Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Memory Loss, Amnesia, Amnesia fic, Kind Of, Stanley Cup Magic, Hayden Finds Out, Coming Out, Forced Outing, A little, Blacking Out, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, this all makes it sound a lot more serious than it is, Smut, Barebacking, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, POV Ilya Rozanov, Coffee, coffee treated unseriously, crimes against coffee, Shane Hollander is not a cure for genetic depression, but he can try, Podfic Available

Language:

English

Collections:

These are the stories and series that I have at least reread twice., Sweet as Pie (buttery flaky a little salty)

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-22 Words: 7,110 Chapters: 1/1

Shane As It Ever Was

Summary

Ilya wakes with no memory after an eventful night. Or maybe it wasn’t eventful. He doesn’t remember, that’s the problem.

Notes

This is fun and light but please mind the tags and content warning!

I promise the timeline will make sense, trust the process! Non-show book details referenced.

Title is a mockery of “Once in a Lifetime” lyrics because that’s the classic amnesia fic song to me. This is not really an amnesia fic, though. Can’t stress that enough.

P.S. the dates don’t align with hockey contract rules, but if you’re looking for realism, this might not be your fic.

CW do not skip: descriptions of memory loss after blacking out and all associated fears and regrets are mentioned, including potentially inebriated non-consensual unsafe sex practices, unplanned pregnancy, sexually transmitted disease. Reference to alcohol abuse and recreational hallucinogenic drug use. None of the above actually happens in this fic. Light description of depression. That actually does happen in this fic.

Ilya wakes up with a splitting headache. The room is too bright and his eyelids are doing nothing to shield his burning retinas. What the fuck did he do last night?

He squeezes his eyes shut, like that will help, and slowly opens them. The headache gets worse. Fuck. The white ceiling isn’t supposed to be this bright. He has blackout shades in his room explicitly for this purpose. Obviously he forgot to pull them down last night after… after what? No, seriously, what did he do last night?

He tries. He pushes his palm into his forehead, willing the pain to stop. He tries to remember anything, any moment at all. He remembers being happy for a second. No, not happy. Just… excited? And Marly was there. God, maybe he could focus if his head didn’t hurt so bad. 

He keeps Advil in the nightstand, so he props up on an elbow and… this isn’t his side of the bed. No. This isn’t even his bed. Fuck, what did he do last night? 

Luckily whoever’s bed this is has left. Probably saw a hungover hockey player dirtying up their expensive duvet and booked it. Better burn the place down with Ilya Rozanov inside, might be preferable to acknowledging whatever happened here. 

He looks around for some kind of clue. There’s a cup of unfamiliar blue liquid on the unfamiliar nightstand. What is that? Is that what he was drinking? It looks vile, no wonder he has a headache.

He keeps looking and is slowly overcome with a sinking feeling… not to be sexist, but this doesn’t seem like a woman’s room. It’s tidy and everything, it just has no decor and no color… the vibes are masculine. And it’s definitely not Hollander’s new sex condo. He hasn’t even spoken to Hollander since the Olympics. And fuck, that can only mean one thing: he was thinking of Hollander last night and probably went home with some nerdy looking half-Asian guy… again. Ilya hopes he at least had freckles this time. Fuck, Ilya hopes they were discreet. That there aren’t paparazzi photos wandering around the internet right now of Ilya Rozanov picking up a man who looks like an off-brand imitation of his rival. He wishes he could remember any single detail about his night. 

The headache is subsiding in the confusion, but it’s worth a shot anyway. He checks the nightstand drawer for Advil. He actually finds some... and he also finds bottles and bottles of different lubes and some toys (good taste!), and, to Ilya’s utter devastation, no condoms. He scrambles to open the other drawer. Cables, chargers. No condoms. Fuck. Now that he thinks about it, he looks down and fuck fuck fuck. His dick is sticky with lube, or something. Fuck. He didn’t use a condom. He didn’t even clean himself off. He must have been hammered. What if they had a disease? What if they had a uterus? What if they had both?? He’s so, so fucked.

He scrubs a hand over his face and swallows three Advil dry. He gets up and a pair of boxers conveniently falls from the duvet, so he puts those on. There’s an en-suite bathroom where he goes to piss. He catches a glimpse in the mirror on the way out and finds himself looking like actual shit. Shit who has a post-lay glow, but shit. And fuck— is that a hickey on his chest? Two? Ilya leaves before he can find any more. He feels a little sick looking at them if he has no idea how they got there or who they’re from. 

The pile of folded clothes on the bedroom chair looks like it might be his— can he really not even remember what he was wearing last night? He pulls on the pants and shirt. They seem like his, though he can’t exactly remember buying them. At this point, Ilya doesn’t even really care if they belong to whatever guy might have just given him some incurable disease, or outed him to the world, or both. They could belong to this lady’s recently-cuckolded husband for all he cares. They’ll have a bastard baby in nine months, a missing pair of jeans is the least of their problems. Ilya just needs to get out of this building. 

