Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Eric Bennett, Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Kyle Swift

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Boston Bear/Raider Shane Hollander, Friends With Benefits, New York Admiral Ilya Rozanov, New York Admirals (Game Changers), Friendship Dates, All-Star Game, Shane Hollander and Scott Hunter's Fight in Episode: s01e03 Hunter, Gift Giving, Olympics, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry Friendship, Stanley Cup Playoffs, Minor Injuries, Drunk Sex, Shane Hollander's Cottage, Skinny Dipping, Yuna Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander visits Russia, Post-Stanley Cup Celebrations, Soft launch Relationship, No forced outing, Minor Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Minor Eric Bennett/Kyle Swift, Coming Out, Happy Ending, Complete

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of how did we get here, my love

Collections:

hollanov faves

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-30 Completed: 2026-04-14 Words: 43,504 Chapters: 15/15

following the path; leaving a trail

Summary

With Russia banned from competing in World Juniors, Shane and Ilya don’t meet until draft day. How is their story different without those first few interactions and without the media’s “rivalry” obsession?

Notes

Don't think too hard on the geopolitics that lead to Russia being banned from international competition 15 years earlier than in reality. Just have fun watching the ripple effects!

Title from Robert Moor’s book On Trails.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

The first time they meet is on draft day. It’s twenty minutes before the first name is called, but Shane has already been there for hours. Last minute interviews from half a dozen teams, even though he’s confident he’s going to Boston. Not much competition for first overall.

A few years earlier there had been rumblings of a Russian phenom—Ilya Rozanov, almost exactly Shane’s age—but then Russia was banned from international competitions and Rozanov hadn’t been able to show off on the world stage. Scouts still watched the Russian youth leagues, and Rozanov was good enough he would still be taken early, but Shane was confident that captaining Canada to two world golds would get him first overall.

Before that happens, though, Shane needs to get some fresh air. He needs a few minutes away from the crowds and the stares and the questions. He finds a bench outside the arena and tips his head back against the cinderblock wall. It’s Los Angeles, so the air isn’t exactly fresh, but it’s better than inside.

It is, at least, until he gets a lungful of cigarette smoke and has a coughing fit. Once he catches his breath, he glares around to find the source and there he is:

About ten feet off to Shane’s left, cigarette dangling between his fingers, leaning against the wall like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Ilya Rozanov, in the flesh.

He’s taller than Shane expected. Broader than he looked in fuzzy game tape Shane may or may not have spent hours scrutinizing. He’s looking at Shane, but not saying a word. Taking another drag and blowing it out the far side of his mouth, but the wind immediately sends it into Shane’s face regardless.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Shane says indignantly.

“Okay.” His accent is thick, even on the short word. Shane likes the way his mouth wraps around the vowels like they’re bulky.

“I’m Shane. Hollander.” They’re too far apart to shake hands, and Shane doesn’t want to stand, so he gives an awkward little wave.

Rozanov just nods in return.

“You’re Ilya Rozanov.”

“Yes.”

“You’re an amazing player to watch.”

Rozanov looks confused. Shane can’t tell if he doesn’t understand English or if he’s surprised Shane found semi-legal streams of the Molodezhnaya Hekkeinaya Liga to watch him. (Or maybe Shane likes watching Russian junior hockey and Rozanov just so happens to play there. Who’s to say.)

“Okay,” is Rozanov’s eventual response, which doesn’t clear things up.

Casting around for some other topic of conversation, Shane says, “Have you been to LA before?”

“No.” A pause and Shane thinks that’s all he’s getting, then, “Hot.”

“Hotter than Ottawa, for sure.” Shane tugs at his necktie. Rozanov’s eyes follow the motion. “And Moscow, I’d assume,” Shane adds to fill the silence.

“Yes.”

More silence.

Rozanov drops his cigarette butt and stamps it out with the toe of his shiny dress shoe. He’s looking at Shane like he wants to say something, or do something, maybe. He doesn’t move or utter a word, though, so Shane stands and brushes off his slacks. “We should be getting back in there.”

“Yes.”

~~~~~~

Shane sits uneasily between his parents. Something about Ilya Rozanov threw him off balance, but he doesn’t know why.

His mom fusses over his tie. “Where’d you go, honey? They’re about to start.”

“Just getting some air.”

“You smell like smoke. You’ve got to think about first impressions, Shane.”

“I met Rozanov.”

“Oh? What’s he like?”

He said six words and three of them were yes. He looked at me like he wanted something. “Kind of an asshole.”

~~~~~~

Shane Hollander goes first overall to Boston.

Ilya Rozanov slips all the way to fifth and ends up in New York.

~~~~~~

Ilya can’t sleep. His father had berated him for nearly two hours before jet lag caught up with him, but Ilya’s head was still spinning with the cruel (familiar) words.

Ilya knew he was better than fifth. Of course he knew that. He wanted to think he was enough for first, but Hollander was really fucking good, so he couldn’t be sure yet. Ilya couldn’t wait to play him and find out.

He was good enough for second, though. That shouldn’t have been a question. Maybe he’d been too lazy with his English lessons and bombed the interviews. Maybe international politics had scared teams off. Maybe scouts hadn’t come to his games. Maybe he just wasn’t good enough.

Fuck this. He throws on a pair of tennis shoes and goes searching for the hotel gym. The gym which, of course, is already occupied. At 2:30 in the fucking morning.

Ilya climbs onto the treadmill next to Hollander. Skipping the easy warmup, he immediately sets the machine to one click faster than Hollander’s. A steady pace. Hollander seems startled, then annoyed, to see him. Then he starts running two clicks faster.

Ilya smirks and runs faster. Then Hollander faster. Then him. Then Hollander. Then him.

His lungs are burning and muscles protesting but he is Not. Going. To. Lose. It’s a full-out sprint and Hollander is showing no signs of flagging but, just when Ilya’s heart is about to give out on him, Hollander hits the emergency stop button and stumbles off the treadmill.

Oh thank god.

Ilya flops to the ground across from Hollander and takes a long, grateful drink from the water bottle he’d almost forgotten. Legs splayed out in front of him, feet just inches from Hollander’s.

“What a day,” Hollander says through deep, panting breaths.

“Everything you dreamed of?”

“Pretty much.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Of course it had been for Canada’s golden boy, first overall, second coming of Gretzky.

“New York, though. You’ll like it there.”

Ilya doesn’t need Hollander placating him. Plus, the way he’s panting with his mouth slightly open is very distracting.

Needing to do something, Ilya thrusts his water bottle out and shakes it when Hollander tries to reject a drink. Turns out their fingers brushing is distracting too. As is the way Hollander’s throat bobs and how he licks a stray drop of water from his pink, plump bottom lip.

The air vibrates between them. Ilya taps Hollander’s ankle with his toe.

“We will be seeing each other a lot,” Ilya says because he doesn’t know what to say. And because he’s already thinking about when he’ll see Hollander next.

“Yeah. Boston and New York play each other a lot.”

Hollander takes another drink, then hands Ilya his water bottle back. Ilya can’t help but drag his fingers along the back of Hollander’s hand. Hollander’s breath catches in his throat. Ilya takes a drink of his own and watches Hollander watch him.

“You’ll like New York,” Hollander says. “Exciting city, fun. Scott Hunter is there.”

“Scott Hunter is not exciting.”

It’s the first time Ilya hears Shane Hollander laugh. He likes the sound of it.

~~~~~~

They don’t see each other again until October.

It’s a crazy few months for Shane. He films an extremely awkward CCM commercial and wears the sneakers he’s being paid (!!!) to wear. He moves to a new country. He focuses even more intently on his diet and fitness.

He thinks about Ilya Rozanov.

He thinks about Ilya Rozanov a lot. When he’s filling out his visa paperwork, he wonders how much more complicated Rozanov’s probably is. When he’s lacing up his skates for the first day of rookie camp, he wonders if Rozanov is nervous.

When he’s lying in bed, all by himself, he touches himself and wonders if Rozanov is touching himself too. Wonders what it would be like if Rozanov was touching him instead.

Shane isn’t consciously nervous in the days leading up to his first game against the Admirals, but when the red and blue light show ends and he sees Rozanov warming up on the other end of the ice, something in his chest settles. He can breathe a little easier, skate a little looser than he has in several days.

It’s not an event when they face off for the first time.

Halfway through the second period, Boston’s lines get jumbled after an icing and Shane, exhausted from an already-too-long shift, has a defensive zone draw against New York’s third line. Against Ilya Rozanov. He seems to be the only one to notice.

Shane squats into position, ignoring the burning in his thighs. Rozanov’s face is only a few inches from his; Shane has faced off against literally hundreds of players, but none of them seemed quite so close as Rozanov does now.

But Rozanov is smirking and his eyes are glinting and his mouth is so damn close to Shane’s.

“I missed you.” That’s what Shane thinks Rozanov says, at least, but between the mouth guard and thick accent, it’s hard to tell. While Shane is still trying to puzzle out the words--he missed him?--the puck drops and Ilya wins it cleanly.

Fuck.

