him without thinking. “I have. Show comes out in the fall, you guys should watch.”

 

Marleau slapped Ilya on the back. “Roz is a wild man, right? I bet half of it will be censored, black-bar style, right?”

 

“You watch too much porn, Marly,” Ilya chirped. “Is just a show.”

 

A thick hand landed on Shane’s shoulder. “You guys are talking about porn?”

 

It was Dallas Kent. And he had his arm around Shane. He bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t wrench away. Kent shoved his way into the little circle, with his other arm around Ilya, and Ilya looked like he was about three seconds away from committing murder.

 

Shane tried to duck gently out of the embrace, but Kent squeezed him tighter into his side. “Look at you two—weren’t you like, sworn enemies?”

 

“Shut up, Kent,” Ilya muttered.

 

“Not really,” Shane said.

 

“So nice that you’re buddies now.”

 

The younger New York players were oblivious, probably just ecstatic to be in Ilya’s orbit off the ice. But Marleau’s face, which was usually wide-mouthed and grinning, like a Muppet, was stony and anxious.

 

“Yes, friends are good. Have you ever tried?” Ilya said calmly.

 

Kent was undeterred. He turned toward Shane and smiled, though it felt more like a predator baring his teeth than a gesture of goodwill. “Hey, did you guys know that Hollander is gay?”

 

Marleau said, “What the fuck, Kent?”

 

One of the younger Admirals said, “Really?”

 

Ilya didn’t say anything.

 

Kent kept going. “I mean, this guy slammed me into the boards God knows how many times and I had no idea. He was probably getting off on it every time! Six years ago, he’s one of the best athletes of our generation and now he’s just another fa—”

 

Ilya moved so fast, Shane didn’t even see it. He just felt Kent’s hand disappear from his shoulder, felt the circle burst apart as everyone took a long step backward. Saw the blur of Ilya’s fist as it flew toward Kent’s face.

 

Then Kent was on the ground shouting and Marleau had Ilya by the shoulders, holding him back.

 

Shane slipped his phone out of his pocket, and opened up the camera.

 

“I fucking knew it, man,” Kent spat from the ground. “Fairies like you don’t belong on the ice. Look at Hollander! He can’t play anymore so he found another excuse to hang out in the locker room.” Ilya lunged forward again, but Marleau held him back. Kent was laughing through his split lip, making little bubbles in the blood and spit pooling at the corner of his mouth. He scrambled up to standing and gingerly touched his jaw. “You can throw a decent punch, at least, so I guess it’s Hollander that takes it up the—”

 

“Kent, if you don’t shut the fuck up—” Marleau started.

 

“No, keep going,” Shane said. “I want to get the whole thing.”

 

They all turned toward him now. When Kent realized he was filming, his face went completely white.

 

“You can’t do that, man.”

 

“Yes I can. This is sort of my job, actually.”

 

“Delete it!” he screamed, petulant.

 

Shane laughed. “No.”

 

Ilya was calmer now, staring intently at Shane. Marleau wrapped a long arm around his shoulders and dragged him toward the exit. “Come on, bro. Let’s go. Now.”

 

“Are you going to put that on TV?” Kent asked.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“‘Cause I was just messing around. Just chirping, you know.”

 

“Yeah,” Shane said, staring him down. “I remember what it’s like.”

 

“Like tonight? Will it be on TV tonight?”

 

Shane slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Don’t worry, someone will call your agent for a comment before it airs.”

 

Kent made a squeaking noise, picked up his gear bag, and stalked toward the exit.

 

The two other Admirals were still standing a few feet away, frozen in place. Shane turned back to them. “Can I get your contact info?”

 

One of them gasped. “Are you really going to put it on TV?”

 

“I don’t know. But it’s good to have corroboration."

 

Shane handed him his phones with the notes app open and then entered their names and numbers.

 

“You know,” the other said. “My uncle is gay.”

 

Shane smiled at him. “That’s nice.”

 

“I’m just saying, Kent is an asshole.”

 

“Yeah,” the first one said. “He sucks.”

 

“Thanks, guys. I might be in touch.”

 

He turned to go, but one of them yelled, “Wait!” He was holding out a crumpled printout of a game schedule and Sharpie. “Can you sign this? You were like, the best. I had a poster of you in my room.”

 

Well, that was pretty nice. He took the pen and signed, his signature loopy and slow and completely different from the quick scrawl he’d once used when he signed what felt like a hundred autographs a day.

 

He checked his phone on the way to the subway.

 

Ilya Rozanov: getting a drink with Marly. Later?

Ilya Rozanov: I’m sorry

 