Once he’s dressed, he pats the jeans and finds his cell phone, keys, and wallet are all in their correct pockets, so they must be his pants. Unless this person has a very specific type, only sleeping with guys who keep their wares in these specific pockets. Ilya needs to leave before this serial killer comes back.

Outside of the bedroom, he realizes this is a nice place. He takes the stairs as they lead down to a vast open-concept kitchen, living room, dining room… he wishes there were any identifying features. But there are no human pictures on the walls or interesting chotchkes anywhere, nothing. Some boring hotel art. Some modernist decor. 

As he tries to find the front door, Ilya sees the kitchen sink and feels something he can only describe as lust. He realizes how incredibly thirsty he is, and his mouth feels drier just from thinking about the faucet. 

He looks around the kitchen— gratefully modern without cabinet doors, so the cups appear to him quickly. He marches over to grab one, above the fancy espresso machine. 

And… his breathing stops. The coffee bag next to the French press on the counter is… Russian? Not only is it Russian, it’s Ilya’s favorite. This is the kind his family drinks, the brand he was raised on, the smell he still hallucinates some mornings before he wakes up, when he’s halfway asleep and convinced he could go downstairs and wrap up in his mother’s lap while she reads the paper. 

He hasn’t seen this packaging since he left home. He’s checked, they don’t sell this brand in the States. On roadtrips, he found they don’t sell it in Canada, either. And he always forgets to buy some to bring back when he visits. Fuck. He considers stealing the bag. Clearly this person knows where to get it. Ilya has half a mind to look for the person so he can ask. 

Or he could…

No. That’s crazy, he can’t.

He can’t... make himself a cup of coffee. Right?

Before he can think too hard about it, he’s filling up a kettle with enough water for the French press. 

The wait for boiling water is just enough time to gather his thoughts. Ok, he played a game last night. He remembers that much and… well actually he doesn’t remember. But he’s sore like he did. Then after the hypothetical game was over… nothing. He can’t remember. Ugh. Ilya sets his forehead on the cool marble countertop as the kettle whistles. He doles out the coffee and pours the water. He’ll let it steep for… he looks at the clock on the oven. It’s 7:11? In the morning??

Why the fuck is he even awake? And this person just bolted at the break of dawn to give Ilya space to get the fuck out of their life?

He pours the coffee into a mug and checks the fridge for some kind of milk. God, they even have a bottle of one of those disgustingly sugary creamers Ilya loves, though the flavor is questionable. Butterscotch Almond Cinnamon Mint? Why is that even a flavor? Eh, he’s curious. 

He sits at the counter with the mug and breathes in the steam. He luxuriates in the first sip, and by the time he lowers the mug, his headache is all but gone. It’s by far the best cup of coffee he’s had in his life. Ilya almost hopes the person comes back while he’s here. He vows to be charming if they do; maybe if they make this a regular thing, he can have this coffee whenever. He would enter a relationship for this coffee. He would get married for this coffee. 

His cell phone! That will have answers. He pulls it out of his pocket. It feels weird in his hand, but he always takes a while getting used to a new phone and he usually upgrades around this time of the year. It’s definitely his phone, though, the background is the same picture he took of the river in Moscow. He takes another sip and before he can even unlock the phone— his phone needs a PIN?— there’s a rattle like someone’s trying to open a door. It’s followed by a quick knock on the big door on the closest wall. 

Ilya shouldn’t answer that, right? He shouldn’t even be here. What the fuck is he doing— he just made a cup of coffee in a stranger’s home. Even if it’s the best cup of coffee he’s ever had in his life, the perfect mix of Russian nostalgia and American high-fructose corn syrup, it’s such a fucking weird thing to do. This is not how hook-ups act. He should be halfway across Boston, finishing a walk of shame by now. He doesn’t get enough time to fully panic. There’s a beeping sound— five beeps— and the door swings open. 

No. No. This place belongs to… Ilya feels bile in the back of his throat… Hayden Pike? Oh my god, what did he do last night?

The panic lasts only a second because it becomes dramatically clear, Hayden Pike did not expect to find Ilya here, either. Thank the Lord, Ilya’s dick can be marked safe from breaching Hayden Pike’s asshole bare for today. 

“Ilya Rozanov?” Pike is standing in front of the door he just closed. 

“Yes?” Ilya says with a confidence he has not earned. 

“...what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits honestly. “I was leaving.” He takes a large, lamenting sip of the best cup of coffee he’s ever, and will ever, have, and sets the cup in the sink. One-night-stand-person-who-for-some-reason-knows-Hayden-Pike will clean it up. 

