Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hockey, alternate timeline in which shane and ilya havent been fucking since their first meeting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Kissing, Explicit Sexual Content, Banter, Attempt at Humor, Light Dom/sub, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-06 Updated: 2026-04-25 Words: 50,168 Chapters: 7/9

stutter

Summary

“Am not a coward, Hollander,” Rozanov interrupts his rambling, and even his eyebrows manage to look—not displeased but disapproving? Shane is not quite sure what to make of the current expression on his face.

“Um,” says Shane. “What?”

Rozanov gestures between the two of them, almost impatient. “I can pretend to date you for a bit to please the monkeys in the circus. Everybody thinks we are dating now, anyway, so we might as well use it. And paparazzi are stupid. Even though Scott Hunter is a prick, he is a prick that does not deserve this kind of negative attention.” He shrugs, almost casual, and looks Shane up and down. “Plus, am into boys as well as girls. Is honestly not a problem for me.”

or: Shane digs himself quite a big hole, and now everyone believes he is dating none other than Ilya Rozanov. This would be no problem if he and Ilya 1) were indeed dating and 2) could actually stand each other.

Notes

i should not be working on this fic, but alas the first chapter is here anyway. don't know how long this is going to be or how many chapters or what my upload speed will be, but have this anyway! full disclosure: this takes place a canon-divergent canon-compliant universe, but i don't know a lot about hockey. or anything, really. you should see the hockey as an aesthetic more than an actual theme. thank you in advance!

for the purpose of this fic, my ilya rozanov is russian-american. he grew up in russia but moved to the usa before he got drafted into the nha. i suggest you don't think about it too hard.

Chapter 1: one

Chapter Notes

The photos hit the internet so fast that even Shane has seen them before his mum calls him. 

To be fair, it is Hayden who gets to him first, texting him a string of nonsensical exclamation marks before following up with a HOLY SHIT HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN!!!! and a link to a gossip site. Normally, Shane would not even spare him the time of day, but it’s been about point oh-three seconds since he opened his eyes and swiped his phone into wakefulness, and so he can be excused for using his thick fucking thumb to click on the idiotic fucking link. Normally, he wouldn’t even care about banal gossip, but by this point, he’s already committed, so he just waits bleary-eyed for the page to load in.

NO MORE ICE PRINCE, BUT SERIOUS HEAT - SCOTT HUNTER AND HIS MYSTERIOUS BEAU, reads the headline of the article. And then, when he scrolls down: 

Last night, everyone’s favourite NHL darling was spotted making out with another young gentleman in a gay bar in Soho. The passionate make out session was followed up by extended and tender eye contact, leaving even the casual observer wondering — was this just a fluke, or is there more to this illicit love affair? 

Top replies:

- hockeylovr12: Well, good for him. Love is love!

- yurionice: I always thought he had a bit of flair. Makes me wonder what else goes on in the hockey world. Statistically, it’s very unlikely that he’s the only gay dude.

- xx_scotthuntersgf_xx: NOOO WHY MY OPPA IS GAY?

→ eumppappa: holy shit, get a life.

And would you have it? The photos are actually of Scott Hunter—because nobody else would unironically wear that ugly Admirals hoodie in public—furiously lip-locking with a shorter, muscular counterpart. It is undoubtedly a man, all rugged stubble and bulging biceps peaking out from underneath his flannel shirt. 

Shane swipes through the photos, his eyebrows raising as he does. He would have thought the notion of ‘tender eye contact’ would be a bit of an exaggeration, but that’s what is actually going on. In the second to last photo, obviously taken from a distance by some kind of long lens, Scott has pulled back to rest his forehead against the other man’s, and there’s a soft smile playing around his lips. On anyone else, the expression would’ve looked cheesy, and they would’ve been accused of playing it up in front of the cameras. But it looks like Scott hadn’t known these photos were being taken of them, and from the little Shane knows of him, he’s no incredible actor either. This looks genuine.

(Well, unless you consider the fact that Scott Hunter had successfully convinced everyone of his straightness for the last decade. Retrospectively, he actually is a great actor in some way, then.)

When his phone starts ringing in his hands, his mum’s face appearing behind the caller ID, Shane nearly jumps a metre in the air. Heart pounding in his throat, he quickly picks up the call and presses his phone to his ear. Anything to not look at those photos anymore. 

“Hello mum,” he says, praying to the high heavens that his voice sounds relatively normal. The woman has an almost flawless bullshit detector when it comes to him, so he’ll have to play it safe.

She gets right down to business. “I imagine you’ve seen the photos already.” Her voice is curt in a way that is not unkind, but simply business-like. “Did you know anything about all of this prior to . . . this situation?”

He coughs. “You’re talking about Scott Hunter’s coming out, I presume. Forced coming out.”

“That’s right,” she says, and Shane might be imagining it, but she actually sounds kind of sympathetic. “It is really quite an unfortunate situation for the man. As far as I know, he’s been nothing but nice, and now he has to deal with this, well, bullshit.” 

Shane splutters out a shocked laugh at that, not quite used to the level of vulgarity from her. “How is the public reaction?” he asks, when he has calmed down some.

A sigh bursts forth, frustrated. “It’s been a mixed bag,” she admits at last, reluctantly. “Twitter has basically exploded with praise and congratulations, but between the lines, there’s a lot of negative commotion too. Talk of sponsorships pulling out, whether or not his teammates will be comfortable sharing a locker room with him, that kind of stuff. The usual things.”

“Usual,” Shane echoes, unable to quite keep the hurt out of his voice. He rolls onto his other side, seeing the early morning sunlight slant in through the windows of the cabin. Late summer to early autumn is especially pleasant in the master bedroom, the sun pouring in golden rays through the glass in the morning. 

“I’m sure this will die down soon enough,” his mother says, reading his mood despite the distance between them. “Hayden Pike’s gonna be annoyed that the spotlight’s not on him, so before you know it Jackie’ll pop out another baby.” 

Grumbling, Shane stretches his legs, feeling the muscles in his calves protest before they relax. “That man’s going to have to tie his tubes if he keeps this up. I swear he’s trying for an entire hockey team.”

“You’ll be singing another tune once you find a lovely girl to settle down and have your own little Shanes with.” Her voice goes a bit wistful. “God knows you have to do something with those lovely genes me and your dad passed on to you.” 

“Ha ha,” says Shane, uncomfortable. He runs his hand through his hair, which he will crop short at the start of the season but is currently a grown-out mess. The start of a new season is always a bit of a transitional phase in multiple ways. “You know I’m just trying to focus on my hockey career, mum. I can’t have any distractions, not when it’s going so well right now.”

“Of course,” she says, no hesitation. Then she’s back to business again. “I’m really just calling because I wanted to gauge your reaction. If Hunter’s smart he’s going to capitalise off of this experience and work with some brands to model their pride collections. I just think we should ride that wave as well and position you in a positive spotlight. You’ll be able to appeal to the vast majority of fans and casual observers then.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Shane, crossing his fingers behind his back despite the fact she can’t see him through the phone. “Anyway, I should go do my morning yoga. I can’t miss a session if I want to keep these hamstrings flexible enough.”

It’s possibly just Shane projecting, but the noise of agreement she makes sounds a bit too knowing. “Alright, honey, we don’t have to decide anything now.”

“Okay,” he says. “Love you.” 

“Love you. And good luck with your yoga. Let me know if you ever want to film the second part of that video we did before. I know the girls positively loved that one, especially the one scene where you were squatting down.” 

“Mum! Not everything is a marketing opportunity! And don’t talk about my ass like that.”

She chortles. “I wasn’t talking about your ass, honey, that’s all you. Good, your father’s calling me. Don’t be a stranger, and pop by before you drive down to Montreal again. Dad and I will be staying at our place until your second week of the season.”

“I will. Bye. For real this time.” 

They hang up and Shane presses the phone against his forehead, letting out the longest sigh known to man. Typically his mother, seeing an opportunity in everything. But this is not a situation Shane wants to burn his hands on. He’ll quietly support Scott, because he might be a coward but he’s no asshole, and that’ll be all. Nothing more.

He quickly sends Hayden a wow dude that’s wild, before swiping to another chat, chewing on his lip. The last messages are from over a year ago, but it’s not weird to send something in this situation, right?

Yo man, this whole situation must suck, Shane texts Scott, before he can talk himself out of it. Lmk if there’s anything I can do for you. Two ticks appear after he sends the message, but there’s no immediate reply, which Shane kind of expected. He figures that Scott is quite busy with other things at the moment.

After that, finally, he throws off the covers and gets ready for his day. He told his mum that he needed to do some yoga, so he might as well actually do that. 

He doesn’t need to be more of a liar than he already is.

--

The weeks leading up to the start of the season are always chaotic. Shane does end up driving down to his parents’ cabin for dinner, before he heads for Montreal again. It’s a bit of an adjustment to be back in the city again, Montreal bustling after the quiet of the forest, but Shane throws himself back into training with renewed fervor. Apart from a few disbelieving, almost shocked comments from his teammates, no further remarks are made with regards to the whole Scott Hunter situation, so Shane assumes that the dust has settled on that whole debacle. Nobody is outright hostile though, which is . . . reassuring. 

For no reason at all, really.

--

Hayden invites him over for barbeque with the rest of their team members a week before the season kicks off, which means that Shane has already started his diet, but Hayden promises that there will be enough options for him, and—“come on, cap, the boys could use their captain to infuse them with some team spirit.”

To which Shane said, “And you think that I’m the right person to do that?”

And Hayden had just laughed. “You’re coming whether you like it or not. Or I’m going to send Jackie over to grab you by the balls and drag you over.”

“I thought Jackie is pregnant again?” says Shane, weakly.

“Exactly. So you have to come. I already stocked your favourite brand of ginger ale.”

Clearly, two days later, Shane finds himself in front of Hayden’s house, awkwardly clutching a bouquet of flowers for Jackie and wishing that he were literally anywhere else. Hell, he wouldn’t even have minded if the universe would just send a minor meteor strike and wipe him from existence. It’s not like he doesn’t like his team members, but even after a few years, he still hasn’t figured out how to hang with them. How to be one of the bros. It’s like he’s always one slip of the tongue away from blurting out, remember Scott Hunter? Well, I’m also gay, lolz. 

They have already proven that they are quite alright with that whole discovery—as someone who is not one of their team members, and a respected senior to boot—and yet Shane could not think of one single situation that would be worse. It’s like his brain is actively resisting the possibility, and starts immediately conjuring up doom scenarios. Like he would be letting people down by being gay, somehow.

Alas, no meteor arrives, and instead the door opens. Jackie stands in the doorway, beaming at him, and takes the flowers Shane weakly thrusts at her with a grace and enthusiasm that Shane could never replicate. 

“Captain!” she says, cheerfully, her empty hand resting on the small swell of her belly. “The boys are waiting for you in the garden.”

Shane doubts that they are waiting for him specifically, but he follows her past the foyer into the big living room anyway. It smells like grease and charcoal, and the sound of laughter drifts towards him from the open doors, glass pushed to the side to allow the house to spill into the garden. Bro hugs and shoulder claps follow Shane wherever he goes, and it is a surprise time and time again, that there are people excited to see him. They chant as he passes them. Captain! Captain!

“The prodigal son!” says Hayden, pleased. He gives Shane a brief hug, then procures a glass bottle from who-knows-where. 

Shane looks down at it, frowning. “This is not my favourite brand of ginger ale.”

Hayden clinks the neck of the bottle with his own bottle of beer, giving Shane an exaggerated wink as a clear sound rings out. “Maybe not,” he says. “It was the only one they had in stock. But who can tell the difference?”

It’s clear that he’s not talking about ginger ale. The bottle indeed does look like a beer bottle. Normally, Shane mills around, clutching a glass of ginger ale, ignoring the rookies’ questioning eyes as they register he does not drink along with the rest. Right now, if you don’t look too hard, it’s almost like he’s holding a beer bottle as well. It’s somehow sweet.

“Alright. Thanks.” Shane tips back a swig of the drink. It isn’t as horrible as he had feared it would be. 

“Don’t mention it.” Hayden gives him a sideways grin. “We all like what we like, right?”

“Uh,” says Shane, squinting at him. “Sure.”

Before Hayden can get another word in edgewise, he gets called away to deal with the grill, which has started producing an overabundance of grey smoke. Shane is left wondering what he meant with his cryptic statement until someone hands him a tofu-something that honestly tastes better than it looks. Or smells.

After everyone has eaten their fill and drunk their share too, Shane somehow gets jostled into the middle of the group, even though he’d been hoping—and trying—to keep a low profile until the end of the evening. They’re chanting for him to hold a speech, which Shane bears with quiet dignity. It’s not the first time he’s held a speech, really, but it somehow feels more weighted, this time.

He takes a deep breath. “Gentlemen,” he says, and can’t help but smile as they cheer drunkenly. “Tonight, it’s just a little over a week until the season starts in earnest. I will tell you now—this will not be a season like any other. It will be even better, and even brighter. Everyone out there is hoping that we’ll fail, but we won’t crumple under the pressure. We won’t allow one another to fall. That is what it means to be one of us: we’ll never be alone, and we’ll fight together. We shall be fair, we shall do our stinking best, and we shall crush our opponents.” He raises his bottle of ginger ale. “To the Montreal Metros!”

“To us!” roar the rest of the members, and they toast their cheers to the sky.

--

Obviously, their first match has them facing off against the Boston Raiders, which is annoying but at least gets their blood pumping. Facing Boston means facing Ilya fucking Rozanov, which is a can of worms that Shane has stubbornly not touched in the last few years of his career—because there isn’t anything there, thank you very much—but at least they’ll have the homeground advantage. He is feeling confident about their chances.

The day that everything goes to shit, then, starts like any normal day. He wakes up when his alarm rings and immediately gets out of bed, rolling his yoga mat onto the floor so that he can meditate. After that, he eats one of his prepped breakfast bowls, all healthy fats and enough protein, and drinks two bottles of purified water. A perfunctory hot shower loosens his muscles, and he does some skin care after that, because he is Asian and the cold air in the rink does fuck up your skin if you don’t keep up with it. He drives to the rink a few hours in advance, runs his boys through their paces, and then waits and centres himself. He is ready.

Rozanov is a bloodhound on the ice on his normal days, but he dials it up to eleven when he catches sight of Shane. And Shane’s honestly ready for the confrontation. Anything to get rid of the weird buzzing that has settled underneath his skin since the whole Scott Hunter situation.

It’s true that the ice is always a cruel mistress. It’s below freezing on the rink, the stands filled with their most loyal fanbase, eager to kick off a good season, and they watch as Shane runs the team through their warm ups to get the blood pumping. Even though it’s only the first game, this will set the tone for the rest of the season. And Hollander versus Rozanov is always a sight to behold, at least where either of their fanbases are concerned, so Shane knows that there’ll at least be some fireworks. 

“Ready, Hollander?” Rozanov taunts him, as soon as they skate into the middle of the rink, waiting for the puck to drop.

Shane does not give him the satisfaction of a response, focusing on his own breathing, but Rozanov manages to turn that into a win anyway, a triumphant grin lighting up his face. When it is Shane who intercepts the puck first, Rozanov seems almost gleeful. And when he hits the boards after Rozanov bodychecks him, the dry sting of the pain briefly distracts him from his whorling thoughts. It almost feels nice.

The victory they squeeze out is a near thing, but it’s hard earned, and therefore tastes even sweeter. Even Rozanov looks begrudgingly approving when he comes to slap Shane on the back to congratulate him at the end.

It leaves Shane with a weird feeling in the tips of his fingers and his shoulder blade, as if he can still feel the outline of Rozanov’s hand there.

--

After they filter off the ice and have gotten changed out of their sweaty clothes into something more presentable, there is a press conference, and as the captain of the Metros, Shane is expected to attend. The bottom of his shoe after he’s stepped in some dog shit is literally more interesting than these media moments, and Shane is so not looking forward to sitting half a metre away from Ilya Rozanov while answering questions about preparations and intent. There is only so much bullshit you can say before you start repeating the same lines.

When he enters the stuffy room with the rows of chairs set up for the press conference, a weird buzz of energy sits high in the air. Shane ignores it, pointed, and sits down in his chair as cameras get pointed in his direction. As always, Rozanov is barely on time, stumbling into the room with the scent of cigarettes clinging to him. Shane rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and Rozanov just grins, plopping down in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him.

The first few questions are honestly boring—they’re both asked for statements about the game, about how they’ve prepared for the day, for this season, how the new recruits are. Shane could answer these questions with his eyes closed and his ears blocked, so he is kind of sinking into his boredom when the question comes. It raises the hair at the back of his neck, has him sitting up straight in his chair, lips pursing.

“So boys,” says one of the reporters, when Rozanov gives him the chance to speak. “The game today was obviously very interesting, but what we all really are dying to know is how you’ve been dealing with the news of your colleague, Scott Hunter. Do you have any thoughts on that whole situation of him and that . . . boytoy of his?”

“No comment,” says Shane immediately, giving Rozanov a sharp look from the corner of his eye.

Rosanov stays quiet, sensing the mood but he raises one eyebrow in muted confusion. Puzzled more than anything. Shane ignores him, gritting his teeth so hard he’s almost worried one of his molars might crack in his mouth.

“Oh, come on, man,” the reporter presses, almost goading. “Don’t tell me that there hasn’t been any talk about those queers in the locker rooms.”

Molten anger pulses low in Shane’s stomach, threatening to spill over. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, ignoring the way Rozanov gives him a confused glance from the corner of his eye, and leans closer to the microphone. “Would you care to repeat that?”

By the time the words leave his mouth, he knows that it had been the wrong thing to say. The reporter latches onto it smugly, his eyebrows nearly crawled past his hairline by now. “You are awfully defensive about it, Hollander. It wouldn’t be so surprising that there would be some reactions to Hunter’s coming out, right? Or is this somehow personal to you?”

Shane sees red, a ringing in his ears, which he will later give as the only explanation for what he does next—

He leans closer to the microphone, one hand on the table, and says, voice calmer than he ever would think possible, “Yes. It is personal to me.”

A gasp ripples around the room, and only then does Shane realise that he feels something warm underneath his hand, muscles twitching. He looks down, his heart leaping into his throat, just as Rozanov turns his hand around so that his fingers slide between Shane’s. Apparently, when he’d leaned his hand down, he’d placed it right on top of Rozanov.

It is only a beat later that he realises how this must look: his hand overlapping Rozanov’s, the steady conviction of his statement, the near defensiveness of the tone of his voice. Cheeks burning, he rushes to pull his hand back, but Rozanov does not allow him to do so, grip tightening. Shane looks at him, chest seizing, and Rozanov is already looking back, eyes steady as a storm.

For a heartbeat, it is quiet as the implications of his statement start to sink in. Then the reporters all leap up out of their chairs, voices almost harmonising with each other as they rush to ask the next questions. Cameras fire and flash, for a moment blinding Shane.

And then Rozanov’s foot nudges against the side of Shane’s shoe, a gentle pressure, grounding him back into the present again. 

Shane blinks and leans back toward the microphone. “No further comments.”

Marcel decides that this is the perfect moment to jump in. “Alright, those are quite enough questions,” he says, a bit nervous, and starts directing the reporters to the exit. A few grumble, but most of them are too busy penning down their newest scoop—because everyone can see what that was supposed to be—to meaningfully protest.

As soon as Marcel has hounded both of them from the room as well, closing the door behind them with a quiet kind of finality, Shane is bombarded by his team mates, who’d clearly only been outside the door. “Yo,” Patrice says, dapping up a dazed Shane, whose body only goes through the motions because of years of practice. “You totally told that asshole where to stick it. That’s super grand, my man.”

“Damn bro,” says Hayden, and if Shane were any more present he would almost think that his team mate sounds proud. “You know what they say about the thin line between love and hate, huh?” He claps Shane on the back.

From the corner of his eye, Shane sees how a few of Rozanov’s team mates had also lingered, glances exchanged and hands shaking. In the middle of them, Rozanov looks like a king surrounded by his subjects. 

“Just give me a moment,” Shane mumbles, hoping that Hayden had realised that he had been addressed. Before the other can say anything in return, Shane has already ducked out of his hold and is walking toward Rozanov. The Russian man watches him approach with a small, knowing smile around his face, and does not protest when Shane grabs his wrist and starts hauling him along with a muttered, “We’ll be right back.”

Rozanov allows himself to be led, luckily, his walk almost a swagger, confident.

“I am so, so sorry,” is the first thing out of Shane’s mouth after they make it into an empty bathroom. His voice pitches up. “Oh god, I don’t even know how that happened. I swear I wasn’t trying to imply anything, but my body just did . . . that, without my permission.” He stares at Rozanov, chest seizing. “Whatever those people think, we don’t have to let them believe that lie. We can totally tell everyone that you didn’t appreciate how I, um, well, announced that there’s something between us, possibly, and we can leave this all behind us—”

“Am not a coward, Hollander,” Rozanov interrupts his rambling, and even his eyebrows manage to look—not displeased but disapproving? Shane is not quite sure what to make of the current expression on his face.

“Um,” says Shane. “What?”

Rozanov gestures between the two of them, almost impatient. “I can pretend to date you for a bit to please the monkeys in the circus. Everybody thinks we are dating now, anyway, so we might as well use it. And paparazzi are stupid. Even though Scott Hunter is a prick, he is a prick that does not deserve this kind of negative attention.” He shrugs, almost casual, and looks Shane up and down. “Plus, am into boys as well as girls. Is honestly not a problem for me.”

All Shane can do is gape at the other, lost for words. When he had answered that reporter, he hadn’t been thinking ahead. Really, it would not be wrong to say he hadn’t been thinking at all. He covers his eyes with his hands and groans. “Oh my god, and I did that stupid thing where I outed you without even considering your feelings on the matter. Which was like the thing I hated most about the whole Scott Hunter situation. Because I hated how he didn’t have any control over the situation.” He cuts himself off, teeth sinking down into his bottom lip.

“Is a bit of an open secret in Boston, honestly.” Rozanov rustles, like he’s shrugging, and then cold fingers come up to curl around Shane’s hands, softly pulling them away. Blue eyes peer at Shane, a small furrow between his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Think you’re having a bit of a panic attack, Hollander. Do you want to try breathing exercises?”

The statement is so ridiculous that it snaps Shane right out of his stupor. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Rozanov.”

“That’s more like it.” Rozanov pats him on the top of his head, a patronising smile playing along his lips. “You were looking quite white just now. Didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I had to peel your prone body from these disgusting tiles.”

Shane levels him with a flat look. “Can you say anything in a way that’s not antagonising?”

A shrug, the corners of his lips twitching. “Just have to stick around and find out.”

“You are impossible.” Shane pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger. “So, we are doing this, then? We are running with this—this plan, if you could call it that?” Oh god. He can’t believe he’s actually suggesting this. He pinches himself and winces at the sting of it, but at least the pain grounds him back into the present again.

His entire life so far has been spent terrified of coming out. And now this. With Ilya fucking Rozanov.

“I told you,” says Rozanov, oblivious to Shane’s panic or unbothered in the face of it. “I’m in. We show them a perfectly lovely relationship, because this is nothing special. We murder anyone who tries to hit us with negative press. And Scott Hunter, with his picture-perfect relationship, will be nothing.”

At those words, Shane can’t help but laugh. “So you’ve seen the Instagram pictures.”

“Yes, I’ve fucking seen the Instagram pictures.” Rozanov’s voice is deadpan, his face giving nothing away. “Enough about stupid Scott Hunter.” And then he’s stepping forward, easy as anything, and the space between them—which hadn’t been that big in the first place—shrinks to something infinitesimal.

Shane’s heart does something funny in his chest.

“Tell me no,” says Rozanov, his face a beat away from Shane’s. Despite the way he’s caging Shane in, one of his hands resting on the sink behind him and the other curling around Shane’s hip, his face is calm. Like he’ll actually pull away if Shane would tell him to do so.

But Shane says nothing, and the next moment, Rozanov is pressing him against the porcelain behind him, the rounded edge digging uncomfortably into the small of Shane’s back. And then the discomfort melts into nothingness as Rozanov covers Shane’s mouth with his own. He’s a good kisser, is the first thing Shane notices, whose experience in kissing is probably quite laughable in comparison. His mouth tastes like something minty and fresh, but below that is the sharp ashy taste of the cigarettes Shane has seen him smoke before. He should hate this more. He should.

But Rozanov kisses like it’s the only thing he thinks about, like he has a single-minded need to reduce Shane into a puddle of indulgence and thrill. His lips are quite thin, but from the way he kisses, you’d never be able to tell, because his mouth is everywhere. When his tongue asks for entrance against the seam of Shane’s lips and Shane grants it to him, it’s like he’s trying to leave an imprint of himself against the ridges of Shane’s teeth. It’s intoxicating.

Shane tears himself away, gasping for air. If his lungs wouldn’t be screaming at him, shamefully, he would’ve allowed Rozanov to ravage him for longer. “What was that for?” he says, coughing.

Rozanov just shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are spit-slick and swollen, and there’s a slight flush along the top of his cheekbones. It’s almost jarring to see that even his marble-perfect face can bear the signs of his gratification like this. “Something to take the edge off,” he says. “And people will think we’ve been doing way worse than that. Just need you to not look so damn afraid around me.”

“And you thought kissing was the best way to do that?” 

A grin this time, sharp and knowing. “Told you to tell me no. You didn’t. Can tell me much, but I know you aren’t stupid.”

He is actually impossible, but apparently this is the man Shane is stuck with for now. He gives Rozanov a flat look, unimpressed. “We’ll do this for now,” he says. “We’ll let the people believe what they want to believe. And when the hype dies down, and this has all become a bit more normalised, we can see what we’ll do.”

“Don’t break my heart already, Hollander,” says Rozanov, pouting. Shane would think he was actually sad about it if he didn’t know the other better. “We haven’t even started dating yet and you’re already talking about breaking up?”

Shane says, “You’ll live.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’ll be heading back to my team now. We have . . . a lot to talk about. And I’m sure your guys will want to talk to you too.” He bites his lip. “Let’s keep the situation between us vague for now. We don’t have time to go over the specifics.”

Rozanov whistles between his teeth. “You know what they say about thin line between hate and love . . .”

“I’m not entertaining this conversation with you now.” Shane takes a step back, putting much needed distance between the two of them. It feels like he can finally breathe again. “When is your flight back to Boston?”

“I’ll move it.” He says it, no-nonsense, like it’s no problem at all. It kind of floors Shane. “We should probably have dinner tomorrow.” Rozanov procures his phone from his back pocket and holds it out to Shane, waving it when he only looks at it with a frown. “To put your information in. You know how one of these works, right?”

Despite himself, Shane laughs. “Shut up.” He plugs in his number and sends himself a text, fumbling a little bit with the Cyrillic letters until he manages to switch it to the English keyboard. 

[Shane Hollander]
Hi, This is Shane Hollander.

Rozanov looks down at the text and clicks his tongue. “Boring. It makes sense.”

Shane does not even have the energy for a glare, all of the strength suddenly sapped from his body. “It’s what you’ll get. Now, I should really head back. I’ll see you—sometime. Tomorrow, probably. Yes.” 

The amusement that wafts from Rozanov is palpable, but he has the grace to stay quiet until Shane has reached the door, his hand on the handle. “Oh, and Hollander.” Shane looks over his shoulder. Rozanov’s eyes are dark, a sun eclipsed. “Call me Ilya.”

“I’ll think about it,” Shane says, unwilling to let the other have the last word. With his heart stuttering in his ribcage, half-terrified and half-exhilarated, he pulls the door shut behind him and leaves behind a grinning Ilya Rozanov.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading :) let me know what you thought about this so far?

Chapter 2: two

Chapter Notes

hello friends, i am back again. inspiration found me and then didn't leave. i had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and i hope you all like reading it too :) have at it and have fun! <3

His mum calls him while he is driving home. Shane keeps his hands on the wheel and does not turn off his phone, letting it ring until it peters off into silence again. He focuses his gaze on the road ahead, hands at two and ten, and tries to keep his breathing even. He runs through his mental exercises until the only thing he can think about are his perfectly-timed inhales and exhales and the traffic as it flows around him. She tries a second time, but he once again lets it ring until it goes to voicemail. 

Coming home is not the respite it normally is. It feels like everyone is turning their heads to watch his desperate escape, even though nobody really bothers. They all live in islands of their own minds, after all, and everyone is way busier with themselves and their own drama than they are with looking at him.

But still.

He can only breathe easier once he steps through his door, his coat on the hook and his bag in its spot. Montreal unfolds through the window, dark buildings and golden lights. He fills a glass of water from the tap and takes a seat at his kitchen island. With a heavy heart, but with the mentality of getting it over with, he presses his phone against his ear.

The phone rings once, twice, then connects. “Nice of you to call me back so quickly, only son of mine.”

“I was driving,” he defends himself. “Why were you hounding me so quickly, anyway? I know that the news couldn’t have hit your ears so fast.”

“Marcel texted me,” she replies immediately. She already knows what he’s talking about, then.

Shane groans, tipping his head back. “Why would my team’s PR guy text you?”

Her voice pitches up in mild indignance, “Because of things like this!” She calms down again, her breaths regulating. “I care about you, Shane. Sometimes you don’t tell me things, and you don’t have that many people that you do tell things to. It’s not like we text daily or even weekly, but I just check in with him from time to time.”

“I don’t know whether Marcel is the best judge of my character,” says Shane. He meets eyes with himself in the window in his kitchen, his eyebrows drawing together briefly before he smoothes out his forehead again.

“Well, he’s all I’ve got.” She clicks her tongue, good-humoured. “Don’t try and distract me, kid. Now tell me: what is this with you and one Ilya Rozanov?”

Ilya’s voice rings through Shane’s head. Everybody thinks we are dating now, anyway, so we might as well use it. “. . . I was going to tell you,” he says, weakly. 

“Uh huh.”