Shane Hollander: you have nothing to be sorry about

 

~~~~~

 

Marly stuffed them in a cab and told the driver “14th and B.”

 

He turned to Ilya. “I dated a girl for a while who lived down there, I know a place.”

 

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at, of all places, a tiki bar. The floor was sticky under Ilya’s shoes, and the tropical decor had seen better days. The front area was nearly empty, and there was a punk band playing to a sparse crowd in the back. Marly went to the bar while Ilya found a table near the wall.

 

Marly set a Scorpion Bowl on the table: electric blue with a huge pineapple garnish, two straws. “Romantic, right?” he said.

 

Ilya laughed so hard his eyes watered. Marly looked confused, but he might get it later, depending on how this conversation went.

 

“So…how is it with the Admirals?” he asked.

 

Ilya shrugged. “Is fine.”

 

“Is the stick up Hunter’s ass, like, huge?”

 

“So big,” Ilya said. “I don’t even know how he can move around.”

 

“You guys are good though. Obviously.”

 

“Sure, not much competition,” Ilya answered with a smirk. Marly kicked him under the table, smiling.

 

“Seriously, though. This year was a lost cause. Assholes taking over the locker room.”

 

“St-Simon can’t keep them in line?”

 

Marly shook his head slowly. “Kent and his little friends are terrible. They’re fucking mean girls. They whisper and shit when he’s talking. I keep telling him he’s gotta bust some ass but he just says we need to repair the trust, or some shit.”

 

“Yeah.” Ilya stared into the bowl. A maraschino cherry was floating around in there, its bright red skin peaking through the surface every time one of them took a sip. Repair the trust. As if there is trust to be repaired when someone like Kent is in the locker room.

 

It had been Ilya’s job to neutralize him, to restore the trust. But instead he’d cracked the team wide open because he was stupid and couldn’t think for just ten fucking seconds before he acted. He’d tried so hard to put everything back together, but by then the rot had taken root and he couldn’t fight it without making everything worse. 

 

“How’s Luca?”

 

Marly blinked. “Haas? The rookie from last year?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I thought you knew, he got traded, too.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah, they sent him up to Ottawa. I dunno, maybe he’s better off.”

 

Ilya ran his hand over his mouth. Of course they’d gotten rid of Luca, too. Not Kent, not the one who could have just minded his own fucking business.

 

“Listen. What the fuck happened last year? Kent is an asshole, obviously, but you don’t usually let those guys get to you.”

 

Ilya glanced over his shoulder toward the mostly empty room. The bartender was fifteen feet away, doing something on his phone.

 

“It was stupid,” Ilya said. “My fault.”

 

“So you’re not going to tell me,” Marly said. He looked a bit wounded, his lips wilting at the corners.

 

Marly was a good guy. Ilya had never heard him use a slur. Maybe he called someone a pussy occasionally, which was practically a term of endearment, as far as hockey went. He was safe. Probably. It would still be stupid for Ilya to tell him, but he was just so tired. 

 

He’d thought a new city and a new team would would be an acceptable distraction, but instead he was falling head over heels for Shane fucking Hollander, with his beautiful freckles and his sexy pink shirt and his outness, and now it was a hundred times worse. All the things he couldn’t have, spread out in front of him behind a wall of glass, like a department store window.

 

It had felt kind of nice to tell Hunter. Like he was a little bit less alone.

 

“Dallas Kent saw me and Luca. We were…” He paused, took a long sip from the bowl, and let out a rough breath.

 

“You were….” Marly prodded.

 

“You can’t tell anyone, OK? Not your sisters, not whatever girl is stringing you along right now, no one.”

 

“Sure, man. I got you.”

 

“We were kissing.”

 

Marly’s face didn’t change at all. He blinked three times, then drained half of what was left in the Scorpion bowl.

 

“Shit, Roz. Are you—what about all the girls?”

 

“I like both.”

 

Marly brought a hand up and scrubbed it over his mouth and chin. Ilya had always thought he had nice hands, long-fingered and graceful.

 

“Did Kent tell—”

 

Ilya nodded. “No, but he threatened to. Then he started bothering Luca.”

 

“Bothering….how?” Marly’s face darkened, which was rare.

 

“They put gay porn in his locker, sent him videos online during team meetings. They set up a Grindr profile with his name and picture and started sending guys to his apartment in the middle of the night. One of them wrote f*ggot with a marker on his tape.”

 

“Holy shit,” Marly said. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it.”

 

“I told Kent to stop, I said I’d punch his teeth in, and he said he’d tell the owners that I was a f*ggot too. By then I didn’t even care, I was going to tell them to get rid of Kent even if it meant telling them everything. Then that night at the club they had Luca in the alley and they were shoving him and tugging at his belt and I just…I lost it.”

 

Marly rubbed a hand over his mouth again. “I should have been there that night. I could have…”

 

Ilya shook his head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. I was the captain. Can’t get into a bar fight with your own team. Also, they said, my fault for kissing a rookie. Power imbalance. If I had left Haas alone, none of it would have happened.”

 

Ilya didn’t regret the fist fight one bit. This had been a point of contention with management. What he did regret was dragging poor Luca Haas into this, maybe ruining his MLH career, because Haas had been wearing his dumb crush on his sleeve all season and Ilya had been lonely and frustrated and fucking weak.

 

Reaching. Always reaching, even when nothing was there.

 

“Hold on,” Marly said. He hopped up and loped over to the bar. In a minute, he was back with two shot glasses full of something brown.

 

“I’m not drinking that,” Ilya said.

 

“Who said these are for you?” Marly answered, before he downed both in quick succession. “So, am I killing Dallas Kent? I could make it look like an accident, I bet. He goes down on the ice, I happen to skate over his throat…”

 

“Sure, maybe,” Ilya said, laughing. “But you know he’s not the only one.”

 

“Yeah…yeah. I get it.”

 

They sat in silence for a minute.

 

“Do the Admirals have a spot for me, you think?”

 

Ilya smiled “I will suggest.”

 

“Who else, do you think?” Marleau wondered aloud. “It can’t just be you and Haas.”

 

Ilya thought about Scott Hunter, dating someone for the first time at the age of thirty one. And he thought about Shane, mortified and flushed and hard under the shower spray in Toronto. Curious, and terrified. And obviously a lot smarter than Ilya was.

 

“Definitely not.”

 

“Listen, hear me out,” Marly started. His cheeks were pink after the shots. “Scott Hunter is a good-looking guy, right? But I’ve never heard about him and woman.”

 

Ilya put his hand to his mouth to hide his smile. “Is possible,” he said. “Maybe I will grab his dick and see what happens.”

 

Marly burst out laughing. “If you go for it, let me know.”

 

Ilya grabbed one of the straws and poked around in the bowl, looking for the cherry. Marly was drumming his fingers on the table, lost in thought. Then his eyes widened.

 

“So wait—are you and Hollander—?”

 

Ilya kept his eyes on the bowl, but he nodded.

 

Marleau burst out laughing. Deep, rumbling guffaws that drew the eyes of everyone in the bar. When he was done he wiped his eyes and said, “Holy shit. Think about how hard they tried to hype up that rivalry! They had everyone believing that you guys hated each other’s guts. I guess he is pretty handsome, though.”

 

Ilya smiled, and Marleau stood from his chair. “I won’t keep you any longer, then.” He checked his phone. “Sounds like the guys are headed to some place in the Meatpacking.”

 

Ilya pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and slipped it under the mostly empty bowl.

 

“Marly,” he began. He had to pause for a minute, and swallow past the lump in his throat. “Thanks.”

 

“For what?” he asked. Then his face contorted into a frown. “Wait, you thought I—nah, man. You know I got you. Love is love, right?”

 

“Yes, sure,” Ilya said. 

 

Ilya didn’t have to kiss men. He was perfectly happy having sex with women. But keeping the secret started to wear on him, watching his words and making sure he didn’t look at anyone too long or in a certain way. What if he did want a boyfriend? Or even a husband? What if Hollander’s heart had been fine, and Ilya had gone after those freckles, and they’d fallen madly in love? It shouldn’t have been something he had to give up on forever.

 

Love is love, like Marly said. Except when everyone let assholes like Dallas Kent make the rules.

 

“Marly, do you think you could get Haas’s number for me? One of the guys must have it, right?”

 

“Yeah, sure I can figure that out.”

 

Marly flagged down a cab while Ilya took out a cigarette. They hugged, Marly’s big fist thumping on Ilya’s back, and the easy closeness of the moment combined with the blue rum concoction sloshing around in his empty stomach threatened to make Ilya maudlin. 

 

“Don’t disappear again, Roz. And invite me to the wedding.” 

 

Ilya waved as Marly ducked into the taxi, then lit his cigarette. He watched the end glow orange as he inhaled. Across the street there was a multi-block complex of apartment buildings surrounding a courtyard. It reminded him of the newer, uglier bits of Moscow. He had grown up in an older building, one with high ceilings and a large balcony where his mother used to sit, staring at the city and sipping tea. When his father was promoted, they moved to another apartment, much grander, closer to where the other officers lived but further from all of Ilya’s friends. The kids in the new building didn’t want to play with him, because they were always fretting about Ilya getting them into trouble.

 

Which he usually did.

 

He realized the cigarette had burned down while he was standing there thinking. He only allowed himself one a week now; it was a terrible waste.

 

He took out his phone to text Shane.

 

Ilya Rozanov: tell me your address

Shane Hollander: I can come to you

Ilya Rozanov: I do not want to talk about Kent in my house, will ruin it

Shane Hollander: but its OK to ruin my apartment?

Ilya Rozanov: your apartment is probably terrible. Very small and very boring

Ilya Rozanov: like your dick

Ilya Rozanov: just joking, your dick is not small

Ilya Rozanov: and usually not boring

Shane Hollander: fine

Shane Hollander:130 Water St, 8A

 

~~~~

 

Shane’s apartment was always tidy, but that didn’t stop him from whipping around the room looking for things to clean.