Four seconds and three passes later, Rozanov’s shot is buried in the back of the net.

Fuck.

~~~~~~

Tonight is a good night.

During preseason, everyone thought Ilya was joking when he said he was going to score 40 goals. The media doesn’t expect much from him. The fans have no clue who he is.

He was a first round pick, yes, but Russia is Russia. Neither the media team nor sponsorships were eager to highlight an unknown kid from Moscow. Plus, the Admirals already have their star in Scott Hunter. Boring star for an exciting city.

One game at a time, one goal at a time, one sound bite carefully calibrated to be the right amount of dickish at a time, Ilya is working to change that.

Tonight against Montreal was his sixth game and his fourth goal. Things were going well so far.

Watching Shane Hollander play in person is everything he hoped it would be, too. It’s obvious that Hollander is thinking five times faster than anyone else on the ice, from either Boston or New York.Anyone but Ilya, that is. Ilya sees where Hollander is going to be, where his pass is going to go, but neither his teammates nor the defense can seem to figure it out.

Hollander is good enough that he still gets a goal, but Ilya can see frustration mounting as the game goes on.

Ilya sees his opportunity near the end of the third period.

Carter Vaughn takes a few too many whacks at the Boston goalie’s pads, a Boston defenseman takes offense, and a scrum ensues.

Ilya and Hollander somehow end up being the only players on the ice not directly involved in the fracas. As is custom, that means they end up lightly holding each other’s arms and standing at a safe distance while everyone else gets punched.

Ilya glances around them. No one is nearby. No one’s attention is on them. Still, he ducks his head so his mouth is half-hidden before he says, “How does it feel, being the best player on your team?”

“Are you insulting me?”

“Is compliment!”

“Thanks. I guess.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me I am best?” Ilya teases.

“No!”

“I thought I am amazing to watch.”

Hollander twists a little in Ilya’s grasp to look him in the face.

The bold splatter of freckles across his cheekbones momentarily renders Ilya speechless. And then, for reasons he can’t quite explain, Ilya says, “Come for drink with me. After game.”

“What-- I--” Hollander sputters. “I don’t drink during the season.”

“You must be very dehydrated.”

“I didn’t mean--”

The skirmish around the goal is rapidly devolving. Fighting, rather than roughing. The refs are going to be handing out misconducts like candy after this. Ilya pulls Hollander farther away, almost to the blue line.

“Food, coffee,” Ilya says. He makes sure his mouth is completely hidden before he murmurs, “I want to see you, Hollander.”

Hollander doesn’t miss his meaning. Ilya doesn’t miss his little intake of breath--Shocked? Excited? Scared? He doesn’t miss or mistake his “yes.”

~~~~~~

“What are you doing, dude?” Shane mumbles to his reflection, before changing from his pregame suit into a t-shirt and jeans. A better outfit choice, but the question still stands.

Shane agreed to meet Rozanov at a Mexican restaurant in the village, even though he’s doubtful they serve anything there that will fit his diet.

He almost chickens out and asks the cab driver to return him to his hotel half a dozen times. Even once he’s at the actual restaurant, he stands on the sidewalk for several minutes trying to hype himself up.

He’s not entirely sure why Rozanov invited him here. He thinks... maybe... He’s afraid to think maybe because what if that is it? Or what if it’s not?

He’s not sure why he agreed, either. Because what if it is? Or what if it’s not?

Fuck this. He opens the restaurant door and there’s Rozanov. Sitting on the far side of a two-top. Facing the window, where he would have had a perfect view of Shane’s little freakout. Perfect. He lost a hockey game, and now this. A great start to the night.

Shane sits down awkwardly. Like someone raised in a cave who has never seen a chair before. “Rozanov,” he says.

“Hollander.” He looks nervous too.

“What are we doing?”

“We are getting food. Like friends do after games.”

“We’re friends?” They’ve had one actual conversation.

Rozanov shrugs. Nonchalant. “We could be.”

“Is that what you want?”

Rozanov’s gaze briefly dips--to Shane’s lips? his tight t-shirt? “Here is not the place to talk about what I want.”

Shane’s breath is stuck somewhere deep in his throat. Does that mean... Are they really...

“Good evening!” A peppy waitress appears out of nowhere. This really isn’t the place to talk. “Do we want to start with drinks, apps, or are we ready for food?”

“I’m ready,” Rozanov says. “Are you?”

Shane nods, to both the vocalized question and the silent one. “I’m ready.” Shaking off the sexual tension and turning to the waitress, Shane asks, “Do you have brown rice?”

She nods.

“I’ll have brown rice, fajita vegetables, and guacamole. No cheese or sour cream or anything.”

Rozanov orders chicken enchiladas with extra sour cream.

~~~~~~

Ilya knows he’s playing with fire.

Hollander trails half a flight of stairs behind as they climb to his apartment. Ilya is half-afraid he’ll reach the top, turn back, and Hollander will have vanished like a ghost. Like he was never there at all. That fear jumps to three-quarters when he’s unlocking his door and Miss Sandy, the elderly woman who lives across the landing from him, comes out to congratulate him on the win. She shuffles back into her apartment quickly, though, and there Hollander is. Pushing the door closed behind him and making sure it’s locked.

“This is a bad idea,” is the first thing he says.

“Maybe.” Ilya takes a step closer.

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“I think we should.” Another step. He can feel the heat of Hollander’s body.

“But what if--”

“But what if it’s really good?” Ilya presses his lips to Hollander’s neck, to the soft hollow below his jaw. A trial balloon. If Hollander is going to run away, he’ll run away now.

He doesn’t, thank god. He ducks his chin to urge Ilya’s lips up to his and then they’re kissing. Oh, they’re kissing. There’s a fire banked inside Hollander that Ilya wants to stoke until it’s a raging inferno.

Ilya lets his hands drift. He feels Hollander’s soft hair and hard chest and perfect ass. He revels in Hollander’s exploratory touches. Lines of fire on every inch of bare skin he finds.

“What can I do to you?” Ilya growls.

“To me?”

“Touch you, suck you, fuck you. What can I do?” Ilya grinds up against Hollander’s thigh.

Hollander doesn’t say anything, which is concerning. Ilya pulls back to look him in the face, but Hollander is looking somewhere over Ilya’s left shoulder.

“Do you want this?” Ilya asks gently. Maybe he’s royally fucked this entire thing up.

“Yes.” Oh thank god.

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not a chicken!”

“Is okay, Hollander.” Ilya kisses his jaw again. The kissing had been going well. “You are allowed to be scared.”

“Have you...” Hollander starts.

Ilya keeps his head ducked, keeps kissing. This seems easier for Hollander when they aren’t making eye contact.

“Have you been with a man before?”

“Yes. One, back in Russia” Ilya says carefully. “My coach’s son.”

“Wasn’t that risky?”

“Everything is risk. Does not stop me.” Ilya sucks a little on Hollander’s neck. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to make a point. “You have not?”

Hollander shakes his head no.

“Girls?”

“Oh, fuck you, I’ve had sex!” Hollander shoves at Ilya’s shoulders, but pulls him back close in the same movement. “Lots of sex!”

The first part might not be a lie, but the second definitely is. “Okay, Mr. Lots-of-sex.” Ilya cups Hollander through his jeans. He’s so hard. “Will you with me?”

“Maybe not, uh...”

“Fucking?”

“Not this time.”

This time suggests the existence of a next time, which makes Ilya very happy. “Come to bed with me,” Ilya purrs. It’s a short trip from the entryway to the bedroom, but it feels like forever before Ilya is stripping off his clothes--leaving his underwear on, for now--and lying back on the untidily made bed.

Hollander is slower to undress, methodically folding each item of clothing and stacking them on top of Ilya’s dresser. It’s adorable.

He still has his socks on when he pads the few steps to the edge of the mattress. Even that is adorable, somehow.

Feeling his thoughts veering in the wrong direction, Ilya lunges up and grabs Hollander by the waist. They tumble to the mattress together, weight heavy and fingers roaming. Legs tangled together, hard cocks pressing against each other, and mouths. Oh, mouths. It’s like they’re each other’s only source of oxygen. It’s desperate and fierce and needy. It’s everything and it’s nothing more than a warmup.

“Can I?” Ilya asks, hand toying with the waistband of Hollander’s briefs.

“Yeah. Yeah, god yeah.” Hollander practically kicks his underwear to the floor and grapples Ilya’s off too.

When, for the first time, Ilya wraps his hand around Hollander’s dick, Hollander gasps a little “oh” that’s like angels singing. Ilya will do anything to get that noise again and more. He strokes gently. Loosely, since it’s too dry even with Hollander leaking all over the place.

“Fuck. God. That’s...” Hollander was vocal but not particularly coherent. A fun combination.

Ilya kisses his way down Hollander’s chest, but pauses when his cheek is resting on inner thigh. Hollander’s skin is soft; Ilya nuzzles, just a little. He can’t resist.

“Do you want...” He flicks his eyes to Hollander’s dick, which very clearly wants.

Hollander threads his fingers through Ilya’s hair and pushes his head in the right direction.

“Words, Hollander.”

“Yes. Duh. Please.”

Ilya doesn’t tease or hesitate. In one swift motion, he takes Hollander’s cock as deep as he can manage. He uses his spit as lube and wraps a fist around the remaining length.

Hollander makes that little “oh” again. A whole series of them, getting steadily louder as Ilya sucks and strokes in perfect tandem. Angels singing, indeed. Hollander doesn’t last long, but Ilya is sure he won’t either. Plus, the sooner his own dick gets touched, the better. He swallows eagerly, then pulls off with a loud pop.

Hollander immediately pulls him up for another searing kiss. Not squeamish about tasting himself.

“That was--” Hollander says without removing his mouth from Ilya’s. “It’s never been like that.”

Ilya can’t help but preen at the compliment and grind his ragingly hard erection against Hollander’s hip. Hollander runs fingertips along his length and it’s bright, burning sparks. “Should I...”

“If you want,” Ilya says, but what he thinks is, If you don’t, I’m going to die.

He takes his time. Kissing slowly across Ilya’s pecs and stomach. Mouthing the crease between hip and thigh before lifting his head and using the very tip of his tongue to lick away a drop of precum. An experiment. He must like what he tastes, because then Hollander is licking around the head of Ilya’s cock and then, carefully, enclosing it in his mouth.

Ilya’s moan is loud. He’s not normally very loud, but Hollander’s unpracticed touch makes him want to scream. He props himself up on his elbows; he needs to be seeing this. He needs to know exactly what Hollander looks like with his lips stretched and mouth full.

Hollander must feel his movement, because he looks up at Ilya with a question in his eyes. Am I doing okay?.

“Yes,” Ilya says, brushing the short hairs back from Hollander’s forehead. “Good.”

Hollander bobs his head, slowly at first. Bit by bit taking Ilya deeper. Suck by suck making Ilya lose his mind a little more. It’s sloppy. Wet. Mouth a little too loose and hand a little too tight. It’s enthusiastic and eager and tinged with desperation, even though Hollander already had an orgasm of his own.

It’s absolutely, indescribably wonderful and, like he predicted, it’s not long before Ilya feels the edge creeping up on him. Crashing down on him, more like. With a grunted, “I’m going to--” he pushes Hollander’s head away and adds his own hand. It’s only a few rough strokes before Ilya is coming all over his stomach.

“That was okay?” Hollander asks, his voice oddly small.

Ilya pulls him up tight against his side. He wants him on top, but Hollander doesn’t seem the type to like the mess. “Yes, Hollander. Better than okay.”

Ilya kisses him with a tenderness he doesn’t understand and a fire that he thought would have faded by now. Hollander meets him with just the same.