Oh, fuck! Did Ilya have sex with Pike’s girlfriend? or... wife? More importantly, wait, “Fuck, is this Montreal?”

Pike just looks at him incredulously. His eyes flick to the gigantic windows that overlook some buildings. Ilya’s eyes follow, looking out the windows for the first time. He can’t be sure it’s Montreal, but he knows for a fact it isn’t Boston. Fuck. Pike pulls his phone from his pocket and dials. Ilya wishes he could hear the other half of the conversation, because Pike’s half is so boring. 

“I just got to your place and— well no, it’s too late for that, I let myself in and— can you let me finish? Ilya Rozanov is in your kitchen drinking a cup of coffee! … ok? … yeah I don’t really want to talk to him, either. Ok I’ll just… wait for you then.”

Pike lowers the phone but doesn’t move from in front of the door. 

“Who was that?” Ilya asks, never more curious about anything in his life, trying not to make it clear he’s never asked a more important question than who this apartment belongs to. 

Logically, it was Hollander. That’s the only explanation why these two men are standing in the same room and the floor isn’t ice. But this isn’t Hollander’s— oh my god. 

Is this Hollander’s actual home? Not the sex condo? How did Ilya get here? Was their game even in Montreal last night? Again, he brings his head down to the cool marble counter. “What the fuck am I doing?” He groans in Russian. 

Pike just scoffs, still incredulous. “He’s heading back. He was almost done with his run anyway.” There’s a beat of silence before, “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya groans again. “I cannot remember last night at all. We played?”

“Wait… are you serious?” Concern enters Pike’s voice, “That’s not good, Rozanov.”

“No shit!” Ilya cries, finally looking up. 

“Ok!” Pike looks like he might piss himself if Ilya yells at him again. He puts his hands up in surrender and takes two steps closer. “Ok. No, we didn’t play. Neither of us were even in the playoffs. Our season is over too, you know. So there’s literally no reason for you to be here. Maybe you were shitfaced and Shane saved you? But I can’t imagine...”

Ilya stops listening. The season is over? And Boston didn’t make the playoffs? Ilya could’ve sworn they would go all the way this year. He was a shoe-in for MVP. He remembers being so thrilled last night, still not happy though. It felt like maybe it was about a win, but now it sounds like that couldn’t be the case. What was it then?

The front door creaks open and a very sweaty— fuck, very, very sexy— Shane Hollander stands there as it closes behind him. The length of his shorts is indecent. He ran in public with those on? Maybe it’s the fact that his thighs look bigger than the last time Ilya saw him. Ilya wants to see how they fit in his hands now. 

Hollander leans his back on the closed door and brings the neck line of his tank top over his face. Maybe to wipe away sweat, maybe to try to hide from the situation. Either way, it makes his shirt ride up and expose his lowermost abs and a hint of hair heading down the low waist band of the world’s sluttiest running shorts. Ilya’s mouth waters. God, this is the sexiest man alive or dead. If Pike weren’t here, Ilya would forget every question he had and carry this little shit up the stairs, go to town in that unfamiliar bed. 

A bed where— shit. If context clues are correct, Ilya gave it to Hollander raw last night. Ilya starts frantically trying to remember the last time he was tested, now concerned he gave something to Hollander. 

“Umm,” Hollander asks Ilya feebly, “how much did you tell him?” 

“I tell him nothing, I have more questions for you.” Ilya wants to know why he’s here himself, he doesn’t give a shit about Pike. 

“I didn’t know he was coming today,” Hollander whines. “He has the code, too. I didn’t know he’d use it.” He glares at the floor.

“I’m right here.” Pike sounds irritated, “What the fuck is going on? Too? Does Rozanov have the code to your door, Shane?” 

“No. I have never even been here before.” Ilya states truthfully. Hollander looks at him, a little surprised, like Ilya is the one acting insane. “This is— I have to get back to Boston.”

Now Pike also looks at Ilya like he's lost it. “Rozanov, the season is over.”

Right. That makes sense, if it’s the playoffs. How did the season end though? Pike said they didn’t make the playoffs, but Ilya still can’t believe that. He really thought they were doing well.

“Ok, then to Russia.” Where… fuck. If Ilya didn’t even make the playoffs, after losing so badly in Sochi, the last thing he wants to do is talk to his father. 

Hollander looks confused, “Ilya…” he glances once at Pike. Ilya? What the fuck is that about? “He knows… everyone knows. It’s all over the news, you’re not going back to Russia. Or Boston. You’re going to get settled in Ottawa this summer.”

Ilya’s eyebrows jump up. “Ottawa? Why the fuck would I go to Ottawa?”

Pike laughs, “That’s what every hockey fan has been wondering for days, bud.”