 

Ilya had mentioned coming to his place a couple times but he’d always brushed it off as Ilya trying to be nice. He couldn’t possibly want to come hang out in a 500 square-foot room when he had a luxury loft at his disposal. But he couldn’t very well say no when Ilya obviously wanted to talk.

 

Maybe it was a good idea to have the conversation at Shane’s place. Ilya’s apartment was like their sanctuary now, full of all the time they’d spent together now, in and out of bed.

 

The doorman called up. “Hey, uh—Ilya Rozanov is here to see you?”

 

“Send him up, please. Thanks, Luis.”

 

He’d already changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, but he checked his hair in the bathroom mirror one more time while we waited. A few minutes later, Ilya knocked.

 

Shane opened the door and stepped aside so he could come in. 

 

“Well, here it is. Kitchen, Living room, bathroom, alcove.”

 

“Alcove?” Ilya asked, stepping forward to get a better look.

 

“It’s a little area where the bed is. Not a whole separate room, though.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“I warned you it was disappointing.” Shane laughed. “Still costs $2600/month though.”

 

Ilya was poking around. He turned his head to read the spines of the books on the shelf, and ran his hand along the twill upholstery on the sofa. He squeezed by Shane again and turned into the little galley kitchen, which looked out on the living room over a narrow breakfast bar that the real estate listing had called, optimistically, ‘an island.’

 

He opened the refrigerator.

 

“If you’re hungry, there is a sandwich in there for you.”

 

“You got me a sandwich?” he asked.

 

“I didn’t know if you and Marleau were going to eat.”

 

“Thank you. Maybe later. After.”

 

“Come sit,” Shane said. He felt a little like he was trying to coax an anxious cat out from under the sofa. But Ilya walked over and sat down next to him, propped in the corner of the compact sectional so he could fully face Shane.

 

“So,” Shane started. “I already know that Dallas Kent is an asshole. But you didn’t have to punch him on my behalf.”

 

“Yes I did,” Ilya said. “He says that shit because no one ever punches him, and so thinks it is OK.”

 

“Yeah, that’s true,” Shane said. “Do you want to tell me what happened in Boston?”

 

Ilya sighed and raked a hand through his hair, sending the curls flopping every which way.

 

“I did something stupid. There was a guy on the team, a rookie, who had a big crush on me. One night we were out, and I was in a bad mood because we lost and—whatever. I got drunk, and I kissed him. We were in this little hallway, but it was on the way to the bathroom and Kent saw us.”

 

“Oh, shit.” Shane said. That was…basically the worst thing that could have happened. “What did he do?”

 

“Nothing, at first. Called us f*gs and went to take a piss. But then he started in on Haas, he and his little friends. Marly called them mean girls tonight. They were bullying him.” Ilya stared down at the cushion where he was running a finger steadily back and forth along the twill weave. “I hate bullies. My father was a bully. My brother is a bully.”

 

“You didn’t want to tell the coach?”

 

Ilya made a face at Shane as if to say you’re joking, right?

 

“I told him if he didn’t stop, I would go straight to the GM. He would back off for a while, then it would start again. Then in the spring we were out again and I found them bothering Luca in the alley behind the bar. I don’t even know how they ended up out there. But he looked afraid. So….”

 

Ilya shrugged, like there was nothing left to say. 

 

“Did the management know what the fight was about?”

 

“I told them the truth. They told me it was my fault for creating an awkward situation. They benched Kent for one game, and didn’t tell anyone why. I heard two of the trainers say they assumed it was because he was always late to practice.”

 

Shane snorted. “That’s bullshit.”

 

Ilya nodded. He finally looked up at Shane. “It was my fault. I should not have kissed Haas. They traded him and it was my fault.”

 

“Yeah,” Shane answered. “You definitely shouldn’t have kissed him. But it’s not your fault that Kent is an asshole. He got what we deserved, last year and tonight. Like you said, if no one does it he just goes on thinking that everyone agrees with him.”

 

Ilya nodded quietly.

 

“You know,” Shane said, carefully. “You could go public with what Kent did. I have the video from tonight.”

 

“You mean, come out? To everyone?”

 

“Well, yeah. If you didn’t explain, Kent would tell everyone anyway, right?” Ilya shook his head, but Shane kept pressing. “You’re at the peak of your career. Hockey is way behind the times, but the Admirals still can’t drop you because you’re bi.”

 

“Shane—”

 

“Maybe if you were older, or a mediocre player, the contracts would dry up, but you’re—you. Everyone would know why if you got iced out of the league.”

 

“But I couldn’t go back to Russia,” Ilya answered. “Maybe ever again.”

 

Shane paused. “Listen, you don’t talk about your family much and I’m not going to pry, but….do you want to? Go back?”

 

Ilya dropped his head back on the couch cushion. “Not really. But I would like to be able to, still, I think. Not to see Alexei, but to visit my mother at the cemetery, or see my niece one day.”

 

“Yeah.” Shane propped a leg up on the couch, stretched it out toward Ilya so he could press on Ilya’s thigh with his toes. “If you’re a permanent resident for five years, you can apply to be a US citizen.”

 

Ilya looked at him, and finally cracked a smile. “Did you google that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you going to be a permanent resident here?” he asked.

 

“I—I don’t know. Probably not.” Shane liked New York, but he was much better suited to Canada.

 

“What about ESPN? And your show?”

 

“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking that maybe I can’t do the kind of stories with them that I wanted to. Maybe I will stick to writing. Someone else can take over the show.” Shane swallowed. “I actually think that maybe I should bring in someone else for the rest of this season.”

 

“Why? This was your idea, yes?”

 

“Yeah, but…if anyone does find out about us, whether we want them to or not, it will turn the show into this whole other, sordid thing.”

 

“Sordid?”

 

“Like…dirty and scandalous.” Ilya frowned. Shane grabbed one of the throw pillows from the couch and started fidgeting with a tassel. “I could tell them that we’ve gotten to be close friends and I don’t think I can do the final edit anymore.”

 

Ilya rolled his shoulders. “You should not give your show away for me.”

 

“Fair trade,” Shane said softly. He forced himself to look up at Ilya, even though his heart was beating a mile a minute. “More than fair.”

 

“I must think about this,” Ilya said. “Talk to my lawyer, too.”

 

Shane nodded. “I know. And I don’t want you to do any of this just for me.”

 

He could not decipher the look on Ilya’s face. But after just a few seconds, his expression changed to something more familiar and he reached for Shane. “Come, kotik. You will show me your alcove.”

 

Shane giggled, and tossed the pillow aside. He rolled forward and crawled across the couch cushions toward Ilya.

 

“What’s so funny?” Ilya said, once Shane settled in his lap.

 

“You want to see my alcove?” Shane said. Ilya’s eyes lit up when the innuendo clicked, and he snorted.

 

“You have a dirty mind, Shane Hollander.”

 

Shane leaned down and kissed him. “It’s all your fault.”

 

“No,” Ilya said, answering with a kiss of his own. “I knew it right away. In the gym after the draft, I saw the way you looked at me.”

 

“Mmmm,” Shane said, nuzzling into Ilya’s neck.

 

Ilya lifted him easily, took a few short steps, and tossed him gently on the bed.

 

An hour later, maybe more, they were cocooned in the white-walled nook that surrounded Shane’s bed. Ilya dozed with his face pressed against Shane’s shoulder and one arm thrown across Shane’s chest. Every few minutes, he murmured something in Russian and pursed his lips in a kiss.