~~~~~~

Shane sits on the edge of the bed, dressed except for his clothes. Rozanov is still naked, covered by nothing but an artfully draped sheet. “Should we talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about?” Rozanov leans forward and kisses Shane’s shoulder. He can feel the heat, even through his shirt.

“No one can know--”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t--”

“You don’t mean that.”

He doesn’t. Well, he does mean that continuing to do... whatever this is is definitely a bad idea. He doesn’t mean that he wants to stop.

“When do we play each other next?” Rozanov asks.

“A couple months, I think,” Shane says, like he doesn’t know they play in Boston on January 8th. “I, um...”

“You what?”

“We play in Brooklyn in November.” November 14th.

“I am very near Brooklyn.”

“And Jersey in December.” December 1st.

“Less near.”

“But near enough?”

Rozanov’s hand is soft on Shane’s cheek. “Near enough.”

Chapter End Notes

I haven’t worked out how exactly Ilya playing for the Rangers affects Scott’s and Eric’s stories, but I feel like there’s some fun potential there! Also, Hollanov as public friends from the get-go!

I’ve never written a longer fic like this, or posted anything by chapters, but I’m really excited to see where this ends up!

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya are hooking up. And maybe they're friends too?

Chapter Notes

My goal is to post at least one (3k+) chapter a week, but I’ll post as I finish so hopefully it will be more often than that!

It’s November 13th, Shane is about to board a plane, and his phone is burning a hole in his pocket. One unread text message that he read as a preview on the home screen:

The first message he’s received from “Lily” since Rozanov put his number in Shane’s phone. Part of him doesn’t want to respond. To ignore the text and stay in his hotel room and pretend like that night in October never happened. Part of him wants to go to Rozanov’s apartment tonight and see what it’s like to get fucked. Something he perhaps shouldn’t do the night before he has to play 20 minutes of hockey. Or do at all.

Shane lets that notification drive him crazy until the plane lands and the flight attendant gives them the all-clear to turn their phones back on.

At dinner, Shane sips his ginger ale while the rest of the team splits expensive bottles of wine.

“You sure you don’t want a glass, rook?”

He’s underage, he doesn’t drink during the season, red wine is gross--every excuse in the book and he still gets the offer half a dozen times before plates are cleared from the table.

“You’re quiet today,” Connors says as they make their way to the hotel.

“I’m always quiet.”

“This is a different quiet.”

Shane dumps his bag on the luggage rack and immediately turns back for the door. “I’m heading out.”

“Oh that’s why you’re off. Nervous to meet up with your girl.”

“I don’t have a girl-- This isn’t-- It’s nothing like that. A friend.”

“Whatever you say, Holly.”

“It’s not--” Shane doesn’t actually know what it is. Rozanov said that they were friends. That they could be seen hanging out, doing friend things, and no one would suspect the other things. But still, it felt weird, wrong, obvious to correct ‘meet up with your girl’ with ‘meet up with Rozanov.’ “Whatever. I won’t be back late.”

“I won’t wait up!”

Shane is in the cab and halfway to Rozanov’s building before he replies:

He has the cab drop him off a block and a half away. Probably a ridiculous request, but it makes his heart pound a little less. Shane presses the buzzer next to “IGR.”

“Hello?” Rozanov’s voice is crackly and hard to understand through the speaker.

“I remember your address.”

The front door immediately clicks open. Shane quickly runs up the stairs and fast to lock Rozanov’s door behind him.

“Are you being chased?

“No, I just...” He’s a little out of breath. From the climb and from the sight of Rozanov: bare chested, bare footed, hair sticking up on one side. This is what he looks like when there’s no one to put a show on for.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

“We are friends, Hollander. This doesn’t have to be a secret.”

“Are we friends, though?” Shane gestures between them. “And this very much does.”

Rozanov takes a step closer. The doorknob is digging into the small of Shane’s back. “I did not think you would come.”

“I wasn’t going to.” That’s a lie. As many times as Shane tried to convince himself this wouldn’t happen again, he knew it would have taken an act of god to keep him away from Rozanov’s bed tonight.

Beyond a quirk of his brow, Rozanov doesn’t correct him. He runs a hand down Shane’s waist, hip, thigh. He dips his head until his mouth is a breath away from Shane’s.

Oh fuck this. Shane closes the small distance between them so emphatically that Rozanov stumbles back a step. Shane goes with him, keeping their mouths and bodies pressed tight together until they bump into the kitchen counter. Rozanov grabs his thighs and lifts Shane until he is sitting on the cluttered surface. Something clatters to the floor.

“What the--”

But the words are silenced by Rozanov’s fierce kiss. By his hands scrambling up under Shane’s shirt and by Shane’s legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him even closer.

It’s only been a month, Shane reminded himself. But it feels like eternity since he’d been touched like this, wanted like this. Since he had touched and wanted.

Then Rozanov is lifting him again. Hands tight on his ass and Shane, despite his pounds of muscle, feels small. He’s not sure he likes that. What he definitely likes, though, is being dropped to Rozanov’s mattress. His clinging legs pulling Rozanov down, heavy, on top of him. The world disappears and all that exists is this room. This moment and this man, looking down at him like he’s starving.

Rozanov’s hand eventually drifts downward. Cups Shane’s ass, pulls it open a little bit without reaching farther. “Have you thought of this?”

Has he thought of anything else? He nods.

“Me too,” Shane thinks he hears, but the words are buried in his neck.

Rozanov moves and Shane’s gasp is loud. It’s just a fingertip brushing exploratorily over Shane’s hole. But it’s the first time another person has touched him there and the pleasure is blinding. The pressure increases--not pressing inside, just massaging the pucker--and Shane is nervous about how little it’s going to take to make him come.

“You like?” It’s half a question and half a statement.

Of course Shane likes. He nods and bucks his hips and forces his hand between them to grab at Rozanov’s cock.

“You want more?”

Shane nods.

“Words, Hollander.”

“Yes. Yes, more.”

Rozanov brings his hand to his mouth and, while Shane misses the contact, it’s insanely hot to watch Rozanov sloppily suck on his finger like it’s a dick. Then his touch is back. Slow, slick circles. Breaching the tight ring of muscle just to the first knuckle.

Shane has played with his own ass, of course. His fingers, his toy.

But this feeling? Rozanov’s touch filling him up, stretching him open, finding the spot Shane could never get quite the right angle to reach? There’s no comparison.

“Good god. Rozanov.”