He makes a sound of protest. “I am an adult, you know, mum. I am allowed to—to have relationships and hold hands and kiss people without consulting my mother first.” He pauses, frowns. “You don’t sound that surprised, anyway.”

“That it’s a man or specifically Ilya Rozanov?” She laughs, but not meanly. Never meanly. “Honey, I did realise you weren’t ever super interested in . . . starting a life with someone, when I mentioned it. For a bit I thought you might have been—what do the kids call it these days? Asexual? You seemed well adjusted, and not necessarily lonely. I just let it go and figured you were going to tell me when the time was right.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” he says softly, heart a heavy weight in his chest. 

“Oh, that’s okay, honey.” The grin in her voice is a palpable thing. “I’m just happy that you put that asshole reporter in his place like that. We don’t appreciate any of that slander around here, and if he wants to be a dick, he can do that in his own country.”

“American reporter?” he guesses. 

“I’m working on getting him banned.” He stays silent, shocked, and she adds, “From the sports journalism world as a whole. But we can start with Canada first.”

Shane lets out a long sigh, hopes that she can’t hear the smile in his voice. “Mum.” 

“Not a done deal yet, but it’s a process.” She hesitates for a bit. “So, how about that brand sponsorship that we talked about this summer—” 

He cuts her off, “Me and Ilya won’t do any campaigns just for some brand just because they’ve got a pride collection, mum. Half of the time that’s only rainbow washing anyway. Not everything is a sponsorship opportunity.”

“I didn’t even mention his name,” she says, and laughs. “But I can get you something real. An actual campaign. Just sleep on it. Talk to your boyfriend. We’ll talk in a few days.”

Shane’s stomach twists at those words, but somehow it isn’t unpleasant. Your boyfriend. 

It had taken him a few ill-advised dates with resulting attempts at sex to realise that girls weren’t doing it for him. He never really cared about hookups, always too damn afraid to get caught out to pick up a random boy in a club or bar, but there was no denial that his heart had always sped up whenever a pretty boy was looking at him. And Ilya, with his pink lips and those damn golden curls, was nothing if not a pretty boy. It wasn’t ever going to be anything, the two of them pitted against each other like rivals fighting for the same scraps—fame, attention, opportunities—until now. Until it did become something.

“Earth to Shane?” his mother says after his prolonged silence. “You aren’t texting him, are you?” 

He snaps back into awareness. “Sorry. But I should actually go. Make some dinner. Decompress from the game and everything else.”

“Yes, that sounds like a smart idea.” There’s a warmth to her voice that makes him even more guilty than he already is. “But Shane, in the future . . . feel free to tell me anything, alright? I was prepared for a lot of scenarios, being your mother, but this really isn’t as bad as you telling me that you got some random girl pregnant. I’m not angry, or disappointed. I’m happy for you that you found someone.”

“I—yes,” he manages to choke out. “Of course.” A dry laugh bubbles up from his throat and he clamps down on it at the last second. “Love you, mum.” 

“Love you, too. Take care. And call me back in a reasonable time!”

They hang up and Shane sits at the kitchen island for a long time, trying to manage his breathing with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands covering his face. It is only until it feels like he can stand up without breaking into spontaneous tears that he gets to his feet. His stomach grumbles at him, annoyed, so he does indeed go to heat up one of his prepared dinners.

--

A text from Ilya comes in as he is sitting at his table, half-heartedly chewing some green beans and chicken breast.

[Ilya Rozanov]
first article about us has been released link
i know you are reading this hollander
saw the checkmarks appear
helloooo hollanderrrrr

[Shane Hollander]
If you told me to call you Ilya why do you still get to call me Hollander?

[Ilya Rozanov]
cause i said so
did you see the article or not

[Shane Hollander]
I’ll read it later.

[Ilya Rozanov]
oookkaaayy
so about dinner tomorrow . . .

[Shane Hollander]
You were serious about that?

[Ilya Rozanov]
why wouldnt i be?
i don't make a habit of lying to you
already moved my plane like i said
is this place nice? link

[Shane Hollander]
I don’t know. I’ve never been.

[Ilya Rozanov]
we can figure out together
how romantic

[Shane Hollander]
Okay . . .

[Ilya Rozanov]
meet me there tomorrow at 7
i’ll make a reservation
and wear your prettiest dress!

[Shane Hollander]
I hate you.

[Ilya Rozanov]
;)

It’s surprising how easy it is to banter with Ilya. Shane never really gets—or allows himself to get—comfortable enough with other people to a degree that he can just joke around with them like this. He used to believe that it was just something about him, that he was built wrong in a certain way that just didn’t allow him such simple human interaction, but there’s something about Ilya that makes him so easy to talk to. It’s part provocation and pigtail pulling, like they’re actually preschoolers on a playground, and part something else, something gentler. 

But it’s almost like Ilya is, in a way, similar to him. Both at a lonely height. Never really allowing anyone else to get close enough. Shane won’t kid himself: he’s seen a lot of Ilya’s interviews. He shares exactly enough about himself that people think they know everything about him, but that’s not true. If you look really carefully, they all really don’t know anything about him.

He likes to tease, is what Shane has gathered so far. Perhaps it is because he likes to see other people fluster while he remains calm, in control over the situation. And he’s a great kisser. He has a way of making you forget everything but him. Or maybe that’s just Shane.

Throw a bone to a lonely dog and soon enough he’ll come back again to beg for attention. 

It had been Ilya who had grabbed onto Shane’s hand like that, though. And Ilya who had stared at him with those bright eyes, twin burning flames. And Ilya who had suggested this whole ludicrous plan in the first place.

Shane finishes his food and washes up his plate in the sink. He technically has a dishwasher, but he almost always eats by himself in this apartment, and it never gets filled up fast enough for him to run it before he needs the things inside. Plus, the rhythmic movement and familiar motions give him something to do with his hand while he zones out, hot water running along the back of his palms, the tops of his fingers pruning.

Only after that, after the kitchen is spotless again and he’s curled up on his comfortable couch, does he click on the cursed link Ilya had sent him. The website loads in slowly, which gives him a lovely view of his own face in the reflection of the glass: his dark eyes and furrowed eyebrows above that, the slant of his mouth. 

He reads:

IS THIS ANOTHER COMING OUT? - HOCKEY STARS SLAM BACK

Earlier today, the Montreal Metros faced off against the Boston Raiders, scraping out a well fought victory. The match marks the official start of this year’s season for both teams, and was an explosive and delightful watch. But this was not the most exceptional part of the day. After the match concluded, Hollander (Metros captain) and Rozanov (Raiders captain) went to the media room to debrief the match. After some general comments, one of the other reporters asked them what they think of the situation surrounding Scott Hunter (see our story about him here). At first, both Hollander and Rozanov refused to comment. When the reporter kept pressing them for an answer, Hollander cut him off. He stated firmly that Hunter’s situation has a personal connection to him too, and as he did so, grabbed Rozanov’s hand, who was sitting next to him. Further questions were rebuked by the arrival of the Metros’ PR member of staff. 

We do not know exactly what this means for the situation between Hollander and Rozanov, but in this piece, we will not speculate. For further statements concerning the relationship between the two hockey players, we direct you to the social media accounts of the Montreal Metros here.

Top comments:

- eumppappa: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander? That’s not something I expected but pop off kings

- lilyrose: their visual chemistry is off the charts!
→ rikiniki: god you’re so right, I hope they do a pictorial or some kind of magazine shoot together!

- hockeyrocks: wait, are they actually together or . . . ?

All things taken together, it could’ve been horrible. It could’ve been so much more horrible. This article definitely was not written by that asshole of a reporter that hounded them in the first place. It seems like the writer of this piece is actually empathising with the both of them. 

He breathes out, puts his head down so that his cheek is pillowed against his own knee, and just is for a moment. Sometimes, life is really hard. A lot of the times, really. But sometimes, life surprises him in ways that he did not think he would be allowed to experience. He would’ve retired a happy hockey player if he never came out. He thinks so, at least. And right now, this whole situation with Ilya—not even counting the fact that he doesn’t even know the other man like that—is crazy. 

If it were with anyone other than Ilya, he would’ve freaked out way more than he already is doing right now. But it wouldn’t have happened with anyone else than Ilya either, so. There’s a funny conundrum. 

There’s something there, he knows—some kind of lesson to learn or conclusion to make or enlightenment to be gained.

But that’s for tomorrow or any day after that. Right now, he is tired and overwhelmed. He leaves his phone behind on the couch and goes to take a shower. The hot water will wash away his worries and his sins. Life restarts at sunrise.

--

The following day starts slow, tired. Shane allows himself thirty more minutes in bed than normal, in which he stares at the ceiling and pretends he does not exist. It’s still autumn enough that light still filters into his room even at this time, and the house is cast in shades of pale orange and amber. It makes for a pretty picture that he watches through swollen eyes from a seat at the living room counter, a cup of herbal tea at his elbow. Outside of his window, Montreal flows as it always does—cars honking, people calling out to each other, a garbage truck rumbling by. 

On a day after a match, there is very little to do if Shane doesn’t have any visits to the rink or events he has to go to. He drives down to Mount Royal Park, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, and lets the morning news wash past him without actually hearing the words. At the park, he tightens his shoelaces and decides to shed his jacket at the last minute, and then starts running.

There’s a nice trail looping around the lake, broad sanded pathways perfect for overtaking. He spots a few people out with their dogs, parents pushing their children in strollers, and someone flying a kite in a grassy patch next to the water. It’s a nice day out, the sun burning down on his shoulders, and he’s happy that he’s Asian enough that he remembered to cover the exposed parts of his skin in an adequate amount of sun screen. 

Headphones covering his ears shut outside the noise of the rest of the world, and the music allows him to keep an even one-two pace, running shoes pounding against the earth below. His heart beats in his chest, a hollow sound, and sweat beads at his forehead, the dips of his collarbones. Running has always come easy to him, and this morning is nothing different. He runs until his head has gone completely quiet, until the buzz of thoughts has settled down into something manageable, circling the trail twice before he heads back to his car.

After his run he sits in the front seat, air conditioner blasting on full until the sweat has dried. He checks himself in the mirror of his visor, flipped down, and deems himself worthy enough of being seen by others. Apart from his houses and his investments, there isn’t much he splurges his money on, but he does see the appeal of a small treat from time to time. And there’s a shop downtown, near his apartment, that does nice smoothies and displays all of their ingredients on the wall below the names of the drinks. Easy to track his macros that way.

The girl behind the counter seems to have barely graduated high school. She’s chewing some gum, blowing a bubble from time to time, and doesn’t spare him a second glance. It’s nice to confirm that not everybody is looking at him specifically, even if it feels like that sometimes. Especially now, really.

But who is he kidding? He’s no celebrity. He’s just Shane Hollander.

Back at home, he rubs himself down with a cold towel and then looks at himself in the mirror. He’s an athlete in his prime, and his body reveals his hard work: the width of his shoulders, the trim of his waist, the lines of his stomach. His skin is golden and smooth, which he really has to thank his mother for, and marred only by a smattering of freckles. As far as looks go, Shane would count himself as average. Not particularly ugly, but not handsome or beautiful either. Nothing like Ilya.

Sometimes, girls would blush and turn their head away when he caught their eyes. It meant nothing to him, because he wouldn’t feel anything in return. Now, he remembers Ilya’s bright eyes just before he had kissed Shane, and he kind of gets them. 

How pathetic. The curve of his mouth twists into a grin, which he sees into the mirror before he recognises bodily what is happening. He just shakes his head, exasperated, and goes to get dressed.

Morning shifts into afternoon. He has some paperwork to sort out for an upcoming branding deal, so he perches his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and places his laptop on the coffee table in the living room. It might fuck up his back to sit on the floor like this, he legs stretched out in front of him, but it’s also uniquely grounding. He can be excused this once.

All at once, though, it is time to get ready for dinner. Time had slipped past him like a sheet of water, quiet and almost unnoticeably, and he has to stretch to get rid of the kinks in his back. 

Overthinking leads to decision paralysis. He wears a simple but classical cardigan and straps his leather-banded watch around his wrist. This is not a date in the traditional sense of the world, but to outsiders, it has to look like that. The effort he is putting in right now has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he is meeting Ilya. Surely not.

He doesn’t drink during the season so he feels comfortable driving his car to the restaurant Ilya had picked out. The parking rates aren’t even that exorbitant, and it’s worth having his car close if he needs an escape.

The place Ilya had chosen for them is, in one word, romantic. It’s small and quaint, a handful of tables spilling out onto the sidewalk and striped awning above the window. Ivy climbs up against the stone wall, probably damaging the building behind the beautiful facade, but by now almost a part of the bricks. Tearing that down is a whole other headache.

When he gives Ilya’s name, the hostess at the front leads him toward a table in the back, then leaves him. It’s a bit darker here, the walls cast in shadows, but not so dark that he’ll have a problem seeing the things around him. Just dark enough to ease honesty.

Shane had been perfectly on time, but Ilya had still arrived earlier. Like this meeting matters to him as well. A shiver runs down Shane’s spine.

“No dress?” drawls Ilya, the first thing out of his mouth when Shane gets within a comfortable talking distance. He’s in a casual outfit as well: a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of slacks, a thin golden chain wrapped around his neck. On him, it looks devastatingly good. Shane has to tear his gaze away from him, his heart skipping a beat in his chest.

Instead, he busies himself with shedding his coat and sitting down on the chair on the other side of the table. “Not until at least the tenth date,” he says, at last. A joke, but a bad one. “If that.”

“I’ll remember that,” says Ilya, his eyes hooded.

Shane has no retort to that, something hot coiling low in his stomach. He distracts himself by opening the menu and scanning the dishes. To his surprise, there’s enough on offer to align with his diet. All of the free time he had today, and he didn’t even take a moment to check the dishes. Saved by the bell, it seems. 

“Good enough for you, princess?” Ilya asks, breaking the silence.

Shane wills down his blush through sheer resolve. “Do you already know what you want?” he returns, instead of answering.

“I picked something when I found this place.” Ilya grins at him, an easy thing, and he looks a little bit like a fox. Shane suddenly feels very much like an animal trapped in a snare. It doesn’t matter that they’re both predators if he’s incapacitated. “This restaurant is not really my style, but I figured it would have something for you.” When Shane sends him a blank look, he adds, “Since the season already started.”

“Oh,” says Shane, sheepish. “I didn’t realise you knew.”

“Watched that yoga video you filmed a couple seasons ago,” Ilya says. “Very . . . informative. But you also talked about your diet during hockey season.”

A waitress comes to take their order. Shane orders a ginger ale—safe, comfortable, safe—and Ilya picks a glass of red wine. He does not make fun of Shane’s choice, just adds a bottle of still water for the table. They also order a main dish each and a house salad to share. Shane very carefully does not think about eating from the same plate as Ilya.

“Have you thought about it?” asks Ilya, once she’s gone again.

Inhaling sharply, Shane looks up at him. “Thought about what?”

“Us,” Ilya says, easy as that. He gestures between them. “This. The whole situation.”

For a brief moment, Shane just watches him. Ilya holds himself with a kind of effortless grace, but there’s a tightness in his shoulders that Shane only sees because he’s looking for it. “Make me an offer,” he says.

“This is your last chance to back out, Hollander,” says Ilya. He leans forward across the table, his eyes dark. He’s opened one more button since the evening started, and this angle gives Shane a perfect look at his chest. The skin there is white, tinged with blush pink, and unmarked. “Say it now, and we’ll both drop it. I give you this opportunity. Media attention will go away, prone to jump to the next juicy gossip. Will be water under the bridge.”

Shane swallows.

Ilya continues, “But if you want this, we do it. We commit. And every asshole reporter and person who watches hockey that dares to be fucking homophobic will be shaking in their damn boots.”

“I want it,” says Shane, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. “My mum, my team members, maybe even the people who’ve read that article. Everybody already thinks it’s true, right? I want to show them that this is normal. That we are normal. And that being an asshole is not okay. So, I guess I do want this.”

A satisfied smile lighting up his face, Ilya sits back again. “Good.”

The waitress returns with their drinks. They sit in silence until she’s done pouring out their glasses of water. When she leaves, Ilya takes the stem of the wine glass between his fingers, swirling the red liquid inside. His fingers are thin and delicate, the slope of his nose sharp when he leans down to smell the notes on the alcohol. 

“How did we meet?” says Ilya, and it breaks clarity through the daze of Shane’s thoughts. 

He takes a moment to process the question, his brain lagging. Blinking heavily, he gazes across the table. “Excuse me?”

“We are dating now, Hollander,” Ilya says. His tongue wraps around the syllables of Shane’s last name. “But every relationship starts somewhere. Maybe you were dazzled by my blue eyes on the ice and decided to go for it.”

Shane frowns at him. “Why would I have prepositioned you?”

Ilya laughs. He almost sounds fond. “You’re right. You wouldn’t have done it.” He takes a sip from his drink, throat bobbing. “Do you have a better idea?”

“That award show before summer.” Shane thinks about it for a bit. “Last year. You were smoking outside and I told you off. That’s how we met outside of hockey. One thing led to another, and now we’re here.” 

“Trying to paint me as the villain?” says Ilya, delighted. “Would probably not be wrong.”

Something pleased blooms in Shane’s chest. He doesn’t really know what to do with it, but he sees no harm in it, for the time being. There is no need to squash it down, not when Ilya doesn’t know that it’s there. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ilya confirms. He folds his hands on the table, but before he can continue, their food arrives: lean meat and vegetables for Shane, meat cooked rare splayed out like a heart for Ilya. And that house salad, leafy greens and broiled brussels sprouts and green asparagus. Shane hadn’t thought that he would be hungry enough to eat, but the sight of the food is making him and his stomach reconsider.

“You think you could’ve kept it a secret for so long?” asks Ilya, once the waitress has gone. He spears a piece of meat onto his fork and brings it to his mouth. His pink lips wrap around the red meat, white teeth sinking down. It almost looks sensual. 

Shane tears his gaze away. “Our relationship?”

“Yes.” 

“Well I’ve been keeping my sexuality a secret for most of my life,” says Shane, with a shrug. He chews on a slice of bell pepper until it is mush in his mouth so that he doesn’t have to continue, and Ilya takes the hint.

“Right,” he says. “It won’t be like that from now on. No need for secrets around me.”

A silence settles across the table, though not oppressive. Shane dares to look up from his food to glance over at Ilya. The other is looking back at him with a blank face. Shane has never been the best at cataloguing every micro-expression on other people, figuring out what the twitch of their lips or the slope of their eyebrows means, but Ilya is somehow easy to read. “Alright,” he settles on saying. “Both ways, then.”

“But of course,” Ilya drawls. “Would not let the princess sit in uncertainty.”

The blush that has been fighting the entire night to settle on Shane’s face finally wins ground. He bites down on his lip, shuffles his food around on his plate. “Are you going back to Boston tomorrow?”

“Mm. Should probably fly you out sometime. It would be weird not to be spotted together. Eat another bite.”

A piece of meat lands on Shane’s tongue before he knows what he is doing. He looks up at Ilya, almost betrayed, but Ilya easily holds his gaze, face placid. “My mum wants us to do a campaign together,” he says, to divert attention. “Something . . . along the lines of our relationship.”

“Your mother the business woman,” says Ilya. He sounds impressed. “Give me her number some time. I can put her in touch with Boston-based initiatives.”

Privately, Shane doesn’t know how he feels about Ilya fucking Rozanov texting his mum—but then again, apparently she was already texting Marcel for information about him. Between the two of them, Ilya almost seems like the safer choice. For now, he just makes a non-committal noise. 

Ilya must sense his reluctance, but he just gives him a small grin. “No rush.”

They finish the rest of their meals in relative silence, occasionally swapping questions and giving answers. It’s mostly about hockey, but that’s a safe subject for Shane. He finds himself rambling from time to time, then catches himself, and notices Ilya staring at him with thawed eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Once they’re full, Ilya settles the bill despite Shane’s protests. He just places the credit card on the little silver tray with the receipt and sends it off with the waitress before Shane can even look at the price.

“I’ll pay next time,” says Shane, pride wounded.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Maybe.”

Shane pulls on his coat, and they walk to the exit together. Montreal is still rather balmy even though darkness has already settled firmly across the city. “Safe flight back to Boston,” he tells Ilya, forcing his gaze away from his feet and toward Ilya’s face.

“Will be careful,” Ilya says, smiling. “You too. Text me about anything. I’m serious. Don’t be sad or nervous by yourself.”

His breath stuttering in his throat, Shane nods. “Okay,” he whispers. 

Ilya cups Shane’s cheek in the palm of his hand. “Be good.” 

And then he leaves, just like that, the swish of his stylish coat the last thing Shane hears. He follows him with his gaze until he disappears, and heads toward his own car.

--

That night, in the quiet of his own apartment, Shane wraps a hand around himself. He’s sweating in no time, so he kicks the covers away from his body. It never takes that much to work himself to hardness, and this time too, his cock engorges in his palm. He knows how he likes it: grip tight around the base and thumb flicking along the head on every third or fourth stroke. He’s sensitive too, always has been, and before long, he’s shivering.

He thinks of Ilya. It is no conscious decision, but he can’t stop himself once he starts. There’s something magnetic about him—his gentle assurance, the certainty with which he carries himself, his winterstorm blue eyes. And there is no denying that he’s gorgeous too, all the way from the golden whorl of his curls to the curve of his smile. He has nice hands, steady palms with thin fingers. Shane wonders, shamefully, how those hands would feel on his skin. If he’d be cold or warm, if his touch would leave a mark. 

Shane hopes he would—that he would leave something physical behind with his caress. The arousal that slams in his gut at the thought is a molten thing, malleable but persistent. He wonders how Ilya would react if he would lay himself bare like that, splayed open for him to see.

Good, says the Ilya in Shane’s memory. Good, good, be good. And, Good boy. 

Shane shudders and comes across his hand, his heaving stomach. It feels incredible, toes curling into the bedding, muscles drawing together then relaxing. Afterwards, he lies in silence for a little bit, blinking up at his ceiling. His world should have shifted more, but all he feels is a bone-deep satisfaction. 

He stands and stretches, and goes to clean himself up. Sleep finds him easy that night, with no dreams to wake him up. In the morning, the sun finds him smiling.

--

becky @pootatoe
not to be That person but i’m pretty sure shane hollander and ilya rozanov were having dinner at the restaurant that i work at so maybe that article was correct after all? #itwasdefinitelyadate #theyredating #lovewins

Chapter End Notes

tell me what you thought about this chapter?

Chapter 3: three

Chapter Notes

disclaimer: the author is an only child :)

fun fact—i named this fic 'stutter' because i liked the sound of the name. that was all. a few days ago, i was forcefully reminded of the song 'stutter' by the incredible canadian (canadian!) band mariana's trench. i exclusively listened to them probably ages 14-15? so a while ago. now there's that song. as an ode to this fic and that song, you should listen to it at least once before or after reading this chapter.

that's all from me! have fun :)

As it is wont to do, the season continues. So Shane plays hockey. 

The Metros are, as they’ve been for the last few seasons, his home. Out of all of the people in the world—barring the obvious, like his parents—they know him best. And somehow, over time too, they’ve started to trust him, trust him to make calls for the whole team. When he says, this changes nothing and we play hockey like we’ve always done—they do. And when they win (more often), they celebrate, and when they lose (sometimes), they strategise. It’s almost all too perfect. 

Shane allows himself to have it. For now. And mostly because he texts Ilya, in a moment of weakness, Everything is almost too good and Ilya replies, just let yourself have something hollander jesus christ. He wasn’t aware that Ilya is religious like that. 

He calls his dad as well. Obviously, his mum has told him everything, but it’s his dad. He deserves Shane’s honesty. 

“Rozanov, huh?” says his dad, when Shane tells him. “I thought we didn’t like him.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, studying his own expressions in the tall glass window of his living room. “We didn’t, but still—” 

The thing is this: there’s something, there’s always been something. Him and Ilya, rookies at the same time. Drafted first and second, Shane just millimetres behind. They were always neck-and-neck, one stealing a price here and the other copping a win there. It was Ilya who held the trophy first, which just meant Shane had to take the next two seasons to break even. The media played it up, as is their selling point—Hollander versus Rozanov. You either liked one or the other. You either hoped that one won, because that would mean a loss for the other. And Shane had started believing that. 

It had been surprisingly easy: in his eyes, Ilya was so perfect that Shane didn’t have to work hard to resent him. Ilya could talk to girls, dragging a new one around on his elbow every few weeks, always at ease, always poised. The media loved him as much as they loathed him, because every smartly posed question was met by an even more intelligent rebuke. Everything that Shane denied himself, Ilya seemed to enjoy twice as much. Sometimes, Shane could swear that Ilya’s grin had widened when they met eyes, as if the other was saying, look at what I have that you don’t.

The Ilya that had searched for a restaurant in Montreal that Shane could eat at was a different breed entirely. 

“—I guess I just saw him in a different light,” he manages at last, a bit lamely.

His father lets out a soft laugh. “An understatement.” A beat of silence, then: “When did you even have time to meet up, with everything else?”

Shane squirms in place, despite the fact that his father cannot see him. The reflection in the window casts him in shades of blue and brown, a smudge, but he does not need to see himself in technicolour to feel the burn in his cheeks. “Boston and Montreal play each other a lot, so we found a way,” he says, voice catching on at least every second syllable. “. . .You  were young once.”

“I’m just teasing you,” his father laughs, then sobers up again. “Son, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Even if this would’ve been an unthinkable situation to be in just a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah,” says Shane. “Yeah, I know.”

He gets chastised for it. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. We can’t decide who we like, can we? That’s the job of our heart.”

Later that night, Shane lies in bed, one arm curled behind his head, and stares up at the ceiling. He should sleep—he has an optional training tomorrow that he always sees as mandatory—but tiredness refuses to find him. His dad’s words echo in his mind. 

That’s the job of our heart. 

His father and mother have a typical sickly sweet love story. They met shortly after university, moved in not soon after, love each other fiercely, and would absolutely tear the other a new one over the card games they play together. Shane didn’t really have a lot of true friends growing up, busy as he was with hockey, but the few that he had could often be found complaining about their parents: how they fought, how they divorced, how they were miserable together from time to time. In the Hollander house, that was not the case. Yuna and David love each other, and they poured that love into a shape, and that is Shane.

And he feels that love every day. His mum is hard on him, but that’s because she wants him to succeed. His father is more mellow, but not any less dedicated. Hockey is part of their lives in the same way that eating and sleeping are, something you do but you don’t really think about anymore. It’s not that Shane doesn’t enjoy it—but it has become routine. He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

This whole thing with Ilya was never meant to happen. It’s the most disruptive thing that’s occurred . . . probably in his entire life. He’s known, probably since he was born, that he’s gay. Almost like it’s a fact of life. But in a sport like hockey, that’s not something you broadcast to the entire world. Scott Hunter was a blip in the system. Shane Hollander is a fucking idiot.

With a groan, he rolls onto his side. Montreal is a blur in the gap between his curtains, smudged out headlights and flickering neon signs in a sea of navy blue, the circle of the moon peaking out between a gap in the clouds.

For as long as he can remember, his life has been planned out to a tee. Everything was, well, not perfect: but close to it. As perfect as he would allow himself to have it, as long as he didn’t get complacent. And he always thought that it made him happy. It did make him happy. But strangely, this whole situation-slash-disruption to his normal routine with Ilya delights him too. In an abstract way—almost as if he is looking at the life of a stranger from the inside out.

But he enjoys it, he does. More than he ever thought would be allowed. 

--

[Ilya Rozanov]
come to boston

[Shane Hollander]
Good morning to you too?

[Ilya Rozanov]
goodmorning princess
come to boston

[Shane Hollander]
Why?

[Ilya Rozanov]
we are dating now
in case you forgot
so should be seen together from time to time
also got us an in with an authentic magazine doing a pride piece

[Shane Hollander]
Oh my god, couldn’t you have led with that?

[Ilya Rozanov]
more fun this way

[Shane Hollander]
I’ll talk to my mum, she’ll be ecstatic. 

[Ilya Rozanov]
already contacted to her
you’re flying in three days
your schedule is free

[Shane Hollander]
How do you have my mum’s number already?

[Ilya Rozanov]
im magic
see you in three days hollander ;)

--

[Shane Hollander]
Mum, can you please stop texting people about me without telling me?

[Yuna Hollander *Emergency Contact]
☑ read at 2:24pm

--

It takes no time at all to get to Boston. Shane still falls asleep in his seat anyway, almost immediately after take off, like a pavlovian reaction to having been in a plane for so much in his life. He jerks awake when the wheels touch the runway again, a stretch in his neck and drool crusted at the corner of his lip. He’s dazed as he filters off the plane, only managing to scoop up his bag on autopilot. 

Ilya had texted him the details about the magazine, the sampler questions for the interview they’d been doing, and had told him that a car would be at the airport to pick him up. And drive him to Ilya’s place. 

No hotel? Shane had asked, when he’d read that information, mind spinning and sweaty hands slipping across the glass of his phone.

why hotel? had been Ilya’s reply. we are dating princess. you stay at my place.

So that’s that. 

Shane easily finds the cab driver Ilya had arranged behind the exit doors of his arrival gate, waving a sign with his name on it, and makes idle chat as they walk toward the car. Some gasps of recognition follow them as they go, but Shane keeps his gaze pointed forward and does not engage. He tells himself to keep calm, that what he is doing is allowed, chewing on the side of his thumb as the driver puts his bag in the trunk of the car. A strange sort of calm settles over him, the kind of calm that promises a freak out later. When he gathers his wits a little bit.

The traffic is . . . well, it could be better. But it’s rush hour, and the city seems to be so busy that everything’s slowed to a crawl. Ilya lives in the penthouse of a highrise somewhere on the edge of the centre (Shane had googled the address when Ilya had sent it to him), a fancy flat he has afforded himself with the help of his sizable income. A smart investment, if you asked Shane.