 

Shane had been so stupid not to bring Ilya here earlier. Now, when he was here alone, Shane could think about this. He could close his eyes and see Ilya opening the refrigerator door, sitting on his sofa, sprawled across his bed. The alcove might even smell like him for a few days, if Shane didn’t change the pillowcases when he washes the sheets.

 

“I’m hungry,” Ilya said, his voice buzzing against Shane’s arm.

 

Shane reached up and brushed his fingers through Ilya’s hair. “Do you want that sandwich, or should we order something?”

 

“Both.”

 

Shane dug through his bottom drawer for a pair of sweatpants that might fit Ilya, but realized that the largest pair he had were Montreal Metros team sweats that he had been holding on to mostly as a reminder that his pro hockey career had not, in fact, been a fever dream. He pulled them out along with a more neutral pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt.

 

“You can’t be serious,” Ilya said when Shane tossed the sweats at him. 

 

Shane laughed and told him to wear the shorts instead.

 

Shane ordered Thai food on his phone and they sat together at the breakfast bar while Ilya ate his sandwich as an appetizer. Ilya’s phone rang and he winced. “Is Alexei, sorry.”

 

He walked to the other side of the living room, snapping in Russian, while Shane opened his phone and started scrolling idly through social media.

 

He wouldn’t post the video of Dallas Kent unless Ilya wanted to, but it still felt good to have it as insurance.

 

He saw that the Admirals were trending, which was curious since the game had been unremarkable over all, and they hadn’t even won. He scrolled through a number confusing, vague subtweets about gossip and distractions until he hit the original discussion, kicked off by a one-sentence tweet from a burner account:

 

MLHfan37195049: Know for a fact one of the NY Admirals likes to suck dick.

 

Shane swallowed hard as he scrolled through the barrage of comments. Guesses that covered basically every member of the team, Ilya included (“because he’s probably fucked all the women in the Northeast and had to branch out.”) Some comments were critical, saying it didn’t matter or that it was wrong to out people; others were shocked or horrified as if there hadn’t been men who liked to suck dick playing pro sports since the dawn of time.

 

It had to be Dallas Kent playing defense. Maybe Shane shouldn’t have taken the video, or let him believe he would put it on TV.

 

The intercom buzzed and Shane told the doorman to send up the food. The doorbell rang and Ilya hung up just as Shane was pulling plastic takeout containers out of the bag.

 

“So, um,” Shane started as he sat down.

 

“What happened? Do your rice noodles have fat on them somewhere?” Ilya teased.

 

“Um—” Shane stuttered, and ultimately gave up and showed Ilya his phone.

 

Ilya scrolled for a few minutes, smirking the whole time.

 

“Kent is so dumb,” he said. “This kind of bullshit is online all the time, no one believes it.”

 

“You’re not worried?” Shane said.

 

Ilya shrugged. “It’s not like he has pictures. And if he goes public he will have to explain how he knows and then you will release your video.”

 

“Hm,” Shane said. Maybe Ilya was right, and he had overreacted. There was a lot of bullshit on Twitter. But also, as a purveyor of online sports gossip, Shane knew that there were also plenty of bloggers and independent journalists and fans out there who would be eager to sink their teeth to any rumor of substance.

 

It would probably be nothing though, just like Ilya said.

Chapter End Notes

The tiki bar is an ode to Otto's Shrunken head, which my now-husband and I frequented a million years ago when he lived in Stuy Town. I think it's still there!

Also yes, I meddled with Dallas Kent's age, for the sake of the plot. I like to think baby Troy Barrett is out there somewhere, free from Kent's clutches and ready to live a better life.

Chapter 18: in which Scott Hunter takes one for the team

The playoffs started a week later, and the Admirals blew out the Cougars in four games. The second round got off to a good start, but they faltered after two wins and lost three in a row. 

 

Ilya had warned Shane, regretfully, that he wouldn’t be able to see him much until after they were knocked out of the playoffs, or won the Cup, but Shane had already known. Besides, he was busy, too, meeting with editors and starting on two new writing projects. 

 

They texted every day, but it wasn’t enough. Even though Ilya’s body was being put through the ringer, and he was too tired and achy to even think about sex, he missed sleeping with Shane next to him.

 

Ilya knew the smartest thing he could do would be to go home for the summer and hope the distance would cure him of his infatuation. Shane had been so optimistic when they talked at his apartment, but Ilya wasn’t convinced. And if they kept on as they were and it was all for naught, he wasn’t sure how he would survive it, knowing Shane was out there in the world, somewhere other than at Ilya’s side.

 

But playoffs first, crisis later. Ilya knew how to prioritize.

 

It was Marleau who called his attention to @ScottHunterIsGay. The account had been created on Twitter only a few days prior, about two weeks after the initial tweet about dick-sucking among the Admirals. Whoever was behind it had done an extensive investigation, and posted a twenty-tweet thread opus laying out their evidence.

 

First was an exhaustive media search on Hunter to show that he had never once mentioned a girlfriend, wife, or fiance, or been seen at a public event with a woman on his arm.

 

Second was a handful of posts from an obscure subreddit about anonymous hookups, where three people had posted similar stories of meeting a closeted man who they suspected to be a pro athlete (“no real person looks like that naked”) in Spain over the summer, offering up descriptions that sounded an awful lot like Hunter (“we’re talking unreasonably handsome, but very tense”) and trying to get someone to help them figure out who it was.

 

Third was a picture a fan had snapped and posted of Scott Hunter in an art gallery with another man.

 

Fourth was the poster’s argument that the other man in the photo was one Christopher (“Kip”) Grady, a graduate student from Brooklyn who was an out gay man with a long social media history including gay pub trivia nights, Pride, and at least two summer trips to Fire Island.

 

Fifth was a screen shot of a televised Admirals game, zoomed in on a fan who may or may not have been Kip Grady sitting next to a woman with long black hair and cheering when Hunter scored a goal.

 

“Fuck,” Ilya muttered. Even if he hadn’t already known, it would have been intriguing.

 

Not that straight men couldn’t have gay friends. But it was certainly a rarity among hockey players.

 

Game seven of round two was at home. Ilya arrived nearly an hour early at the rink, and found Hunter in the gym on the exercise bike.

 

“Did you see?” he asked.

 

Hunter nodded.

 

“Are you—okay?” he asked.

 

Hunter nodded again.

 

Ilya didn’t know him well enough to guess whether that was true, so he patted him on the shoulder and started on a strength and stretching routine that Shane had been begging him to try. Much to his chagrin, his hip flexors did feel great when he was finished.

 

When he got back to the locker room, the team was trickling in, and it was eerily quiet. Hunter didn’t appear for another ten minutes, moving with impressive poise to his cubby and putting his equipment on, piece by piece, with a steely quiet that made Ilya think they were on their way to the conference finals.

 

“Okay, listen up,” Hunter said when he was mostly dressed. “I’m guessing you’ve all seen the tweets.”

 

There was noncommittal murmur from the group.

 

“I want you all to hear this from me: it’s true.”

 

The room, which had been quiet, became silent. No one was moving an inch, and the only sound was the hum of the air vents overhead and the faint buzz of the TV that played near the visitor’s area.