Two fingers now. Three. Shane is going insane with the bliss of this and the desperate need for more. For Rozanov and Rozanov alone.

“Please…”

“Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, I’m ready, just. Please fuck me.”

Shane rolls to his hands and knees--because that’s how this is done, right?--and waits impatiently while Rozanov fiddles with condom and lube. Then his hand is at the small of Shane’s back, smoothing down the curve of his hip, pulling his cheeks apart and then--

Oh. Then.

Rozanov is thick and overwhelming as he presses inside. Bigger than Shane’s dildo, for certain. (Should he buy a bigger dildo?) It’s a stretch that verges on pain but mostly it just Feels.

That was the thing about sex, Shane had always thought. It didn’t feel nearly as much as he thought it should. As everyone said it did. Turns out he was just doing it wrong, or with the wrong people, or using the wrong parts.

Because, good lord, Rozanov moving inside him Feels like Everything.

“Okay?” Rozanov asks, hand soft between Shane’s shoulderblades.

It’s a fight to form words, but Shane manages, “Please.”

“Yes please?”

“More please.”

Is there more than Everything? More. More! Faster and harder. A twist to Rozanov’s hips so he hits the right spot with every thrust. Shane’s arms go out from under him and his face is buried between two soft pillows. Rozanov shoves one to the floor and Shane looks back up at him. His mouth is set in a firm line, his eyes hard and glinting. He’s grunting in time with what Shane realizes are his own loud moans.

Shane’s cock hangs heavy between his legs. Desperate to be touched. Knowing that as soon as he’s touched this is all going to be over.

Rozanov leans over him: chest firm on his back, chain cold on overheated skin. He nips at Shane’s earlobe and whispers, “Are you going to cum for me?”

“Close.”

“Will you come if I touch you...” His hand, large and slick, engulfs Shane’s cock. “...here.”

“Fuck. Yes. God. Close.”

Rozanov fucks into him so hard that Shane sees stars. His rhythm falters and his grunts turn into a loud groan. He’s coming inside of Shane. And fuck is that enough to send Shane over the edge. No orgasm in his life has ever been so good, so power, so all-consuming.

This. This is what sex is supposed to be, Shane thinks, crushed into the mattress by Rozanov’s spent weight.

If only there were anyplace else he was able to get it.

~~~~~~

Ilya can’t hide his grin on the Admirals’ plane to St. Louis the next morning.

“Someone had a good night,” Vaughn says as he settles in across the aisle.

“It’s Rozanov, he always has a good night,” Scott Hunter says from a few rows behind them. Ilya doesn’t like the disapproval in the captain’s voice.

“Is not wrong to have a good night.”

“You’ve got to focus on your game, Roz. Can’t have you playing distracted thinking about who you’re going to meet up with after.”

Before, in this case. “Maybe you would be having a better season if you thought about meeting someone after.”

“Woah!” Vaughn lifts his hand to block Ilya’s path, despite him not even looking over his shoulder at Hunter.

“Too far,” Bennett says, calm and centered as ever.

“Show some respect.” That’s Vaughn again.

Maybe when Hunter stops treating him like a wayward child, drifting off and fucking up his game because all he does is party and get laid. Ilya doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t drink much compared to some teammates, and a good screw has only ever helped his performance on the ice.

Ilya puts his headphones on rather than say any of that, though.

~~~~~~

Shane is a bit sore, he won’t lie. He’d spent enough nights alone with his dildo that he didn’t think he would feel it in the morning, but it turns out nine inches of Rozanov has different aftereffects than six inches of silicone and his own hand.

He’s slower than usual on the backcheck, doesn’t lean as hard into his edges. It’s a noticeable enough dip in performance that Coach reams him out during the first intermission. “What’s wrong with you today?” he shouts, not actually expecting an answer.

I got fucked up the ass, Shane imagines saying. He would never say. Maybe this is another sign that he and Rozanov shouldn’t be doing whatever it is they’re doing (or maybe just not 16 hours before he has to play). Maybe this is the proof homophobes were looking for to say guys like him shouldn’t be in the league.

As the game goes on, though, Shane gets used to playing with this empty, stretched out feeling. The feeling that he had been used and enjoyed in equal measure the night before.

He plays harder. Skates faster. He gets an assist in the second and an empty-netter in the third. They win 4-2.

It’s not going to let them be right.

~~~~~~

~~~~~~
Seventeen days later.

Hollander looks harried when he opens the door and ushers Ilya inside.

“Why are we hiding?”

“I don’t exactly want people to see you coming to my apartment at 11pm.”

“Is more suspicious if I sneak through alleys. Friends come in front door!”

“This whole friend thing, Rozanov. It’s not a good cover. None of my actual friends visit me like this. I don’t visit any of them in the middle of the night.”

Ilya tips Hollander’s chip up and kisses him softly. “No one else is a friend like me.”

“I still don’t think--”

“Then don’t think.”

Hollander dives on him, despite them still being in a theoretically-public, creepy, empty stairwell. He pulls at Ilya’s hair like he’s trying to control a puppet and Ilya follows his every lead. They stumble up too many flights of stairs and Ilya doesn’t get a chance to look around before Hollander is pushing him over the back of a couch. He lands somewhat awkwardly on his wrenched shoulder, that’s a worry for another day.

Now, his only concern is how quickly he can get Hollander naked and on his knees, and whether he’s going to fuck him into this couch or if they’ll move to the bedroom at some point. Whether Hollander will kick him out immediately or if he’ll be allowed to nose around after.

It’s hot and it’s fast and it’s desperate. It’s like Hollander hasn’t been touched since the last time they’d been together (a possibility that Ilya doesn’t allow himself to consider further). Ilya obliges--of course he does--meeting Hollander’s every scratch and thrust with one of his own.

After they roll apart, sweaty and sticky, Ilya looks around Hollander’s bedroom with blurry eyes. It is an exceptionally boring room. Disappointing, though to be expected. Navy sheets, blue comforter, abstract art that belongs in a hotel room rather than a home.

“This is not a very exciting room.”

“Really?” Hollander says, out of breath. “You’re going to insult me? Now?”

“Is not insult.” Ilya considers throwing an arm over Hollander’s waist, but isn’t sure that will be well-received. “Is observation. Boring apartment for boring man.”

“Definitely an insult.”

Ilya kisses Hollander on the shoulder, but otherwise doesn’t touch him before pushing himself out of the bed. “Is not.”

“Not what you were saying a few minutes ago!”

“Not what I will be saying in a few minutes, either.” Ilya opens the door he correctly guesses leads to the bathroom. He shoots a saucy grin over his shoulder. “I am going to shower.”