By the time the cab spits him out on a patch of pavement next to the entrance to a fancy building, Shane feels wrung out from tiredness. He tips the driver despite the fact that the man claims that everything has been taken care of and grabs his own bag just to get his blood pumping. Anything to shake off the fog that has settled across his brain, muting his surroundings down into flecks of muted colour.

Nervousness finds him by this point as well. He’s never been in this position before, this close to a place that’s so personal to Ilya fucking Rozanov. Still, he rings the bell of the apartment number Ilya had given him.

“It’s Shane,” he says, his voice croaky, as the intercom crackles to life. 

“The doorman will let you in.” 

A moment later, he’s buzzed inside. The man down in the lobby checks his ID, his expression betraying nothing. Then he gestures Shane over to the lift on the left side, pressing a rectangular plastic card against a panel on the side, then presses the button to call it down. “Highest floor, sir.” Then he leaves to sit behind his desk again.

The ride up seems to take an eternity, Shane’s heart pounding in his throat as the number climbs higher and higher. His hand grips tighter onto the strap of his bag, as if it might act like armour in some way. A ridiculous thought.

It’s not that Ilya is scary—except that Shane has to convince his heart of this every time again. It’s like it stutters even at the thought of being alone with him. And in a space as intimate as his own house . . . Shane doesn’t know what to think. It would be easier not to think. But with Ilya being Ilya, he’ll need all of his wits about him.

With a ding, the elevator shudders to a halt, the heavy doors opening and spilling Shane out into a little hallway. It leads only to one door, a plush carpet underneath Shane’s feet. He flushes as he walks over, pulling at the collar of his jacket. Ilya is behind that door.

Pull yourself together! he tells himself.

Before he can raise his fist to knock, the door swings open. On the other side: Ilya, a small grin around those perfect pink lips, his eyebrows raised. “No need to hesitate, Hollander,” he says. “Just me.”

Shane feels his face pull into a scowl. “Were you watching me?”

“Hard not to,” says Ilya. “I came to the intercom because the entire building could hear you stomp over to the door. Maybe you were announcing yourself so that I would open it. Which I did, of course.” As if to illustrate, he opens the door wider so that Shane can slip through the gap. Shane can’t help but notice that the space isn’t that big. They almost brush together.

Ilya’s place is gorgeous. It’s clearly the home of a man, all browns and greys and blues. But it is also warm, somehow, lamps scattered around the room casting a golden glow and painting the room in soft tones. Tasteful art hangs from the walls of the open plan kitchen and living room, and the centrepiece is the fluffiest, most comfortable looking couch Shane might have ever seen in his life. A big floor to ceiling window shows the entirety of Boston’s skyline as the city settles into evening. For some reason, he gets the idea that Ilya didn’t hire an interior stylist to decorate this house. That this is all him. Shane kicks out of his shoes and trails into the room, ignoring Ilya’s huff of amusement. 

“You have a nice house,” he says, because it is and his mum raised him to be a graceful guest.

When he turns around, Ilya is leaning against the kitchen island, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks Shane up and down, amused. “Thank you.” He waves a hand somewhere behind Shane. “Guest room is through there, second door on the right. You can leave your bag there.”

Shane feels a stab of relief at the direct order, then immediately flinches at the thought. Luckily, Ilya doesn’t seem to have noticed, so he quickly turns away and heads in the direction Ilya had indicated. At least he doesn’t expect Shane to share his bed—they are hidden from prying eyes behind high walls, clearly. But Shane wouldn’t know what he would have done if Ilya had suggested it. The twist low in his stomach should not be as telling as it is.

The guest bedroom Ilya has put him in is nice. A king sized bed, a dresser, and a desk pushed underneath a window. Below the building, Boston stretches out, unassuming. Nearly all of the times Shane has been here, have been for hockey. He’s never been able to enjoy it quite like this.

He quickly changes into some clean clothes, since being on a plane always leaves him feeling wrinkled and wrung out. Wandering allows him to find a bathroom two doors down, and he quickly splashes some water in his face and washes his hands. The Shane that looks back at him in the mirror is clearly tired, but in a way settled as well. He frowns, and the Shane in his reflection copies the movement.

“Thought you fell asleep,” Ilya comments, when Shane makes his way back to the living room. He’s moved to the couch, one leg propped up onto the seat so that he can rest his arm on his knee, phone dangling from his hand. Comfortable in his own home, as he should be.

“Ha ha,” Shane manages at last, a bit lamely. “Flying always takes it out of me.”

“Would have thought you would have adapted by now,” says Ilya, though not unkindly. He puts his phone down next to him and stands, stretching. The movement causes his sweater to ride up a little bit, revealing the flex of his abdominal muscles, the vee of his hips, his milky white skin, unmarred. When he walks over to Shane, Shane gets a vision of a big cat, languid but poised. 

That can only mean that he is the prey animal behind hunted down. Shane swallows and tenses, throat bobbing as he takes a step backward. Ilya’s gaze alone is enough to pin him in place.

Ilya advances until there’s only a sliver of space between their bodies, and Shane lets him. His heart hammers in his chest, so loudly that he’s sure Ilya must be able to hear it, so forcibly that the inside of his ribcage must bear the marks, after this. The smallest of grins, triumphant, curls around Ilya’s lips when he leans closer, his breath washing across Shane’s skin and raising a line of goosebumps down his spine.

“How about ordering dinner tonight?” is what Ilya says—which is exactly not what Shane had expected. Not at all, really. “You are tired now. Will have breakfast at a cute cafe tomorrow morning for the media photo op, and then go to the photoshoot after.”

Shane exhales, so loudly that it startles the both of them. “Sounds good,” he murmurs.

A hand curls around his wrist, and Shane looks down to see how Ilya’s thin fingers stake their claim. It could only be the other man, but it still startles him, though his heavy breaths settle ever so slightly when Ilya squeezes him, just once. A jarring feeling, the way it grounds him.

“I was already browsing restaurants for myself," says Ilya, pulling Shane along with him to the couch. “But I think you know best what you like for you. Have a look.”

“Alright.” Shane allows himself to be led. 

The couch is as plush as it had looked, and Shane allows himself to sink down in it, grateful. His socked feet curl into the carpet below, and he keeps rolling his ankle after Ilya hands him his phone, drawing aimless patterns with his heel. Ilya had already shortlisted some restaurants, and Shane trusts his guidance on this part, so he selects one of the places that looks to be of a higher quality and then passes the phone to Ilya so that he can place his own order.

“This one on me again,” says Ilya, satisfied, locking the phone again. He looks up at Shane. “If you are good, maybe breakfast is on you tomorrow.”

Shane scoffs. “I’ll just be faster than you.” 

“Mn. Maybe.” 

While they wait for the food to arrive, they talk. Easy topics—hockey, the season so far, their respective teams. Ilya is a surprisingly good conversational partner, and Shane feels bad even thinking about it like that. He knows that Ilya is more than the asshole from Boston who can give him a run for his money on the ice, but it’s also nice to see this side of him. When he smiles, it transforms his face, smoothes it out into something softer.

The food is decent, as far as brown rice dishes go. Ilya does not mind them eating on the couch, and he waves off Shane’s concerns about stains. “If you make a stain, I buy a new couch. No problem.”

Afterwards, they stretch out across the couch, sated. There’s a thin line of distance between them that had shrunk as the evening had progressed, until Shane swears he can feel Ilya’s leg against his every time Ilya shifts to say something. He glances down at it, that hair of separation, and feels his heart skip a beat in his chest.

“You should stop being so skittish around me,” says Ilya, breaking the careful silence. “You know people will need to believe we are together, right?”

Shane looks at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m not skittish!” he protests.

Ilya places his hand on Shane’s thigh and Shane startles so badly he nearly dislodges Ilya completely. He would’ve, if it weren’t for Ilya’s grip tightening, muscles yielding below his touch. Shane swallows, a noisy sound in the silence that has fallen between them. When he twists his head to the side, Ilya is already looking back at him. Up close like this, with his full focus on Ilya, Shane could almost count his individual lashes.

“Very not skittish of you, Hollander.” His name is almost a purr, dangerous in Ilya’s mouth.

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane says, defiantly ignoring the way the words grate the inside of his throat, and turns his face away.

A hand curls around his jaw, forcing him to look at Ilya. He does not put up resistance, and Ilya does not seem impressed by his glare. “I would be nicer, if I were you. I can behave. And am not the one throwing tantrum right now.”

Shane opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Every spot where his skin dents underneath Ilya’s touch is lit aflame. 

The hand slides lower, an unhurried path, and rests in the hollow of Shane’s throat. There’s no pressure, but Shane still feels his breath catch. It’s somehow pleasant, this feeling of lightheadedness. He licks his lips and notices, with a jolt of heat, how Ilya’s eyes track the movement, almost hungry. 

“No reason for us to be hostile right now,” says Ilya. “See, you can look at me.”

It’s difficult, but Shane manages a response. “Not giving me a lot of choice are you, Rozanov?”

“Mn, perhaps. Perhaps is better for you not to have a lot of choices, then. Gives you too much time to overthink. You are very smart, but what to do with all that intelligence when you don’t even know how to relax.” Ilya releases him to pat his cheek patronisingly. Embarrassingly, Shane immediately misses the touch, and almost doesn’t catch Ilya’s next words. “Don’t worry, Hollander. I can teach you.”

And then he pulls back, a yawning cavern between their bodies. Shane blinks and snaps back into the present again. 

He thought he would have a harder time falling asleep, here—a place unfamiliar to him, Ilya an undefined amount of walls away from him. But he showers until the tension drains from his muscles, hot water pouring down his body, and by the time he’s crawling into bed, he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

--

Their unofficially scheduled morning program is fine. Shane dresses in one of the linen shirts his mother had filled his dresser with, a couple of months ago, and straps his watch around his wrist. When he gets to the kitchen, Ilya is already there. He is dressed in a V-neck shirt, a thin golden chain hanging between his collarbones. His golden curls are pushed away from his forehead. Shane has no problem admitting, in the privacy of his own mind, that Ilya looks like a Greek god: expression haughty, pink lips pursed.

“Hungry?” is the first thing out of Ilya’s mouth when he spots Shane, his expression doing something that Shane cannot place.

Shane presses a hand against his stomach. He thought his nerves would leave him more unsettled. But actually— “Starving,” he admits, giving Ilya a sheepish look.

“We cannot have that.” Ilya draws him in with his eyes alone, alluring as a siren, and Shane only realises that he’s walked over and has taken the jacket that Ilya is holding out to him when he’s already clutching the fabric between his hands.

He blinks and looks down at it. “What is this.”

Ilya gives him a disbelieving look. “A jacket, Hollander.”

Blinking, Shane manages to wrench his eyebrows into a scowl. “I know that it is a jacket, Rozanov. I’m just wondering why you gave me this.” He brings it up to his nose and breathes in. It smells clean and unassuming. “I gather that it is yours?”

“It’s washed,” Ilya snaps, and the flush high up on his cheekbones must be anger or annoyance or anything like that. He calms down. “I just thought we should match.”

“Alright.” Shane still doesn’t know what he’s on, and he did bring his own jacket to wear, but he shrugs on the jacket anyway. It’s leather, high-quality, and it fits him like a glove. He figures that he’s probably built similar enough to Ilya for that to be the case. 

The city has already stirred to wakefulness when they make it outside the building. The place Ilya has found for them to have breakfast is apparently within walking distance, so they set off. For the time of year, the weather is still pleasant enough, or at least better than Montreal. There’s just one thing. As they step outside, Ilya reaches down and laces their fingers together.

“Mn?” says Shane, confused.

Ilya swings their hands, a sparkle in his eyes. “Handholding,” he says, cheerfully, like Shane doesn’t know what he is doing. “What boyfriends do.”

Shane doesn’t remember the last time he held hands with someone. It must’ve been during any of his failed dates, or with the handful of girlfriends he had in high school. This feels different. Ilya must notice that he’s spiraling, because he gives Shane’s palm a reassuring squeeze. And Shane—despite himself—finds that he is relaxing. 

Crazy. His life is crazy.

Like Ilya had said, the place isn’t that far. As they go, they pass whispering people, careful glances shot their way, and the shutter sound of a camera follows them, a sharp gasp. Ilya knocks their shoulders together, gives Shane a reassuring smile when his head tips forward in his own shame, his nervosity. Hold on, his eyes say. This is why we’re here.

It is only because of him that Shane makes it to the cafe at all. When they step inside, a bright bell above their heads ringing in their arrival, he feels his body relax, involuntary. They are ushered to a table at the back of the cafe, hidden behind a tall potted plant and tucked in an alcove. Out of sight . . . and romantic, if Shane was forced to put a label on it. Like this would be a place where you would sit with your partner, hold hands across the table, and giggle into your coffees. Shane really needs to pull himself together.

A staff member comes to take their drink orders once they’ve sat down. She’s slightly twitchy and clearly recognises the both of them, but clearly fights to remain professional. Shane reminds himself to leave a signature on a napkin before they leave.

“So,” says Ilya, once she’s gone again. “Tell me something about yourself, Shane Hollander.”

Shane gives him a flat look. “What are you doing?”

“This is what people do on dates, no? They learn each other.” Ilya gives him a half-challenging look across the table, leaning forward slightly. 

This close to him, inside, he kind of smells like cigarettes. He must’ve had one before they left, before Shane woke up. The thought of him standing out on the balcony in the morning freeze-cold, arm wrapped around his body to keep himself warm, the cherry-glow of the butt of the cigarette in the dark Boston morning, races a frisson of heat up Shane’s spine.

“Alright,” says Shane, at last. “What do you want to know?” 

“Give me some facts about yourself. Something that makes you, you outside of hockey.”

“You can read all of this online,” says Shane, pointed. “Didn’t you say you already watched videos about me?”

Ilya shrugs, cheeky. “More fun this way.”

“You are impossible.” Shane rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips are twitching. He thinks about it for a moment. “Alright. Me outside of hockey? I like . . . houses. I like buying them and upgrading them. I have a couple of places in Montreal that I rent out, a cottage in Ottawa. It’s really tranquil out there, quiet. You probably saw it on those yoga videos.” Ilya wiggles his eyebrows at that, and Shane can’t help but laugh. “I like driving and I like working out. Running in the park and all that. And I read the New Yorker in the morning, sometimes.”

“The New Yorker?” Ilya’s eyebrows lower, faux-disappointment in his eyes.

“What?” laughs Shane. “It’s just a normal newspaper. My father reads it as well, you know.” 

A flat look, though amusement dances in the other’s eyes. “Oh really? Maybe being boring is genetic, then.”

“Man, fuck you,” says Shane, but there’s no heat behind it. 

They’re both smiling widely across the table. One of the cafe workers arrives with their drinks, asks them for their brunch orders. Shane hasn’t even looked at the menu yet, and simply orders the most healthy sounding smoothie bowl. It’s not quite inside the frame of his diet, but he can make it up in other places later. Ilya orders something with fluffy eggs and toast. Shane’s stomach twists at that, jealous.

“You an only child?” Ilya asks.

Shane raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?” The word comes out almost like a question, the single syllable rising in tone. 

“Mn. You have that vibe.” 

“Oh yeah, and what’s that like?”

The answer is immediate, full of humor. “Spoiled.” 

Unable to help himself, Shane’s face crumples into something close to annoyance. “I do not act spoiled. I am perfectly proper, well-adjusted, and I am not like those prissy only children that don’t know how to behave just because they’ve never been told no.” He huffs, sends a pointed glare. “I can promise you that I’ve been told no a lot in my life.”

“You act spoiled around me,” says Ilya, like that’s something Shane is just supposed to feel normal about. And then he adds, easy as breathing, “Is okay, though. You can be spoiled all you want when it’s me, princess.”

Shane finds himself dumbfounded at that, his words failing him as he swallows, throat suddenly as dry as sandpaper. And Ilya keeps smiling, a small, self-satisfied thing, all the way until their food arrives.

--

They ride a cab to the warehouse where they’ll take the pictures for the magazine, a square box of a building on an industrial estate somewhere at the edge of town. Late autumn sun pours down on them as Ilya opens the door for Shane despite his muttered protests, and Shane can see the cabbie smile in the rear view mirror, unusually gentle for how gruff his face is. 

A gaggle of staff members awaits them, calls Ilya by name. Apparently it was him who had arranged the interview, personally, and not his agent. Shane does not know what to think about that, so he just doesn’t think about it at all. He just follows Ilya through the mouth of the gate, taller and wider than a normal door. 

Inside the building, it’s a rush of people yelling and running around. Lights are being adjusted, someone is unrolling a piece of backdrop, and a photographer is taking test shots, the flash bursting. There’s a certain rhythm to the chaos, Shane finds. Everyone knows exactly where they’re supposed to be, when they’re supposed to be there, and what their job is. In a way, it’s like a hockey team—smooth, efficient, in tune with each other.

“Come on, Hollander,” says Ilya, jostling him. “Time to get dressed.”

For the photoshoot, they’re putting them in simple clothes: slightly baggy jeans and white shirts. Shane can almost see the entire expanse of Ilya’s chest, the flex of his muscles, where all but one of his buttons are undone. His own shirt is buttoned up more tightly, but still frames the width of his shoulders quite nicely.

Due to all the commercials he’s already filmed, Shane is quite aware of the concept of stage make-up. The one where they rub powders and creams into his skin so that he doesn’t reflect the lights off of his big forehead. What he does not understand, however, is this.

“Girls love this look,” the make-up artist explains, as she dabs some kind of reddish powder across his cheekbones, something glittery below his eyes. “The kind of innocent, wide-eyed look. Especially with the blush.” 

Ilya, leaning against the table next to them, snorts. “I do not need powder to make Hollander blush. He does that well enough by himself.”

Shane lets out the longest sigh known to man. “Ilya.”

“What?” Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Between the make-up and the teasing flashes of Ilya’s skin and the juxtaposition of the two of them, Shane is feeling rather hot and bothered by the time they make it to the floor to shoot. The photographer is a nice man, aggressively American and probably queer in a way that Shane can appreciate. He’s no-nonsense when he directs them, first Shane by himself and then Ilya alone.

Seeing Ilya flirt with the camera is close to a religious experience. He approaches it with the single-minded intensity he does most things in his life: like this is the only thing that matters at the moment. It probably is. Between the golden curls whorling across his forehead and the icy heat of his eyes as he stares at the camera, Shane feels rather lightheaded. Ilya poses like this is second nature to him, his body loose, his mouth pink. When Shane poses, he always feels like he is playing a character, something that does not quite fit his skin. But this is Ilya, and he’s a fucking vision. Shane is supposed to watch him, anyway, so that’s what he does. 

After that, it’s time for their duo pictures. The photographer puts them through their paces, first having Shane hug Ilya from behind, his chin hooked over Ilya’s shoulder, and then has the two of them face each other, faces separated by mere inches. From this close, Shane can see the flecks of hazel in Ilya’s eyes. 

“Doing well, guys,” the photographer compliments them, as staff members rush in to adjust their hair and pull on their clothes. Shane asks for a drink and is handed a bottle of water, which he gulps down eagerly. “Ready for one more position?”

Shane can feel himself flush at the way the photographer phrases that. At least the make-up hides his bodily reaction. He still manages a nod as Ilya gives a more verbal agreement.

A minute later, Shane realises he should have said no.

The photographer has Ilya lay back against a wooden box, his elbows propping himself up and his head tilted back ever so slightly. His legs are spread, thighs flexing tantalisingly, making space for Shane to kneel between them. Which Shane does, his mouth dry, palms placed just above the jut of Ilya’s knees. Ilya is hot-cold beneath him, a steady line where their bodies brush, and Shane has never felt as surrounded. He looks at the way his fingers splay across the fabric of Ilya’s jeans, knuckles white.

“Eyes on me, Hollander,” says Ilya, so softly that Shane is sure nobody else can hear but him. 

He shudders out a gasp and looks up at Ilya, his hands still balanced on Ilya’s knees. Ilya looks like a young god like this, self-assured and calm. 

“That’s good,” Ilya whispers. “Stay like that, Shane.”

When the photographer yells cut!, that he has the perfect shot, and that they’re wrapping up this part, Shane barely hears him. All he sees is Ilya, the small smile when he’d said Shane. He manages to peel himself away in a daze, stumbling to his feet, and shakes himself. There is only one thing he’s certain about right now—if they continue like this, he is not going to survive it until the end.

--

After the photoshoot wraps up fully, they’re given a handful of minutes to freshen up in the dressing room; just the two of them. Shane is certain that Ilya had something to do with this, but he doesn’t question it, just gratefully follows the other into the bowels of the building, through a door that closes and hides them away.

His body tries to make up for the oxygen he must have been missing over the last few hours. The inhales are small and sharp, shoulders raised high as if to make space for his lungs to expand. Nervosity sits high in his chest, a physical weight. He paces in an attempt to get rid of it, one side of the room to the other and back.

“Sit, Hollander,” says Ilya, sharply, the fourth or fifth time Shane has crossed the room.

Shane is already sitting before the command really registers.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Ilya asks. Patient with Shane, like always. More patient than Shane deserves perhaps, but if there’s one thing Shane has learned about him, it is that Ilya has patience in endless droves.

After a few failed tries, Shane finds his voice. “I’m worried about the interview. They’ll ask me questions—and what I say will be fake. That’s it, right? Because what we have is fake.”

Like it means nothing, Ilya kneels down next to Shane, forcing his legs to the sides to make space for himself. He is the one looking up at Shane, hooded eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, yet Shane feels infinitesimal next to him. Ilya reaches up and grabs Shane’s hands, fingers tapping a soothing rhythm against the spot where his palm meets his wrist. 

“What you are going to do is tell the truth,” says Ilya, annoyingly calm. “As much truth as you can give them. All the spaces in between, those little lies? They won’t even notice them. And it will stop you from freaking out so much.”

“Right,” Shane says, swallowing. “The little lie of how all of this is fake.”

Ilya’s face is smooth, impassive. He leans closer, and Shane, heart jackribbiting in his chest, wonders if he is going to kiss him. But Ilya just says, “Remember what I told you, Hollander. Don’t overthink.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Shane tips his head back. He runs through the breathing exercises he learned for his yoga sessions, until he feels like he is actually getting air again when his chest expands.

“Okay,” murmurs Ilya, almost tenderly. He leans forward, eyelashes feathering against his cheekbones, and presses the whisper of a kiss against Shane’s knuckles. “We are going to go out there, moy lyubimiy, and we are going to tell them exactly what we want to tell them, and nothing more. Alright?” 

Even though he saw the kiss happen, felt it press against his skin, Shane still thinks that he imagined it happening. He blinks, feels himself blush, and nods. “Yeah. I can do it.”

“That’s my boy.” Ilya stands again, slaps him on the shoulder as he goes. He’s lean muscles and carefully measured poise. Next to him, Shane feels like a lumbering idiot sometimes, but when Ilya holds out a hand to pull him up, for a moment, he feels similar to what he believes the other to be—invicible. 

They go.

--

COVER STORY: THE THIN LINE BETWEEN SHANE HOLLANDER AND ILYA ROSANOV

Gentlemen, welcome.

ROZANOV: It’s good to be here.
HOLLANDER: Yeah. Thank you for having us.

Let’s jump in right at the deep end, shall we? Shane, that was quite a brave move you pulled there in the press conference, defending Scott Hunter.

HOLLANDER: Thank you for saying that. I just couldn’t sit there and let that reporter insult him like that. No matter what our sexualities are and how we choose to display them or not, I think we should be respected as athletes first. We play good sports, and everything else shouldn’t matter. When the question came, I reacted instinctively, and Ilya was next to me. The cameras started flashing, and that’s when I realised what had happened. And now we are here.

Now we are here indeed. You and Ilya Rozanov, huh?

HOLLANDER: Haha, I guess it was all very sudden to everyone, right?
ROZANOV: Did it surprise you? Hollander is actually not as boring as you guys think.
HOLLANDER: [softly] Thank you for that, Ilya.

You would know, Ilya?

ROZANOV: Of course. Out of everyone in the league, I think I know him best. 

Many people would peg you guys as rivals, not lovers. But I guess that what they say about the thin line between hate and love is true, right?

HOLLANDER: It must be the hundredth time I’ve heard that phrase by now.
ROZANOV: You don’t like it? I think it’s very fitting. He definitely did not like me at first and made it clear, but I wore him down over time.
HOLLANDER: You do have a way of making me seem worse than I actually am.
ROZANOV: Both a gift and a curse.

So, Ilya, would you say that you saw Shane first?

ROZANOV: I guess he was just always in my periphery. We were drafted at the same time, first and second pick in our year. When it’s like that, you can’t help but start to notice the other person. I realised that, when I saw Shane, he and I weren’t so different. And once I started looking at him, I couldn’t stop. It’s part of what makes him such a good hockey player, right? The magnetism. [ . . . ] What are you looking at?
HOLLANDER: No, no, nothing. I just don’t know when your English got so good.
ROZANOV: [laughing] Oh [ — ] you! I must’ve gotten it from you and your stupid newspaper.
HOLLANDER: I’ll have you know the New Yorker is a perfectly respectable source of information.

Shane, any comments about Ilya? You can’t let him say such nice things about you without getting back at him!

ROZANOV: Playing into his competitiveness? Very smart.
HOLLANDER: Well, I did not become one of the best hockey players for no reason. But, let’s see. I think Ilya is one of the people who can really get me out of my head. I guess I am kind of uptight from time to time, so it’s nice to find someone who can draw me out. We’re total opposites in some ways, and way too similar in others, but somehow we make it work. I think I smile easier when he’s around.

Lovely, just lovely, guys! (To our readers: Shane was smiling at Ilya when he said this last sentence.) To close, is there anything you would like to say to anyone out there who might be in sports and struggling with their sexuality?

HOLLANDER: I think it’s okay to not know what you want. It’s okay not to want to come out for a bit, to test the waters, to be scared for a bit. Honestly, if this entire thing hadn’t happened, I would’ve been fine just keeping my head down and living my life privately. But the other truth is that there’s an entire world out there that is willing to accept you for who you are. They’ll support you, even, with their energy and their love. And if you get to that point, all of the assholes are just noise. It’s true: they’ll still suck, and it’ll still hurt you from time to time to hear their hatred, but it’s going to pale in comparison to the outpouring of love.
ROZANOV: He said it best, I think. It’s okay to be scared and sometimes we have to do things scared. It might be that the best part of you is just waiting for you to show it off. And you can’t let the people around you get you down. You have to live.

Thank you for this interview! 

ROZANOV: Thank you for having us!
HOLLANDER: Yes, it was lovely.

Chapter End Notes

tell me what you thought?

Chapter 4: four

Chapter Notes

im dedicating this chapter to my friend who immediately clocked that i was talking about heated rivalry when i tried to discreetly bring it up. this one’s for you, b! i shouldnt have doubted ur wisdom.

on that note: this chapter is once again longer than the previous chapter. can't promise that will be the case every time, but apparently the words just kept coming this time. enjoy! also heed: updated tags.

[Shane Hollander]
My mother wants to meet with you.
At the All-Star Game.

[Ilya Rozanov]
she will be in town?

[Shane Hollander]
Yes, her and dad are flying in to watch me.
Or us, I should say.

[Ilya Rozanov]
very domestic and lovely
sure i can meet woman who i have been texting for months now
been a hoot so far

[Shane Hollander]
Every word out of your mouth makes me regret this more and more.

[Ilya Rozanov]
oh do not front hollander
even if you sound very cute

[Shane Rozanov]
Please behave when you meet them.
Please.

[Ilya Rozanov]
no need for begging yet princess
but i will be good
im learning from the best :)

Shane puts his phone on the counter in front of him and scrubs his hands across his face. The breath that leaves him is close to a sigh, even if the corners of his mouth are fighting to twitch into a smile. 

He hasn’t seen Ilya since the last game they played in Boston, a couple of weeks ago. It had been a win for the other team: though Montreal hadn’t played badly, Boston had had the home-ice advantage, and their fanbase behind them. And Ilya had looked so glorious in the throes of his team’s win that Shane could hardly bring himself to care about the snag. The thought had been smoldering, curling low in his stomach like a whimpering animal, but no less true because of it. There is something captivating about Ilya that makes Shane want to lay himself bare and offer himself up, throat and soft belly bared.

It’s his first time wanting something this much since he got drafted. It should scare him. It will be his undoing, if they keep going as they are now.

He doesn’t know how to stop it.

Miami, the All-Star Game, will be the first time Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov will be playing on the same team. Not since coming out—but ever. The match, played down in sunny Miami, will already be one for the books. The roster had been decided upon before Shane’s stint with Ilya, and he wonders if he’d still be on the same team as him if the organisers would know what they know now. Nevertheless, he is kind of nervous about it. His driving force in hockey so far has been trying to beat Ilya, no matter how shameful that might sound. Playing in the same team as him, perhaps even on the same line as him, will twist that entire dynamic on its head. 

Counting his breaths, Shane presses his head against the kitchen counter next to his phone. The slab of marble is cool against his flush-red skin. He’s always been prone to reddening easily. Ilya brings out the best and worst in him.

For so long, an imitation of hatred. Shane saw Ilya—Rozanov, then—and he was everything he could never be. The Ilya underneath, below the layers, is still prickly and annoying at best. But he’s also sweet and attentive, and he seems to know what Shane needs without him having to say it out loud. Like he can read Shane’s mind.

Because it would be silly to think that he has been watching Shane enough to just know. When would he be doing that, anyway? With how much Shane is looking at him, shouldn’t he have caught him already?

Everything is confusing and overwhelming. Shane just wants to play hockey, breathe in the cold, clean air of the rink. All roads seem to lead to Ilya anyway.

Letting out a huff, he pushes himself away from the kitchen counter, leaving his phone behind. He needs to start packing or organising his closet. Anything to get his mind away from all of this. Anything to shut out stupid Ilya Rozanov.

Anything for his stupid heart to stop beating out of his chest.

--

Miami is hot. Even in February, heat clings to the buildings and the asphalt, the humming tarmac. Shane is happy to push out of Miami International Airport and duck into the cab that Montreal’s management had arranged to take him to the hotel, sweat already clinging to the back of his neck. 