Well that just makes no fucking sense.

“Is summer,” Ilya gestures at Pike because he’s the one who decided that was an important factor, “I go to Russia.” He points to the door. Which he should be using. 

Pike raises his hands in surrender, “I’m not gonna stop you dude.”

“I am,” Hollander says and scrunches an angry face at Pike. That face has been directed at Ilya so much, his body has a response to it. “Ilya, go sit down please.” He gestures to the sofa across the room.

“No. I need to go.”

“Ilya!” Hollander groans, and fuck if he’s going to be saying Ilya’s first name in that tone of voice, it’s going to become really difficult to leave. Except if that name is followed by: “Fine, we can just tell him.”

Ilya finally pulls his head out of his ass long enough to realize that, regardless of what happened that got him here, Hollander’s best friend just caught them in a compromising position. He’s about to have to come out. Ok, Ilya can look like a decent person and get the fuck out of the most uncomfortable situation he’s ever been in. “I can give you space, I will go.”

Hollander crosses his arms and stands in front of the door, “No... we’re gonna tell him together. Asshole.” 

“Ok! Ok, fine!” Ilya is frustrated. He just wants to leave this fever dream. He turns to Pike, “We get together, we fuck. Never here,” Ilya looks around, “Hollander has sex condo. Some hotels. Is simple.” He ignores Pike’s stupid surprised face and looks at Hollander, “Happy? May I go?”

Hollander’s eyes are watering for some reason, “…And we’re in love.” 

Ilya freezes. What? He’s never said that to Hollander before. He’s thought about something… similar, on like, two occasions. What it would be like to stay in whatever bed they just defiled and wake up with him. But love? What the fuck? 

Hollander loves him? Oh god. What the fuck happened last night?

Pike makes a sound like how Ilya feels. Shocked and speechless. 

Hollander looks at both of them and lands on Ilya. 

“Tell him.” He whispers, eyes threatening to overflow. 

Ilya’s eyes widen even more, it should be physically impossible, “Tell him what?”

“Tell me what?” Pike finally speaks up. 

“Go sit on the couch.” Hollander says to Ilya again, with his voice now more commanding. He’s never like this. In the two hours they get four times per season, he’s more pliant, usually following instructions and not giving them. It’s kind of an attractive change, it’s a shame Pike is here. Ilya gives a bratty scoff but does as he’s told, just because it kind of seems like he’s said the wrong thing. He crosses the open concept floor and sits on the couch with his arms crossed. He regrets surrendering the coffee. 

“He’s kind of… off, right?” Hollander whispers as if they’re not still technically in the same room. 

“In that he’s in your house?”

“No, that’s…” Hollander trails off. 

“What, normal?”

“He just didn’t know he was going to Ottawa, Hayd.”

“Yeah. I kinda figured that was like… a fugue state decision. Why else would he—”

Ilya wants to let them know he can hear them. “Again, why the fuck are we talking about fucking Ottawa?”

Shane looks worried now, “Because you officially signed with them yesterday? Do you seriously not remember this?” 

Ilya laughs. What the fuck did he take last night for this trip? He’s glad they’re saying the season is over, the drug tests would not like whatever this is. “I fucking did not.”

Pike laughs too, “Oh, thank God.”

Hollander crosses the room to him and sits on the couch, a few cushions over, with his knees pointing in Ilya’s direction. “Ilya, you signed with Ottawa yesterday. The contracts are in the other room.” 

“Why?” Ilya asks and Pike makes a sound of agreement.

“...What do you mean why? We’re going to be two hours apart. This is the plan.” 

Pike approaches the couch, sits in an armchair, and takes the words out of Ilya’s mouth, “What plan?” 

Hollander looks at Ilya expectantly, but Ilya has no idea what he’s expecting, “I have no plan. I planned on getting fucking out of here.” 

“Why are you being like this? We have a plan. Remember? I woke you up? At the cottage?” 

“He’s been to the cottage??” Pike yelps.

“What cottage?” Ilya says at the same time Shane says, “Yeah.” They look at each other.

Hollander turns back to Pike, sighs, and shyly says, “We’re... together.” 

Ilya will get wrinkles from the shocked expression he’s been made to wear all morning. 

Pike gestures underhandedly to Ilya, “Have you told Rozanov that? Seems like maybe not.”

“I know...” Hollander says distantly, carefully, eyes boring into Ilya’s skull.  

Ilya is confused, and frustrated. He wants everyone to stop looking at him and he wants to go home. But apparently home is a fullass plane ride away right now.

Something occurs to him. “I am in Montreal? Why? We didn’t play.”

“Another good fucking question” says Pike.

“Ilya…” There’s that name again.