Hollander rolls his eyes, but the moment the water is hot enough, he’s on his knees with Ilya’s cock in his mouth.

~~~~~~

Ilya said he’d get 50 goals and they laughed at him. The press, the fans, his own team. They thought he was being an overconfident dickhead. It wasn’t until the end of February that the media started changing their tune. He’d climbed from fourth line grinder to second line center (and would be first line were he a winger or on a team not captained by Scott Hunter). His defensive numbers were more than respectable. And he’d been top five in the league for scoring since before Christmas break.

You can only ignore that for so long.

Even then, all of his accomplishments were a fluke. Had a caveat.

Yes, he scored four goals against San Jose, but their best defenseman was hurt.

Yes, he had a six game point streak, but it was an easy stretch in their schedule.

It was beginner’s luck, an own goal, an empty netter, an unexpected bounce. His teammates did the hard part and his tipped finish didn’t count. He was selfish and took the low-danger shot instead of passing to an open teammate. And and and.

Ilya finishes the season with 67 goals—third in the league and two more than Hollander’s 65.

Guess who won Rookie of the Year, though?

The moment he went first overall—before then, even—it was written in pen that Shane Hollander would win. And so he did.

Even though Ilya knew it was coming, it still hurts. He was good enough. He’d proven himself. He’d outperformed all expectations except his own (and his father’s). He was better than Hollander. The numbers said so.

It still wasn’t enough.

Ilya can’t handle the crowds, everyone patting him on the back and saying they’re sure voting was close. As soon as he can, while only being a bit of an asshole instead of a massive one, he sneaks away to the rooftop. He heard there was a bar up there, an empty place he can breathe.

His phone won’t stop ringing. It’s mid-morning in Moscow and his father clearly has nothing better to do than berate him. He turns it off entirely and lights a cigarette.

He’s on his fourth when Hollander comes up behind him.

“It’s not worth jumping over.”

Maybe it is. “Party’s over?”

“Just needed some air.”

They look at the view in silence for a bit. Ilya barely sees it. He’s too busy watching Hollander in his peripheral vision.

“You didn’t answer my text.”

“Didn’t see it.”

“Oh.”

Quiet again. Ilya takes a deep drag of his cigarette.

“Are you mad at me?”

Ilya hits his hand down hard on the railing. It hurts. “Not everything is about you, Hollander!”

“Then what is it about?”

There aren’t enough words in the word to describe the swirl of upset in Ilya’s brain. Hollander doesn’t deserve this anger, this emotion dumped on him from someone he repeatedly said isn’t his actual friend.

Ilya waves vaguely, then drops his cigarette butt to the ground.

Hollander’s eyes are narrowed, like he can’t figure out whether he’s supposed to ask a follow-up question. Ilya can’t decide if he wants him to or not.

“When do you go home?”

The absolute last thing Ilya wants to think about right now. “Two days.”

“That’s exciting.”

Or three months of misery. “Not really,” Ilya mumbles. A group of girls emerge, whooping, from the elevator behind them; Hollander doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Scott Hunter asked me if I knew where you were.”

“And?”

“Called you ‘my boy,’”

“Okay?”

“I just mean, the ‘we’re friends’ bit is working.”

“Yes. Bit.” Why wouldn’t it be a bit? Why would Shane Hollander ever want to be his friend? “I should go.”

“Wait. Why?”

Hollander’s fingers brush the sleeve of Ilya’s tux, but he heads toward the elevator regardless.

“Rozanov.”

He keeps walking.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Ilya stops in a shadowy corner just out of sight from the elevators. Another group of girls, loud, are stumbling toward the bar. Hollander’s presence is hot behind him.

“I do,” Ilya whispers, unheard, then turns and takes Hollander’s face in both his hands. The kiss is angry because the only other option is for it to be sad. It’s all teeth and tongues and a desperate wishing he’d been born into a nice boring Canadian family instead of this shit he’d been saddled with.

Hollander kisses him back just as fiercely, communicating something wordlessly that Ilya can’t begin to understand.

But then he’s stumbling backwards, dropping Ilya like something burst into flames. “We can’t— What are you thinking?”

“No one can see us.” As if that’s the only reason they shouldn’t be doing this.

“We’re in public! Wearing tuxedos!”

Ilya shrugs and wipes his thumb over his lips. Even in the dark, Hollander’s eyes follow the movement.

Hollander’s voice is flat. “What were you thinking?” An admonishment? A genuine question?

“See you in October, Hollander.”

Ilya makes sure he’s gone before Hollander has a chance to respond. October can’t come soon enough.

Chapter End Notes

Heavy spot to end the chapter, I know! Nothing written yet, but the plan is for them to have some friendship shenanigans next, so it should be a fun time! (all rights reserved to change the plan entirely)

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Friends.

Chapter Notes

As promised, a much more playful chapter!

“What the fuck are we doing here?”

Boston is spending most of their pre-season in New York this year. They’d already hosted Washington, and now it was a couple away games apiece against New York, Brooklyn, and Jersey. Shane wouldn’t actually play until the last few nights--this whole process was mostly about trying out new and minor league guys--which meant he could take their day off actually completely off.

Which is how he ended up here. In the Central Park Zoo. With Rozanov.

“We are friends going on a field trip.”

“I don’t think you know what field trip means.”

A group of six year olds swarms past them, followed by two harried-looking teachers. “See!” Rozanov says, pointing. “Field trip.”

“You’re not making the point you think you’re making.” Shane rolls his eyes, but it is actually a nice day. Sunny. Warm, but not hot. School must have started already, because they’re surrounded mostly by international tourists and parents with toddlers.

It feels weird being out in public like this. With Rozanov. After how they’d left things in Vegas, Shane wasn’t sure he’d be seeing the guy at all again outside the rink. But, almost immediately after the pre-season schedule was announced, he received a text from Lily asking about off-days and practice schedules.

And, instead of holing up in Rozanov’s apartment for a few evening hours, they were at the zoo. As friends.

Shane keeps glancing over his shoulder, trying to tell whether they’d been recognized. Rozanov is enthralled by the monkeys on their rope bridge, but Shane is trying to figure out whether that man on a bench is filming him. He pulls his ballcap a little lower over his eyes.

“No one is paying attention to us, Hollander.”

“I think he is.” Shane jerks his chin toward the guy, who’s typing something now.

“This is New York, Hollander. Real celebrities live here. I think I saw Bruce Willis feeding an elephant and no one cared.”

Rozanov had a point: Back home in Ottawa, Shane was stopped as often as not, and in Boston it happened semi-regularly, but that didn’t mean he was New York Famous.

He can’t shake the feeling of being watched, though. Perhaps it’s just the proximity of Rozanov that’s throwing him off. Shane was used to seeing him under harsh arena lights or in the glow of bedside lamps. Not like this, soaking up the sunlight and reflecting it back tenfold in a bright laugh when a monkey almost falls but catches himself with his tail.

Rozanov touches Shane’s arm and he jumps a little. “Sea lion show?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.”

The small set of bleachers facing the sea lion enclosure is almost full when they arrive. The entire zoo seems to have turned out for the show. Rozanov finds a spot just big enough for them in the top row. Well, big enough if they scootch together. Shoulders, hips, knees all in hot contact.

Shane barely notices the jumps and flips and... whatever else the sea lions do in exchange for fish. This contact with Rozanov--chaste, friendly, casual. It was too much for public; it wasn’t enough for what Shane really needed. He hasn’t had sex since... Well. There had been a blind date in June, but that performance hadn’t been something Shane was proud to remember. Which left him since... Well. Since Rozanov at the beginning of March.

That’s embarrassing to consider.

Rozanov taps Shane’s knee to get him to pay attention to... something, but he leaves the back of his fingers brushing Shane’s thigh, which is the only thing Shane can actually focus on.

The show ends with raucous applause and whooping from Rozanov. Shane claps along politely and Rozanov drags him through the crowd of toddlers and strollers to the very edge of the enclosure.

“Can you take our picture?” Rozanov asks a dad who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. The man agrees, snapping several and even waiting for a sea lion to swim back around and be in frame. Shane and Rozanov lean together and Shane can’t remember how to stand next to a friend for a photo. Their shoulders just barely touch. Is that right?

“Do I recognize you?” the man asks as he hands Rozanov back his phone.

Shane’s heart leaps into his throat, but Rozanov’s breezy “probably not” and the man’s toddler having a meltdown quickly diffuse the situation.

“Okay!” Rozanov says when they get back to the main path. “What next?”

Shane is getting a bit tired of the crowd and the assault of scents, but this is Rozanov’s day and he’s grinning ear to ear like Shane has never seen before. “Up to you.”

Rozanov tips his head to one side as he looks at Shane. “You are done for day?”

That takes Shane aback. None of his friends or teammates can read him like that. Even his parents rarely notice until they’re an activity or two past Shane’s line. “We can keep going if--”

“You can say you are done, Hollander. Is not fun for me if it is not fun for you.”

Shane nods, a little embarrassed. “Let’s go back, then.”

“Good. I have more plans for later and need you ready for those.”

Please, don’t be a bar. Or a club. Or a--

“You will like these plans,” Rozanov says with a wink.

Oh. Oh. Those plans won’t be an issue.

~~~~~~

That man was taking a picture, it turns out. Shane glancing at the camera over his shoulder; the back of Ilya’s head as he watches the monkeys play.

Boston Raider Shane Hollander seen with friend in New York City Zoo!

“With friend! We are in New York, I play for New York, I am still just with friend!”

“It was a Canadian tourist, Rozanov. Not a New Yorker.”

~~~~~~

Shane knows they’ll get photographed together—properly, not just as Hollander and friend—as soon as they set foot together on the streets of Boston. Shane isn’t “can’t go out in public” famous, but over the past year he has progressed to “rarely gets through dinner without a selfie request unless entrees are $100 and sides come separate” famous.

The fall of their third season, when “Lily” texts that the Admirals have a day off in the city, Shane starts making plans.

Rozanov is right. The more they’re friends, the less them being friends is news. The less suspicious it is they spend every possible evening together.

So, despite having lived here for two full years, Shane googles, “what to do in Boston.”