 

“I am gay. My boyfriend is named Kip Grady. The internet is, for once, totally correct, and I am the one who likes to suck dick. And if any of you have a problem with that, you take it up with me after we win the fucking Cup.”

 

The silence lingered for two or three long seconds, and then the room exploded. Carter Vaughn and Eric Bennet, the goalie, rushed over to Hunter and Ilya watched as they huddled together, muttering. Hunter hugged them both, and Carter Vaughn yelled, “that’s our fucking CAPTAIN!”

 

Ilya smiled and cheered with the rest. He locked eyes with Hunter, whose face relaxed briefly into a rueful smile.

 

A few minutes later, Ilya stepped on the ice, feeling like a new man.

 

~~~~

 

Shane managed to make it one whole week without asking Ilya about Scott Hunter.

 

Ilya was in Nashville for game two of the conference finals. Shane hadn’t seen him at all for weeks, and the text messages were increasingly unsatisfactory, even if Ilya did include sexy pictures pretty regularly. Shane came home to his empty apartment and his pillows that carried the every-fading scent of Ilya, and impulsively hit the call button on Ilya’s contact on his phone.

 

Ilya answered on the second ring. “Da? Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” He blushed, even though Ilya was a thousand miles away. “How are you?”

 

“Tired. But good. Better, now.”

 

“Are you going to admit that you fucked up your elbow in game two?”

 

“Does not matter if I did. Mind over matter. Or doctor gives me a shot.”

 

“How is the team?” Shane ventured. “Good?”

 

“Yes. Hunter is a beast.”

 

“Yeah, I was surprised with all the stuff happening online.”

 

“Mmm,” Ilya said, sounding a little hesitant.

 

“Has he mentioned it?” Shane asked.

 

“Why are you asking?” Ilya said. He sounded suspicious.

 

“I’m not trying to get a scoop, Ilya. I’m just curious, like, for me.”

 

“What is ‘scoop’?” Ilya said.

 

“It means a big news story that you get first.”

 

“Ah, yes, would be a big scoop. You promise?”

 

“Of course I promise! If I wanted the big gay hockey player scoop, I could have done it months ago.”

 

“Okay, yes. Fair. I think Hunter is, ah, motivated by it. Playing like a demon.”

 

“Seriously. Do you think….” Shane said, drifting off. It seemed preposterous that Scott Hunter might be gay. Except…maybe Scott Hunter was gay? He was never out with women, that Shane could recall, and he was very well-groomed.

 

“Maybe,” Ilya said. “Could be anybody, right?”

 

Shane snorted. “You’re such a dick. I know you know something.”

 

“Can we Facetime?” Ilya said suddenly.

 

“Sure,” Shane said. Ilya disconnected and Shane’s phone immediately started to buzz again. When he accepted the call, Ilya’s face appeared. His hair was wet from a shower, and he had deep bags under his eyes.

 

“I should let you sleep,” Shane said.

 

“I’m not tired yet, anyway. What are you doing now?”

 

“I was going to work a bit, then go to bed.”

 

“Where are your glasses?” Ilya asked.

 

Shane reached over to the other side of his desk and groped for the frames. “Right here,” he said, putting them on.

 

Ilya smiled. “You are like sexy librarian.”

 

“You watch too much porn,” Shane joked.

 

“Only because you are not here with me,” Ilya said, pouting.

 

“Are you alone?” Shane asked.

 

“Yes, is playoffs so we have our own rooms.”

 

“Hold on.” He set the phone down and pulled his shirt over his head. He straightened his glasses, and picked the phone up again. “Hi.”

 

“Shane, what is this? Are you trying to corrupt me?”

 

“Oh, if you don’t want to, I can put my shirt back on—”

 

“You will not dare,” Ilya snapped. He put his phone down for a few seconds, and when he came back he was shirtless, too.

 

“You’re right, I won’t,” Shane said, licking his lips. “You know, I haven’t come since I saw you last.”

 

“What? Are you okay? That is not healthy.”

 

“I want to save it for you,” Shane said softly. 

 

“I am here now, da?” Ilya said. He was backing up, and Shane watched as he sat down on the hotel bed and scooted back to the bed frame.

 

“Yeah,” Shane said.

 

“You must need it very badly.”

 

“Yeah,” he said again, just a whisper.

 

“You should touch yourself. I want to see.”

 

“Only if you do it, too.”

 

Ilya laughed softly. “I already am, kotik.”

 

“Oh,” Shane said.

 

He took his phone over to the bed and propped it up on his nightstand while he took off his pants and briefs. “Hold on,” he said while he rearranged his lamp, grabbed a bottle of lube from the nightstand, and managed to prop himself against the side wall of the alcove, across from the phone camera. “Can you see me?”

 

“Da. Very pretty. Krasivvy.”

 

God, Shane loved it when Ilya spoke Russian. He brushed his hand across his stomach, letting it drift lower as it moved back and forth, until he could wrap his fingers around his cock. He’d never done this sort of thing before, and he felt awkward. So he closed his eyes and imagined Ilya was across the room, that any second he would crawl across the bed and take over for him. He thought about Ilya’s lips, soft against his neck, and the way his hands would roam and up and down Shane’s sides, squeezing at his ass and his pecs.

 

Shane paused and found the bottle of lube, dribbling it on his fingers. He grabbed his dick again and stroked faster, squeezing hard, and moaned.

 

He heard Ilya say his name from across the bed, distant and tinny.

 

He paused, then crawled back toward the nightstand and picked up the phone. “Ilya, you’re too far away like this. I want to see your face.”

 

“Da, yes. I want to see you, too.”

 

Shane settled himself against the pillows while Ilya did the same. When he touched himself again, he looked at Ilya’s face through the phone and said, “I wish it was you.”

 

“It will be soon,” Ilya said, his voice breathy, then he ground out Shane’s name through clenched teeth, and Shane watched as Ilya’s eyes rolled back and his orgasm overtook him, and the sight of it sent Shane over the edge himself.

 

When Shane opened his eyes, Ilya was looking at him, his face sleepy and smiling. “Hello,” Ilya said.

 

“Hello. You really should sleep now.”

 

“I should, and now you have made me very tired.”

 

“Good luck tomorrow,” Shane said.

 

“We will not need it, but thank you.”

 

Shane hung up smiling, but the glow faded fast.

 

He still didn’t know what was going to happen when the playoffs were over. Ilya hadn’t even said whether he was going back to Russia. God, he hoped Scott Hunter was gay. If Hunter came out, maybe Ilya could do the same without putting his career on the line. Then maybe Shane could admit to himself, or even Ilya, that was falling severely, irrevocably in love.

Chapter 19: the light of day

The mainstream media had stayed far, far away from the theory spreading like wildfire across the internet, nor would the Admirals organization deign to acknowledge it with any sort of statement. But on the internet, Scott Hunter’s alleged gayness had broken the confines of hockey gossip and was officially memed. There was even a campaign gaining steam to put Scott Hunter on the next season of RuPaul’s drag race.

 

Another player might have been thrown off his game, but the endless chatter had made Hunter steely-eyed and laser focused, and he was only gaining steam. He was unstoppable on the ice, and Ilya was doing everything he could to clear a path for him.

 

They were definitely going to win the Cup. And after they destroyed Colorado in game one, Ilya began to wonder.

 

Shane was right—if Ilya and Scott Hunter, definitely queer hockey duo, won the Cup, he would have a lot more options than he’d started the season with. It didn’t solve the Russia problem, but if he was sure he could keep playing hockey in the US, the Russia problem could, in theory, be solved. Eventually. 

 

Sveta could visit his mother for him. He could fly his niece out to New York, when she was old enough.

 

“Was Kip here?” Ilya asked Hunter after the game. He kept his voice low, even though the locker room had emptied out.

 

Hunter looked pained. “No. He thinks it would be a whole thing if he came.”

 

“Is he okay?”

 

Hunter shrugged. “He’s fine. Well, he got a little weirded by the social media stuff so he had to take all his profiles private. But he’s just worried about me, I think.”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Hunter slung his bag over his shoulder. “Actually, yeah. I feel better than I have in years.”

 

He patted Ilya’s shoulder on the way out.

 

Ilya took out his phone and called Shane, who answered immediately.

 

“Good game,” he said. Ilya loved the sound of his voice.

 

“Yes, you should reward me.”

 

“I’m not coming over,” he said. He was so cute when he was stern. Ilya had only been partially kidding about the schoolteacher thing. One day he would get him to put on his glasses and his little sweater and maybe scold Ilya for turning in his homework late…

 

“Is fine.”

 

“It is not fine. You are in the finals and I want you to win. No distractions.”

 

“You distract me always,” Ilya said. He listened to Shane’s breath hitch a little over the phone, which told Ilya he’d said something romantic.

 

“I love watching you play,” Shane said softly.

 

“You like to watch me crash into other big, burly men?”

 

Shane snorted. “You don’t crash into anyone. You’re graceful.”

 

“No, you were graceful. I am just fast.”

 

“Did you eat?” Shane asked, because he was nagging Ilya more and more about his diet, and the smoking, which Ilya had to admit he sort of liked.

 

“No, I have disgusting health food waiting at my house. Quee-noh?”

 

“Keen-wah,” Shane corrected. “It’s very good for you.”

 

“Is hamster food.”

 

“You don’t know what hamsters eat,” Shane teased.

 

“Will you skate with me? After we win, I mean?” Ilya had been thinking about this for a while, occasionally he even pulled up old videos of Shane’s games and watched him fly around the rink, nimble and ruthless and ten steps ahead of every other player on the ice. Shane had picked hockey in all its brutality, and managed to turn it into ballet.

 

“Ilya, it’s June.”

 

“We can find a rink. Chelsea Piers is open all summer, I think.”

 

There was a pause. “You’re not—you’re not going to go back to Russia?”

 

Not if I can be with you instead. “Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe just for a week or two, to deal with a few things.”

 

“Oh,” Shane said, softly.

 

Regardless of all that had happened in the last few weeks, and the glimmers of hope Ilya had entertained as a result, he was afraid to promise too much. “I gave Alexei my condo,” he said instead. “But I need to make some arrangements for my niece.”

 

“Maybe—” Shane started, then Ilya thought he heard him swallow over the phone. “Maybe if the timing works out you can come to the lake with me.”

 

“What lake?”

 

“It’s in Quebec. My parents have a cottage on it, but I always get an AirBnB and stay for a week or so in the summer.”

 

“By yourself?” Ilya asked. He could not imagine spending a week entirely alone, and he didn’t like to think about Shane doing it, either.

 

“Well sometimes I go to my parents’ for dinner or something, but yeah. It’s peaceful. You can swim, walk in the woods, build a bonfire, that kind of thing.”

 

Ilya’s throat grew tight. He hated that he was still so afraid. He could not allow himself to picture the happy ending, knowing what it would do to him if it didn’t come to pass.

 

“Let me think about it.”

 

“Sure,” Shane said. “I get it.”

 

Ilya closed his eyes and listened to the soft hiss of Shane’s breath on the other end of the line.

 

“You should go, so you can eat. And sleep,” Shane said eventually.

 

“I know,” Ilya said.

 

“I’ll be watching tomorrow.”

 

“How many goals should I score?” Ilya asked.

 

“Two. Save the hat trick for last.”

 