“And what is this Ilya… you…” Ilya’s chest tightens. He covers his face with his hands. Ok, this is a bad trip. What the fuck is going on? He leans his head back against the sofa and tries to breathe. 

He hears whispering. “I think this is an emergency. Go, I’ll text you later and explain everything. Sorry. Please don’t... tell anyone about this.”

A door closes and next thing he knows, Ilya is being straddled. Finally, something normal. He’s wanted to get inside of Hollander since he walked in with the fabric scraps he’s calling shorts, at least this still makes sense. He reaches up to pull Hollander’s neck toward him greedily but Hollander resists. 

“Shhh, hey. Hey,” he coos. It’s comforting. That’s not Hollander’s job, though. That’s no one’s job, really, not since— what the fuck is going on? Hollander has Ilya’s whole head wrapped up against his chest. Hollander certainly smells like Hollander after his run, but it’s nice. Ilya always liked the way he smells and right now it’s absurdly soothing. Ilya almost wants to cry. It’s quiet and Hollander is rocking against him. Not sexually, unfortunately. Unfortunately, right? Ilya is confused by how pleasant this is; he’s letting himself be calmed. He gathers his thoughts enough to ask the most important question of the morning. 

“Hollander… why do you have Russian coffee?”

“Oh my god,” Shane whispers. Like he’s realizing something. Maybe he’s realizing he has Russian coffee. He pulls away from Ilya, just as it was getting comfortable, and Ilya’s cheek embarrassingly chases Hollander’s chest. He holds Ilya’s face in his hands and looks into his eyes. They don’t do this. Hollander doesn’t straddle him unless their tongues are tied together. His eyes search Ilya’s face, “Ilya, what’s today’s date?”

Good question. He considers it. He knows there was a round of playoffs already. Or two? Why does he feel like it was more? It doesn’t matter, he wasn’t in them right? Did Pike imply the playoffs were over? “June… 13?” It’s a guess but…

“Ok, yeah. I guess you just…” Shane worries at his lip and brushes a curl off Ilya’s forehead. It’s such an intimate gesture for whatever they are. “I guess it’s been a stressful couple of days.”

Ilya can’t stop thinking, now that he’s started. It feels like he’s been playing this game all morning. He says something he’s sure of. “I was in Boston last night.”

Hollander nods, “Yeah. Well, yesterday.”

He goes to the other fact he knows. “And I was happy last night.” Well, he wasn’t, really. He corrects himself. “No. Not happy, never happy. Just… excited?”

Hollander deflates in his lap, “You weren’t happy last night? Are you having second thoughts? If you didn’t want to—”

Ilya scoffs, “Hollander, I am never happy.” Except that’s not totally true is it? If Ilya weren’t having a minor panic attack, this would come damn close to happiness. If he held onto that cup of coffee, that might’ve sealed the deal. 

“But we’re working on that, right?” Hollander’s voice is tiny and insecure. 

Are they? It would be ‘working on it’ if they actually were doing sex stuff right now. Ilya looks at where there should be a hard bulge in Shane’s running shorts. He doesn’t even know where it would fit in these tiny things. He’d like to find out, though. He brings his hands up to rub Hollander’s huge thighs— when did they get this thick? In Sochi they were covered up and they haven’t been meeting up since then. He squeezes them tentatively, just trying to figure out how they fit in his hands compared to the last time he saw them. He slips his fingertips past the hem of the tiny shorts, just a few times before the fabric starts to strain. Nice. Hollander is so easy. “Are we working on it?” Ilya asks suggestively, addressing the now-hard dick in his lap. 

“We are.” Hollander breathes. His eyes flutter shut as Ilya starts to rub him through the shorts. Is he even wearing underwear? “I’m sorry our first morning got interrupted. But we’re going to live so close, we’re going to be able to do this all the time. We’re going to be so happy… You’ll have to get used to Hayden.” He opens one eye teasingly.

Ilya hums. He has no clue what Hollander’s weird new fantasy for him entails but he’s weirdly into it. Maybe not the Hayden Pike part. He takes the cue, and given where he woke up, he might be right, “We are going to share a bed?” If he’s honest with himself, that’s kind of something Ilya wants, too. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he realized he woke up in a bed that was probably also inhabited by Shane Hollander. 

Shane moans as Ilya rubs his dick through one of the leg holes. Easier than getting there through the waist band of these slutty shorts. “Yes,” he draws out the s, “going to have you for the whole summer.”

Ok, Ilya thinks. Sure, if we’re doing this? “Ok. I won’t go to Russia. I will stay here.” Saying the words makes Ilya feel… well he thought he’d be more conflicted than this, but it’s all positive. He’s loose with his grip on Hollander’s dick because it’s dry, but Hollander doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ll stay with you. Yours all summer.” He takes another hint from the morning, “We will fuck raw every day. I will live in you, Hollander.” Another hint, corrects himself, “...Shane.” The word feels so good in his mouth, he kisses Hollander’s neck just to keep himself from saying it again.