~~~~~~

~~~~~~

“Are you ready for our walking tour?”

“I thought that was joke.”

Ilya had worn comfortable shoes just in case, but he didn’t think Hollander was actually taking him to see the constitution or battlefield or whatever (his American history is not great).

Twenty minutes later, they pull up outside... “A bowling alley?”

Hollander looks sheepish. “It’s this special bowling they only have in Boston. And in Nova Scotia, maybe.” He shrugs. “I tried it at a charity thing and thought… I dunno. We can do something else instead.”

“You went to sea lion show with me. I go bowling with you.”

“You really did love those sea lions.”

“You were not watching. They were very impressive.”

Ilya trails Hollander into the dingy bowling alley. He’s never actually been bowling before--the normal kind or the Boston kind--so he doesn’t know what to expect. He was not prepared for the carpet, which combines neon swirls and literal spacemen into the stuff of nightmares.

Hollander awkwardly asks the teenager working the desk for the lane at the far end. She rolls her eyes and doesn’t seem to know who they are, but agrees. Under her breath, she mumbles, “Guess you wanna be by the birthday party.”

Ilya and Hollander find their way to lane one and, sure enough, there is a horde of preschoolers at lanes three through five. There do not seem to be very many adults with them. It’s chaos, but any attention sent their way should get sucked into the party like a black hole.

“How are these supposed to fit?” Ilya asks, lacing up his rented shoes.

“I don’t know,” Hollander says. “Tighter than normal shoes but looser than skates?”

The shoes are somehow quite tight in the toes, but very loose in the heel, which shouldn’t be possible. But, just as Ilya is about to kick them off, Hollander is on his knees in front of him.

He wants Hollander on his knees, absolutely, but the children! This is not the time, not the place, but Hollander touching his feet, even through disinfectant-scented vinyl is... sensual.

“I think they’re too tight,” Hollander says.

“Check the back, though. Awfully loose”

Hollander blushes and Ilya smirks. Something about the way Hollander’s cheeks glow behind the freckles. His fingers encircle Ilya’s ankle, finding bare skin above his sock. Ilya hadn’t known there were quite so many nerve endings there.

He jerks his foot away, before he can think any more thoughts. “They’re fine.”

“You sure? I can ask--”

“Let’s bowl.” Ilya grabs one of the small balls and steps to the top of the lane, but then realizes he doesn’t actually know what comes next. “Do I just throw it, or...”

“Let me show you.” Hollander cradles a bowling ball in his hand and throws it underhanded toward the oddly shaped pins. It makes it about halfway down the lane before veering to the left and clunking into the gutter.

“That is what I do? Throw ball into the gutter?”

“No, asshole.”

“You said you would show what to do.”

“I know, I’m--” Hollander clenches his teeth and bowls again. Straight into the right gutter.

Ilya bites back a laugh. “You do not seem good at this.”

“I’ve never done it before, asshole!”

“You said charity event.”

“I think I bowled like two frames. Boxes, whatever. It was mostly a “take pictures with kids and smile and nod at their annoying rich parents” kind of event.”

Ilya had gone to an event like that for the Admirals the previous spring. A “street fair” in a community center gym, where Ilya had spent most of his time handing out raffle tickets and telling people what booth Scott Hunter was at.

Hollander bowls a third time (you go three times, apparently?) and, once again, ends up in the gutter.

“Is there a children’s version where they block the sides?”

“You try and do better.”

“I will,” Ilya says with immense and unearned confidence. He awkwardly cradles the ball and rolls it too-hard down the lane. Or maybe not too hard, because it spins right into the pins. Okay, a slight exaggeration. It clips the left-most pin which knocks down two others. “Woo!” he cheers, like an absolute dickwad. “I am professional.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

On his second ball, Ilya ends up in the gutter, but the third catches several more pinks. 6 to 0. Not a bad start.

They are both exceptionally bad at candlepin bowling, as it turns out. After a couple more turns, they’re cheering if any pins fall down whatsoever and taunting with each and every (and each and every) gutterball. It’s pretty fun, actually, being this bad at something but that not being a bad thing.

When they reach the final box, Hollander has 49 points to Ilya’s 47. Abysmal scores, objectively speaking. The toddlers at lane three are getting in the 60s.

Hollander is up first:

Gutterball.

Gutterball.

Holy shit a strike????????

Hollander whoops so loudly that not only the birthday party, but the entire room turns to stare at them. He starts to look bashful, but Ilya cups both his hands around his mouth and shouts, “He got a strike!”

There’s an awkward moment, but then a preschooler shouts, “Strike!” and the room goes up in a cheer. Hollander is beet red, but he’s also smiling so broadly his eyes almost crinkle shut.

Unfortunately, after all that hullabaloo, Ilya still has to bowl.

One. Gutter. Four. Oh well.

Hollander is still laughing when they switch back into their normal shoes and start to leave. A dad from the birthday party blocks their path and Hollander’s smile drops.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were playing, but can I have an autograph?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Hollander signs the guy’s ballcap, then menus and scraps of paper for several other people. He’s crouching to take a picture with the birthday boy when a woman sidles up next to Ilya.

“You’re Ilya Rozanov,” she says.

Someone recognized him? That practically never happens. “Yes?”

“My friend Jeannie lives in DC. She told me about you.”

Of course, he was recognized for being good in bed rather than good at hockey. “Oh, yes. Jeannie.” He thinks she was the one from last spring with a nose ring.

“I’m Sara.” She holds out her hand and Ilya shakes it politely.

“Ilya.”

Luckily, Hollander finishes his autograph session and Ilya is able to extricate himself from the conversation before receiving a direct proposition.

Back in Hollander’s (horrible, boring) car. “Do you want to go out for dinner, or grab takeout on the way back to the house?”

Ilya is still a bit thrown from that last interaction in the bowling alley. He’s not entirely sure why. It’s not like he never gets hit on--even if they often don’t know he’s a hockey player, he still looks the way he looks--but something about the woman approaching him with Hollander right there felt wrong. For no reason. Because Hollander is his friend and sometimes they fuck. That’s it. This wasn’t, like, a date she was crashing.

“Mr. Pro Bowler gets to choose.”

Hollander’s gaze rakes down and back up Ilya’s body. “Home.”

~~~~~~

Ilya feels guilty when Hunter sprains his ankle three days before All Star break. Maybe Hollander was right and Ilya had jinxed his captain into injury. Maybe Ilya was the selfish teammate the media so often accused him of being.

It was just a sprained ankle, though. Not even a high ankle sprain. Hunter’ll miss the last game before the break and should be good to go by the time they’re back.

Worth it, that little (big?) selfish part of Ilya says.

He texts the press release to Hollander (a few hours before it actually posts, but oh well), then shuts his phone in his locker and hops on the ice for a game against Vancouver. He scores twice: a pretty one and a lucky one.

Ilya deserves this. It’s messing with his head, the way no one seems to realize how good he is. Growing up, Ilya was always head-and-shoulders better than every other player on his team. Pretty much every guy in the league had that experience. His father told him he was shit, but coaches and teammates and the people who mattered acknowledged his talent.

Something about being on the Admirals makes him invisible. Scott Hunter is a good enough captain, Ilya supposes, but he sucks up all the air in the room, despite being literally the most boring man on the planet. All the press, the sponsorships, the promo. This is Ilya’s third season with the team, he gives everything he has on the ice, and it’s still the City of Scott.

Ilya can feel himself shrinking: a plant stunted for nutrients. He doesn’t go out as much, doesn’t spend time outside the rink with his teammates, doesn’t have the fun he thought being in the NHL would bring. Plus, he lashes out on the occasion a microphone is in front of him, which doesn’t gain him fans in the locker room or out.

“With Hunter hurt, how does it feel to be his replacement for the All Star Game?”

“Like I should have gone in the first place.”

That was the second sentence of the press release.

~~~~~~

Shane’s parents came to the All Star game his first two seasons, but his dad had a work thing this year and Shane had convinced his mom not to come alone (a difficult task). When it turns out Rozanov will be there, Shane is extra glad he won’t have any company.

There’s a foot of snow on the ground when he gets to Buffalo. All Star games should only be played in warm weather cities, Shane overhears several players complaining in the hotel lobby, and he doesn’t disagree. His entire team is spending the week together in Barbados; he should at least get to be in Tampa.

Not that Shane’s complaining, of course. Being named to the All Star team in each of his first three seasons is almost unheard of. Boston’s captain is talking retirement, too, and Shane has a swooping feeling that the C will be on his chest next season. There have been plenty of captains in the league younger than his 21, but Boston had a reputation for only naming seasoned veterans to the role. If someone was going to change that tradition, though, Shane knew it would be him.

There was a mixup with his hotel room key, so Shane is waiting at the front desk when Rozanov rolls in with a blast of cold air. He looks good, with his peacoat collar popped and cheeks flushed from the cold wind.

“My apologies for the delay, Mr. Hollander,” the receptionist says. “Your key for room 1223.”

Another receptionist hands Rozanov his key at almost exactly the same moment. “You’re in room 1221, Mr. Rozanov.”

“My favorite number,” Rozanov says with a wink. His shoulder brushes Shane’s on the way to the elevators. Shane is quick to thank the receptionist and follow. The elevator doors close and it’s just the two of them.

“Exciting, beautiful Buffalo,” Rozanov says.

Shane can’t wait even the two minutes it will take to reach the rooms. He hasn’t seen Rozanov since early December and had thought it would be another six weeks. 72 hours since he learned they would be together this weekend and his blood had been on fire the entire time.

Shane drops his duffle bag with a muffled thump and pulls Rozanov in for a harsh kiss.

“So eager,” Rozanov teases into his mouth before kissing back with a matching ferocity. Shane tugs at his lapel, but (fortunately, frustratingly) the elevator dings before he can find skin. There’s only half a second to separate and straighten themselves before the doors slide open. No one is on the other side, luckily, because Shane is sure his heated face isn’t hiding anything.

They should be more careful. He should be more careful. He doesn’t even drop his bags in his own room before trailing Rozanov into his.

“What do you want, Hollander?”

“What do we have time for?”

Rozanov checks the time on his phone. “Less than an hour until dinner.”

“Fuck.”

“Plenty of time,” Rozanov purrs.

“Not enough to--” Shane pushes Rozanov’s coat off his shoulders.

“No. But we are here three days.”

“Three days.” His hands are under Rozanov’s shirt now. Skin smooth and hot and still far too concealed.

Rozanov bites at Shane’s jaw, then pulls away.

“Where are you...”

He turns on the shower, which is, oddly, a glass cube more or less in the middle of the room. “Take off your clothes,” Rozanov says, his words no less an order because of their gentle tone.

Shane strips quickly, folding his clothes into a neat pile and stepping into the hot spray of water. Rozanov is naked too and Shane’s fingers itch with the desire to touch him. He leans against the wall, though, and watches Shane with slightly parted lips.

“Are you going to join me?”

“Not yet.”

“Less than an hour.” Shane can’t help the whine.

“Touch yourself.”

Shane obeys without even blinking. He hasn’t jerked off since before he found out Rozanov would be here this weekend and the wanting has built up in him like a volcano. Only a few strokes, a few moments, and...

“You’re not close already, are you?”

“Fuck off.” Rozanov’s dick is hard and beautiful. Shane’s mouth is empty and needy. “Come here.”

He does, thank god. He pushes wet hair from Shane’s forehead and fills his mouth with his tongue. Then he guides Shane to his knees and fills his mouth with his cock. Yes. This. This is what Shane had been missing for the past two months, what he had been dreaming of for the last three days. He sucked with eagerness, with hunger and desperation. He licked and kissed and devoured like it was his last meal before execution.

For his earlier teasing, it doesn’t take Rozanov long to reach the edge either. For him to shove at Shane’s shoulders in warning and then finish down his throat with a muffled shout.

“Shit. Fuck. You don’t usually--”

Shane didn’t, usually, preferring Rozanov to come on his chest or face or stomach or ass. Today, with the hot water in his eyes and cold tile on his knees and fireworks in his bones, he did. He swallows Rozanov down for all he’s worth and mouths at the softening skin until Rozanov pushes him away. They quickly switch places and, even more quickly, Shane is biting his fist and coming in Rozanov’s equally eager mouth.

Once they’re all cleaned up and in the process of getting dressed, Rozanov checks the time on his phone and barks out a laugh. Barely 20 minutes have passed. “And you thought we wouldn’t have enough time.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.”

“That’s what you are here for.” Rozanov grabs Shane by the waist and pulls him close for a kiss. It doesn’t have the frantic pace of earlier, the hunger that characterizes most of their interactions. It’s a kiss to be a kiss.

They fall onto the bed and kiss just to kiss until they’re almost late to dinner. Shane’s bag never makes it into his own room.