~~~~

 

New York bested Colorado again, easily, and Ilya scored two goals. After the second, he winked at the camera nested in the glass behind the goal, and Shane knew that it was for him.

 

The team went west for the next two games. For a combination of reasons related to regional broadcast rights, Shane did not go, and instead signed on for post-game commentary from the Seaport studio when the games were over, which meant he was in the studio until past 2am both nights.

 

A sweep wasn’t out of the question, even though Shane was annoyed at the thought that NY might win the Finals away from home, which meant Shane wouldn’t be there to watch Ilya lift the Cup.

 

Game three was a shutout, the Admirals winning 3-0. This seemed to light a fire under Colorado, who surged in game four and beat New York in overtime, 3-2. The series was 3-1, and everyone was coming back to New York.

 

Ilya didn’t ask Shane to come over the night before the game, and Shane wasn’t surprised. Despite his playfulness, Ilya was a serious, disciplined athlete, and had been since Shane had met him for the first time in 2008.

 

Shane knew first hand that pro athletes were intense, and superstitious, and obsessed. It was a strange cocktail of pressure for a person to ingest. There were very real stressors in pro sports, like career-ending injuries, too much time separated from family, trades that uprooted lives mid-season, mid-school year, mid-relationship. But winning was the ultimate balm for it all, so everything became about winning.

 

Winning was clear: you did good. You were smart enough, strong enough, worked hard enough. Adjusting to the world without hockey meant adjusting to a world with a whole lot more gray, and there were days when Shane still very much missed the black and white.

 

A few hours before the game began, right before he headed down to the arena, Shane typed an email to Bill, and Kevin, and his producers at ESPN. He told them he thought there was a great story to tell about Rozanov in New York, but that he was no longer the person to tell it because of the friendship that had developed over the course of the season.

 

It didn’t feel like a loss, but it didn’t feel like a win, either.

 

The locker room was closed to press before game five, and Shane wouldn’t have wanted to throw Ilya off his game, anyway. But he did text Ilya a picture, a photo of himself wearing an Admirals jersey. He’d taken it over his shoulder, standing in front of the mirror, so Ilya could see his name and number on the back.

 

His phone buzzed a second later.

 

Ilya Rozanov: you will pay for this

 

Shane watched from the booth as the arena filled up. Fans arrived in their team regalia, until the seats were a sea of blue and white and red. They brought signs, many of them with rainbows on them, and a group set up a huge pride banner in the upper tier, with We love you Scott Hunter written on it in tall, white letters.

 

Bit presumptuous, Shane thought. But….who knew. He found himself looking at the camera feeds for the handsome, brown-haired man the internet had identified as Kip Grady, then stopped himself. Hunter would make his choice about what came next and Ilya would make his, and Shane would just have to live with it either way, even if it didn’t seem fair that Shane might be asked, yet again, to give up something he loved for reasons beyond his control.

 

It looked at first like Colorado might be taking a stand again, and the first period was contentious, with no goals scored. But they started to fall apart in the second, fatigue showing on both the first and second line. Shane also suspected the goalie was favoring his right side, which Ilya must have seen as well, because he shot the puck into the high corner of the net that should have been stopped, but wasn’t.