“I want that.” Hollander whines and thrusts into Ilya’s hand, “Love your dick. I love you so much. Ilya.” Ilya is too distracted by the sudden love confession, he doesn’t notice Hollander tensing up. The tree trunk thighs constrict around Ilya’s and soon Hollander is spilling into his hand and soiling the shorts. They both breathe heavily. Hollander cradles Ilya’s head again and kisses him sweetly, breathlessly. “I can’t believe we get to have this.”

We don’t. God what happened last night? What did he agree to? Hollander maneuvers off his lap and passes a tissue box over for Ilya’s hand. Ilya pulls him back down hoping he returns the favor with his mouth. “Did you get a chance to shower after this morning?” Hollander asks skeptically. 

“What happened this morning?” Ilya says the words drunkenly, without thinking.

But god, that was the wrong thing to say. Ugh, when there were hundreds of right things to say! No I was waiting for you, no I was going for a repeat. He thinks of the lube-sticky dick he was sporting this morning. God, he had sex with Shane Hollander— with no condom— and he doesn’t even remember it. Fate has never been so cruel.

Instead Hollander is back to looking at him with apprehension, studying his face from next to him on the couch. “You wouldn’t have like, taken something? Maybe for the flight?”

A flight. That explains how he got to Montreal last night. He wouldn’t have taken anything for the flight though. Drugs are strictly for recreation, and never those kinds of drugs. He doesn’t expect Hollander to know that, though. “No. I don’t remember.” 

Hollander looks at him skeptically again. “I need you to try, baby. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Baby? Ilya tries. He might do anything Hollander asks if he keeps calling him Baby. He closes his eyes like that will help. He doesn’t care what Pike says, he feels like this is true. “We were in the playoffs and—”

“Ilya.” Hollander is pale when Ilya opens his eyes, “You said the date. What year?”

“What?”

“What year is it?”

“2014.” That much he knows. He’s more sure than he’s been about anything this morning. 

“What…” Hollander climbs off the couch. He starts to pace, finally snapping his head to the kitchen. He crosses the room and comes back with a paper in his hand. It’s the Montreal game schedule. 

“Hollander I—” Ilya glances at the paper Hollander is trying to hand him. 2017-8 season? “Where did you get this?”

He makes a sound like a laugh, panicked and bubbly. “It’s 2018, Ilya.”

“No...” Ilya says slowly, “We just ended the 2013-14 season.” 

“You fucking wish!” Shane cries, his voice high and tight. 

“Why would I…?”

“Because you—” Shane shakes his head, “you said you were in the middle of playoffs last you can remember?”

“Yes.”

“What round? Who were you playing?”

Ilya thinks. He wants to be safe and say first or second round, after what Pike said, but he honestly thinks now it was the final. But that can’t be right, can it? That he was playing for the cup? “The final?” He says, so unsure that it comes out like a question. 

“Did you win?”

“I think I would remember if I won the cup, Hollander.” 

“Do you remember losing?” His voice is quieter. Ilya swallows at the question. No, he doesn’t remember even playing, let alone the outcome of the game that apparently didn’t even happen last night, but possibly four years ago. Ilya swallows back a gag.  

“I have no idea what to do right now.” Hollander says, and resumes pacing. “Can I call Mom?” 

Ilya crosses his arms, insides aching for someone like a mother to talk him off a ledge right now. He nods though, unwilling to explain all that to Hollander. 

Hollander picks up his phone and dials on speakerphone. Speakerphone? So Ilya is going to have to hear someone else being coddled? This is something sick, truly. 

“Hi, Mom. You’re on speakerphone, Ilya is here.”

“Hi, sweeties! How was your flight, Ilya?” Ilya’s eyes widen at the question. Why is Hollander’s mother talking to him like she knows him? Her voice sounds so familiar.

“He doesn’t know, Mom.” Hollander says when it becomes clear Ilya can’t speak. “He can’t remember anything. He thinks it’s just after the 2014 finals.”

“Yeah, right. He wishes.” She mutters and Ilya bristles.

“No… he doesn’t know who won,” Hollander has his eyes closed, like this fact really hurts him. Ilya feels guilty, almost.

“Did he hit his head?” 

“No! He was fine this morning and then I went for a run. I wasn’t even out for a half hour.”

Ilya looks up at this, “You talked to me this morning?”

“Yeah, we—” Hollander blushes, “Yeah, we talked.” Ah. Right. The lucky Ilya from hours ago who apparently got to come inside of Shane Hollander. God, fuck that guy, he doesn’t even know how blessed he is. 