~~~~~~

Playing with Hollander is everything Ilya had hoped. Never before has he had to think so little on the ice. Even with only an hour or two of practice, he doesn’t have to wonder whether Hollander will know what play Ilya is going for, whether he’ll skate fast enough or escape his defender. He’s always at exactly the right spot, exactly the right time. The other winger on their line may as well not exist, for all he sees the puck.

In their seven minutes of ice time together, Hollander scores twice and Ilya once, a beauty of a snipe from an angle that should have been impossible. Ilya sweeps Hollander into his arms after that pass, presses a smacking kiss half on his visor and half on his cheek.

It looks playful to everyone else, he hopes. They’re friends. He’s messing around. He got one look at Hollander’s broad smile and couldn’t help himself.

This is what hockey could be, Ilya thinks. This is what it should be.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to everyone for reading! These two are so much fun to write and hang out with.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Can Shane and Ilya keep their secrets?

Chapter Notes

smut and plot for you today!

Ilya signs a two year contract with the Admirals. Before the All Star Break, he’d been planning to enter free agency, but apparently that weekend management Saw Something in him. Something they hadn’t seen in his previous two-and-a-half years of stellar play, but whatever. They made him all kinds of promises, didn’t demand term, and overpaid compared to what his agent thought he could get anywhere else.

Two years for Ilya to prove himself and for the Admirals to do the same.

The season doesn’t get off to a great start, with Hunter playing like absolute dogshit.

Ilya is trying to be a good sport. That’s one of the things they talked about in his contract negotiations: “Be a good sport, Rozanov. Be a good teammate.” Hard to be a good teammate when your “best” teammate kinda sucks now.

He’s in a terrible mood after a 6-0 thrashing from Boston in front of their home fans. Hollander has to stop by his hotel room first, but Ilya gets stuck with media so their cars pull up to his new building at the same time.

“Nice place.”

Ilya just sort of grunts in response. He’d started renting a new apartment when his new contract kicked in, but right now that all feels like a massive mistake. Right now he doesn’t want to think at all.

He takes the bag of delivery Indian food from the concierge with a tip but no smile, then leads Hollander wordlessly up to his apartment. Ilya deposits the food in the kitchen, then, for lack of a better word, attacks Hollander.

He needs to act, to feel, to experience. He needs this man more than he needs his next breath.

A button clicks to the floor in his haste to get them both undressed, but that’s a problem for later.

“Fuck,” Hollander says. “Bed.”

Ilya lifts him by the thighs and Hollander eagerly wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist. Ilya loves carrying him like this. He’s shorter than Ilya, yes, but he’s still so heavy, so substantial as Ilya throws him onto the mattress. Ilya feels powerful, manhandling someone made of pure muscle. And, god, does Hollander look good sprawled out on his bed, broad and strong.

“Are you just gonna look?”

“No.” Ilya pounces. He grinds down into Shane with the full weight of his body. He’s so hard--they both are--but, for now, he focuses on kissing, on devouring Shane’s mouth, on exploring every nook and crevice with his tongue. Hollander meets him with equal ferocity. His nails are sharp down Ilya’s back and the bite of pain focuses his attention like a laser.

The anger is still there, the adrenaline. But the rest of the world ceases to exist. It’s just the two of them, this bed, and the heat that flames between them with every touch.

Ilya kisses his way down Hollander’s neck. Mouthing and biting and sucking and fighting every instinct to mark him as his. He smells like locker room soap, but he still tastes distinctly like himself. Ilya doesn’t tease, once he reaches Hollander’s cock. Doesn’t waste any time before swallowing him all the way down.

Yes. This. Shane filling his mouth, his throat, his consciousness. Fingers pulling at his hair and moans ringing in his ears.

“You need this, don’t you Rozanov?”

Ilya grunts an agreement and slides a finger behind Hollander’s balls. Shane opens for him easily, eagerly. The slight resistance that hovers over their encounters, even now, is nowhere to be found.

This is him: Ilya. This is him: Shane.

(When did he become Shane in Ilya’s thoughts?)

This is them.

It was supposed to be an angry fuck, when he slammed the car door shut. When he tore the buttons of their clothes. It was supposed to be emotions and frustrations being taken out on Shane’s body.

But instead it’s…

Shane’s knees up by his ears, muffling every word Ilya says. The reverent Shane, Shane, as he presses inside: he doesn’t hear that. Shane would panic if he knew the tenderness that was currently filling Ilya’s heart. If he knew each hard thrust and fierce fuck tonight was powered by the thought What if I love you?

What if indeed.

Hand on Shane’s pec, thumb brushing his nipple, fingers digging into the mass of muscle. Eyes there instead of Shane’s face because otherwise he can’t hide his dopey expression.

Lean down, face in his neck, teeth on his collar bone. Harder into the mattress, harder. Feel him around you. Feel him, hot and desperate. Hot and needy. Need him. Need him.

You need him.

Fucking hell.

~~~~~~

Ilya takes a deep breath before entering the locker room for practice the next day. Be a good teammate. Be a good teammate. Don’t be a bitch.

His patience is immediately tested when he takes off his shirt and Vaughn wolf-whistles.

“Like what you see?” he quips.

“Whatever girl you picked up clearly did,” Vaughn teases.

Oh, yes. The scratches. Usually he and Hollander are more careful about leaving marks, but he’d been running so hot and Shane had matched the energy. Ilya hopes (sorta) he didn’t leave a hockey.

“I thought you hung out with Hollander last night?”

Ilya’s spine tightens. Scott fucking Hunter.

“Hollander has an early bedtime.” Not a lie. Shane was indeed in his bed very early.

Hunter narrows his eyes. “Maybe you should too. Focus more on the game.”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “We have had this conversation, Hunter.”

“Maybe we need to have it again--”

“Maybe you need to--”

“Both of you need to back off,” Bennett says, his deep voice steady and calm.

Ilya nods, but he can feel Hunter watching him even as he gets dressed in his practice gear. Does he know about Shane? Suspect?