 

At the beginning of the third, Shane could tell that the Admirals knew what was coming. They were skating with a gleam in their eyes, with the promise of victory to distract them from their aching muscles and blistered palms. Hunter scored a goal, and then Colorado managed to answer. But then Ilya scored, a beautiful tap in off a rebound that the goalie didn’t even see before it crossed the line. Colorado rallied, but it wasn’t enough. The clock ticked down, and then there were only twenty seconds left and New York had the puck.

 

Shane did his best to concentrate on the commentary. Luckily the game hadn’t been much of a nailbiter, and no one was likely to notice that Shane was grinning like an idiot at the video feed while his colleagues chatted about injured goalies and it finally being Scott Hunter’s year. 

 

As soon as the buzzer sounded, Shane slid his chair out from the desk and mumbled something about going down to the ice to get a quote from Rozanov. He just couldn’t watch this from so far away. He didn’t want to watch Ilya’s triumph through the screen, he wanted to be there.

 

He jogged down the stairs, through the back halls, to the special press entrance that led to a box behind the boards that was stuffed with photographers. The team was lined up for a photo, and Scott Hunter was shaking the commissioner’s hand. Shane craned his neck to see as the Cup was handed over and Scott Hunter lifted it high overhead, yelling toward the rafters while the fans bellowed back at him, the roar in the arena as loud as Shane had ever heard it.

 

Hunter handed it to Ilya next, and he began a large loop around the rink. When he passed the press area, Shane was able to catch his eye, and a glimpse of Ilya’s smile—the real one, not the game-time smirk—wide, unencumbered, youthful. 

 

Shane’s eyes began to sting. He thought about what Ilya had been through in Boston, and how lonely and dejected he had been when he arrived in New York not even a year ago. Shane was unbearably proud of him.

 

The choreographed ceremony came to a close, finally, and the Admirals’ friends and family started to pour on the ice. Wives, girlfriends, parents, children, siblings toddled out onto the rink, a mess of hugging and tears and cheering. Shane spotted Ilya and Hunter standing together, smiling, and then watched as Hunter actually hugged him, and Ilya hugged back. Before he pulled away, Hunter said something in Ilya’s ear, and jerked his head in Shane’s direction.

 

Ilya turned to look at him, his eyes blazing from across the ice, and began to skate straight towards Shane. Shane’s heart skipped into action, thudding against his chest. Ilya stopped short at the boards, nudged one of the photographers aside and reached toward Shane. Shane reached back and took his hand, and there was a flash in his face, then another, then five more, and it occurred to him that he would have picked a different place to stand if he had known this was going to happen. But he was grinning, and laughing, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Ilya had just won the motherfucking Cup and he was here, grabbing Shane and steadying him while he swung his legs over the boards.

 

He was awkward on the ice, shuffling behind Ilya as he dragged him into the center of the scrum. He was so focused on not falling that it barely registered that Ilya was swinging him around, until he smacked straight into his chest.

 

“What are you doing?” Shane shouted. Ilya was drenched in sweat, cheeks flushed a bright red and eyes glittering.

 

“Is okay?”

 

“Is this what you want?” Shane asked. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“I want. Is okay for you?”

 

Shane nodded.

 

He gathered Shane fully in his arms, leaned down and kissed him hard. The roar in the arena dulled for one long pulse, then erupted again. Then the lights and the noise began to fade, and all Shane could feel was the firm press of Ilya’s lips and the light brush of his tongue against Shane’s own. It was too loud and too bright, and Shane could hear Carter Vaughn screaming holy shit from about ten feet away. But he couldn’t bring himself to worry about any of it when he was crushed to Ilya’s chest, in the middle of the best kiss of his life.

 

Ilya pulled away. “Are you ready for this?”

 

“Hell, no,” Shane answered. 

 

Ilya grabbed Shane’s hand, and interlaced their fingers. The wall of sound didn’t wane at all, and Shane watched as some of the spectators began to toss items onto the ice—not hats, not flowers, but an assortment of flags, pins, even rubber balls covered in pride colors.

 

And, well, look at that—a triumphant cup win, and rainbows everywhere.

Chapter 20: epilogue, in two parts

Ilya came to the lake.

 

Shane had booked a small cottage with a private dock and large windows facing the water. It was cozy, and worn, and Ilya was already looking for a more luxurious option for next summer.

 

Maybe he could even buy a place. Or build one.

 

The media onslaught was still going when they left New York. About fifteen minutes after the final buzzer, a post appeared on Scott Hunter’s Instagram confirming his relationship with Christopher (Kip) Grady. In a two-paragraph caption, beneath a selfie of Hunter and Kip, Hunter detailed the decade and a half he had spent in the closet, lonely and terrified that his secret would come out and end his career. Then he wrote about meeting Kip, and realizing that he could only continue to love hockey if it could love all of him.

 

When the press scrum cornered Ilya in the hall outside the locker room, he had told them he was bisexual, and that Shane Hollander was his boyfriend. Shane, standing about six feet away, had perked up instantly and said “really?” Ilya had answered, “I think so, probably.”

 

Shane had handled the buzz with his usual grace, taking his social media accounts private and giving exactly two interviews, one to a hockey podcast hosted by hi occasional on-air colleague Jeff Lynch, who had proved to be a stalwart supporter, and another to the Ottowa Citizen.

 

Ilya didn’t give any interviews at all after the post-game scrum, but he did take a few minutes to dig up an old tweet.

 

MLHfan37195049: Know for a fact one of the NY Admirals likes to suck dick.

IlyatheTerrible81: SURPRISE BITCHES!

 

But now they were alone, in the blessed quiet of the Quebec wilderness.

 

Well, quiet except for the loons.

 

They spent the first two days in bed. On the third day, they swam, and went to Shane’s parents’ cottage for dinner.

 

Yuna and David Hollander greeted them politely, with a practiced stillness that Ilya realized must be a family trait. 

 

“I hope you like pasta,” David said.

 

At first, dinner felt a little like an interrogation. David and Yuna sat across from Shane and Ilya, and peppered them with questions about when they had started seeing each other.

 

“Did this start right away?”

 

Shane’s eyes darted toward Ilya. “Not really. Maybe a few months after we started filming.”

 

“Well—” Ilya broke in. Shane kicked him under the table.

 

“What?” David asked. “Right away?”

 

“We knew each other before, yes?” Ilya said, in an attempt to be vague.

 

“Ilya,” Shane groaned.

 

Yuna’s eyes widened. “Before? As in, your rookie season?”

 

“Nothing happened then,” Shane said.

 

“But I was interested, yes?” Ilya clarified.

 

David chuckled. “That’s a very slow burn.”

 

When they finished eating, Ilya insisted on helping David with the dishes, and Yuna and Shane went out to the deck with glasses of white wine. Once the table was cleared, David told llya to join them while he finished up. Ilya approached the glass door and saw they were locked in conversation.

 

“I’m just surprised, honey. You’re not worried this might interfere with your career?”

 

“It might, Mom. And I will deal with that.”

 

“Because if people start to question your objectivity—”

 

“Mom. I said that I will deal with it.”

 

She let out a little huff, the same noise Shane always made when he knew the debate was officially over.

 

“I know you’re a private person, honey,” she said, her voice softening a little. “But you could have told us.”

 

“I would have, but it wasn’t just about me.”

 

Ilya felt guilty about eavesdropping, so he took a loud step onto the deck.