“He needs to see a doctor.” Hollander’s mother says seriously. “Ilya, do you have a doctor lined up in Ottawa? I have to check the papers he signed yesterday, maybe the team doctors will see him already.” 

“I do not need a doctor,” Ilya says, feeling distinctly mothered for the first time in his adult life. Why does she have his contracts? 

“Let me call around and see if I can get a doctor for you in Ottawa and you can come here early. Or maybe Shane’s doctor in Montreal will take you, but I know you boys don’t want to be seen there… Nothing hurts?”

“No.” It sinks in that she might be doing him a favor. “Thank you.”

“Shane, sweetie, maybe you should show him the last game of 2014, that might jog some memories and kill time while I call around. I don’t want you to panic.”

“Ok Mom, good idea,” Hollander responds quickly, clearly too late for the panic to be staved off. 

“I’ll call when I get someone. Love you, boys.” The voice says sweetly. Ilya’s throat catches. That's the second or even third time this morning someone has professed their love for him. This is a cruel trip. 

“Love you too, Mom.” Hollander answers for both of them and hangs up. 

After quickly running upstairs to change his shorts, Hollander pulls up YouTube— on the tv?— and searches Cup Finals 2014. The search auto-completes and the link is purple like it’s been clicked before. “You watch my game, Hollander?” Ilya smirks.

“Shut up. It’s a good game.” Hollander blushes and deliberately stares at the screen, away from Ilya, “We… umm… we’ve watched it together.” Fuck. Seriously, though, fuck this version of Ilya who gets sex while watching his games and can’t even be bothered to remember it. He’d like a repeat performance, a refresher to jog his memory. But once the game starts, Ilya can’t look away.

They watch in silence, Shane petting circles on Ilya’s thigh with his thumb. Ilya remembers the game. He keeps wondering where he’ll stop remembering, but then the final buzzer goes off and Boston had won the cup. Huh. 

He remembers this. It’s like someone is reminding him, watching it happen to him. The commissioner shakes his hand, he hoists the cup up over his head. Shane sniffles, directing Ilya’s attention away from the screen. 

“You just look so happy.” 

“I’m not,” Ilya says honestly.

Then it hits him. 

Ilya was in the change room, moments after getting off the ice. He was dripping with champagne and sweat. He looked around at his cheering, smiling team mates. This had been his goal his entire life. It was exciting, and thrilling, and he felt… successful.

And then one of the idiots, still groping the trophy that stood in the middle of the room, turned to him and said, “Make your cup wish.”

“What is this? Cup wish?”

“You can have anything. You’re the captain of the winning team. You get a wish.” Marly says, like everyone knows that. 

Ilya looks carefully at the Cup, skims his eyes over some of the names. He approaches it like he’s stalking prey. And finally, he grazes one hand over it. The guys return to their jubilations around him, leaving him alone with the trophy.

What would he wish for? He has everything.

God, is that true? He has everything, and he’s still not happy. He looks at the wives and girlfriends, some children celebrating with the players in the locker room. Would that do it? Would six more Cups do it? His thumb is working a pattern, back and forth over one of the Cup’s handles. 

He doesn’t want to offend the Cup, but still the words appear in his mind. “I’m not happy.”

A voice rings out in his mind, clear as day, sounding familiar but unplaceable, “You will be.”

“Fucking when?” Ilya thinks. 

It doesn’t respond. That’s fair. It’s actually weird that the Cup responded the first time. 

But Ilya trusts the Cup’s judgement. He’ll be happy. He can be patient. But what if he could just skip forward to whenever that is? When does that start? He doesn’t care how he gets there, he just wants it. He closes his eyes.

The memories pour back into Ilya one by one, in chronological order. There’s a lot of pain, anger, hurt, and eventually comfort, care, love… Finally, he gets the last memory.

Ilya wakes up with morning wood so strong it could crack ice. And today, for the first time in months, he can rub it up against Shane Hollander’s ass. 

“Mmm hi, what’s that?” Shane’s sleepy voice mumbles flirtatiously. Ilya involuntarily pushes his hips against Shane at the sound. He laments the two layers of boxers in between them. As if he’s reading his mind, Shane pats his arm and says, “come on let’s go brush teeth and then we can.”

Ilya smiles wickedly at him, props himself up on his elbow and points to Shane’s nightstand. “The boring, annoying morning breath fairy left a gift for you last night.”

A tumbler with a little bit of mouthwash sits on Shane’s nightstand, same as Ilya’s. Ilya takes advantage of his and sees Shane doing the same. The domesticity of it fills Ilya’s chest. He did something for Shane last night and Shane is appreciating it. He is winning this being-Shane-Hollander’s-boyfriend thing. 

They spit the mouthwash back into their cups and giggle. The whole thing was probably more effort than just getting up and brushing. 