Traffic from the airport into the city proper is abhorrent. Shane looks out of the window, watching the streets slide by like an oil-slick. The roads are lined with palm trees swaying gently in the wind, golden sunlight pouring down. Everything moves slow, unhurried. It couldn’t be more different from Montreal if Shane tried. When he left, patches of snow were still littering the sides of the road. Now, even the thin sweater he shrugged on in order not to freeze on the plane is a layer too many.

By the time they make it to the hotel, tiredness pulls down his shoulders. Tonight, there’s dinner in the hotel with all of the delegates that had been called up to take part. Shane will have to show his face there, no matter how much he wants to huddle in his hotel room at least until the game. His busy schedule won’t allow him, though.

When he finally makes it to his hotel room, the first thing he does is take a shower. He washes the grime of the day from his body, the conflicting sensations of the stale air in the plane and the humid weather of the city. He stands underneath the shower for probably way too long, drags him onto the tiled floor flushed and pruney, but at least the muscles in his back and shoulders seem to have relaxed a little bit. 

He meets eyes with himself in the mirror after he runs a towel through his hair, slightly haphazardly. Freckles dot the bridge of his nose and the slope of his cheeks. If he’ll be out in the sun tomorrow, they’ll darken along with his flush in no time. He never minded them, and girls back in high school used to like them a lot. Unable to help himself, he wonders what Ilya thinks of his freckles—if he’s thought of them at all. Then he blushes, angry at himself, and concludes that it does not matter what Ilya does or doesn’t think.

Shane is perfectly on time for dinner that night, which means he’s there before Ilya is. Some of the other players welcome him with a slap on the back or a friendly call of his name, but Shane is happy enough to let them take the front while he blends into the background, Scott Hunter on his side eagerly leading the group while the rest guffaws in assent. 

The other spot next to him, he can’t help but notice, remains empty. As if there is some kind of possessive brand that he can’t see, but everyone else can sense.

A minute after the pensive observation, a new silhouette darkens the entrance to the restaurant. Ilya fills out his shirt well, his shoulders broad. His golden curls are pushed out of his face, moles standing out against flawless skin. Subconsciously, Shane wonders if the sun will also paint him in shades of gold, or whether he’ll remain pale like the snow.

Heated animosity on the ice translates to a careful balance of it. Around this table, as many people probably hate Ilya as they respect him, but the drinks that have been poured have loosened the uptight air a little bit. They’re here for charity, after all, and that’s something they can all get behind.

“How was your flight?” asks Ilya, as soon as he finishes his round and sits down next to Shane. His hand rests on the back of Shane’s chair, a physical weight Shane can almost feel.

“Tiring,” Shane says, biting his lip. “I was happy to be in the hotel.”

“I bet.” To anyone outside watching in, Ilya looks like the perfect doting boyfriend. Shane feels like a doted upon boyfriend, Ilya storm-bright gaze pinning him into place. “Just have to get through this for tonight. I’ll tell the others to fuck off if they annoy us.” 

Shane squirms in place. “Be nice,” he admonishes, though it is probably too weak to have any real effect.

“I’m always nice,” says Ilya, puffing up his chest. “To you.”

There had been a time when that didn’t ring as the truth to Shane, but right now, he can’t really deny that statement. Ilya is still antagonistic like he’s being paid for it, and he teases like it is his second nature, but he’s not mean. Not on purpose. Not unless he believes people deserve it. (Whether they do or not is, of course, is often a grey area. But Shane cannot deny that he likes the heat behind Ilya’s eyes whenever he gets angry, like there’s a fire flickering low in his stomach.

“Okay, Romeo,” Shane manages, at last. He sounds winded, he knows. “No need for posturing around me.”

Ilya sticks out his tongue at him. Someone calls for him, something about the game, so Ilya turns away. The heavy hand on the back of Shane’s chair stays, and sometimes when Shane shifts, he feels the brush of it against his back.

They order food and drinks and talk about nothing. When you’re with a group of guys who get hit in the head at least three times every week, you don’t really talk about groundbreaking topics, but it’s nice to catch up with personal lives outside of hockey. Shane chimes in with basal information about his parents every now and then, and when they look at him, at them, knowingly, he squeaks and turns red. It becomes somewhat of a game for them, until Ilya cuts them off—joking in words but firm in tone.  

It’s almost a feeling of safety that Shane gets, just from being next to him.

“Having a good time?” Ilya whispers, leaning closer to Shane. His palm is warm and broad when he places it on Shane’s thigh.

“Better than I thought,” says Shane, swallowing. His eyes dart around, nervous, before finally settling on where Ilya is staking a possessive claim. The material of his pants creases below the touch, below that the dimpling of Shane’s skin. Ilya seems so hot that it is almost a brand. Shane thinks he can see the other smirk from the corner of his eye, but does not point it out for fear of it becoming too real.

“Good,” is all Ilya says, at that. “You deserve to have a bit of fun, Hollander. Always so uptight.”

Thinking about the implications of that makes Shane dizzy, so he simply does not.

After dessert, which Shane does not order, his hands curled around a cup of ginger tea, he turns to the side. “Long day tomorrow,” he whispers to Ilya. “My parents . . .”

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence, understanding dawning in Ilya’s gaze. He places his hand on Shane’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “Sleep early tonight,” he says. “Tomorrow we relax, maybe swim in the pool, and then dinner.” A crooked grin slips onto his face, and Shane wants to bash his head against the table at how handsome he is. “I brought my best suit. Have to make a good impression.”

Ilya could show up in a trashbag and he’d still be the most handsome person at dinner. Shane wisely does not say that, but he has to bite his tongue to stop the words from slipping past his lips. He just nods, grateful, then excuses himself. 

It is a flushed elevator ride to his room.

--

For someone from Canada, Shane thrives rather well in the heat. The sun brings out his complexion, the sparkle in his eye, the red of his mouth. And he intends to take full advantage of this rather free day he has before the game tomorrow, before dinner tonight.

The All-Star Game is not quite a holiday, but it is a break. After this weekend, he’s off to Dallas for the Metros’ next game, so right now, he’ll be enjoying all of the amenities of this way too luxurious hotel they’ve put him in. And that includes the pool downstairs, complete with the rather corny tiki bar next to it.  

Ilya is already sitting at the counter when Shane makes it down there, a beer bottle at his elbow. Shane thinks about calling him out on the blatant day drinking, then thinks about it again. He slides down onto one of the empty seats next to him, orders the same.

“Were they out of ginger ale?” Ilya quips, teasingly, as soon as the beer is placed in front of Shane.

He shrugs, takes a long swallow. “I’m feeling a bit wild.” He takes the time to really observe the other: Ilya is in a haphazardly buttoned Hawaiian shirt. It would’ve looked cliched on anyone else, but between the shirt, the golden chain around his neck, and his tousled curls, he makes it work. Beneath that, his swim shorts are short, revealing a teasing strip of thigh that Shane has to tear his eyes away from.

For his efforts, he gets a knowing smile, but Ilya doesn’t call him out. They tip their bottles together with a dry sound. Ilya finishes his first, stands up.

“Think I’m going for a swim,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Pale skin is revealed, dotted with gorgeous moles, pink nipples. “Will you join me, Hollander?”

Shane scrunches up his face. “My skin can’t stand the chlorine.” He points at one of the sunbeds, empty despite the time of day, and smiles. “I can watch you make a fool of yourself from over there, though.”

“Oh, you think you’re so funny.” Ilya drops his shirt in Shane’s lap without another word, then crosses the wooden boards so that he can launch himself into the deep end of the pool with a graceful dive. 

There is no choice for Shane but to take Ilya’s shirt with him, so he folds it and places it at the end of his sunbed. He’s rubbed enough sunscreen into his skin that he’ll be fine out in the sun at least for a little while, so he lowers the top part of the chair slightly so that he’s almost flat, his neck and head supported. After a second of consideration, he also unbuttons his own shirt, showing just a hint of stomach and chest. Then he lies down, a satisfied groan falling from his lips, and enjoys the relaxation for as long as he is allowed.

At some point, Ilya starts playing games with a group of kids that are also in the water, racing them from one side of the pool to the other as they squeal at him. Shane listens with one ear, but it seems like Ilya can hold his own, and he is apparently a charmer, goading them into fighting him and then making up banal reasons about why he is losing.

Shane has nearly dozed off when there is a splash of water, the sound of footsteps against the wooden boarding drawing closer to where he is. He cracks open one eye. There is Ilya.

He stands over Shane, his chest heaving, water dripping down his sculpted chest, the ridges of his abdominal muscles. His skin is golden all over, as if someone had painted him with a brush, nipples pebbled. There’s a tilt to his pink mouth, perfectly-sculpted cupid’s bow, and his eyes are bright from underneath his floppy hair. 

He’s a vision.

(Once, Shane watched a handful of episodes of a program on the rabbit hole that is called Youtube about two guys discussing unsolved mystery cases. One was about a woman who sat in her chair and apparently spontaneous combustion. What would happen to him would not be quite spontaneous, but he still hopes that he would end up that program. He remembers thinking that he thought the hosts were hilarious.)

“Can you give these kids candy bars from machine?” Ilya asks, a thumb over his shoulder. “I forgot my wallet.”

Shane rolls his eyes but pushes himself into a sitting position, then standing. Wide-eyed, the children are clustered behind Ilya, reverence in their gaze. They clearly know who Shane is, who Ilya is, but they aren’t pushy about it. Huffing his displeasure at Ilya, Shane throws his shirt at him, uncaring that it’s getting all wet against Ilya’s skin. Then he digs his wallet from his pocket and gestures at the kids to follow him, which they do with eager grins.

--

The morning bleeds into the afternoon, and that heralds the evening. Shane withdraws into his room to get himself ready for dinner, doing his skin care exactly like he needs it to, and shrugging on a fancy shirt. His parents had texted him a couple of hours ago that they’d touched down and were taking an Uber into their hotel, a couple of buildings down from the place that the NHL had put Shane and Ilya in. They’ll be meeting up in town at a fancy place, somewhere away from the buzz and the noise and the prying eyes.

Ilya, for all intents and purposes, is taking it well, with the kind of grace that he has accepted everything Shane has thrown at him so far. Shane knows that this is technically him meeting his parents-in-law for the first time. Future parents-in-law? At least, that would be the case if they were dating for real. As it stands now, Ilya has been texting his mum about god-knows-what, and his parents think they’re meeting the guy who is dating their only son. That they hadn’t known about until Shane accidentally revealed them to the world. And is technically his arch-rival.

Or something like that. It’s a mess, is what it is. 

Shane straps his Rolex watch around his wrist. He looks good enough, he knows. Good enough to dazzle? He’ll see.

They’d agreed to meet up in the lobby and take a cab into town together. Shane arrives before Ilya does, so he sits on one of the couches and scrolls through his phone, lazily scrolling through his news feed to catch up. It’s mostly dramatics and sadness, so he swipes out it again and opens an app he almost forgot he had downloaded on his phone. Twitter is a whole new world to him. Apparently they’re excited to see him and Ilya on the same team. Some comments get . . . raunchy. They make his eyebrows raise.

When he spots Ilya exiting the elevator from the corner of his eye, he quickly swipes out of the app again, then locks his phone completely, just to be sure. If Ilya notes his weird, jerky movements, he doesn’t say anything. Not that Shane is really looking for it.

Ilya looks fucking good, is the thing. He always does, if Shane’s honest with himself, but it’s like the realisation knocks him off course every single time. His golden curls, brushed out of his face; the slant of his mouth, teasing and warm; the broadness of his chest, solid like a house. No suit, like he had joked—Miami is too hot for that, even now. The way he’s rolled the sleeves of his buttoned shirt looks purposeful. When he spots Shane as well, his face does something complicated, a brush of emotions that Shane longs to catch but cannot, and then a smile breaks out. It is like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

“Ready to go?” he asks, walking up to Shane. 

“Never been less ready,” Shane says, honest. He allows Ilya to pull him to his feet, a steady hand curling around his wrist. “Okay, let’s go.”

The cab ride is uneventful. Miami passes around them in smudges of colour and neon. Shane leans his head against the cool glass of the window and pretends to be amazed by the scenery passing them by. Next to him, Ilya is on his phone, and when Shane had peeked from the corner of his eye, all of the messages had been in Cyrillic. Nothing for him to glean from that. 

(Not that he was curious, of course.)

They get spilled out on the sidewalk in an area just behind downtown Miami after Shane pays. It’s quieter here, a bit lazy, if still lively. The restaurant that his mother has made a reservation at is smaller and homier than Shane had expected, who is used to her preferences for the more opulent places with a fancier atmosphere. But, perhaps, a meeting like tonight’s deserves a bit more of an intimate atmosphere. 

Ilya holds the door for him as they go inside. The hum of conversation encompasses them, and so does the delicious smell of fresh food. Shane has probably not eaten enough today, his stomach in knots, and he is awarded with a vicious rumble now. 

When Shane gives his name, the hostess at the front leads them to a quiet table in the back, where Yuna and David are already waiting for them. Yuna stands when they approach, a blank expression pasted on that Shane has come to know as her calculating face. He wonders what she thinks of Ilya, whether he is passing her assessment. He’s never brought home a partner before, and Ilya is definitely the most unconventional choice he could’ve ever made.

It is David who breaks the stilted sort of silence that has descended over the group. “Son,” he says, warmly, and stands to hug Shane as well. He smells familiar and feels the same, warm hands enveloping Shane. “I’m happy to see you. You look good.”

“Same to you,” Shane manages. “How was Mexico?”

“Oh, just delightful.” Next, Yuna comes up to him, wrapping him up in a hug. For her size, she is inconspicuously strong, but her hand is tender when she cups Shane’s cheek. “The sun looks wonderful on you. I hope you’ve been settling in well here.” 

Blushing, Shane pulls back. “Mum, it’s only for a few days. You know I’ve been on the road a lot before. And I’ve had some—” He looks over his shoulder, “—help.”

“Yes,” says Yuna. “The boyfriend.” 

To Shane’s surprise, Ilya actually twitches, looking a bit cornered. He clears his throat, holds out his hand. “Yes, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

A brief stand off. Shane looks between Ilya on one side, his hand floating in the air, and Yuna and David on the other, clearly seizing him up. “For god’s sake,” he says, surprising himself with how clear his voice rings out. “Can you just shake his hand, at least? And let’s just all sit down.”

Yuna barks out a laugh, startled, but at least Shane’s words push her into action. She moves Ilya’s hand up and down, once, twice, but the strength of her grip barely seems to falter him. 

Once they settle down, Shane feels his shoulders relax. They rise right back up when Ilya places his hand on the back of his chair, oblivious, or at least pretending to be so, at the glances Shane’s parents send their way. It is not like he needs to lay a claim, not in front of them, but the almost careless brand of possession still makes Shane’s heart race, a stutter that he feels high in his throat.

“So, Shane,” says his dad, casting him a sideways glance across the table. “Were there no decent boys in Montreal?”

Defensiveness curls in Shane’s gut at the insinuation, the direct attack at Ilya while he is sitting right there. “I don’t know. Probably there were.” He chances a look at Ilya, who is already turned toward him. “I didn’t look.” 

David makes a soft sound, understanding, a bit smug. “Okay.” 

A waiter from the restaurant comes to take their drink order. Ilya follows Shane’s parents’ wine order, which puts him in their good book without him even knowing. They have a game tomorrow, an important one, so Shane just sticks to ginger ale. If the waiter judges his choice, he doesn’t show it.

“Alright,” says Yuna, as soon as they’re alone again, stapling her hands together below her chin. “Ilya Rozanov, hm? Captain of the Boston Raiders.” 

The corners of Ilya’s mouth twitch. Shane reads it as amusement. “That’s right.”

“You’ve had a few rather successful seasons in a row,” Yuna acknowledges, her mouth flattening together. “Not as good as Shane, obviously, but you’ve held yourself down well. The hockey you play is—pleasant to watch. Your team must be happy to have drafted you.”

“Obviously.” The delight in Ilya’s body language is more clear now. “I always enjoyed being on the ice. And hockey is a competitive sport. Sometimes you are as good as opponent. And I have had a very good few opponents the last couple of years.” One of his eyes drops down in a wink when Shane sends him a glare, pissed.

Yuna’s eyes go a bit softer, a bit more pleased. “That’s right,” she says. “I guess it would be boring for Shane to always win the cup.” 

“Mum!” Shane cannot keep the wounded disbelief out of his voice.

“What?” The look she shares with Ilya is one full of amusement now. “I’m only saying it as I see it.” And just like that, the sharp edges of their conversation are shaved down into something more pleasant. 

Without Shane noticing it, almost, the night deepens. They share food and conversation, and the glasses of wine Yuna, David, and Ilya share seem to smooth them out a little bit. Before Shane can blink twice, they’re laughing about some kind of situation surrounding a youth hockey tournament both Shane and Ilya apparently participated in, and they bring up the stilted awkwardness of their earliest interactions. When Ilya, in Shane’s eyes, had been perfect, untouchable, gorgeous. And Shane, in his own mind, had been uncertain, awkward, and lacking. Right now, there’s no malice, just fond remembrance.

If you would’ve asked Shane, all of these months ago, whether he’d thought that this would be the first meeting between his parents and his fake boyfriend Ilya Rozanov, he’d have said hello no definitely not are you crazy. Right now, though, he can’t bring himself to hate it. Ilya is surprisingly personable and charming, and in the face of his real smile—the one that raises his cheekbones and shows the hidden softness of his cheeks—even Shane’s parents seem to be defenseless.

All things taken together, it could’ve been much worse. Shane allows the conversation to proceed mostly without him, chiming in whenever he has an anecdote or when he’s asked a direct question. Ilya easily carries the conversation, but he’s sharp with it. He’s also noticed things about Shane that Shane didn’t think he would. The pieces of himself that he thinks he can keep hidden.

David says, “Do not take it personally when Shane doesn’t text you for a while. You know how that kid is—always busy with something that he deems to be very important, and then forgetting that the rest of the world still exists.”

“I know,” says Ilya. “Shane gets up in his head sometimes. I figured out how to get him out, I think.”

“Good,” Yuna says, her glass of wine paused in front of her mouth. “He can use a guy like you.”

Bashful and confident at the same time, “I try.”

Shane swallows, and looks at Ilya from the corner of his eye. Would he? Does he? And does he want to? To these questions, he has no answer, and there’s no point in asking. So for now, he just stays quiet, breathing through the feeling bubbling in his chest. It is one he knows, but refuses to name. Ignorance is easier than acceptance.

And Shane has become very good at ignoring things over the last few months. 

--

After dinner, Ilya follows Shane back to their hotel and then into his room. It is no conscious decision, at least not on Shane’s part, but Ilya brushes up against him in the elevator and refuses to leave. Shane does not tell him to go either. 

Outside of the window, Miami glitters, suave. They’re high up enough here that Shane cannot hear any of the sounds from the ground level, even with the sliding door propped open on a crack to let in some of the refreshing evening breeze. He wishes he would be able to. Anything to cut through the buzzing inside his head. Anything to crack him open and spill him onto the floor. 

Shane does not really know what to do with Ilya in his space like this, rummaging through the minibar like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, then jumps to his feet again, running his hands through his hair. For once in his life, he wished he had some kind of habit to take the edge of. To block out the looks on his parents’ faces when they’d grilled Ilya. To forget the ease with which Ilya had answered their questions.

“You are overthinking again,” says Ilya, a soft observation. He puts down the bottle he had retrieved with a clink. It breaks through the nervous silence. “Why? Dinner was lovely. Your parents were lovely.”

Heat races down Shane’s spine, energy humming underneath his skin like a live beast. “I know!” he bursts out. “I know dinner was lovely. My parents . . . behaved.” He’s panting, he realises, breaths coming in short bursts. “But now the games are coming up and there is this, I don’t know—pressure. From them, our teams, the world watching us. No matter what we do, win or lose, people will have something to say. They’ll be thinking something about us. Is it really that weird that it makes me nervous?”

“Bit of nervous is normal,” hums Ilya. “Makes us perform better. But not too much, because that will make you sloppy, prone to mistakes.” A long silence, pensive. As if he is weighing his words carefully. “How about I propose something? Something that will make you stop thinking so hard.” 

Shane shifts on his feet, intrigue in his voice. “Like what?”

“We win tomorrow,” says Ilya, “and you get to pick what you want.” He places his thumb below Shane’s chin, fingers curling around his jaw, and tilts his head up so that they’re eye-to-eye. “I will spoil you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But you have to ask for it. Nicely. So what do you want, Hollander?”

It takes a few tries for Shane to find his voice. “I want—” He bites his lip, wavering. 

“Mn?” Ilya’s grip tightens ever so slightly, tilting Shane’s head back slightly. The pressure is gentle, but it is pressure. 

“You,” says Shane at last. His hand comes up, almost as if it has its own mind, and curls around Ilya’s waist. As if to pull him closer, pin him in place. Ilya smells sharp, like cigarettes and his body wash, and later on, Shane will use that and his racing heart as the reasons why he continues despite everything about this being a bad idea. “I need you. Please.”

Ilya swallows. Shane tracks the bob of his throat hungrily. When he speaks, his voice is rough, accent pronounced. “Is that your final wish, Hollander?”

Shane nods.

“Oh, moy rýpka.” For a moment, Ilya looks overwhelmed, eyes blown wide. “When you ask so nicely, how can I say no?” He releases Shane just to lean closer, until they are a hair apart. “Play how I know you can play, and I will give you that and so much more.”

It’s not that Shane needs Ilya to tell him to play hockey. He knows that he plays well. Being with Ilya on the ice, somehow, is like breathing. Thoughtless, easy, as if it is part of his autonomic nervous system. But there’s something about Ilya pinning him in place with his eyes—I expect you to do well for me, Hollander. The anticipation turns his spine into jelly and hardens his resolve. This, too: him folding into Ilya like his body can’t think of another place to be. 

“Okay,” says Shane, reeling a little bit. “You too, then.”

Somehow, that makes Ilya reward him with a kiss. It is soft, a tender thing. He kisses a bit wetly, even now, tongue and spit, and Shane thought he would hate it more. Instead, it leaves him dizzy, wanton, his hands clutching the bottom of Ilya’s dress shirt where it has rucked free from his trousers. By the time he actually manages to kiss back, though, Ilya is already pulling away. Shane only manages to bite down on his affronted whine at the last second.

“Be good,” Ilya whispers, squeezing Shane’s hip. “I know you can do it.” 

It’s not long after Ilya has gone that Shane realises he’s stolen a bottle of vodka from his minibar. As if he doesn’t have his own fridge. As if Shane is made of money. The huff that bursts forth from his mouth is one part amusement, one part exasperation.

--

puck @berni_nat
yooo seeing hollander and rozanov on the ice together was such a fucking vision? its clear why they’re considered to be the best players in the league right now
→ melli | waiting for zb1 cb @loverzboy
that all-star game was crazy!!! i can’t believe that this was the first time theyve played together? ilya bagging himself that sweet sweet canadian ass really seems to have made him eager to prove himself but it worked out so well for them
→ puck @berni_nat
mel, tell me where i can find a guy like shane hollander to center me?
→ melli | waiting for zb1 cb @loverzboy
i’ll tell you once i figure it out for myself :’)

 

[skate emoji] #24 @felixgrapes
if this is how ilya and shane play together after barely any training, just how good would they be if they were actually on the same team? #makesyouthink

--

Shane thought the best he could get in hockey was playing against Ilya. And that’s not completely wrong. Ilya matches him in drive, in grit, in raw talent—and that makes playing against him ever the more fun. Not to be too cocky, but Shane thinks he can win from some teams with one hand tied behind his back. Playing at Ilya makes him have to think. To strategise. To be a bit bolder and a bit braver than he’d normally be. Because otherwise Ilya is smashing through all of his defences with well-meant, not completely misplaced arrogance. It makes him have to work for it.

Everything pales in comparison to actually playing on the same team as him. Ilya plays flank better than Shane does, so he allows Shane to center him in order to be on the same line. Every move Shane makes, Ilya has already anticipated. Every pass Ilya cuts through the middle, Shane is already moving into. Ilya chirps, provokes, draws out their opponents. Shane is colder, more calculated, everything but the puck and the target of the other team’s goal becoming background noise. Even with Scott Hunter on their line, something Ilya has been grumbling about since before the tournament, they work together like a dream.

It has never been as easy as this, never this automatic. Shane wishes he could bottle the feeling and save it for other games. For now, he does what he can to remember the rush. 

They win the semi-final with ease. And then smash the final too. Easy would be too cocky, but that’s how it feels, once their team smashes together on the ice, cheering loudly. Ilya holds Shane with a special kind of care, but the hand that lands on the back of his neck is weighted, pointed. A promise of later.

Afterward, they go to dinner. They go to the boring party. Shane feels ready to vibrate out of his skin. Whenever he glances over at Ilya, he finds him already looking back. 

By the time they make it to Ilya’s room, Shane led by Ilya’s arm around his waist, he’s buzzing with energy. With apprehension. With simple and easy wanting. Shane has not allowed himself to really want something for a long time. But Ilya said he could have it, and so far, Ilya has made true on one of his earliest promises. He has not lied to Shane yet.

Ilya crowds him against the door as soon as they’ve stepped through it. His mouth is so warm and wet, and he tastes like vodka and the cigarette he must have snuck in when he said he was going to the toilet. Shane should tell him off, he should hate it. Instead, he clutches at Ilya’s shoulders and moans into his mouth as Ilya’s tongue runs along the seam of his lips. At the sound, the part of his lips, Ilya takes graceful advantage. 

“God,” says Ilya, when he pulls back. He’s panting, his chest heaving, bright-sky eyes eclipsed by his pupils. “Hollander. You looked so fucking good today. Played so fucking well too.” 

“Did I?” Shane cannot help but ask, even if the praise slams into him like a physical weight. He presses his legs together.

Sighing out a laugh, Ilya traces the corded muscle of Shane’s neck with his nose. “I think you know that you did. But I can tell again, if you ask nicely.” He inhales, rumbles, says something in Russian that sounds vaguely appreciative. “Been waiting.”

“For this?” asks Shane.

“Mn.” Ilya’s hand comes up to tangle through the strands of Shane’s hair, drooping down now that the humid heat has won the battle with the product Shane put in it. He janks Shane’s head to the side, strength carefully controlled, so that his nose and mouth have easier access to explore. The kiss he presses there won’t leave a mark, but Shane almost hopes that it would anyway.

His hips buck forward, and there he feels it, a rush of heat: Ilya’s dick, hard against his zipper and digging into Shane’s thigh. Shane gets dizzy with it, blood heading south. “I—Ilya,” he manages.

A callused hand comes up to grab his chin, fingers digging into his jaw ever so slightly so that he is forced to tilt his head back ever so slightly. Ilya searches Shane’s gaze with startling clarity, the slow curve of his mouth meaning that he probably likes what he finds. “Do you want it?”

“Please,” whispers Shane, when he finds his words again.

“Blyat,” says Ilya, with feeling, and this is a word that Shane knows. He takes a step back only to wrap his hand around Shane’s wrist, tug him along to the bed. It’s large, kingsize, all of the decorative pillows painstakingly arranged at the headboard by the hotel staff. Ilya steps out of his shoes as he goes and kicks them to the side, prompting Shane to do the same, the both of them fumbling with their stupid buttoned shirts. Shane folds his shirt haphazardly, putting it on a chair to the side of the bed, and then turns back to Ilya.

Like a king taking his throne—which is honestly quite an apt comparison—Ilya is sitting at the foot of the bed. He’s left his shirt on, hanging from his elbows, and his cock is pushing up against the front of his slacks, tenting the material. Shane has never been as thirsty in his life.

“Come,” says Ilya, with a quirk of one eyebrow. “Let me give you what you need.” Then, he guides Shane to the floor between his parted legs with a hand on his hip. 

Shane folds, easy, and the world quiets around him as soon as he kneels. He puts his hands on his thighs, palms brushing against the material of his slacks, and breathes out. The tension bleeds out with it, leaving him in a strangely quiet headspace. Everything is muted, but it’s not scary. The quiet is welcome.

“Look at me,” Ilya whispers, “Hollander.”

Swaying, Shane manages. He probably looks a bit gone, eyes blown wide, mouth parted wetly, but there must be something there. Ilya curses, in Russian, at the sight. His voice goes deep and gravely when he does it, and Shane can only whimper in response. 

“Patience,” says Ilya. He unbuttons and unzips, raises his hips so that he can peel his slacks and his boxers down his legs in one smooth movement. His cock, freed, is even larger than Shane had guessed it to be. It slaps against the front of Ilya’s shirt with an almost wet noise, the head flush and engorged with arousal.

Right now, Shane feels dumb with it. He whines, clumsy hands coming up to paw at Ilya’s thighs, thick muscle beneath his wandering fingers. A part of him tells him that he should be mortified, the way that he is acting. It is quieted by sheer want. He leans forward, once again stopped by Ilya’s foot against his stomach. 

“You are an asshole.”

A shushing noise, amused. Ilya pumps himself, once, twice. The other hand curls around Shane’s jaw, running along the muscles working there as he swallows his saliva, the lines of his face. 

People who fake-date each other don’t do this. But people aren’t Shane and Ilya. Shane reasons with himself that it is just because Ilya likes to fuck, and Shane is a willing mouth. Plus, he can’t really go to anyone else, not with the entire internet breathing down their necks, and—

The thoughts fizzle out into static when Ilya’s grip tightens in Shane’s hair and finally, finally pulls him closer. Shane’s mouth falls open on instinct, tongue lolling past his bottom lip, as Ilya guides the head of his cock into his mouth. He’s warm and salty and throbbing on Shane’s tongue, dirty and perfect. Shane tries to fit more into his mouth but immediately triggers his own gag reflex, eyes watering as he tries to breathe through his coughs.