 

Yuna and Shane turned toward him with identical expressions, but Shane’s face broke immediately into an affectionate smile.

 

“Have you spoken to your lawyer about citizenship, Ilya?” Yuna asked, before he’d even had a chance to sit down.

 

“Yes. She is working on it. The Admirals will pick up my contract option, so should not be very complicated, she says.”

 

Yuna nodded. The way she looked at Ilya made him nervous, her dark brown eyes steady and assessing, and he fought the urge to squirm under her attention.

 

They left just after the sun went down. Shane rested his hand on Ilya’s thigh as they turned onto the road, but he was quiet as they drove.

 

“Does your mother approve of me?” Ilya asked. He tried to make it sound light, like a joke, but didn’t quite get there. He kept thinking about his father’s colleagues, and the way their wives would cluck their tongues at him and say things like don’t you ever sit still?

 

“What? Yeah, of course. I mean, I’m twenty-six years old, I’m not looking for her permission or anything.”

 

The blush on his cheeks indicated otherwise, but Ilya didn’t call him out.

 

“They worry about me being around hockey like this. That it will dredge stuff up.”

 

“Ah. Does it?”

 

He sighed, like he was weary of this entire topic. “I mean…I dreamed about winning the Cup one day. We all did, right? But I can’t just be sad about it forever. And watching you win was almost as good.”

 

Ilya put his hand on top of Shane’s and interlaced their fingers.

 

When they got back to the rental, Shane took Ilya’s hand and led him wordlessly up to the second floor bedroom. He undressed them both carefully, folding everything in a neat stack on the dresser, then pulled Ilya down gently with him to the bed. Quietly, relentlessly, he used his fingers and lips to map every inch of Ilya’s skin, from the underside of his jaw, down to the taut ridges of his abs, around to the bunched muscles on his flank.

 

Ilya had always counted on the din of a hockey rink, or thundering music a night club, or just the cotton-wool of too much vodka, to drown out the voices asking incessantly where is home now, will Shane resent me if this ruins his career, why do I always make such a mess. But under Shane’s tender attention, the noise in Ilya’s head fell away. Not just muffled; silenced.

 

It was slow, almost too slow. When they were finally joined, it stayed quiet, and stayed slow, Ilya pressed inside in languid, shallow strokes, opening his lips against whatever skin he could reach just to taste the salt of Shane’s sweat. He clamped his fingers down hard on Shane’s hip, pulled his leg up so he could angle deeper, and thought to himself I will never have enough, I will reach for him forever.

 

And it wasn’t. Afterward, with his head resting on Shane’s chest and Shane’s hand drifting through his hair, he couldn’t stop himself from muttering the words against Shane’s chest: ya tebya lyublyu, ya lyublyu tebya.

 

“What does that mean?” Shane whispered.

 

Ilya lifted his head. “It means I’m in love with you.”

 

Shane’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”

 

Ilya’s breath caught in his throat. “I mean…”

 

“I’m in love with you, too. I’ve been in love with you for months.”

 

Ilya had never felt such a deep, soothing sense of relief. “Months?”

 

“Since the first round of the playoffs, at least.”

 

“You love me,” Ilya said, elated.

 

Shane brushed a curl off Ilya’s forehead, and looked at him with a soft expression, and a telltale sheen in his eyes. “Yeah, I really do.”

 

~~~~~

 

Ilya didn’t let Shane open his eyes until they were inside the rink at Chelsea piers.

 

“Why is it empty?” Shane asked.

 

“Because I rented it out.”

 

“Ilya, you didn’t have to do that. I can skate in front of other people.”

 

“But this is more romantic, yes? Besides, since you didn’t tell me it was your birthday last spring….” He added a shrug as punctuation.

 

“Just like you didn’t mention yours over the summer!”

 

“Shane. You are telling me you are reporting on world’s most famous hockey player and you didn’t look up my birthday?”

 

“Okay fine, I knew it was your birthday. But it was like three days after you won the Cup, we were busy.” Really, he’d been intimidated by the thought of getting Ilya a present when he certainly couldn’t give him anything as good as a twenty thousand dollar necklace, or the Cup. He already had a list going of ideas for next year, though none of them were very good.

 

“You will make it up to me next year.”

 

They dropped their bags and began to put on their skates. Shane’s hands knew just what to do, tugging and pulling at the laces to make them tight in all the right places.

 

“Have you skated since…?” Ilya asked.

 

“Actually, no.”

 

He hadn’t avoided it. At least not consciously. But it wasn’t as if anyone had invited him out on the ice, either.

 

When they were both laced up, they stood and moved toward the gap in the boards.

 

“You’re sure is okay for you?” Ilya said. He had confessed at the cottage to having googled Shane’s condition extensively, and peppered him with questions about his surgery and his check ups and what sort of things he wasn’t supposed to do. Though this sort of thing usually made Shane bristle like a porcupine, he found Ilya’s fretting endearing,

 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

 

Shane stepped forward and for a split second, the slide of the blade beneath him threw him off balance. But then he was back in the groove, as if he’d never left, his ankles and knees and hips falling into position and pushing like it was second nature. He drifted easily along the boards, feeling himself out, a little wobbly and certainly doomed to end up with a blister on his right big toe.

 

But it was heaven. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned into the curve, let himself imagine that he was going ten times as fast, whipping by his opponents, clean and relentless in his pursuit of the net.

 

He opened his eyes and saw that Ilya hadn’t moved at all.

 

“You’re not coming?” he shouted.

 

“I like watching you,” he answered back. “You are still very pretty skater.”

 

“Well I like watching you, too. Come on!”

 

“You get to watch me all season.”

 

Shane held out his hand, reaching for Ilya across a hundred feet of ice.

 

Ilya stared toward his hand, frozen for a moment, before he pushed himself off and glided toward Shane.

 

“You know, the Admirals have a kids program. I have heard that they always need teachers.”

 

“Are you signing me up?” Shane asked.

 

“The kids would have very clean edges.”

 

Shane thought about it. Ice time that wouldn’t make his doctors hyperventilate. Everyone playing for the pure fun of it. And he liked kids, because they almost always said exactly what they meant.

 

“Maybe,” he said. “Probably yes.”

 

He looked down and realized that Ilya was still holding his hand. They were skating at a leisurely pace, swaying together in large circles around the rink, like an old married couple at the Rockefeller Center rink at Christmas.

 

“Race you,” Shane said.

 

Ilya looked panicked. “Shane, no—you shouldn’t—”

 

“Just once will be fine. You can give me a head start.”

 

Ilya stared him down.

 

“Oh I see,” Shane said. “You’re afraid you’re going to lose.”

 

Ilya smirked. “I see what you are doing.”

 

“No, it’s okay. I understand. I was always faster than you, and it's only been six years…”

 

“Once. You get a five second head start. And if you are stupid and you try too hard and die, you are not allowed to haunt me.”

 

Shane laughed. “No haunting, I promise. Unless you fuck some other guy, then I’m totally haunting you.”

 

“Only if I get ghost sex after.”

 

Shane was laughing hard now, nearly doubled over, and needed a moment to catch his breath. He set up at the boards, staring straight down the length of the rink, the ice empty and bright in front of him, and he took a deep breath.

 

“Okay,” Ilya said, squaring up a few feet to his right. “Go.”

 

Shane took off toward the other side, Ilya on his heels.