Ilya lays back down and pulls Shane on top of him to kiss him the way he’s wanted to for months, with intention. They quickly shed boxers and Ilya finds Shane still a little loose from last night. His breath catches upon feeling it. They can just have this? They can fuck like jack hammers in the evening and sleep and wake up and do it again? This is Ilya’s summer, 2 full months of this. 

And then some. Yesterday, Ilya signed the trade of the century and left Boston for good. He’ll be two hours away from Shane year-round. This hole is never going to recover. 

He forgoes a condom— he hasn’t even thought about one since last year after testing and initial rounds of exclusivity talks were complete— and applies lube straight to his dick. Shane sinks down on it without discussion, like he couldn’t wait. And God— Ilya loves this man. He can say that out loud. So he does. 

Shane whispers it back. They haven’t even done anything yet and he’s already winded and looking drunk. Ilya can’t make Shane work for it when he looks like that. Ilya props him up, holding him above his hips with his hands, and drills his dick up into Shane slowly a few times until he can pick up the rhythm. 

Shane moans and whines “yes there” and “don’t stop” and “fuck I love you so much” and Ilya knows Shane will be feeling this on his morning run. He looks like he can’t decide between throwing his head back or watching Ilya’s face. Ilya makes the decision for him and pulls him down for a kiss. It’s a better angle to piston himself into Shane over and over. It’s obviously a better angle for Shane too, as his moans fill Ilya’s mouth shamelessly. Ilya swallows them all and adds his own and when Shane tries to push back up, he holds him down in the kiss. It earns a louder moan from Shane. 

“I can’t… Ilya please don’t stop.” Shane whispers against his lips, unable to catch his breath. 

“Never.” Ilya says and means it. Shane gasps as he clenches down on Ilya’s cock and covers their stomachs in come. 

Ilya fucks him through it and realizes almost too late— he doesn’t want Shane to have to feel this oozing out of him during his run. The fact that he even thought of that, that this is how they live their lives now, has Ilya coming anyway and the first shot enters Shane. He lifts Shane’s hips off of him quickly and the rest of the pulses join Shane’s mess on his stomach. 

“Did…” Shane giggles a little breathlessly as he collapses his limp body weight onto Ilya, “did you just come hands free?”

Ilya pants in response. “Didn’t want you to feel slimy on your run.” 

Shane pushes himself up to look at him. Some combination of their fluids forms sticky lines that attach their stomachs together. 

“Ilya…” Shane looks at him with adoration. Ilya realizes the bar is in hell if Shane thinks this gesture is sweet, but he’ll take it. 

“Thank me later. I will fill you up when you get back.”

Shane blushes and smiles at that. Then he gets bossy, which they recently discovered Ilya loves, “While I’m on my run, you’re going to shower. Then go back to sleep. I’ll come back all sweaty and bring you your coffee.”

Ilya’s coffee. His spent dick twitches a little at the thought. For Christmas, Shane gave him a pound of the coffee Ilya had described to him offhandedly months earlier. Ilya thought he’d never have that coffee again when he broke ties with Russia. When a bag runs out, another appears in its place. It’s just so fucking thoughtful. Ilya doesn’t know what Russian mobster Shane is paying off to get this stuff, but he never wants it to stop. 

Shane combines it with the grossest creamers he can find. It started as a joke when he got the coffee. Shane found a disgusting Peppermint-and-Pine-flavored Christmas creamer, obviously thinking Ilya wouldn't drink it. Little did he know the combination of the weird creamer and coffee is like Ilya’s worlds colliding and including Shane and… since then, there’s always been his coffee and the weirdest creamer Shane can find in both of their homes. 

The promise of coffee in bed is almost orgasmic in itself, but this particular coffee is… 

Well, Shane just knows him. He looks at Ilya practically drooling and laughs, reading his mind, “Your standards are that low, huh? Just bring you coffee every morning and I can keep you?”

Ilya pulls him back closer, “Hollander, you are keeping me no matter what.”

Shane cleans them both preemptively with a wet wash cloth, dons a tank top and the sluttiest running shorts Ilya has ever seen, and says “Shower, I mean it!”

Ilya whines, “I thought we banned these shorts from public!” Every conversation they’ve had about those shorts leads to something filthy, and if Shane engages, he’ll never go for his run. So he rolls his eyes, hiding a smile, muttering a fond insult under his breath, and walks out.

As he hears the front door close, Ilya closes his eyes, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

He gets to have this. The whole summer. Every summer, maybe. And now that he’s moving closer, any breaks in their schedules are going to be just sex and preparing mouthwash for Shane and those whorish little running shorts and Shane bringing him coffee… Ilya breathes in as something swells through his chest. He’s just so fucking happy.

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