“Careful, careful,” laughs Ilya, too smug by far. His thumb traces the side of Shane’s mouth. “Don’t choke on it.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Shane pulls back to suckle on the head. Pre-come blurts from the slit when he tongues there, and Ilya says something in Russian again. He sounds winded, the words torn from his chest, and his blue eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his irises. The way it darkens his gaze should not be as hot—but then again, Shane is learning a lot of things about himself right now. His hands, still on his thighs, curl into fists.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, with feeling. “Look at your face, Hollander. Fucking red cheeks and teary eyes and the—the vesnushki. I’m going crazy.” 

Of course he likes to talk. It wouldn’t be Ilya if he didn’t like the sound of his own voice. Shane pulls away to catch his breath. “Vesnushki?” He probably butchers the pronunciation completely, and his voice is gruff, will probably be completely torn tomorrow.

Ilya gestures, impatient. “Little spring spots,” he says gruffly. “I don’t know.” 

“Freckles?” Shane brings his fingers up to his own face, traces the places where he knows the little freckles cluster. He looks up at Ilya. “You like them?”

A rough sound, something wordless and primal. “I can’t stop thinking about them. You drive me fucking insane.” When he pulls Shane closer again, Shane goes willingly, swallowing Ilya down. This time, it already goes easier.

As if he is already getting used to the shape of Ilya in his mouth. How crazy of a thought. 

Still, it is enough to embolden Shane. Before long, he is bobbing his head up and down Ilya’s dick, careful not to bump his teeth against the sensitive muscle. Shane has never done this before, but he’s not about to tell Ilya that, and the porn he’s watched (on an incognito tab, shame-faced, sweating below his collar) was obviously not even close to reality, but it was something that he could latch onto. (Haha.) A base to get him started.

Ilya is bigger than Shane could have ever thought. It’s hard to guess the size of something in your mouth, but Shane would say: seven or eight inches. Nine if he’s being delusional about it. He doesn’t all fit into Shane’s mouth, but he isn’t pushy about it. Shane finally manages to uncurl one of the hands that had been fisted around his trousers and brings it up to wrap around the base of Ilya’s dick, where he can’t reach with his mouth. The choked-off noise he gets from Ilya in response is enough to fuel him more, the competitive heat in his stomach something he recognises. Without his permission, the corners of his mouth twitch around Ilya’s dick. 

His own arousal is an afterthought as he swallows around Ilya, pre-come gushing salty onto his tongue.

“Uh,” says Ilya, the single syllable coming out strangled. “Fu—fuck!” He tugs on Shane’s hair until Shane has no choice but to pull off. 

Shane sits back on his heels, smacking his lips. “Why.”

“Didn’t want to waste my orgasm in your mouth,” Ilya murmurs, pressing his thumb against Shane’s bottom lip. “Even though it is a very, very good mouth.” He pats Shane’s shoulder. “I have a better idea, though. C’mon, moy rýpka.”

“You better be putting that dick to good use,” says Shane, half-threatening.

Ilya’s eyes scrunch up in delight. “Purr, Hollander. I didn’t know you had it in you. But don’t worry, I won't leave you high and dry.”

Five minutes later finds Shane kneeling on the bed, his torso propped up by some of the decorative pillows he’d been eyeing earlier. Ilya is behind him, one hand a hot weight on Shane’s hip, the other leaving a wet trail along the curve of his ass. Anticipation thrums behind Shane’s breastbone, a nervous, eager thing with wings. They’re both naked, both willing.

His voice comes out, pathetic: “Please.”

“Alright. Relax, Hollander.” Ilya traces Shane’s hole with his finger until he releases the last bit of tension, lube making a slick sound, and then he finally presses inside up until the first knuckle. Shane breathes through it, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sheets below him. Heat zaps down his spine.

He’s had things up his ass before, his own fingers and the purple dildo he hides in a drawer back home in Montreal, but this is the first time it’s someone else. Ilya clearly knows what he is doing, pushing forward until his finger has completely disappeared inside of Shane, gentling him into it. When Shane whines, he leans down to leave a kiss against the swell of his ass, his teeth sinking in briefly for a bright-hot moment of pain.

Shane barely notices that he’s pulled his finger back out until he drives it forward again. The punched out sound that leaves his mouth would be embarrassing if he was in any clearer headspace. Ilya opens him up patiently, working up to two and three fingers while kissing along the line of Shane’s spine. 

Beneath his body, Shane’s cock hangs heavy and throbbing. He hasn’t paid any attention to it yet apart from the one swipe he trailed across the head when he pulled his trousers and pants off. By that point, he’d already leaked a patch of wetness into the fabric. He remembers hoping that Ilya has some clothes for him later. Shane would love to wrap a hand around himself, just to take the edge off, but that would mean balancing on one arm only, and he doesn’t think he has the coordination for that right now. It means the next touch will be that much better. 

At some point, Ilya deems him ready. He pulls his fingers out, chuckling at Shane’s forlorn whine, and then there’s the sound of plastic tearing. A condom, probably procured from the same place that he’d taken the lube from. 

“I want to see you,” whines Shane, when Ilya settles behind him. He turns his head to the side so that he can clumsily pout at Ilya, cheek pillowed against the bed below him. .

A strangled exhalation, and for a brief moment, Ilya’s fingers tighten around his waist. “Alright,” he says, then. “Alright, princess. No pouting.” He sounds more winded than he’d probably like to, also affected by the situation. 

Stomach twisting eagerly, Shane rolls onto his back. Ilya lifts him up, briefly, muscles bulging distractingly, so that he can place a pillow below Shane’s hips and prop him up like that. When his hand touches Shane’s hip, Shane’s legs fall open by themselves.

“Ready?” asks Ilya, gingerly curling his fingers around the base of his cock so that he can position himself at Shane’s entrance.

Shane kicks his leg out, annoyed and ridiculously turned on. “If you don’t fucking get your cock inside of me, I’m going to jerk myself off. And you only get to watch.” 

“A terrible threat,” says Ilya, thoughtfully. “We can’t have that.” He starts pushing inside.

When Ilya finally bottoms out, Shane inhales sharply, his eyes flying open. Above him, Ilya is haloed by the light of the lamps scattered around the room, curls golden. He is looking down at Shane, and for a brief moment, it looks like he can’t believe what he is seeing. His eyes are wide and warm, face splotchy from his blush. Below that, his mouth is swollen. 

Shane can’t help himself, he surges up, hissing at the way that jostles Ilya slightly inside of him, and presses their mouths together. He probably tastes disgusting, salty sweat and pre-come on his tongue, but Ilya kisses back just as eagerly. A wet kisser, Shane had noticed before. Right now, in the throes of his passion, he manages to be worse. 

“Come on,” says Shane, once they detach to pant against each other’s lips. He curls his legs around Ilya’s hips, ankles locking together. “Fuck me, Ilya.”

“Say my name like that again,” Ilya demands, but he does as Shane has said. 

The world narrows down to this: the slide of their bodies together, Ilya pulling out and then driving back in again, setting a punishing pace. And all Shane can do is clutch Ilya’s shoulders, Ilya’s name a prayer on his tongue. The headboard of their bed, one of those fancy hotel beds with heavy wooden boards, thumps against the wall. Shane has half the thought that he hopes that the walls are thick enough to not bother their neighbours, but then the head of Ilya’s cock scrapes along his prostate, and the bright burst of pleasure drives the coherence from his mind.

He dissolves into babbling until Ilya’s hand curls around his cock. Shane’s eyes fly open so quickly it makes him dizzy, his hips bucking into the touch. It makes Ilya hiss between his teeth. Sweat has plastered his hair against his forehead, eyes wild and predatory, teeth glittering sharp and perfectly straight between his lips.

“Ah—Ilya,” says Shane, overwhelmed.

“Gonna come for me, princess?” asks Ilya. He strokes Shane in time with his thrusts, the movement pointed so that he bumps into Shane’s prostate with deadly precision on every third or fourth twist of his hips.  

Shane sobs. “Can’t stop.”

“You don’t have to hold yourself back on my account,” Ilya soothes him. “C’mon, I want to see you come.” 

Pleasure rises and peaks. As if his words had broken the dam that was holding back the flood, Shane shakes apart as he starts spurting across Ilya’s hand, across his own stomach, white come pooling down Ilya’s knuckles and the dips between Shane’s abdominal muscles. 

Ilya curses as Shane tightens around him, his head dropping forward against Shane’s shoulder as his hips speed up. Shane clumsily moves with him, a weak hand coming up to direct Ilya’s lips to his own. Just like this, Ilya is moaning into Shane’s mouth as he comes with a shudder.

Once his orgasm has petered off, Ilya carefully pulls out, then collapses next to Shane. His flush has reached his chest by now, a charming glowing red, and his pecs flex as he fights to catch his breath. 

“You broke me, I think.” Shane gains clarity in stops and starts, and tests his legs, biting his lip at the pain that races up his spine. He covers his eyes with one hand, his voice muffled. “I don’t think I can walk normally tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” Ilya sounds proud at those words, because of course he does. He reaches down so that he can tug off his condom, tying it off and tossing it in the direction of the waste basket next to the bed. 

Huffing, Shane manages to push himself into a sitting position. He looks around the room: Ilya’s clothes a messy trail toward the bed, both of their shoes and socks kicked into a messy pile, Shane’s soiled clothes folded on the chair. 

He speaks into the room, useless, “Maybe I should . . . go back to my own room.” 

“Or not,” says Ilya. He shifts on the bed and curls one arm behind his head, apparently uncaring that he’s naked and still disgusting. “You could stay. My flight tomorrow isn’t too early.” 

“Yeah?” Shane looks to the side, finds Ilya already staring back at him, gaze open and honest.

Ilya nods, bites his lip. “Yeah. Stay.” 

“Okay.” Shane really needs to clean himself, his stomach now a crusted over mess, but for a brief moment, he allows himself this stillness. “I’ll stay.” 

Chapter End Notes

for a brief moment i considered saving the smut for next chapter but y'all have been so nice to me on the first three chapters that i decided to treat you! thank you for your support so far~ let me know what you thought this time too? :)

Chapter 5: five

Chapter Notes

hewwo im back :) i'm definitely not done with this story yet so strap in tight. all of the phillie players mentioned by name were made up by me and if they have any connection with real life players that's not on purpose!

going to the xlov concert tonight so if there are any inconsistencies or mistakes, i will look at them later. feel free to gently point out any that are particularly egregious, but otherwise — please enjoy :)

The air in the rink is crisp despite the adrenaline racing through Shane’s body. Around him, the stands are packed, both with Montreal fans and fans of tonight’s opponents, Philadelphia. The Stanley Cup banners ripple slightly, as if being tossed by an invisible current, and Shane feels a sense of pride when he looks up at them. Back-to-back Cups because he led his team to them. The first Canadian team since 1993 to do so.

Whatever happens, he reasons with himself, will not take away any of this. None of his hard work, his sacrifices, the blood and sweat, sometimes the tears—it all won’t be in vain. 

Keeping his head down to calm himself, Shane skates to center ice. Across from him is the Philadelphia center, an easy grin on his face as he takes in Shane’s approach. Trevor Jones is not a rookie anymore, and he is a great skater. Between them, one has to be better, but Shane is looking forward to a fun match. Working for it is always more fun than being handed something easy.

They shake hands. Jones lingers for a second, his gaze thoughtful. 

Figure me out, Shane tells him, silently. I dare you to try. He wonders if his gaze says the same.

But there is no time. The referee skates over, introduces himself, and then drops the puck between them. Jones is quick; not fast enough. Shane has already sent the puck flying towards Hayden. The chase is on.

First period ends without any goals from either side. Shane does not let it bring him down. Philadelphia have paired him up with one of the defensemen on their first line. McWatts is tall and broad, muscles coiling, and he chirps as if he is being paid for it. For Shane, it is like water off a duck’s back, but it seems to annoy the other player. 

Philadelphia scores first, a lucky break. Shane chomps on his mouth guard, annoyed, but comes back when he is called. The second line skates onto the ice, formation shifting on the fly. Montreal has his back, though: the second period ends in a tie.

McWatts is on Shane as soon as he breaks free from the scrimmage, scrambling for the puck. Shane turns his body to the side to receive the hit, but the tall defenseman still manages to check Shane into the boards, pain fizzing through his body. There is something about it, though: the clarity of the hit, the boards digging against the side of his arm, sharp desire aching in his gums. He manages to wrestle himself free from the defense man through sheer determination, the puck at the end of his stick, the stick an extension of his arm. Behind him, McWatts curses, but Shane is faster. 

Shane hopes he doesn’t take it personally. There aren’t any players currently in the NHL who are faster than him. Rozanov maybe, when he tries. 

A pace behind him is Hayden; the way to him is clear. Shane sends the puck flying with a flick of his wrist, and Hayden moves into it like they have trained so often. By this point, this has become almost easier, more automatic, than breathing. Hayden makes quick work of the defenseman coming his way—Elordi, broad but still a rookie—and passes the puck back to Shane.

Then it is just Shane and the goalie. Thonston is good, but good is not enough when it concerns Shane. It is almost too simple. He feigns left, waits until the goalie wavers, and then sends the puck sailing across his shoulder. It hits the back of the net with a satisfying thwap! 

Shane is at home, satisfaction roiling beneath his skin, so he celebrates. Hayden and J.J. crash into him as he raises his free hand, waves to the crowd. Their supporters roar to back him up, a thrum that goes through the entire arena. A tie broken, now in favour of Montreal. Shane hopes he can carry this feeling with him until the end of the match.

Jones’ gaze is not as friendly as it had been before when they face off at center ice. Shane has little desire to waste more energy than necessary on the other player. 

It’s not that he doesn’t chirp because he doesn’t have aggression when he is playing. It is just that, when he is in the zone, it is like all of the other players don’t exist on the ice. Just Shane, the puck, and the calm target of the opponent’s goal on the other side of the ice. 

But he is not alone. McWatts checks him again, his stick tangling between Shane’s skates to deliberately try to trip him up. None of Shane’s defensemen are close. 

“Maybe I should put you on your knees as well,” the other player is saying, flattened against Shane, an angry twist to his mouth. “Rozanov probably has you suck his cock, right? Is that why you let him win?”

“You couldn’t even win if I was actually on my knees,” says Shane, anger cold in his throat. 

And then the defenseman’s gloves are coming off; Shane is faster. The other man might be bigger, more muscled, but Shane is unfiltered rage gazing upon a very satisfying prey. He punches not at the guy but through him, his fist connecting with the man’s cheek. McWatts tries to duck away, but Shane’s other hand is curled around his arm, holding him up. 

The second punch connects just as satisfyingly.

--

your hockey updates @Hockey_Central
Fight breaks in the third period between Hollander (Montreal) and McWatts (Philadelphia). Uncertain as to what the cause of the fight was. Hollander is famously a pacifist on the ice. It looks like Hollander will receive unsportsmanlike conduct for the incident. The Metros are leading 2-1 so far.

puck @berni_nat
holy shit did you see the way hollzy punched that other guy? if this is what he looks like doing so i hope he gets a lot more chances to fuck some assholes up
[Short embedded video clearly filmed from the crowd at the hockey match. It shows Hollander holding McWatts by the shoulder, his arm winding back to throw his second punch. His eyebrows are furrowed, but the rest of his face looks calm, almost serene. The video cuts off just before his fist connects.]
→ yaoi on ice!! 8124 @brozanovski
this is 100% going in rozanov’s spank bank

--

Ilya had texted him on the drive over. Shane only finds out when he is parked in his spot and takes his phone from his pocket for the first time since leaving the arena. The message blinks back at him, innocently.

[Ilya Rozanov]
Call me when you see this.

Shane’s hand jerks towards his phone, but he reasons with himself that Ilya probably didn’t mean right there. He grabs his bag from the backseat and slings it over his shoulder, a weird buzzing behind his eyes the entire elevator ride up. His cheekbone throbs in time with his heartbeat. There is no doubt that a fresh bruise is forming there. McWatts had gotten off a hit on Shane as well, just before the referees had separated them and sent them off to their respective penalty boxes. Shane had sat through his penalty with his head held high, daring anyone else present—the staff, their supporters, any of the other players—to look his way. To show them that he was not ashamed of who he was. And what would happen if anybody would try to make him feel so.

He texts Ilya as he steps through the front door, stepping out of his shoes and lining them up on the shoe rack with one hand, typing out the letters with his other. 

[Shane Hollander]
Can you call now?

[Ilya Rozanov]
You are home?
I have been waiting

It is Ilya who acts before Shane can make a move, a video call invitation. With his heart pounding in his throat, Shane makes his way to his living room and curls up on the couch, swiping his thumb across the screen to accept the video call. 

The line connects, and Shane sees Ilya. Of course he does, but it is like he has been starving for him for the last few days of little contact due to both of their busy schedules. Ilya’s sitting on his couch, legs spread in such a way that it flexes his thigh muscles distractingly, phone probably propped up on his coffee table. There’s something flint sharp in Ilya’s gaze when it trails across Shane’s face, blue eyes cold.

“That asshole hurt you,” are the first words out of his mouth.

A blush curls down from Shane’s cheekbones to his chest: he can feel his face heating up. “It’s hockey, Ilya. This is part of the sport.” He snorts, a bit proud of himself. “And I definitely hurt him first. Better, too.”

“What did he say to work you up, anyway? It’s not like you to be aggressive.” 

Shane watches Ilya through the grainy connection on the phone; his face, all sharp angles, the slant of his mouth, distracting and plush, and the corded muscles of his neck, the perfect place to leave his head or a bruise. He puts his empty hand between his thighs so that it isn't as obvious that he’s trembling. With—need? Anger? It is hard to distinguish the emotion at the moment, even more difficult than it normally already is.

“I know how to fight,” he says at last, defensive hackles raised ever so slightly. “I just don’t like it.” 

An exhale serving as a huff of laughter. It softens Ilya out into something more palatable, more real. “You have proven that quite well, solnyshko. But that is not the question I asked, is it?”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Shane looks away from the camera. It’s dark outside and he’s only lit a few lamps in the living room, and the lights of the other tall buildings spill in through the window, washing everything out in pale yellow. It’s easier to be honest when he’s not looking at Ilya, but it also makes it more difficult to remember whether all of this matters. Whether Ilya is asking because he’s simply curious, or if he’s, what, concerned?

“He was an asshole,” says Shane, voice low, almost pensive. “A homophobe.”

On the other side of the call, Ilya gnashes his teeth. The light catches the cross necklace lying between his collarbones, makes it glint. “Hollander—”

Shane holds up his hand, cutting him off. He’s pleased to notice that Ilya does, immediately. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Ilya,” he says. “This is hockey, if you haven’t noticed. Not the most supportive sport, is it?” The response of the general public has been nice, Shane knows. In a way comforting, encouraging. But for hockey players, growing up inside the small and macho spaces of ice rinks and locker rooms, fag was still their favourite slur for pussies. Someone stepping outside of the lines, shaking off the mold they’re all in? That was dangerous, setting a precedent for a shift in the sport that people clearly had not been waiting for.

“Still,” says Ilya, stubbornly. He looks a bit like a puppy, Shane thinks, vaguely amused. He’s latched onto a stick and is refusing to let go, his sharp teeth sinking in. “You think people can just be assholes to you on my watch?”

“They cannot,” says Shane, dryly. “Be so on my watch, I mean. I think I’ve proven that quite well.” 

Ilya narrows his eyes. When he crosses his arms in front of his chest, it flexes the muscles of his biceps. Shane remembers curling his fingers around those biceps when Ilya had hammered inside of him, fat cockhead brushing his prostate on every third or fourth stroke. They’d been firm, unyielding. Shane really needs to get his mind out of the gutter before his thoughts start wandering into dangerous territory.

“Yeah,” says Ilya at last, cutting through the fog that had started descending on Shane’s brain. “You’ve proven it.” 

His voice is neutral, but still, there’s something there. Shane sits up a bit straighter, rubbing the top of his thigh with his palm. “Did you—” His voice cracks, so he tries again, eyebrows furrowing. “Did you see the video?”

“I did.” The answer comes immediate, leaving no doubt. 

Desperately, Shane searches Ilya’s face; normally, it gives nothing away. But there’s a crack to him, a flash in his blue eyes. His breath rattles in his chest when he waits for Ilya to continue. 

“You looked good, Hollander. It was good punch, solid form.” He laughs, and it transforms his face into something softer, something hungrier. “Bet that asshole wasn’t expecting that, was he? He went down like sack of bricks.”

“Who teaches you these expressions?” asks Shane. He is cognizant enough to realise his tone straddles the line between amused and fond. 

Ilya waggles his eyebrows. The mood has shifted, though there’s still a secret in the curve of Ilya’s smile, a desire in the way his nails dig into the muscles of his thigh. “You think I am bad at English, Shane Hollander? Is that what you’re saying to me?”

The force of his giggles sends Shane curling forward, and it probably shakes his phone screen as well. His arm is getting kind of tired from holding out the device, and he should’ve probably done as Ilya had done, propped it up somewhere, but at that distance he won’t be able to see every micro-expression as it crosses Ilya’s face. And that is a hunger that far outweighs the pain, something that Shane has grown familiar with over time.

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth,” says Shane, at last. 

“Hmpf.” Ilya blows him a raspberry, a very mature response. 

A silence descends over them, which normally makes Shane nervous. He’s never been very good at filling these empty stretches of space, always managing to say exactly the wrong thing. Small talk, soft pleasantries—all these things that come easy to the people around him, is more difficult than solving complex math problems. It must be something in his tone, or in the words he chooses, that tells the other person that there is something wrong with him in that regard. 

But with Ilya, there is no need to fill that silence. Just a careful, unweighted moment. The other man is taking the time to study Shane, it seems, white teeth sunk into his plush bottom lip, so Shane does the same. Above his glistening bottom lip, Ilya’s cupid’s bow is a perfect curve-swoop-curve. The moles on his cheek are dark against the pale of his skin, and Shane imagines tracing the lines between them with his fingers or his tongue. He might be ruined, he thinks, ruined for everyone that isn’t Ilya. It should scare him more.

Then Shane wrecks the mood when his face splits into a yawn. It cracks his jaw and brings tears to the corners of his eyes, for a moment blurring his vision. 

“Go to sleep, Hollander,” says Ilya, once Shane has gathered his bearings again. “It’s been long day, yeah? Lots of impressions and guy punching. Must be very tiring.” 

“Stop it,” Shane bites out, though he’s smiling. “Don’t look down on me, asshole.”

A shocked widening of eyes, so wide that it is clear that Ilya is making fun of him. Then he falls back against the couch, clutching his chest. “I would never make fun of you, Hollander. How dare you insinuate that? Am I not a good boyfriend? Is that why I get teased like this?”

“Oh my god,” says Shane, rolling his eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

“My boyfriend hates me! That is why he hangs up on me!” Ilya is teasing, clearly, his eyes sparkling, but there’s a seizing in Shane’s chest. There is not a universe, he realises, in which he could really hate Ilya. 

There’s Ilya Rozanov—devil on skates, asshole in the rink, someone who wears his words like an armour. But there’s also this Ilya, stripped back into something softer and smaller. Who looks at Shane like he matters, penetrating bright blue eyes, his arms wrapped around his torso like he needs it to hold himself up. The first person was easy to hate, because everyone around Shane was always comparing him to Ilya, and so it was easy for him to slip into those patterns as well. A bit faster, a bit bolder, a bit meaner. 

This Ilya, however, is everything. With all that Shane gets to know about him, he’s everything.

And nothing, too. When all of this bleeds out, and when all of this ends, then Shane is nothing to this Ilya. In a twisted thing, Ilya will be nothing to him too.

“Okay,” says Shane at last, shaking himself from his thoughts. “I’m going now, really. See you next week in Boston.”

“Boston will be waiting for you,” Ilya murmurs. “Prepare to lose, Shane Hollander.” 

“We’ll see about that, Ilya Rozanov.” Shane lingers for a moment longer, watching the shadows that catch in the dip of Ilya’s collarbones, and then closes the call. His own reflection blinks back at him in the dark screen, tired eyebrows, dark smudges beneath his eyes.

One week until Boston, two more games before that. He can manage this.

--

Shane lies in bed, the moon peeking in through a gap in the curtains, a thin beam of silver light slicing through the darkness of the room. He should sleep; tomorrow, there’s another unoptional-option training, and he has some sponsorship meetings afterward, and a party that he’d promised JJ he’d go to and already itches to beg out of. But sleep refuses to find him, and so his eyes are stuck on the ceiling, his palm splayed across his bare stomach, falling and rising in time with his forced-even breaths.

Ever since this whole thing with Ilya had started, Shane had believed that his team mates had been supportive of him. He’d shown them, blood and teeth, that he was still the same Shane that had dragged them to two Stanley Cups. And they’d taken that at face value, right? They played hockey with him, passed him the puck when he’d played himself free, and his defensemen had done what they needed to: defend him. Hockey was fine. Hockey is what Shane is used to. And sure, apart from Hayden and JJ, his friendships with the other Metros are fickle, flighty things, but on the ice, they see eye-to-eye.

Now, he sorts through his memories and, in the quiet of his room, reflects. 

He has always considered his teammates as supportive. To an extent, they’ve never been outwardly homophobic to him. He’d quite dropped that whole thing with Ilya on them, he knows, and Ilya is—was, is—the enemy. Boston and Montreal, facing each other only with bared teeth and boiling blood. Now, they watch Shane with blank eyes: in the locker room, he is their captain, and on the ice, he is their first line center. 

But how long have they connected with him outside of that? Is it enough for Shane, to just have them as his team members, and nothing else? That is quite how it has been over the last few years, a distance that Shane has always struggled to fill. It is too wide, too awkward, always just a little bit out of place. Looking back at it, perhaps the gap has been widening over the last few months, bigger and bigger until it almost becomes insurmountable.

And when the other Metros talk about their opponents, whether they are Boston or not, homophobic slurs still fall easily from their lips. To them, it’s easy: being a fag or a poof or a girl is demeaning, emasculating, one of the worst insults they can come up with. When Shane thinks about it, he’s been allowing it to happen around him just because that is easier than arguing. He can hardly change the whole sport by himself. But is this worth it? Shane thought it would be, as long as he could play good hockey. 

The fight today had knocked that all sideways. He should’ve been protected. Someone should’ve been there. Not that he can’t fight his own battles, but there shouldn’t have been a fight in the first place.

What would Ilya say, if Shane would lay all of his thoughts out like this? Shane wishes he could imagine it, but he can’t figure it out. He curls up on his side and squeezes his eyes shut until he wills himself asleep.

--

JJ’s party is, to Shane’s surprise, nice. It’s not really a party as much as an after-hours get together in his chef friend’s restaurant. Le Tambour is bathed in golden light from the lamps scattered around, and there’s pleasant music playing in the background, groups of people scattered around the space, their voices blurring together in a hum of pleasant noise.

When Shane arrives, JJ whoops and slings an arm across Shane’s shoulder. “This one never leaves his house,” he says, introduces Shane to his friends. “But he’s here!” They seem happy to see him, and friendly, so Shane takes the gentle ribbing for what it is: affectionate, affable. 

A bit later, he attempts to order some ginger ale, then pivots to beer. It’s unobtrusive, light on his tongue. One pint of it has him drunker than he thought, but the buzz that settles across his whirring thoughts is nice, so he orders a second. The bartender might be flirting with him, and he’s nice looking with a square jaw and a buzzed head, but Shane looks for Ilya in everyone he meets, and there’s nothing for him here. When the guy tells him that the entire X-Squad cast is here, Shane orders a third beer and chugs that one too.

Tomorrow, a hangover will be waiting for him. Shane will just have to suffer the indignity of it.

He goes back to JJ, suddenly overstimulated. He begs out of the conversation with a lie that he has to use the toilet, then stumbles to the other side of the restaurant on unsteady legs. A booth opens up next to him, so he slumps in the seat, his chin tucked against his chest. For him, a moment, just to breathe.

“Are you here to help me finish these fries?”

At the words, Shane’s gaze snaps up. The booth, previously thought to be empty, had already been housing one occupant. Shane’s frequent flying makes it so that he has watched a lot of movies, both good and bad, but even without all of that he would’ve recognised the woman sitting across the table for him. Her strawberry blonde hair and softly swooping nose have been plastered against many bus stop posters and billboards by now.

Rose Landry smiles at him from across the table. “The chef gave me these fries, but if I finish them all, I’m not going to fit into my costume anymore.” Then she puts a fry from the basket in her mouth,  her eyes rolling back in adorable faux-delight. “So good.”

“Holy shit,” says Shane, a bit dumb, but these are the only words his mind can currently conjure up. “You’re—Rose Landry. I’m Shane. A huge fan.” It must be the beers he’s consumed so far that smooth down his worried edges and make it so that he feels confident enough to give her a little wobbly smile without feeling like he’s going to jump out of his skin.

“I know who you are, Shane Hollander,” she says, amused. “You would be hard pressed to find someone in this city who does not know you by face.”

Shane takes a moment to gape at her, before he shakes himself. “You are not from here, though.”

“Well, I’m a Michigan girl with three brothers,” says Rose, giving him a small smile. “Hockey is in my family’s blood. In mine too. But you would know something about that, wouldn’t you?”

An easy opening to a conversation; Shane takes it, eager. 

Rose proves herself to be a good talker and a better listener. Even better, she appears genuine. Shane is not left wondering if, at any part of their chat, she is actually interested in what he says. Her body language is open and unadulterated. She says, “Paint me a picture, Shane Hollander at eight years old,” and so he does.

“I’m definitely on the ice somewhere,” he says. “The scouting, and all that crazy stuff, it didn’t happen for a few more years. So I’m probably just having fun.”

“Did it stop being fun?” she asks. 

He looks at her, his stomach twisting. He remembers last night, the early morning, the moonlight slanting in through the gap in the curtains. “No.” The words come out too defensive, too strong, so he backpedals. “I mean, kind of. I love it, but everything got more intense, so I guess I got more intense too. If that makes any sense.” 

“It does,” she says, one of her eyes dropping into a wink. “But now you’d know something about intense, wouldn’t you? You bagged yourself the most intense guy in the league.” 

Shane will blame the alcohol and the mood on the next words out of his mouth, and it’s like watching a car crash as it happens, an out of body experience: “I would have. If everything wasn’t fake, and it wasn’t just a media thing.”

A silence, this one heavy, oppressive. She stares at him, without understanding at first, and then realisation shutters across her face like a wave. 

“Shit, fuck.” He feels how the blood drains from his face and he quickly covers his eyes with his hands. “I did not say that. Pretend you did not hear me say that.” Briefly, he considers smashing his forehead against the table, though that probably would not go down so well.

If the world were kind to him, it would make it so that Rose Landry would strike him down. It would be an honourable way for Shane to go. Instead, she—Rose fucking Landry—pushes the basket of fries closer to him. “Have a fry, Shane Hollander,” she says, again, her gaze open and understanding, somehow. “I think you’ll need it.”

Miserable, he does so. To his dismay, the fries are indeed delicious, even though they’ve started to go cold: beautifully crispy and seasoned to perfection. One is not enough, so he eats three or four. 

He can deal with his diet tomorrow again.

“Can I just ask?” says Rose, softly. She leans forward, a private thing. “How it all happened?” 

Shane taps his fingers against the table top, trying to organise his thoughts. “You can’t tell this to anyone else.” He waits until she swears and then promises, which she does with a special kind of earnestness Shane does not really know if he deserves. “It was—just a mistake. I am actually gay, and with the whole Scott Hunter situation, I made a mistake. Ilya, Rozanov, he suggested that we should just run with it. And everyone started believing in it, so it felt weird to—I don’t know? Get back on it? Make it seem like a joke?”

He does not mention the kissing or the sex or the way that Ilya makes him feel, that stutter in his heartbeat every time he looks at Shane.

“Do you believe in it?” asks Rose, voice soft.

“What?” he says.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she says, her gaze soft, and perhaps kinder than Shane deserves. “Or intrusive, speaking out of turn. Clearly there’s a lot about this situation that I don’t know. But you don’t really strike me as an actor, Shane Hollander.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, gives him a wry look. “I would know, I’m afraid.”

He raises his gaze to meet hers just because the words leave him so startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing much.” Rose puts her palms up toward him, a consoling gesture. “I, just—” She makes a frustrated sound, her cheeks blowing up. Her sentences are choppy, unrehearsed but they fucking all hit like McWatts fist when it had connected with Shane’s cheekbone on his lucky strike. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. You know how he looks at you. Do you not think that, if there was something to find, the internet would have already found out about it?”

Shane grips the edge of the table, his breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. “I think I’m too drunk for this conversation.”

“Of course,” she says, immediately. Her face is carefully neutral. “Of course.”

They end up swapping phone numbers. Shane didn’t think he’d ever have Rose Landry’s number in his phone, but she’s insistent. You need someone in your corner, Shane Hollander. Perhaps it was necessary that you told someone. He had not quite known how to refuse that, so he’d just allowed her to do whatever she wanted.

In all honesty, she is probably right. 

But it also makes Shane so very aware that he should probably tell Ilya that there’s someone out there aware of their predicament. Someone as famous as Rose. Tell him that he fucked up. Shane just doesn’t quite know how to do that just yet. 

--

The following week. Montreal forces Boston into overtime, but it is the home team that comes out of the game on a victory. There had been a hard-fought break from the other team, and it had been Ilya who had put the puck behind the Montreal goalie, mere minutes before the final buzzer. Ilya had raised his stick and his hands in a loud celebration; the home crowd had eaten it up, right out of his palm.

In the locker room after, it’s mostly quiet as they all change out of their gear and into their suits. Theriault pulls Shane to the side, tells him that there will be tapes to review tomorrow. Shane swallows and nods, the weight of the coach’s gaze heavy on the side of his face. It makes him squirm in place, uncomfortable. 

At least there won’t be a celebration tonight, one that Shane would have to awkwardly duck out of. Instead, he gets ready in record time, waving off Hayden’s offer to head back to the hotel together. A car will be idling for him outside by now, just waiting for him to get in and be swept away.

Despite everything, Shane can’t wait.

“Where are you going?” Drapeau asks, suspicion and something else simmering in his tone.

Shane holds his head up, refusing to back down even as the rest of the team stares at him with equal parts of disinterest and annoyance. “I have plans already,” he says, stiffly. “With Ilya.” 

To the side, Comeau mutters something in scathing French. It sounds like, first you make us lose and then you run off with that faggot as well. 

The words raise Shane’s hackles, and he turns to Comeau to gaze him down, aiming for indifference. In the face of his clear anger, those gnashing teeth and that working jaw, Shane feels unmoored. “I don’t see my boyfriend that often,” he manages, at last. “So I will see him now. We take the loss like the loss it is, and we will work harder next time. That’s everything I do for you all, over and over, and all I will offer you for now.”

Hayden sends him a look, clear worry in his gaze, and Shane can only hold it briefly before turning away again. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes it out. It’s Ilya, and he can’t help the small smile that curls around his mouth at the text. 

[Ilya Rozanov]
Don’t make me wait too long, Hollander.

It’s crazy. He really can’t wait to see Ilya. These are school girl levels of embarrassing. 

To his surprise, it’s actually Ilya in the car when he comes outside. It’s a flashy thing, something that’s low to the floor with a motor that purrs like a wildcat. The door opens for Shane without him having to lift the handle. Shane knows that Ilya is into sports cars—any tabloid would have told you that—but it’s kind of endearing to see Ilya show off like this. Combined with the car’s bright colour, Shane almost feels like a peahen being seduced. 

Once he’s safely strapped in, Shane turns to Ilya. “Thanks for picking me up,” he says, voice a bit wobbly. “You could’ve gone out with your teammates first, if you wanted. To celebrate your win.”

Ilya waves a hand at him. He has one hand on the steering wheel, bicep flexing as he guides the car onto the main road, and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “My boys told me that I had to see you now. They basically threatened me that they’d tell the press that I wasn’t being a good boyfriend if I didn’t go see you when I had the chance.” He gives Shane a look from the corner of his eyes, all teasing. “We couldn’t have that, obviously.”

“Obviously,” parrots Shane, and looks away to the side. Boston flashes by through the window, a scenery both familiar and not. Privately, he envies the easy way Ilya talks about him with his teammates. There’s still rivalry, but it seems like they’re more able to separate the Shane and Ilya on the ice from the two of them off it.

“Hey,” says Ilya, clearly noticing something in Shane’s mood. “Are you okay?”

Shane manages a wry smile. “Just tired.” It’s not a lie, but clearly not the whole truth either.

“That’s what I figured.” They’re at a red light, so Ilya drums his fingers against the steering wheel as the car idles below them. “I know I said I would be taking you out, but I’ve reconsidered. How do you feel about going to my place and just ordering something in?” 

Some of the tightness that had settled around Shane’s shoulders relaxes at those words. He lets out a long breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “That would be great.”

“I am great,” Ilya crows, pleased with himself. The light turns green, so they burst forward again, the car clearly sensitive to the smallest touch of Ilya’s foot against the pedal. Something Shane is almost completely familiar with. “I think we could use a quiet night inside. It’s been busy few weeks for both of us.”

“Yes,” says Shane, quietly. “It has been.”

Ilya looks at him from the corner of his eye and gives him a small smile. It transforms his face into something softer, something Shane has no defenses against. “I will take care of you, Shane Hollander. Just let it happen.”

That is the problem, Shane thinks: he’s been too lax with letting everything happen, lately. And all he can do is brace himself for the fall out. 

--

Despite the fact that this is only the second time in Ilya’s house, Shane feels a sense of comfort when he steps across the threshold. The world is shut away, far outside of these walls, and inside of here, he can just relax. He drops his bag next to the door and kicks off his shoes, lining them up on the rack. There’s already a noticeable loosening in his shoulders, his chest rattling with the force of his exhale. It feels good to be Shane here. He thinks Ilya would allow him to just be Shane.

“Are you hungry?” Ilya asks from behind him. He’s shed his jacket and unbuttoned half of the buttons of his shirt in the few heartbeats that Shane had turned away, revealing a strip of pale skin and the hollow of his throat. For a brief moment, Shane fixates on that skin, his breathing speeding up.

When Shane hesitates in answering, lost in thought, Ilya crowds him, giving him no moment to back off. The wall is cold behind Shane’s back, and it almost feels comforting. “Something is bothering you.” He makes a little sound when Shane just stares at him, blankly, and touches the space below Shane’s eye with a gentle thumb. “Tell me what it is.”

“Did I . . .” Shane trails off, looking for the right words. “Did I let you win? The game today, I mean.” 

Ilya immediately pulls him closer, tucking Shane’s nose into the curve of his shoulder and neck and surrounding him on all sides like that. He rumbles underneath Shane when he speaks. “A victory that you gave me would not be worth it, Shane Hollander. And it also diminishes the hard work me and my team put into game today to win.” 

“Right,” says Shane against Ilya’s skin. The other man smells warm and spicy, the undertone of his cigarettes not as prevalent as it usually is. 

“Who told you that, anyway?” Ilya pulls back a little bit so he can study Shane’s face; Shane already misses his touch. 

“Nobody,” he lies. “I just don’t want people to think that.”

He is granted a snort, derisive. “Anybody who knows you knows how much you want to win, Hollander. That you always give your all. But someone has to win, and this time it was us.”

“Next time you won’t be as lucky,” Shane breathes. A weak comeback, but a comeback nonetheless.

Ilya just gives him a smile. “We’ll see about that.” Then he curls his fingers around Shane’s wrist and tugs him along to the living room. Most of the lights are turned on with one small remote, and Ilya starts a fire in the glass fireplace, the flames dancing gently. Through the windows, Boston glimmers like a sea of stars.

Shane watches them pensively, only startled out of his thoughts by Ilya coming up behind him. “You want to get changed into something more comfortable, Hollander?”

“Hm?” He turns around, blinking. Ilya is closer than he thought he would be, and does not move when Shane does. There’s only a sliver of space between their faces, and from this close of a distance, Shane can study every mole and blemish on his skin. His lashes are as golden as his curls but long, and a hint of hazel hides in his blue eyes.

Before Shane knows it, he’s already moved forward, fitting their lips together. Ilya allows the kiss for a brief, beautiful moment, but he pulls back with a huff when Shane tries to deepen it. 

“Clothes first, and then food. And then after . . .” He lets the sentence trail off, suggestive. 

“Okay,” says Shane, blushing. He clears his throat. “Right.”

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Ilya’s clothes smell like Ilya. He gives Shane a hoodie and a pair of comfortable sweatpants. Shane puts the collar of the hoodie up to his nose and just breathes in the scent of pine and spice. It’s good that he’s doing this in the comfort of the guest room Ilya had directed him toward, because there would have been no way to explain this to Ilya if the other had caught him. 

Afterwards, when he pads out into the living room area again, Ilya is on the couch. He has also changed. His curls are fluffy as if he’d run his hands through his hair a couple of times, and the shirt he wears must have stretched over time through wear and use. The swoop of the collar reveals his collarbones, a peak of shoulder. 

“Do you want to order something from the place you got food from last time?” Ilya asks, when he spots Shane.

Shane lets out a long breath, settling down on the opposite side of the sofa, his legs tucked underneath his body. For a brief beat, he studies Ilya. Then he says, voice a whisper: “Will you pick something for me this time?”

Between one second and the next, Ilya’s gaze tightens. And then heats up to something molten. “I will order something delicious for the both of us.”

They talk about everything and nothing while they wait for the food to be delivered. Nothing important, but safe topics. Ilya tells him about his best friend, Svetlana, who works in Boston selling fancy cars. She did indeed sell Ilya the monster he picked Shane up with today. In turn, Shane tells him about Hayden and his gaggle of kids. The mention of the other Metro player makes Ilya roll his eyes, but talking about kids makes him soften. This should probably be the moment that Shane mentions his transgression with Rose, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t want to ruin the warm mood with his mistake. This Ilya, gentle and quiet, is a rarity that he fully wishes to indulge in.

The food that Ilya had ordered for them turns out to be Russian, which Ilya reassures Shane is the best damn Russian food in all of Massachusetts. He ordered them blini and pelmeni and plov. Everything smells delicious and tastes even better, and though it absolutely does not fit in Shane’s current diet, this is something he can worry about later.

As it stands, he already has enough things to worry about. Being with Ilya, against everything he had expected, is easy.

Like this, it’s easy to lean into him, too, when the night draws deeper and darker. There’s a magnetism to Ilya like he is a sun and Shane is the world’s dumbest moth. The space between them on the couch shrinks to something infinitesimal, Shane’s shoulder pressed up against Ilya’s broad, warm side. And when Ilya kisses him, this time, Shane welcomes him in.

In the quiet of Ilya’s living room, he can convince himself that this is normal. That this is okay. People who are not tangentially romantically involved can kiss—they do it all the time. Ilya tastes like the sour cream from the blini, like the cold vodka he’d sipped from, and Shane is powerless to resist.

Ilya asks to take him to his bedroom; Shane says, “Yes, yes.” 

There is no time for pretense. They make it to the bedroom, the bed. Shane folds to his knees with careful precision. He places his hands on Ilya’s thighs, feeling the muscle shift below his fingertips. “I want to please you,” he says.

A noise is torn from Ilya, because it is torn, a violent thing. He says something in Russian, a swear or a plea, and presses his thumb to Shane’s cheekbone. “You always please me.”

With reverent hands, Shane peels Ilya out of his sweats. He’d gone commando underneath, so his cock slaps against his stomach, warm and throbbing. It floods saliva in Shane’s mouth, sparks a hunger low in his chest. Ilya’s hands tangle in Shane’s hair when he leans forward to swallow him down, a heavy weight on his tongue. The pressure on his tongue and the tightness in his chest loosens something in him, the world around him blurring at the edges. He sighs through his nose, looks up when Ilya makes a soft sound and cups his face.

“You are so far gone,” Ilya says, amused. 

What do you mean? Shane thinks, bleary. I’m right here, am I not? But even without his mouth full, words would have been hard, his thoughts thick and slow like they have to wade through molasses to even make it to the forefront of his mind. He just swallows around Ilya’s cock, tongue running along the head and the shaft, his hands clutched around Ilya’s thighs.

“Hollander, Hollander,” says Ilya. He sounds pained, looks it too. He pulls Shane back by his hair even when he whines. “I don’t want to come yet, come here.”

He spreads Shane out on the bed and then opens him up on his fingers and tongue. When his tongue swipes across Shane’s asshole, licks inside between his spread fingers, Shane thinks he’s seeing a god. He thinks he might be begging by that point, but he’s too far gone to make himself stop, and Ilya doesn’t tell him to stop either, just looks at Shane with a laser focus as he tries to twist his fingers just so to wrench new sounds out of Shane’s mouth.

Shane thinks he might be an addict. Ilya slides home with little fanfare, Shane’s legs curled over his arms, and the pleasure of the fullness and the stretch nearly makes him come on the spot. They move together like it’s second nature, a shift and pull, a rising tide. The water is in Shane’s lungs.

“Good,” Ilya sighs. “Hollander, you are so good.”

“Ilya,” he remembers saying, reaching for Ilya’s hand. “Please.” Ilya tangles their fingers together, kisses the back of Shane’s scarred knuckles. 

Much too soon or maybe hours later, perched precariously close to the edge, Shane feels his orgasm approach. Above him is Ilya, and the way his golden hair frames his face looks like a crown. His pupils are swallowing his irises, leaving only a thin ring of blue. It is like he is looking down at something holy, something he does not quite understand but wishes to carve open to see what worth lies underneath. The only thing that Shane has to offer is his bloodied, beating heart. 

Above him, Ilya’s thrusts start stuttering, his even pace collapsing into something more fervent. Hurtling straight toward his orgasm, his mouth parts, and it curls around the word like that single word has a thousand meanings. He says, “Shane.”

Shane comes so hard he sees stars. They are in his eyes or maybe Ilya’s eyes when he tightens around the other man, and then he’s coming too, pulsing and hot inside of Shane.

For a brief, feral moment, Shane wished the condom wasn’t separating them.

Afterward and both of them cleaned up, Shane lies awake, staring up at the ceiling. Ilya is a slumbering weight behind him, a heavy line of muscle and flesh against Shane’s back, one leg thrown over his hip to trap Shane in place. He does not snore but he murmurs in his sleep, Russian that Shane could not even hope to understand even if he could make out individual syllables.

Shane lies awake, and the world keeps turning around him like normal, but inside, something has shifted. His heartbeat drums against his ribcage, a flighty thing. And with growing clarity, he realises that he does not know if he is aching for the end anymore.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading and waiting! let me know what you thought?

Chapter 6: six

Chapter Notes

sorry for the month long wait lol i was busy with life and also two other fics! cant promise it wont happen again but ALSO peak the fixed chapter count :) i finally have figured out how the rest of this fic is going to go (have been winging it for the last while if you couldnt tell sorry) but yay!!! also this chapter is once again quite wordy to make up for the longer-than-usual wait, so i hope you guys all enjoy~

all mistakes are my own!

There is an award show and they’ve been invited to present an award. Not just Shane or Ilya, but both of them. As a unit. And the show wants both of them, because it is the GLAAD awards, and though Shane is pretty sure that acronym now technically has more letters, he and Ilya fall into the spectrum somewhere. But that also means that he’ll be on television, with people watching him that don’t know the first thing about him except that he is going to be there with a supposed boyfriend—and they’ll definitely have opinions on what that means for him, for the sport. And while Shane wants to mean something, it is also just . . . very scary.

As if he can sense that Shane is freaking out, Ilya calls him. Without thinking about it, he swipes the call to accept it, presses his phone to his ear. Below him, out of the window, the people walking on the sidewalk are as small as ants.

“You must have also received the invitation for the award show.”

Shane manages a sputter. “Good afternoon to you too, Ilya.”

“Hello, Hollander,” says Ilya, and there is a kind of satisfaction in his voice at being able to make Shane laugh. “But I figure that the answer to my question is yes, then?”

“Yes,” Shane says, with a roll of his eyes. “It would be hard to miss it.”

A chuckle from the other side, raspy and attractive. “So, do you want to do it?”

Frowning, Shane follows a flock of pigeons as they take off from one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street, probably scared off by a cat. They disappear out of sight. “I did not know I had a say in the matter.” He’d half expected that his mother had already said yes, to be honest.

“Of course you have a say, Hollander.” Ilya almost sounds affronted that Shane could have thought differently. “Sure, it’s a big opportunity for us, but nobody expects you to go.”

“And what about the hockey world? Is it a big opportunity for them too?”

Ilya scoffs. “Who cares about those rat bastards? You think they cared when our news dropped? Did anyone at the head of the league reach out to offer support? Did they say they were happy for us, or angry that Scott Hunter got outed? Surely not. If we make them money, they are happy, as long as we suffer in silence.” 

“Okay,” says Shane, with a sort of conviction and steadiness that he had not expected to find tonight. “Okay. I want to go. I want to do this.”

“Really?”

“What? Do you want to or not?” Shane can’t help the amusement from creeping into his tone. “Like you said—it’s about us, right? And I want to make a statement from us. That it’s necessary for a hockey player to be able to be whoever they want to be. And that they should be supported by their team and the league, no matter how they want to express themselves. I think if we go in from that kind of angle, this is something I could see myself doing.”

The only thing Ilya says at first is: “Brave boy.” If Shane knew him better, he’d say the other boy sounds impressed. “I know you don’t like publicity, Hollander. But I’ll be there every step of the way. Plus, the cameras love me. They’ll have a hard time focusing on anything else.”

Shane barks out a laugh, unruffled by the chirp. “One day, your head is going to grow so big that you’ll take off and float across the Atlantic. At least I’ll finally know some peace then.”

“How you wound me!” says Ilya, but it is clear that he isn’t actually hurt. “You would miss me.”

He says it with a strange fragility. Shane would miss it if he wasn’t always so hyperfocused on everything Ilya does: the little shiver in his voice. And the truth is that Shane would miss him. For the last few months, he and Ilya have lived together in the enormity of the secret they carry. For so long, they’d been pitched as rivals that Shane had started to believe it himself. But they’d been points on two spinning, interlocked circles. They’d meet when the lines crossed, then were swept away in opposite directions again. He doesn’t think that he’s ever spent as much time with anyone outside of his parents and his team members before. 

It should be frightening. Ilya is everything Shane had expected him to be: brash, loud, annoying, and cocky. But he is also caring, and he takes the lead when Shane needs him to, and sometimes Shane can actually fool himself into thinking that whatever hovers between them, unspoken of, is not only in his imagination. 

“Not even a little bit,” he says at last, in response to Ilya’s previous statement, obviously joking. “It would be so deliciously quiet.”

The silence afterwards is very telling of Ilya’s pout. “I could be quiet.”

“You’d explode,” Shane says, immediately, smiling to himself over the grumble that earns him. “Okay, um. Do you want me to reach out to the people, or . . .?”

“I’ll do it.” Ilya’s voice goes a bit static-y, like he’d pulled his phone away from his ear and has shifted it to speaker. It must be the reason why his voice sounds almost eager. “I’ll send a message right now. They will be pleased, I think. Representation from a place where there normally is none. Will look good for the organisation.”

Shane hums and turns away from the window. Almost without him noticing, the sun has been swallowed by the skyline, plunging the city in shades of navy and black. “Okay,” he says. “LA, hm? It’ll be—exciting.”

“Yes.” Rozanov barks out a laugh. “Because you like excitement that much. But don’t worry, Hollander. I’ll get you to the other side safe and sound.”

--

Shane receives a hard hit on the ice two days later, goes sprawling on his front. He’s lucky the guy from the opposing team didn’t hit him at a worse angle, or that he didn’t hit the rink differently, because he’s seen guys be knocked out for the rest of the season over a check like this. 

Montreal’s enforcer should have been there, though. Mind spinning, Shane manages to scramble to his skates again, pulling one of his gloves off so that he can run his hand below his mouth. He’s pretty sure he busted his lip in the fall, though his face is too cold to feel the difference of his hot blood, and the back of his hand comes away stained red. At least it doesn’t feel like he also chipped a tooth in the progress, he realises dimly, running his tongue through his mouth. No sharp edges. That’s good.

The rest of his body comes back to him in waves too. He’ll probably have a nasty bruise, maybe some residual soreness, but nothing that won’t heal. It wasn’t an illegal check, but he somehow hadn’t expected to be this exposed either. Bad luck, he figures, even if the prickling at the back of his neck attempts to convince him this is something more than that.

One of the linesmen skates over to check on him, but Shane waves him away. 

After the game—one they lose 1-2, which makes Shane feel even more unsettled than he already was—Hayden skates up to him. “Are you okay, man?” he asks, a little furrow between his eyebrows. “That looked nasty.”

“I’m fine,” says Shane, a little stubborn, a whole lot drained. “I just want to—go home.”

Hayden stares at him, still worried, so Shane probably hasn’t done very well at convincing him. Not that he tried that hard. “Okay,” he says. “Whatever you need, or whatever you want to talk about, I’m here for you.” 

That, at least, rings like the truth. Shane gives him a tired but appreciative grin. “Thanks.” And then he skates to the boards so that he can thank his teammates as they filter off the ice.

Even if he can’t bring himself to do it with his normal enthusiasm.

--

The stylist his mum has hired puts Shane in a grey suit, tailored to suit the proportions of his body. It’s streaked through with silver thread, so that when he moves and the light hits it just right, the surface seems to shimmer a little bit. It is probably the most daring suit Shane has tried so far in his career, especially considering the safe options he normally tends to gravitate towards, but the cut is familiar and the fabric lighter and more pliant where it stretches to accommodate the width of his shoulders. 

Now, in the too-large Los Angeles hotel room, he stares at himself in the mirror above the sink in the bathroom and tries for a smile. Despite his racing heart, it actually manages to reach his eyes.

His hair has grown longer over the last few months, and he should probably get it cut—but there is something about the way that Ilya’s eyes go soft and molten when he runs his hand through the strands that has him hesitating. With steady hands, he brushes the hair out of his eyes so that it settles around his face in soft waves, then gives himself a firm nod.

Back in the bedroom, the stylist is waiting for him. Shane is pretty sure that her name is Louise and she is French-American originally from Lille. Her French accent rounds her vowels in an almost familiar way, which his mother must have done on purpose. She stands up from where she’d been scrolling through an iPad and hustles him into one of the chairs next to the door leading to the balcony. “Let’s make use of this last natural light, Mr. Hollander,” she says, with a sort of no-nonsense approach that Shane can’t help but appreciate. “Please sit here.”

Shane is well aware that the event will be televised and that he is expected to look his best. Now, as she smoothes down his skin with cream and then dabs a powder on top, he can’t help but scrunch up his face. 

The movement of Louise’s hands on his face stalls. “Everything okay, Mr. Hollander?”

“Um.” He fidgets a little bit, his lips pressing together. “My freckles?”

She laughs, clearly endeared. “You don’t think I would hide those away, do you?” She grabs another puff and brushes it along the bridge of his nose. “They are way too charming. I can tell why you were voted the most attractive hockey player in the league.”

He can’t help but wince at that. “I would have hoped that this kind of thing would have died out by now.”

“Not to worry.” She runs a little brush along his lips, then straightens with a pleased hum. “My girlfriend is very into hockey, especially Canadian teams. When I told her that I booked you as a client, she nearly lost her mind with jealousy. But not as much as when the whole thing with you and Rozanov dropped. Two of the hottest guys in the league being together was, like, her fantasy or whatever. I believe her Twitter exploded when the news dropped.”

“Ah.” Shane hopes that the makeup does a little to hide his blush. He doesn’t really know what to say to all that. “Would she appreciate something signed?”

“She would probably lose her mind.”

So Shane signs a thick page of the notebook provided on one of the bedside tables, jotting down the girl’s name and a little message thanking her for her support. He signs his name with a flourish and draws a little smiley face next to it, then hands it back to Louise.

The last step is to fasten the Rolex around his wrist. It’s hefty and definitely costs more money than he’d ever consider blowing on one watch. But Rolex is giving the whole diversity route a spin, so they hadn’t dropped Shane when the news broke, and as a show of goodwill had sent him a watch to wear to this event. The hourglass is studded with little, glowing gems, the band fashioned out of smooth leather.

“Have fun today!” Louise calls, sweetly. “I’ll leave you some wipes on the counter to take off the makeup later.”

“Thank you so much.” Shane gives her a small smile, though he doesn’t know how big the chance is that he’ll end up in his own room once the night is over. Maybe Ilya will be okay with coming back to his room for once. It really is quite luxurious.

He is getting ahead of the facts. Shane shakes himself out and then heads down toward the elevator. It’ll be a long night today. But he thinks he’s ready.

--

[Hayden Pike | Metros]
How’s LA?

[Shane Hollander]
Hot. Overwhelming. It kind of stinks too.

[Hayden Pike | Metros]
Yes, not everywhere can be as glorious as our Montreal.
Are you nervous about presenting the award?

[Shane Hollander]
Bricking myself. At least I won’t be doing it alone.

[Hayden Pike | Metros]
I think it’s great that you’re doing it.
The kids want to see you on TV. They’ve been clamouring about it all afternoon.
It’s technically past their bedtimes but Jackie and I have decided to allow it for once.

[Shane Hollander]
Give them all my love. 

[Hayden Pike | Metros]
I’ll send you a photo of them later. Ruby wanted to wear her HOLLANDER jersey. 

[Shane Hollander]
Please do. I’ll send all of them ten more. Start them off young.

[Hayden Pike | Metros]
🖕
I’ve got to go. Signed up for the optional skate. Good luck (not that you need it).
If any of the other guys give you grief about all of this, tell me. I’ll punch them.

[Shane Hollander]
Nobody will be punching anyone.

[Shane Hollander]
Do you think they’ll be assholes?

[Hayden Pike | Metros]
I don’t know. I hope not.

--

“You look pretty,” are the first words out of Ilya’s mouth after he beelines towards Shane in the lobby. It was where they had agreed to meet after getting ready in their individual hotel rooms. Though they are parading as a couple, apparently they’d expected the both of them to come with enough entourage to get dolled up to warrant the two rooms. Shane, terrified out of his mind even at the thought, has been weighing up the likelihood that he’d end up in Ilya’s bed by the end of the night anyway. If he’d be brave enough to broach the possibility if Ilya weren’t the one to do it first. 

At the words, snapping him out of his thoughts, a memory sparks in the back of Shane’s mind: a younger Ilya, his bright gaze peering back at Shane from underneath the visor as they were filming the CCM advertisement. You look pretty.

Shane remembers how he had blushed and deflected. You are wearing makeup too!

Yeah, had Ilya said, and the way he’d trailed his eyes across Shane’s face made something hot spark at the back of his belly button that Shane had pushed away with a rising urgency. But I don’t look pretty. So easily self-assured.

The advertisement shooting had taken up most of the afternoon. The crew had them skate up and then position themselves threateningly opposite of each other. And sure, that had gone well the first few times, even if Shane didn’t really know how to do ‘threatening’ even with a gun pointed to his head. But they had been young, teenagers still, and riding the high of being exactly where they’d dreamed to be. The afternoon had quickly devolved into both of them giggling, then full on laughter. At some point, Shane remembers standing next to him at the boards, pouring water in his mouth from a water bottle. It had looked like Ilya had been wanting to say something; in the end, he hadn’t. 

In the present, he looks at Ilya and feels the familiar blush heat up his face. “They didn’t even put me in too much makeup this time,” he argues, weakly, unsure himself of what point he is trying to make.

Like he is also thinking back to what Shane had, Ilya’s eyes flash. “As long as they don’t hide your freckles,” he hums. And then he holds out his arm for Shane to slide his hand through, as if those words don’t hold any weight. “Shall we go? I think our car is waiting for us outside.”

It is only then that Shane realises how Ilya looks. How good he looks. As opposed to Shane, they put him in an off-white, nearly cream suit, with buttons that go up high enough that it is just tasteful he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. The golden chain hanging down between his pectoral muscles glints in the muted light of the tasteful lamps scattered around the lobby, as always complimenting the wheaten colour of his curls, wrestled back in submission.

Something fond blooms in Ilya’s eyes when it takes Shane too long to respond, his brain still buffering. “Come on, you don’t want to be yelled at by the driver, do you?”

“Right,” says Shane, somehow managing to find his voice again. 

LA is disgustingly hot despite the time of year. Shane had noticed as soon as he’d stepped out of the airport when he arrived earlier today, but he thought it would have cooled down significantly by now. Apparently he was wrong. He’s once more very happy that his suit is made from a light, breathable material.

The organisation of the award show had sent them a car to pick them up. It’s black and non-descript and, from the look on Ilya’s face, completely boring. To Shane, it’s perfect, another way to blend into obscurity for as long as he can.

Which isn’t long enough, even with the seemingly endless LA traffic. The car spits them out on the side of the road, Ilya on the side of their exit. He slides out smoothly, and Shane has to scramble after him, even if the car is big enough that there’s technically no risk of him hitting his knees on the centre console. Flashes welcome him, but so does Ilya’s arm, a grounding weight on his waist. Shane’s entire body is asking him to curl in on himself, duck away from the scrutiny, but there is something about Ilya’s proximity that staves off that instinct. Like he is enough to tell Shane, You deserve to be here. It is something Shane knows, of course, but it is still nice to be told.

People shout their names, but luckily the first walk, with only the paparazzi on both sides, is short. There are various news outlets vying for their attention down the row, but Ilya, Shane, and Yuna had discussed at length beforehand who they’d have an interview with. Shane had studied the potential questions. There had been lists.

Now, with an almost frightening accuracy, Ilya leads him to a lady in a beautiful dress, a microphone loosely held in one hand. Her face brightens when she spots the two of them, and Shane can almost hear the whirring of the cameras as they zoom in on them. Mariko, Shane thinks her name is.

“Gentlemen!” Mariko thrills, as they draw closer. “How wonderful to see you here. And thank you for doing this interview with us.”

“The honour is all ours,” Shane says, ducking his head. 

“First things first.” She turns to the camera man hovering a handful of feet away. “You might be familiar with them by now, but for the people who are living under a rock: we are here with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, two of the NHL’s biggest hockey stars at the moment. Summer last year, Scott Hunter made quite a splash when he was the first hockey player to come out as gay after being outed when pictures of him kissing his boyfriend hit the internet. The two of you followed a couple of weeks later, both hockey players yourselves. Can you give us a little insight on how that all happened?”

It must’ve been ten times that Shane rehearsed this question in his mind. With a glance at Ilya, he takes a small step forward. “What Scott Hunter did was very brave. We don’t condone the fact that he was outed against his will, but it was brave of him to own up to it and live his truth from that moment onward. It changed a lot for—us. I guess we borrowed a little bit of his courage.”

“The way you two came out was quite spectacular,” Mariko says. “You made a lot of headlines. Can you tell us something about what happened behind the scenes?”

“Yes,” says Ilya, nudging Shane. “My lover man was so fierce. Perhaps, in a way, we did not mean to come out like that, but it is nice that we can be open like this right now. It is much better to be able to love Shane where everyone can see it, and we don’t have to hide. Much better than I could ever imagine it would be.”

“How wonderful.” Mariko presses the back of her hand against her forehead. “The two of you are just so romantic. Can I ask who pursued who first? It must have been difficult to grow something so special when you are apart so often.”

An off-script question. Shane frowns, but before he can point it out, Ilya leans forward.

“Oh, I saw Shane first.” His palm comes to rest on the small of Shane’s back, and Shane swears he can feel the heat of his skin even through the layers of fabric separating them. It’s almost like a brand. “I knew I couldn’t let him be snatched up by anyone else. Hottest Man in the NHL and the second best hockey player? He’s simply the only person who could match me. I—what do you Americans call it?—pined from afar, until I finally managed to lock him down.”

Shane snorts before he can help himself, his cheeks probably the colour of ripe tomatoes. “Second best hockey player?”

“Mm?” Ilya catches his gaze, then smiles, the corners of his eyes softening. “Maybe first best hockey player.” He turns back to Mariko. “But don’t tell anyone that I said that.”

She laughs, covers her mouth with her hand. “I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Rozanov.”

They do two more interviews, questions mostly along the lines of the first one. Shane barely remembers any of it. The entire time, Ilya’s hand does not waver. 

Finally, they make it inside the venue. The loud shouting from outside is immediately swallowed by a pleasant hum, famous people rubbing shoulders and making polite conversation. Shane is happy when someone swoops in and leads them to their table somewhere to the side of the floor, where they can easily slip into the backstage area to present.

Shane disassociates through most of it, even as their table fills up with other queer athletes. Luckily, Ilya is adept at the social aspect of social situations, so Shane just nods along to whatever he says and smiles when Ilya laughs. 

The show starts, and Shane is surprised how much he is hooked. Up until the whole situation with Ilya, he had lived a very boring, straight-forward life. Suburbian Ottawa hardly had any space for people with differing identities of gender or sexuality, and Shane had been terrified to reach out to anyone like that anyway, fearful they’d sniff him out at their first opportunity. But these are real people with real lived experiences, with struggles and joys and dreams. He finds himself almost tearing up at the speech from the woman who won the Outstanding Breakthrough Music Artist, and who had had to flee her country for being openly transgender. He manages to muffle the little noise that slips through his lips by biting on his bottom lip.

Ilya turns to him, curious. Shane shakes his head; Ilya’s face softens.

And then it is their moment. One of the staff members sneaks up to their table and leads them off to the side again. They are led through a backstage maze of hallways. Chaos whorls around them in a choreographed dance. Shane is extremely grateful for the way Ilya grips onto his hand like he also needs something to anchor on.

Outstanding Documentary. That is the category they are presenting. Shane stands in the rafters and runs through his yoga breathing exercises as the presenter announces their name. Then one of the staff members hands Shane an envelope and pushes the heavy black curtain aside, and they step forward.

It’s bright on the stage. It is the first thing Shane realises. Heavy spotlights pour down on them, probably exposing every one of their little imperfections to the people watching them. But Shane can’t really see past the glare of the lights, so the pressure of all of those eyes lessens slightly. He knows they’re there, and he can hear them whisper, but he can’t see them. Like a one-way window.

“Thank you all for having us tonight,” says Shane, as he’s cued in. “I know that people like us don’t typically present awards like these—”

“And what a waste of such hot bodies, hm?” Ilya jumps in, waggling his eyebrows.

The crowd laughs, charmed.

Shane rolls his eyes and pushes him slightly. “What he is trying to say is that we’re grateful. Men’s sport, and perhaps hockey in specific, has long been a fortress that shuts out everyone who does not present themselves in a convenient way. For so long, we too suffered under that pressure. A pressure to conform, to shut up about those things that mattered to us but made us a liability to others, a pressure to be whatever was most palatable. But with Scott Hunter, and perhaps, if I may be so forward, with us too, we could be part of the movement that changes that.”

“Yes, Hunter might be one hundred thousand years old,” says Ilya. “But he made something good from a very shitty situation. We might not be here if it weren’t for him.”

“When I was younger, not that many people in the hockey world looked like me,” Shane says, a bit quieter and more pensive than he’d aimed for originally. “And nobody loved in the way that I did either. But going forward, that won’t be the case anymore. Everyone deserves to have someone to learn from who looks and feels like them.” 

“We are very honoured to be here,” Ilya adds. “We hope that we can be a tiny step in something far greater. The same goes for our nominees in the category Outstanding Documentary.”

Fingers steady, Shane tears open the envelope. He takes out the little cardstock rectangle. “We wish to congratulate the winners of this category, Leaping Forward. It is much deserved.”

A thunderous applause goes up around the room and a group of young boys jumps up at a table in the middle. They must be at the end of their teenage years, maybe early twenties; Shane isn’t that great at reading faces to gauge ages (all of the rookies tend to blend together into the child category the older he becomes). But Shane remembers hearing about the documentary: a camera crew had followed a group of gay ice dancers as they fought to make their sport more inclusive and allow same-sex couples on the ice together. He should watch it, once he’s back in Montreal. He claps a few of the boys on the back to congratulate them and gets some respectful or downright reverent looks back, but then a crew member on the side of the stage beckons them away again.

As one of the boys steps up to the microphone to give his speech, Shane and Ilya fall into step together. The boy is crying as he starts talking, but his voice grows in strength as he continues. Shane finds that he is smiling even as the curtain is drawn closed behind them again.

--

Afterwards is an after party. Shane would love to skip out on it completely, but Ilya draws him in with the promise that he’ll come to Shane’s hotel room if they spend a couple of hours mingling. Truth be told, Shane could probably call Ilya on his bluff that he’d come to Shane’s hotel room whether they would go to the party or not, but he couldn’t deny the little shiver that ran through his body when Ilya had told him to be good for him now. 

He can be good. In fact, it is one of the easiest things to be: good, for Ilya. 

So Ilya leads them around the room, gracious to Shane as always. They both don’t really know people here, more names in papers and articles than anything more than that, but as much as Ilya is an asshole, he is also one with morals. And again, social enough for the two of them, somehow skillfully pulling Shane into the conversation time and time again. They talk to a group of professional drag queens, queer film makers and queer actors. A whole range of people Shane never thought he’d ever get to interact with. They know his name. 

To his surprise, he bumps into Scott Hunter at the party too. It is when he’s heading back to Ilya after he’d gone to the bathroom, hoping that he still is where Shane left him. Scott Hunter is talking to a group of people that Shane doesn’t recognise, but when they make eye contact as Shane stops in his tracks, he excuses himself from that conversation. Shane quite feels like a deer in headlights when Scott approaches him.

“Shane Hollander,” he says, pleasant. “That was a great speech you just did.”

“You saw that?” says Shane, shocked. “I mean, um, Mr. Hunter.”

Scott screws up his face. “I can’t be that much older than you. Or are Rozanov’s chirps about me getting to your head? Just call me Scott.”

“Alright,” Shane manages. “Scott.”

“I was in the room,” Scott says. “But it was kind of your moment with Rozanov’s, so I didn’t need to approach you and make it anything about . . . the three of us, somehow. Especially since our situations aren’t really comparable.” He smiles, a soft thing. “I saw your message, all the way in the beginning. When the photos dropped? I’m sorry, it’s been so busy that I haven’t really had time to sit down and respond to it. Then you got busy too.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Shane flushes and looks away. “It’s alright. You must have had a lot of other things on your mind.”

“Quite.” Scott leans forward. “Can I let you in on a secret? I never once regretted that those photos ended up on the internet. It was shitty that they were leaked before I wanted them to, but I think that if I had the chance, I would do it exactly like this again. Sometimes I swear that I saw the camera flash just before I kissed Kip, my boyfriend. And I still didn’t pause.” His gaze goes far away. “Kip is great. He does not deserve to be hidden. I think my subconscious knew that before I did. And I guess that is something you realised as well.”

At that moment, Shane feels frozen. Everyone believed that Scott had been outed against his will. That was, perhaps, why Shane had felt so protective over his fellow player too. Why he’d defended him so hard that he ended up coming out on the other side with a fake boyfriend. 

But Scott had been playing a game of chess that nobody had known about. And he doesn’t even know that he’s shaken up Shane so much; he doesn’t even know Shane, but he has kind of figured him out anyway. And was it the case that Shane never knew what he wanted—until it was presented to him. Not on a silver platter, not given to him, but different: he created his own opportunity. His subconscious knew.

And Ilya? Should Ilya know? Amongst all of the other secrets Shane is already keeping?

“Wow,” Shane manages at last. “They shouldn’t have been trying to take a photograph in the first place, I guess.”

“No, they shouldn’t,” Scott agrees. “But that is the life of the rich and famous.” He looks over Shane’s shoulder and laughs. “I think you should go back to your man. He’s looking at me as if he’s trying to kill me with his mind.”

Shane follows his gaze. Scott is not wrong. He gives an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you again?” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Scott claps him on the shoulder and then walks back to the people he’d been talking to before. 

Easy as breathing, Ilya folds Shane into his side. It feels like coming home. “What did the dinosaur want from you?”

With a huff, Shane hits him in the arm, smiling at the dramatic gasp Ilya lets out at that. “You also know that Scott Hunter is perfectly nice and not even that old. He—I reached out when the photos first dropped. He apologised about not coming back to me earlier. We just . . . spoke about our situation.”

Raised eyebrows. “Our situation.”

Shane jabs him in the side, enjoying the way that Ilya twitches a little bit. He had not expected him to be ticklish. “Being queer in hockey. Nothing else.”

“Better not.” Ilya trails his nose down the side of Shane’s neck. “Because I don’t share.”

All of a sudden, Shane is very aware of the distance between them. Or, well: the lack of it. Ilya is a solid line against Shane’s side, warm and by now familiar. His heart ticks up a notch, and it is like he can feel the air move through his body as he breathes in, breathes out. What he craves, more than anything, is to get out of here. Only partially because he is over it. He also longs for what he has been promised at the start of the night.

So he turns to Ilya. “Have I been good?” Every wall, every barrier, every reason that they should not be doing this—he pretends they don’t exist. Right now, in this moment, he allows himself to want. “Have I been good for you?”

Ilya’s gaze is heated. He doesn’t question the sudden pivot in conversation. “Pretty boy,” he says, lips wrapping around the syllables. “Let’s call the car to pick us up. I’m going to take you apart tonight.”

--

[Rose Landry]
bitch I can’t believe you’re in la and you didn’t tell me?

[Shane Hollander]
How did you know?

[Rose Landry]
honey you guys are like all over twitter and instagram and tiktok
i think you trended like twice
looking good btw

[Shane Hollander]
I know what like half of those words mean.

[Rose Landry]
can’t believe how offline you are still
anyway what time are you flying back?

[Shane Hollander]
Tomorrow late afternoon.
I have a game in two days. 

[Rose Landry]
any chance the possessive boyfriend might let you off for a few hours?
i would love to catch up over coffee if you have time

[Shane Hollander]
Shut up. You know he’s not
Like that.

[Rose Landry]
mhm

“Who has you grinning at your phone like that?” 

Ilya’s voice, carefully measured, snaps Shane out of his thoughts. He looks up and immediately blanks. Ilya’s gaze is sharp and so blue, like he can peel Shane’s skin and muscles away to look right at his bones. 

They’re in the car back to the hotel. It’s late enough at night that Montreal would have been an easy trip, but this is Los Angeles. The traffic seems to be as much a part of the city as the smog that clings to the horizon.

Flushing, Shane bites down on his bottom lip. He should—really tell Ilya. About Rose, and what she knows. Is this the right moment? Will there ever be a right moment?

“Rose,” he ends up saying, and when Ilya raises his eyebrows, adds, “Landry.”

Multiple expressions flick across Ilya’s face, so quick that Shane can’t catch any one of them. In the end, he settles on something like muted disinterest. The Shane from a year ago would have believed that expression without even questioning it, but the Shane from now feels the hair at the back of his neck raise. Not like something is wrong, but it’s off.

“You are texting,” says Ilya, delicately, “Rose Landry?”

Shane can’t help but look down at his phone again. “We met at JJ’s party in Montreal a couple of weeks ago. She is nice, and apparently her brothers are hockey players as well. We just ended up talking, and, um, one thing led to another.” He takes a deep breath. “I—I told her about us. That we’re—” 

“That we are?” Ilya uses his thumb to nudge Shane’s chin back up so that they meet eyes again. Shane is very grateful for the dark partition separating them from the driver.

A rattling breath falls from his lips. “Fake.”

“You told her this?” Ilya asks. 

“Yes, and I feel really bad about it.” The words rush out of Shane before he can stop them. “I swear to you she won’t tell anyone! I’m sorry, I had a few beers and I never have any beers. The words just were there between us before I could stop it. I hope you won’t be too angry at me.”

It is Ilya who turns away this time. The silence is pensive. Then he says: “Did you get home safe?”

“Excuse me?” says Shane, confused.

“You had a few beers,” Ilya says. “You were at a party. Did you get home safe that night?”

Shane stares at Ilya: the slope of his nose and the cut of his jaw. He’s looking out of the window, and Shane can see the way his eyelashes flutter as his eyes flick around to take in all of the sights, the light reflecting off the curls falling down his forehead. “I came and left by Uber,” Shane murmurs, at last. “The woman had a four point nine rating. She dropped me off one block away from my house, and I walked the rest. And the shock of . . . revealing everything kind of snapped me out of the alcohol buzz.”

“Mm, good.” Ilya deflates, letting out a long breath. To Shane’s relief, he looks back at him. He seems almost surprised to meet eyes with Shane. “It is okay that you told someone. I didn’t expect it to be, well, Rose Landry. But it is a very big secret to keep, hm?”

“She will keep it,” says Shane, empathetically. “A secret.” 

Ilya reaches over and places his hand on Shane’s thigh. Fuck, his hand is so warm and broad and almost possessive. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

Shane blurts out: “She wants to see me tomorrow. Before we leave LA.”

A laugh, almost disbelieving. “She is really testing my patience.” Ilya shakes his head. “You deserve friends, solnyshko. I don’t control who you see or not, do I?”

Does Shane want that? Not really. He likes his autonomy and he’s always done so. He’s been successful by himself from a young age, and his parents had always instilled values of independence and self-reliance on him. But the idea of Ilya making decisions for him, giving that choice out of his hands for a little bit, seems almost reassuring. He says, “No, you don’t.”

“But tonight you’re mine,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s thigh. Shane looks down at his hand and swallows. He almost hopes that the touch will leave a mark.

[Shane Hollander]
I have time tomorrow. Text me where you want to meet?

[Rose Landry]
yay okay! <3
good night stud ;)

--

When they make it to Shane’s hotel room, still way too fancy, Ilya makes the appropriate noises of appreciation as he looks around. Then he presses Shane up against the wall in the entrance and claims his mouth in a bruising kiss, his hands clutching the lapels of Shane’s suit. Shane is going to be annoyed when he has to return the suit to Louise tomorrow and it’ll be all wrinkled. But right now, he can’t bring himself to care. Right now, all he cares about is the slick sounds of their mouths meeting and the pleased sigh Ilya breathes out against his bottom lip.

“Come on, pretty boy,” says Ilya, his hand wandering down so that he can hook his finger through one of the belt loops of Shane’s trousers. “Way too many clothes and way too little horizontal surfaces. Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shane manages.

A mirror hangs on the wall leading to the bedroom and Shane catches a glimpse of himself and Ilya in it as they pass it, smudges of silver and gold. Sun and moon. One and the other. Ilya and Shane.

Some of Rose’s dramatics must be rubbing off on him. They’ve really been texting too much.

As if Ilya can sense that Shane is thinking about someone else that isn’t him—Rose Landry, even—he pushes Shane toward the bed. Shane is distracted, so he goes sprawling, falling back on his elbows as he bounces on the mattress. “Fuck,” he laughs, looking up as Ilya steps into the space between his legs. “You should at least give me time to undress.”

“But you looked so sexy today,” says Ilya, leaning down so that he can tug on the collar of Shane’s shirt. “I want to unwrap my pretty present, Hollander.”

Shane hooks his hand behind Ilya’s back, pulling him down. Ilya goes willingly, probably owed to the fact that the move must have surprised him, and the startled sound he lets out gets lost somewhere between their mouths again. Since he started this whole thing with Ilya, Shane has learned a thing or two about kissing. But mostly, he has learned about kissing Ilya.

Because Ilya kisses like he wants to swallow Shane whole. Ilya kisses him like his lips are branding irons and he wants to leave his name scorched into Shane’s skin. It is part possession and part reassurance to both of them. He wants his tongue to know every part of Shane’s mouth, leave an imprint of himself on the back of Shane’s teeth. He wants Shane to want him in turn.

And Shane really, really wants.

Ilya only pulls himself away from Shane so that he can push Shane’s jacket off his shoulders. His hands are big but his fingers nimble. With practised movements, he undoes the row of buttons of Shane’s shirt, his mouth trailing down every piece of skin that gets revealed. When he notices how Shane has started breathing heavily under his careful touch, the corners of his mouth pull up into a little, self-satisfied smile.

“You are quite easy for me, hm?” he murmurs.

Shane grumbles and brings his hand up so that he can slide his fingers through the short curls at the back of Ilya’s neck, tugging slightly. “Why do you say this like it is news for you?” 

“I just like being reminded of it.” Ilya rucks Shane’s shirt to the side so that he can close his mouth around Shane’s nipple, making Shane arch into the touch. The sting of Ilya’s teeth is soothed by a swipe of his tongue, sending Shane’s nerves into a fritz. Pain and pleasure always becomes a heady mix when he is with Ilya, and it doesn’t help that the man can apparently play his body like a fucking instrument. 

He makes quick work of Shane’s clothes after that, sweeping Shane’s jacket and shirt onto the floor with a careless movement, then shifts forward to climb between Shane’s legs again.

A palm pressed against his chest stops him. Shane gives him a pointed look. “Those are designer pieces.”

With a huff, Ilya steps back so that he can kneel down to pick up the clothes again, then dumps them on the chaise lounge next to the bed. Shane concedes. It’ll do for now. He honestly thought that Ilya would just tell him to shut up and enjoy this for once, Hollander, so this easy acknowledgement is nice. 

“How do you want me, fussy boy?” says Ilya, returning to Shane so that he can run his finger along Shane’s throat, laser-focused gaze watching as Shane swallows thickly. “Should I eat you out until you’re crying? Hold you in my throat until you’re begging to come? Fuck you nice and hard like you’ve been craving all night?”

“The—the latter,” gasps Shane. “Please.”

Ilya grins. “I should have known you’d pick that. But it’s okay. I know exactly how to fill you up, solnyshko.”

Shane knows he does and that is what has him shaking in anticipation as Ilya instructs him to grab lube and condoms from his suitcase. Like he knew that Shane had slipped them in a hidden compartment just in case. Though—just in case has become always, when it’s them. There are only so many nights out of the year Shane can see Ilya, even with all of the other things added. It makes sense that they’d make use of all of the chances they have. Right?

For all of the urgency that has settled in Shane’s chest as the promise of feeling Ilya in his throat, Ilya is still so damn careful when he opens Shane on his fingers. He goes up to four, as if he doesn’t know Shane kind of likes it when Ilya has to work for it to make space for himself, force Shane’s body to open up for him.

“Hurry, hurry,” says Shane, impatiently bearing down on the digits.

He gets a sharp look for his troubles, a mean twist of Ilya’s fingers so that he can scrape the pads along Shane’s walls. “Patience. I want to make this feel good for you.”

Like that isn’t always the case. Like Shane’s body doesn’t translate every single one of Ilya’s touches to pleasure. He arches into the touch, his cock a warm and untouched weight against his thigh, and gives Ilya his most pleading gaze. 

Ilya curses in Russian. “You will kill me one day.” He sits back to pull his fingers out of Shane, wiping them on his own thigh, and then grabs a condom so that he can roll it on. Folding Shane’s legs back against his chest, he starts fucking himself inside with small movements, then bottoms out with a soft, breathy sigh. 

He murmurs, “Shane.” 

Shane clenches around him so hard that he actually gets a little dizzy from it, his body giving an aborted little jerk, head tipping back in pleasure.

Raising his eyebrows, Ilya looks down at him. “Did you just—?”

“Fucking fuck me,” Shane snarls, even as his cock jerks against his abs, come dribbling down the side of his waist. 

Not one to be told twice, especially not something like that, Ilya does as Shane had told him. There’s a clear eagerness to prove himself, muscles straining and gaze focused. Watching Shane’s expression and his movements, as always, cataloguing everything that makes him react and curse, then doing it another time just to make sure. He folds it away into some kind of cabinet that must have all of his information on Shane, pulling from it as he pleases. It is no surprise then, that Shane comes quite quickly, even though it is his second orgasm of the night. To his surprise, Ilya is not far behind, muttering something Shane cannot hear into his skin and pulsing into the condom. 

When Ilya pulls out again, Shane can only whine a little bit. His eyes are almost too heavy to hold open, so he doesn't even bother. Ilya will take care of it. He is quite sure of that.

Footsteps against the plush fabric. Ilya finds his way to the bathroom and a tap runs. Then he returns with a wet washcloth, running it down the front of Shane’s chest to and stomach to clean away the mess. The domesticity of it makes something warm pool behind Shane’s ribcage. After discarding the cloth again, Ilya tucks the both of them underneath the thin blankets, one leg thrown across Shane’s, trailing wet kisses down his neck.

“You know I am meeting Rose tomorrow,” says Shane, sleepy, mouth moving against Ilya’s curls. “I’ll have to leave early.”

“Mm.” Ilya ducks his head down so that he can nuzzle his nose into the curve of Shane’s neck. A beat later, there’s hit teeth, exploratory. Pain-pleasure sparks. “Should let her know exactly who you belong to, then.” 

Shane should probably tell him off for leaving a mark, but he can’t bring himself to push Ilya away.

As always when he is in Ilya’s arms, sleep comes easy.

--

The one nice thing about LA is that, especially in the more affluent neighbourhoods, everyone is either famous or dresses like they are. When Shane steps into the little cafe that Rose had sent him, wearing a thin, comfortable hoodie and a cap, he is just one out of many who look exactly like him. Nobody glances at him twice.

Rose is already seated at a table near the back, her blonde hair brushed out of her face. When she spots Shane drawing closer, she raises one hand in a wave, a small smile twitching around the corners of her lips. “You found it.”

“Hurray for Uber,” says Shane, sliding in the seat opposite of her. “Did you already order?”

“Not yet.” She gestures at the chalkboard above the counter behind Shane. “They do a lot of great smoothies here. Something should fit your performance diet.”

A waitress comes to take their order. Rose picks some kind of coffee with cream and syrup, which probably smells amazing but will look like a glittery bomb. Shane indeed settles for a smoothie, mango and strawberry and vanilla protein powder. 

“So, how’s the thing between you and . . .” Rose turns back to him the moment the waitress leaves again, her lips pursed. “Lily?”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “Lily? You know that people are generally aware that I’m together with Ilya, right?”

“Why don’t you yell his name a little louder?” She stares at him like he’s the crazy one. “Your boyfriend has quite a unique name. It’ll invite less people to listen in on us if we talk about someone like Lily.”

He stares at her. “Did you just invite me here to gossip?”

Leaning back, she crosses her arms in front of her chest. There’s something like mischief in her eyes. “Well, it doesn’t hurt. Plus, this is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in years. This is your incredible love story!”

“You are literally an A-list actress,” Shane points out, dryly. “My fuck-up cannot be the most exciting thing to happen to you in years. Plus, it’s not a love story.”

“Uh huh. You slip-of-the-tongue’d your way into a relationship with him but it’s not a love story? I think we call that a Freudian slip where I’m from.” Rose gives him a piercing look, then her eyes soften. “Listen, Shane. I’ve seen the way you interact with—Lily. Hell, the entire internet is full of it. But I’ve also seen how he looks at you when you’re not looking. Like the two of you are magnets of opposite poles. It would almost be sickening if it weren’t so cute. I mean, for how long are the two of you going to pretend that it’s just fake?”

“I think you’ve read too many books,” says Shane. “Or played in too many romantic movies.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Just think about this, Shane Hollander. If it were anyone else but Lily next to you at that press moment, do you think you would have reacted the same? Would you be in a fake relationship with any other player right now?”

A different waiter comes to bring their drinks, so they startle apart for a brief second. It gives Shane a moment to gather his thoughts, mind spinning. He thinks of Ilya saying Shane.

“So,” says Rose, nudging him underneath the table with her foot. “Would you?”

“When I was younger,” Shane says, slowly, “I was pitted up against, um, Lily a lot. Rookies in the same year, one and two in the draft pick, both pretty decent at hockey. We saw each other a lot too. At Conference League finals, the draft, this CCM shoot we did together. And sometimes I would look at him and he’d be looking back? But it never amounted to anything. So I told myself that it wouldn’t be anything for me either. Even though it would be impossible for me to avoid him completely. We were always tangentially connected.” He rests his chin on his hand, his gaze unfocused. “Other people filled in for me that I hated him, and so I did. But he’s—he looks good. And he’s an asshole that probably gets off on chirping and being an asshole, but he was never really that mean to me. Compared to what I heard from other people, at least. That’s it, I guess.”

Rose grins around her straw. “So you do like him. And from what I gather, he likes you too. One plus one . . .” She trails off.

“It’s not that easy,” says Shane. “What we have started off on a lie. How could it ever become real?”

“But it doesn’t look like a lie.” She catches his gaze and holds it. “And how you react makes me think that it doesn’t feel like a lie to you anymore either. If you don’t want to tell people how it started off, you don’t. It’s that simple. What do you owe all these people?” With a small smile, she shakes her head. “But you can’t go on like this. So what do you fear more—that it becomes real or that it ends? I think that is the kind of question you need to answer for yourself.”

Chapter End Notes

ruh roh shane-y boy, some big decisions to make huh? alternate title for this fic: how to fool yourself about your feelings for your (fake)-boyfriend in 43k words or more, a memoir by shane hollander

tell me what you thought?

Chapter 7: seven

Chapter Notes

sorry for taking forever on this chapter lol life and other fics happened :') anyway, i hope that this one makes up for it!! just two more after this (gasp).

as a heads up: i'm going to japan in a week, so i can't promise any speed on the next update either. just know that it will come!!

tw for a homophobic slur, see end chapter notes for more information.

Okay, so the thing is—the thing is. 

Shane Hollander has not wanted a lot of things in his life. Or, okay, correction: he has not allowed himself to want too many things. There is always a give and take, isn't there? When he was little, all he wanted was to be a hockey player: competent, capable, the best of the best. So he worked hard for it, and he got it. 

What do you dare to still wish for when you have everything you ever wanted? Isn’t it all going to fall apart if you want more?

Hockey players tend to be the superstitious types; wear a pair of underpants one time when you win and you’ll want to wear it over and over again just on the off-chance that it’ll bring the same luck again. You step on the ice left-foot first, you tie luck into the knots of your laces, you don’t keep hoping for something impossible in case it takes everything from you that you worked so hard for. Shane had never been like that, but looking back, there must be a modicum of truth to it: how else did he get all of this, with Ilya Rozanov of all people? And to have everything think it is real, when it is fake—even though it hasn’t felt fake in a while, or maybe never—

Rose told him to think about what he fears. All that he fears has already come true. A thing that he has built for himself, brick by brick, crumbling down into dust and sand in his hands. He’s stubborn like a mule, but even he knows that it can’t go on like this; Montreal has become a place hostile to him. Ever since they saw him with Ilya, perhaps barring Hayden and JJ, they don’t see Shane Hollander, the guy who brought them two cups with his blood and grit. They didn’t see the man who would have bled himself dry for them.

They see a man who is broken (filthy, wrong, so free) for wanting another man. And not just any other man.

Does Shane want Ilya? 

He thinks of 2008, cold cold Saskatchewan, his icy flush face and that stupid non-smoking sign. Beside that, Ilya Rozanov, his gaze calculating and a cigarette dangling from his plush, pink lips. He’d been distant when Shane had introduced himself, if not a little bit amused, and his hand had been warm and callused in Shane’s. The spark he had felt when their skin had made contact had almost made him jolt; Ilya had not seemed to notice. 

And then he kept meeting Ilya over and over, and they were being pitted against each other as rivals, and Ilya was gorgeous and always out of reach. That spark, the bright blip that Shane had felt, never really went away. He was always too scared to get closer, because closer meant revealing his hand, and if there was anything he didn’t want to do, it was revealing his hand to Ilya Rozanov. Because what if he saw what Shane was, what Shane wanted, how much Shane wanted to figure out if his lips (so pink and bitten) were as soft as they looked.

But it never went away. Ilya Rozanov, always one step out of reach despite being up in Shane’s face all of the time. Saying things like, you look pretty, Hollander and what will you give me if I beat you this time? Can you handle it? Once, even, in an interview: there’s nothing more fun than playing against Hollander, he really brings the best out of me. It’s fun, it’s fun. Shane’s distress, his gritted teeth, this was all probably fun to him. Yes, why shouldn’t he smile at Shane with his crooked, white teeth and his bright blue eyes? Why, why, why.

But the current Ilya. This Ilya. Who, first of all, tells Shane to call him Ilya. He does grin at Shane, but the teasing edge has softened down into something true. When Shane flusters, his body says, yes, there you are, like he was waiting for Shane. When he grabs Shane’s hand, it is to give him support, not pull him away. And then he said Shane’s name, and the word has never sounded so good. All of the wires crossed, probably since the beginning, and untangling means undoing, and—and.

Could something true come from something fake? Would Shane be allowed that?

So, yeah, the answer to that earlier question is unfortunately or fortunately—however you want to look at it—yes. A resounding yes, perhaps even eager. Shane is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He knows himself well enough. He wants Ilya Rozanov.

The only question that remains: what now?

--

“What are you wearing?” asks Shane, as soon as he opens the door, his eyes trailing down the shape of the person standing on the other side. He swallows, a wet and heavy sound, everything other word he was possibly planning to say dying in his throat.

Ilya flutters his eyelashes at him, shoving past him without a care in the world. “Don't think I would make a beautiful WAG, Hollander?”

“Sure,” says Shane. “If you were a wife or girlfriend.”

“Between the two of us, I definitely have the legs for it.” Ilya kicks out with his foot to trip Shane up as he walks past and heads toward the couch, but Shane side-steps the attack without looking down at it. He resolutely ignores Ilya’s fake-pout, the dramatic purse of those pink lips, and instead walks toward the kitchen island, where the remainders of this week’s meal preparation are still sprawled across the counter.

“Uh huh.” Shane knows that he sounds dumb, but he just can’t help it. 

Sprawling back against the cushions of the couch, Ilya puts his body on display, the thin fabric of the Montreal Metros jersey stretching across his chest. Shane hopes he won’t catch a peak of the back. What if it says Hollander— “I thought you would like it.”

“Why are you here, even?” Shane says, trying to aim for casual, not responding to that statement directly. He drags his eyes away from Ilya, focusing on rinsing his chopping board and putting it in the dishwasher, carefully lining it up with the plates already there. Perfectly in order.

Ilya had texted him earlier that morning, which Shane had only seen after he’d finished his run. Are you in Montreal? I’m coming over. As if Shane would be at any other place. Boston to Montreal is a doable drive if you don’t have to go back the same day. Just below five hours, though, if he knows Ilya, he has done it in less time. In one of his fancy sports cars, probably.

“Business,” says Ilya, the word a grunt. 

Shane raises his eyebrows. “In Montreal?”

“Mhm. Is that so hard to believe?” Ilya sits on Shane’s couch like he owns the space, like he doesn’t only have Shane’s address just in case, since he’s never been here before. He hasn’t paid any attention to Shane’s interior design so far, has not even strayed his gaze away from Shane the entire time. 

It makes something hot run up Shane’s back. “I guess I’m just surprised that you dared to show your face here. You know what would happen if people saw you here by yourself? Wearing that?”

“But I’m not by myself, am I?” Ilya drawls, giving him a suggestive grin. He lifts his arms above his head in a stretch that clearly serves no other purpose than to ride up the jersey, so that Shane can see a flash of white skin below, the start of his happy trail leading down into his trousers. Greedy, Shane takes it all in, because if Ilya didn’t do it for him, then for who? 

Cocking one hip, Shane leans against the kitchen island. “Very brave of you,” he says. “Maybe I just agreed to date you for all of this time to lure you here and then hand you off to the first rabid Metros fan we see.”

“You’d sell me out?” Ilya jokes. 

“Oh, immediately,” says Shane, with a small smile. “Why do you think I spent all of this time lulling you into a false sense of security?”

Something bright and proud and amused grows on Ilya’s face. “Ah, I see how it is.” He tilts his head against the back of the couch, looking at Shane through his long lashes. His mouth pouts almost sensually, and his neck is long and thick, corded with muscle. “Anyway. We should go out for lunch, be seen together for a bit, then I’ll go drop my bags off at the hotel.”

Immediately, Shane frowns. “No, what? Why would you stay at a hotel?”

“Because I also have business tomorrow?” Ilya raises one eyebrow in a duh?-expression, like Shane is being the silly one here. 

Shane shakes his head, ignoring the thump and flutter in his chest. “Just stay here, Ilya. I have about a gazillion guestrooms, if it is about staying in another bed. There is no reason for you to book a hotel when you’re in Montreal, okay? You let me stay at your place as well.”

To his credit, Ilya recovers from the shock rather quickly, but Shane still sees the brief wonder cross his face. “I just didn’t want to spring it on you. But no, no reason for another bed if you’re offering, Hollander.”

“Shane,” says Shane, before he can stop himself.

Ilya tilts his head to the side.

“Just—” Shane takes a deep breath, focusing on where his hands are gripping the counter. “You tell me to call you Ilya. Call me Shane.” I know you did it before.

The smallest of smiles, proud and something else, grows on Ilya’s face. “Okay,” he says. “Shane.” He claps his hands together, stands up again. “Like I said, then—lunch. Have some people see us together, all that fun stuff. Plus, I’m fucking hungry. I basically didn’t eat on the way here.”

“Uh, no.” Shane licks his bottom lip and frowns at Ilya. “You’re not going like that.” 

After looking down at himself, briefly, like he’d forgotten what he is wearing, Ilya raises one eyebrow at Shane. “You don’t like it? From your face, I thought you did.”

Too much, really. “Well, you’re wearing it for me, aren't you?” 

“Yeah, so?”

“So, I don’t want anyone else to see.” The words come out rushed, a bit stilted, all of the syllables slurred together. Silence descends, in which Shane just stares at Ilya, holding his ground, and Ilya gazes back, thoughtful. 

Then Ilya grins, a brief quirk of his lips. “Okay, fine. I guess you have appreciated my gift enough. But I’ll have to run downstairs before we go for lunch then. I have my clothes in my bag.”

“Just wear something of mine,” says Shane. He thinks of Rose: what do you want?

It would be quite simple if it all weren’t so confusing. Shane is really good at certainties, at things he can plan for, plot out. Ilya has always been an abnormality, something he cannot pin down. Now even more so than when their careers both started, mirroring each other. 

“Possessive,” says Ilya, at last. When Shane opens his mouth to protest that statement, he holds up his hand. “I like it.”

And so Ilya changes into Shane’s clothes, a sweatshirt that has stretched out through use and could really be anyone’s. It is just the two of them who know differently. And it looks good on him, effortless in the way Ilya makes everything look effortless, even though Shane knows that Ilya normally prefers something fancier than this. 

“Okay,” says Ilya, holding up his keys after he’s finished changing. “Lunch?”

“Lunch,” Shane agrees.

--

Of course, Ilya drives a death trap on wheels. Shane had not factored in that consideration when he’d followed him downstairs. He knows that the other man has a preference for sports cars, has a garage full of them, but knowing that and experiencing it are two entirely different things. To Ilya’s apparent amusement, he clutches the handle above his head as Ilya revs the engine, feeling the purr of the car beneath them like a live beast.

“I did not expect a simple car to defeat you,” says Ilya, as he pulls out of the parking lot and into the road. “Here I thought you were fearless.” His phone is connected to the car, displaying the route to the address Shane had typed in above his steering wheel. 

“There are lots of things that scare me,” Shane bites out.

Ilya hums. “It is only human, I guess.” 

They pause at a red stoplight, and Ilya drums his fingers against the steering wheel. Spring is slowly waking up Montreal, and the stubborn sunlight falls across the bridge of his nose and his carved cheekbone, paints his hair in shades of gold and wheat. 

“You were lucky that you caught me on a day without a game,” says Shane, at last, stupidly. He manages to tear his eyes away, though he’s sure Ilya has already caught him staring.

“Luck?” Ilya snorts, though not meanly. “There was no luck involved in any of this.” He stares at Shane from the corner of his eye, briefly, before focusing back on the road. “I left one thing up to fate before. It will not happen again.”

Shane does not really know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t say anything. The idea that Ilya planned this specifically so that he could catch Shane on a free afternoon—he’d worked out this morning, gone to optional skate practice because when doesn’t he go—makes his head spin in a way that he cannot decide if he likes or not. He probably does, but admitting that is a whole other thing again.

What have you gotten yourself into, Shane Hollander?

They manage to find a lucky parking spot just outside the restaurant Shane had led them to, something not really fancy but good enough that it will satisfy both of them. The peak lunch hour has passed, and Shane knows that it is technically normal for him to be seen with Ilya here, but he’s still nervous when some of the heads of the people present in the restaurant swivel as they enter. 

A waiter seats them at a table near the back, somewhere beside a large potted plant. Shane wishes he could hide his face amongst the leaves. Anything to hide from the soft way Ilya is looking at him, and the way that makes his heart stutter where it has lodged itself in his throat.

During lunch, they talk about everything and nothing. Their seasons, though both are careful not to mention too much; their teams, where Shane is very careful to let Ilya chatter as much as he wants whilst he hangs back, careful; their plans for the off-season, and Shane talks about his cottage, not bragging too much, but—just enough. It’s a good cottage. Ilya just smirks at him cryptically, like he already knows more than he’s letting on, but he lets Shane talk without interrupting too much, just chiming in with a question from time to time. Lunch passes like that: casual and rather gentle. Shane does not know what he expected this morning, when Ilya texted him.

But this easy companionship is something he could get used to. He wants to get used to it. God, this is hard. How do normal people do this? 

He figures that normal people don’t fake-date their greatest rival. 

Ilya doesn’t allow Shane to pay, stating that this is repayment for letting him stay over at such a short notice. Shane would normally be more inclined to argue the point, but he also knows that Ilya isn’t going to let it rest, and it feels nice to be taken care of like this.

“Business calls,” Ilya says, pouting, as he drops Shane off next to the entrance of his building. He’s leaning out of the window, one arm on the door, and it is doing wonders for the flex of his bicep. “I’ll text you when I’m heading back.”

Shane smiles and nods. “I’ll make sure there’s food. Something you like.”

“You’re too good to me, Shane,” says Ilya. He pulls his body back into the car, then blows Shane an exaggerated kiss. A second later, the car is turning around and peeling away. Shane realises that Ilya had definitely driven with more caution before, probably to put him more at ease. He snorts. What an idiot.

--

Night finds them in Shane’s bed, curled up together underneath the sheets. Ilya’s chest is bare and white, as if reflecting the moonlight that falls in through the windows. Shane had neglected to close the blinds, for fear of missing even one glance at Ilya’s body, Ilya’s face, their hands tangled in the space between them.

Ilya has good hands, Shane knows—though slightly smaller than his own, he has nice broad palms and thick fingers, skin callused where he curls his gloves around his hockey stick. Honestly, if someone would ask Shane, and he’d be forced to give an answer on, like, threat of death or something like that, he’d say these are perfect hands. It is almost like they were made for Shane, like every gap between his fingers was carved specifically with the dimensions of Shane’s own hands in mind. Ilya’s thumb rubs across the back of Shane’s knuckles, scattering goosebumps down the back of his neck. 

When Ilya leans in to slide their lips together, Shane is already awaiting him. Ilya tastes like toothpaste and he smells like Shane’s bodywash, and Shane lunges forward with near desperation, crushing their still folded hands between their bodies.

People who aren’t dating, Shane realises, don’t do this. Well, you can technically kiss someone you are not dating. He thinks that Ilya is someone who’d have no problem with things like that; casual, detached, just for fun. But you don’t hold a hook-up like this, and you don’t whisper soft nothing against their lips when they make a noise (Shane is too embarrassed to call whatever left his mouth a whimper), and they don’t agree to fake-date for publicity when most of the dating part happens behind closed doors.

“Nobody is looking at us,” he murmurs, pulling back slightly so that he can give his racing heart a minute to calm down. Not that it ever really quiets, with Ilya so close.

Ilya’s eyes sparkle, blue and mischievous. “I know, Shane,” he says. And then he curls a hand behind Shane’s neck, guiding him closer again, his mouth welcoming. A sound gets trapped somewhere between their lips, maybe a name or an exclamation or maybe just something that is more a feeling than a word. 

The horrific truth of it all slams into Shane, granting him a sort of visceral clarity: Ilya has known in which direction this all has been heading the entire time. But he’s leaving it up to Shane to take the next step. And that—how is he going to do that?

All Shane knows how to do is lose himself in Ilya’s body, his hand on the back of Shane’s neck and their fingers tangled together.

“Mm, Shane,” says Ilya, tone dropped at least octave, raspy. “You want it?”

“Please,” Shane gasps, desperately pressing his forehead against Ilya’s. “I want—” You. He breaks off, wheezing. From the look in Ilya’s eyes, he thinks that the other has heard the unspoken words anyway. Like he has a sixth sense for all things hidden at the back of Shane’s throat. 

But Ilya gives it to him anyway, even with everything unspoken. They both shuck their clothes, near frantic, and then Ilya tugs Shane closer so that he is straddling Ilya’s lap. Tilted back against the pillows—Shane’s pillows—as he is, his curls spilling down his forehead, the corners of his mouth curling, Ilya is a vision. 

“Bozhe moy, Shane,” says Ilya, his own wonder in his gaze. “Come here, let me take care of you.”

There is no space for Shane to curl closer, no distance left between their bodies, but he tries anyway. At that, Ilya laughs, a raspy sound. His teeth are very white.

And then he wraps a hand around both of their cocks, and Shane’s world explodes into heat and pleasure. Ilya drags it out, fitting the mood, even though Shane gets worked up all by himself. He does not beg, but it is a near thing. If he’d begged, perhaps Ilya would have given it to him, but Shane’s not good at asking for the things that he wants, because what if—? What if it’s all taken away? What if it interferes with your carefully constructed balance?

What if you get it anyway?

His climax, as ever, is a release: dopamine, oxytocin, his worries and fears. He shudders in Ilya’s lap before he can choke out a warning, and faintly registers Ilya’s surprise, then his satisfaction. Only mere seconds later, Ilya’s release joins his own, wet and hot.

Satisfaction weighs his limbs down, and he curls into Ilya like a pleased cat. Ilya huffs underneath him, but acquiesces to Shane's wordless request anyway. 

“You will be grumpy if you stay dirty for too long, solnyshko.”.

He is probably right. But getting up to clean himself or allowing Ilya to slip away to do so are both options his mind is currently unwilling to entertain. He grumbles something wordless but that hopefully sounds like a protest, and a heartbeat later, Ilya’s broad palm comes to rest at the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles.

Like that, they lay until the desire to rid himself of the come slowly hardening between both of their bodies wins over the utter relaxation. Shane peels himself away to grab a washcloth from the bathroom, runs the tap for long enough so that the water turns pleasantly hot. He cleans himself, grabs another washcloth to run underneath the tap, then returns to Ilya. The little routine helps him center his mind and catch his breath.

Ilya has only moved on the bed to slide down the pillows further, the blankets pooling around his waist, one arm curled behind his head to show off the impressive bulge of his bicep. Their bodies had caught most of their release, and though Shane normally isn’t a fan of sleeping on soiled sheets, he also recognises that he is way too tired to do anything about that now. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” croons Ilya. “You will get cold out there.”

Shane rolls his eyes, noticing the amusement underneath Ilya’s words, and walks over so he can quickly rub down Ilya’s front with practical movements. Then he drops the washcloth on the bedside table and slides underneath the blankets that Ilya helpfully holds up for him.

“Sleep,” murmurs Ilya, his body a hot line against Shane’s side.

Apparently unable to deny him anything, Shane does.

--

“Rose,” Shane hisses into his phone, mere minutes after Ilya has left, still staring out of the window he watched the car drive away from. Late morning light slants in through the windows, illuminating a scene of domesticity, the reminders of the breakfast they shared before Shane has to get ready for his morning skate still on the table. “Rose, fuck, I think I want Ilya for real.”

“Oh, thank god,” she says, and then she laughs and laughs amidst Shane’s frustrated sounds. “I thought that I was going to have to tell you this, despite the fact these are your feelings we are talking about. God, am I happy that you figured it out yourself.”

Shane huffs. “This is no laughing matter, Miss Landry. What am I going to do?”

“You,” says Rose, pausing triumphantly, “are going to get your man. And all you need to do is confess.”

“Uh huh.” Shane hesitates for a second, then realises what she has said. “Oh, shit.”

--

holly - ready for playoffs @hollyhollzy
yo no kidding but i saw shane and ilya in montreal yesterday and they look so good together even casually? like i knew the visual chemistry was crazy in picture but it’s another thing to see it in real life

yassim @yassriveraustralia
damn why is roz in montreal??
[Two attached photos of two men shot from the front, clearly Shane Hollander Ilya Rozanov, walking along a Montreal mainstreet. In the first picture, their faces are tilted toward each other. In the second picture, Ilya is staring right at the camera, while Shane is looking down at the floor, his bottom lip trapped underneath his teeth as he smiles, possibly in response to something Ilya had said.]
→ riki @wolfboy_420
holy shit shane hollander your natural aegyo is so refreshing 

Adam @AdamMcMilligan
Hollander and Rozanov are still together? I always thought it was some publicity stunt after the whole Scott Hunter fiasco, but it’s been nearly a year now. Maybe there’s something real there?
→ eumppappa @eumppappa
local man makes one (1) correct observation

--

The last match between Montreal and Boston that season is in Boston. Montreal definitely isn’t qualifying for a play-off spot, not with the way their seasons have been going so far, which always leaves a sour taste on the back of Shane’s tongue. He knows that it is not possible to always be the best, that he cannot carry a team that does not want to carry him, that half of Montreal’s defensive line is injured, but still.

Boston isn’t doing too hot either. They might cinch a play off spot at the last minute, but from the texts they’ve shared, Shane knows that Ilya isn’t too hopeful. An early start to the off-season might give them more time to rest and recover, but it is also a reminder of what they hadn’t achieved. From what Shane knows, Ilya isn’t going to his extended family in Russia, but he doesn’t seem particularly thrilled to go see his father and brother at the Rozanov estate in more western Massachusetts either. Shane had decided not to pry. Sometimes, family could be difficult. 

With the state of Montreal, it is no surprise to Shane that Boston ends up victorious. Shane puts up a good fight, manages to sneak in a goal near the end of the second period, but it’s no match for Boston’s own three goals. One of them scored by Ilya, putting them on an even footing on that part. 

Shane wishes he could feel more defeated, but he’s been pretty ambivalent toward Montreal’s fate for the last few weeks, so he just gives a lacklustre speech after they filter back into the dressing room. His teammates, perhaps except JJ and Hayden, are not very receptive to anything he has to say anyway, so why bother? He just changes out of his clothes as quickly as he can.

Before the match had started, Ilya had texted him. Come over? So Shane slings his personal bag over his shoulder, his equipment taken care of by the team’s staff on this roadie, and heads out of the dressing room with a last nod at Hayden. Recognition blooms in the other man’s gaze, and he nods at Shane, a small smile on his face.

In the last few weeks, Shane hasn’t really been a good friend to him, but he knows Hayden has been busy too—with his kids and beautiful Jackie, heavily pregnant with their fourth. They’ll talk . . . soon.

Ilya meets him just outside of the Boston dressing room, showered and changed into something casual. As always, even a simple shirt and slacks looks devastatingly handsome on him. “My boys want to meet you,” he says, as Shane draws closer. He sounds hesitant or maybe calculating. Shane has never been great at reading expressions.

“They do?” he says, coming to a stop next to Ilya. He thinks about introducing Ilya to Montreal and shivers.

“Mhm.” Ilya sweeps his eyes across Shane’s body, a small furrow appearing between his eyebrows as he registers Shane’s bodily reaction. How can Shane explain that it doesn’t have anything to do with Ilya? Before he can open his mouth, Ilya continues: “They’ve been asking for a while, but they’re animals, so I had to teach them how to behave. But you can say no, if you want.”

Shane is scared, but scared is okay. He’s just done with letting his fears stand in the way of him living his life the way he wants to. “They’re going for a drink, I imagine?”

A grin tugs at the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “Well, we did just win against our main rival . . .”

“Like you need any excuse to have a drink.” Shane rolls his eyes, but he finds that he is smiling despite himself. “Okay, I could go for a drink. Just one, though. Leaving tomorrow.”

“Roadies,” sighs Ilya, starting to lead them toward the exit. “So cruel. Keeping my Shane away from me.”

Rolling his eyes, Shane knocks their shoulders together. “You’ve done well the last few years, idiot. There is no reason for you to suddenly be attached to me like this.”

Ilya stops so suddenly that Shane nearly stumbles over his own feet when his body automatically tries to catch up with the other. When he looks over his shoulder at Ilya, questioningly, he is surprised at the heat he finds behind the other’s gaze.

“Shane Hollander,” says Ilya, voice low. “If you don’t know how much of a pull you have on me, you don't think nearly high enough of yourself.”

Like an idiot, Shane’s breath stutters in his chest. He’s frozen for a moment, his mind spinning as he tries to catch up with Ilya’s words, and though he tries to respond, words fail him. It’s one thing to have a suspicion—it is another thing to have it laid out so plainly.

Then Ilya’s gaze brightens again, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Let’s go,” he says, stepping forward so that he can curl his arm through Shane’s elbow. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

--

“So, you are the guy who has stolen Roz’ heart,” says Marleau, a calculating look in his eyes. 

The Raiders’ common haunt for after games, apparently, is a cozier bar than Shane would have expected of them; low, golden lighting, wooden interior worn down with age and use, the music loud but not deafening, not in such a way that they have to shout to be heard across the noise. It is pleasant.

Shane has a glass of non-alcoholic beer in front of him, which no-one had commented on when he’d ordered it at the bar, Ilya’s arm a comforting weight where it had been slung around Shane’s waist. Now, in front of Marleau and the rest of the Raiders, he squirms, a bit uncomfortable and a tad bit oddly pleased. “I wouldn’t say that I have ‘stolen’ his heart,” he mumbles, peeking up at Ilya through his lashes.

At the words, Ilya’s mouth drops open in a faux-scandalised gasp, eyebrows raising. “Malysh, did I not confess my love well enough? Did I not make you feel appreciated enough? Is that why you hurt me so much by downplaying our epic love saga?”

“I don’t know, man,” says Connors, a bit loudly, totally ignoring Ilya’s lamenting—so Shane will take that as permission that he can do the same, even if the words make the back of his neck feel hot. “Roz has been mooning over you for ages. When the news broke that he finally managed to win your hand, we all didn’t believe it at first.”

Ilya waggles his eyebrows. “Hottest man in NHL, my Shanya. It would make sense that only the second hottest man could lock him down. Even if H” 

“Wasn’t that Scott Hunter?” asks Hammersmith.

“Old dinosaur that should have retired a decade ago should not count,” Ilya says, immediately, causing the people within earshot of them to break out into guffaws. 

Fucking Roz, says St-Simon, somewhere down the table, with feeling.

But Shane barely hears the words. He turns to Ilya, seated beside him and still looking so relaxed. “You liked me for a long time?” 

“Did I not tell you clearly enough before?” Ilya asks, half-teasing, half-serious. “The boys loved listening to me talk about you.” 

“Loving it is a bit of a big word.” Marleau is rolling his eyes. “It’s more that we didn’t have another choice. Oh, have you seen Hollander and the goal he scored last Tuesday? Did you see the new campaign he’s in? Did we see that incredible pass? He’d get all bright-eyed and annoying. Sometimes, when he talked about stick-handling with so much passion, I was worried what kind of stick he was referring to.”

Shane chokes on his next inhale, spends some time politely hacking into his hand while the rest of the table laughs. They’re not laughing at him, Shane realises—this is a joke at Ilya’s expense that he is a part of.

“Hey,” says Ilya grumpily. “I am being kind and nice introducing you all to my boyfriend, the second best player in the NHL, and this is the thanks I get in return?”

“Feels like it should be the third best,” Shane says, now that he’s managed to get his breathing back under control. When Ilya stares at him, confused, he clarifies, “You know, since we clearly have to save a spot for your ego as well?”

The table bursts out in laughter again. “Oh shit,” says Carmichael, a bit faintly. “Hollander’s got jokes.”

When Shane looks up, Ilya is shaking his head, but there’s something like pride there as well. “I should not introduce you to these rascals, my dear Shanya. They’re giving you all kinds of wrong ideas.” 

“Oh yeah?” laughs Shane, grinning. “And what are those?”

Like he is unable to help himself, Ilya leans over so that he can brush his lips against the corner of Shane’s mouth. Shane’s mouth purses like it is an instinct, and he giggles when Ilya makes a grumpy noise that they aren’t lined up well, even though he was the one to avoid him at first. Ilya brings a hand up to cup the side of Shane’s face, then presses their mouths together more securely. There’s no heat behind the kiss, though, just gentle pressure.

When Shane pulls back, he notices how the other guys have fallen mostly silent. He searches their gazes, his heart hammering in his throat. They don’t look disgusted, mostly amused, and Ilya’s hand landing somewhere on the middle of his thigh is a welcome distraction. 

Then Hammersmith makes a retching noise. “Ew, I never thought the day would come that I’d see Roz act all mushy and shit.”

“Mm,” says Ilya, looking over his shoulder so that he can grin at his teammate. Then he looks back at Shane. “Better get used to it, Smithy. Once I get what I want, there’s not a lot that can tear it away from me.”

--

They leave Boston for Raleigh, North Carolina, on a late afternoon flight. This is good for Shane, who’s definitely still tired from the impromptu outing from the night before, as well as dodging most of his teammates’ pointed looks. Both of them had been tired and strung out from the hockey game and the subsequent visit to the bar—or maybe Shane had been the tired one, and Ilya had just picked up on his mood, like he always seemed to do so easily. Anyway, he’d just walked Shane up to his hotel room and then Shane had let him inside for some passionate making out. But they hadn’t gone further than that, not further than Ilya’s hand curling into Shane’s hair and Shane shamelessly roaming his hand down Ilya’s backside. Then Ilya had left with a last, almost-regretful kiss. 

So, whatever his team mates must be thinking about them, two days later in the visiting team’s locker arena in Lenovo Center—probably nothing good—it didn’t happen. 

And even if it did, there still wouldn't be any reason for them to be acting like this. That is one thing Shane knows for sure. But he just bears it with dignity, because someone has to, and starts getting ready for the game. 

Hayden, seated in front of the cubby next to him, gives him a questioning look, but Shane just shakes his head. Not now, don't engage, you don’t have to do this for me, I can do it myself—

They win the game that night, which is—not a given, but a relief nonetheless. Shane plays good hockey, he always plays good hockey, and for once the team meshes around him. It feels less like the one-man job it has been the last few weeks, months, but Shane still has a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. It follows him all the way back into the locker room, as he’s stripping off his gear and putting it away.

“Good that you could at least play without getting distracted this time,” Drapeau says, loudly, and though he doesn’t tack on a name, it is clear who he is talking to.

Shane pauses in his tracks. He focuses on his breathing.

“Yeah.” Comeau chortles in response, an ugly, grating sound. “Perhaps, away from that fag, you can focus on what actually matters.”

All of a sudden, Shane thinks about the carefree atmosphere that hung around the Raiders, something he hasn’t felt in a while with this team. Maybe hasn’t ever felt with them. “Excuse me?” he says, with a sense of near-terrifying clarity. “Would you care to repeat that?” 

Comeau inhales, but whatever the smug prick is going to say next is already lost on Shane. He takes a deep breath, centering himself, and then turns around so that he can punch Comeau square in the face.

Chapter End Notes

tw: a character uses the slur 'fag' to describe a queer character. the homophobic character is swiftly dealt with.

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coming up: an exciting chapter :))