~~~~~~

Hunter plays well, actually, at their next game. Good. Maybe he got laid.

~~~~~~

The season is off to a much better start in Boston. Halfway through November, they’re top of the east.

Shane can always be better--a faster backcheck, another goal, a cleaner face-off--but he has met basically all the high expectations placed on him. He was, indeed, offered the captaincy during training camp. He’s gained the trust and respect of players more than a decade older than him. He leads the league in goals and is in the top 5 for points.

The schedule is set up so that he never has to go more than a month without seeing Rozanov.

Things are going well, Shane thinks with a smile as he laces up his skates. Second game against New York in less than two weeks and he’d gotten a hat trick last time. And an angry Rozanov fucking him (even if the way he touched Shane’s cheek after had been oddly… tender), which is always a good time.

In the third period, Marlowe scores with an ugly tip off a beautiful assist from Shane. There’s a TV timeout and Shane finds himself circling the ice near Scott Hunter. Shane is feeling playful, so he tries his hand at chirping. Always a risky proposition when you have the social skills of Shane Hollander.

“I thought you’d finally remembered how to play hockey the last couple games. Based on tonight, I guess not.”

Hunter looks at him with a glare and a smirk. “I thought you were the only one Rozanov took home after Boston games, but based on last time I guess not.”

A knowing smirk. What the fuck. What the actual-- He knows. How the fuck does he know. Does everyone know and he’s just the first to say--

Hunter winks and Shane lunges at him. He gets in a few punches--and receives a solid one to the jaw--before shaking off his gloves. Hunter is dropping his too, but teammates and referees are pulling them apart before they can fight properly.

“Fuck you!” He screams. “You’re fucking ancient, how are you still playing you fucking pussy.”

“That’s you!” Hunter shouts and then maybe, “You’re his fucking pussy!” but the roar of blood in his ears is so loud Shane can’t be certain those were the words. He tries his damnedest to get away from his teammates’ hold. He’s seeing red, he’s furious... He’s terrified.

~~~~~~

Shane doesn’t have any bruises or cuts from the fight and he almost wishes he did. Something physical he could press to feel the pain. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter and staring at the front door. Waiting for Rozanov to arrive, as he always, inevitably does.

“We should stop this,” he says as soon as Rozanov steps into the house. He hasn’t even kicked off his shoes yet.

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” Shane gestures between them. “It’s too risky.”

“Nothing has changed. We are friends.” He’s so casual, putting his shoes on the rack and hanging his coat on a hook like he belongs here.

“Hunter knows.”

That stops Rozanov in his tracks. “He what?”

“He knows we’re fucking!” Shane slams his hand down on the counter. There’s the pain. “People know. People are figuring it out.”

“Hunter is... not people. He’s just Hunter.”

“He’s your fucking captain!”

Rozanov waves that away. “I am probably gone soon.”

Shane files that away as a conversation for later--there shouldn’t be a later, this should be the end--and says, “That’s even worse! At least as your captain he has some stakes in not fucking your life over.”

“Hunter would not.”

How is he not getting this! “You don’t know that! He figured it out on his own. That means other people surely are too, or they will the longer this goes on.”

“What are you saying?”

A deep breath. Spine of steel. “I already said. We should stop this.”

Rozanov stalks toward him like a big cat toward its prey. “Should does not mean will. It never has before.”

“This is different.”

Rozanov’s fingers are rucking up his shirt and his mouth is brushing Shane’s ear. “Take off your clothes,” he purrs.

Shane does. Of course he does. This is an even worse idea than usual--and it’s always a bad idea--but he takes off his clothes and is soon begging for Rozanov’s touch.

As he always, inevitably, does.

~~~~~~

Ilya watches Hunter carefully for the rest of the road trip. He seems just in a generally weird mood, though. He’s snippy, but not paying Ilya any particular attention.

Yes, there had been that odd look a couple weeks ago. And, yes, his comments to Hollander were unusually accurate. But--for all the hockey culture issues it exemplified--that word was a common enough insult on the ice. Hunter had probably just been saying whatever anyone else would in that situation and paranoid Shane had taken it too personally.

Ilya doesn’t think about Shane. Not at all. Nope. Not him.

He keeps a closer eye on Hunter through the next homestand too, though, and it’s clear that something is going on with the captain.

Hunter is playing better, which is good. But he’s also smiling more. On his phone more. Giving awkward excuses when asked to go out with the team, rather than just saying no like he normally does. When Vaughn tells a crass story about a date he went on, Hunter’s reaction isn’t the normal indifference. He stiffens and looks almost... uncomfortable?

Hunter is seeing someone, Ilya realizes. He’s seeing someone and it’s a secret he desperately wants to keep. Why?

He isn’t one to participate in an affair. To date someone truly inappropriate. Which must mean...

Perhaps Ilya and Scott Hunter share the same secret.

~~~~~~

The first time Rozanov’s doorman greets him by name, Shane has a panic attack. “Good evening, Mr. Hollander,” and the world falls out beneath his feet.

The world knows that they’re friends. That’s not a secret, that’s not a bad thing. They’ve been seen together in public for years now; this shouldn’t be a big deal. Two rookies coming up together, even on different teams; they’re friends, that’s normal. But is it normal for those friends to be seen coming in and out of each other’s homes at all hours of the night? For them to be together every time he’s in the area, even if it’s to play a team in Brooklyn or New Jersey? For him to leave looking as rumpled and satisfied as he’s sure he always looks?

“Hollander? Hollander?”

Fuck fuck fucking fuck, this is all such a horrible idea. People are going to know. They’re going to find out, of course they are. Everyone is. Scott Hunter already knows, that’s just the start. The whole world is going to know that Shane likes having sex with men, likes having sex with Rozanov, and--

“Shane!”

Rozanov’s voice is sharp and his hands are firm on Shane’s shoulders. Shane doesn’t remember the journey from lobby to condo.

Shane. Rozanov has never called him by his first name before.

Rozanov has lived in the building for less than a year. This is only Shane’s second visit. And already he’s being recognized.

“I put you on my security list, Hollander. It’s literally his job to recognize and greet you.”

“That’s not... That’s not discreet.”

“Half my team is on the list, that doesn’t mean I’m fucking Vaughny or Benny or Hunter.”

Shane snorts a little laugh. His heart rate gradually slows. His breathing steadies. He realizes he’s in Rozanov’s arms on the couch. More or less sitting on his lap. Shane turns so his nose is nestled in the curve behind Rozanov’s ear. “You called me Shane,” he whispers.

“You weren’t answering to Hollander.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For freaking out.”

“You’re allowed to freak out.” Rozanov rubs soothing circles on Shane’s lower back.

The words echo their first time together, but it doesn’t feel like something he’s actually allowed to do. Or maybe it’s all he should be doing. Maybe the rest of this is what isn’t allowed. Maybe they should have stopped this years ago, they never should have started, they--

“Hey,” Rozanov says. “You’re doing it again.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little breathy. “I am.”

“We are okay. We are good. No one knows.”

Shane buries his face in the crook of Rozanov’s neck and, despite the facts to the contrary, tries to believe that. Wraps his arms around his waist and, for lack of a better word, nestles into his chest. “Rozanov,” Shane says into his skin. “Ilya.”

“Shane.”

Ilya squeezes him tighter. They stay like that for a long time.

~~~~~~

When was the last time someone had called Ilya by his first name? He was Rozanov, Roz, Rozy, Cap, Mr. Rozanov. His father called him Alexei. His brother called him slurs. He wasn’t sure he even felt like an Ilya anymore.
But hearing it, soft on Shane’s lips? It’s the only name he ever wants to hear again.

Chapter End Notes

when I was writing this, I had the placeholder (angry sex) but then somehow wrote like the softest fuck?

edit: For Scott's POV of the fight (and on through playoffs), check out the other work in this series--Interlude: Hunter. Won't be necessary for future chapters to make sense, but will add another dimension!

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

It’s Christmas and Ilya is going to make Shane tuna for dinner.

Chapter Notes

Okay it’s a bit later than intended, but it’s here! I made a couple detours this week while trying to puzzle out the plotting here.

I added a second work to this series—it’s from Scott’s point of view and goes from the end of Ch4 (fight with Shane) through the end of the season. Not necessary for this main story at all (and has genuinely no connection with this chapter), but fun to explore his side of the story!

The next time Shane plays in Brooklyn, Ilya has a home game against St. Louis. Normally they’d meet up late, but Boston is flying out immediately after. They have to be home before midnight so as not to infringe upon the league-mandated Christmas Break.

Ilya considers asking Shane to stay. Players do that sometimes around the holiday. Shane can spend the night at Ilya’s and fly straight to Ottawa from New York in the morning, rather than detouring with the team to Boston. He chickens out, though. As much as he wants to wake with Shane in his bed, an overnight stay is too much to spring on him all at once, especially with what else Ilya has planned.

He settles for asking Shane to come over after their respective morning skates and spend the afternoon together.

Ilya knows what Shane usually eats before games--so many times he’s heard about the difficulty getting properly bland fish and brown rice (heaven forbid it’s a wild blend) at away venues.

Ilya is lazy and not very particular about food, so he normally has a delivery service that goes grocery shopping for him. This week, though, he is particular. He goes out of his way to the actual fishmonger. He visits three bodegas to find the ginger ale that isn’t “too spiky.” He cooks the same meal on Thursday night and again on Friday to practice. He makes sure everything is organized and pre-portioned for a seamless Saturday afternoon. He triple-checks that the gift-wrapped box is where he left it in the drawer of his TV console.

Everything is good to go. Now he just has to get through morning skate without the team realizing his mood is all over the place.

~~~~~~

“What’s up with you today, Roz?” Bennett asks him between drills.

“Nothing,” Ilya says in the exact tone that a person who very much has something up would use.

Bennett looks at him askance, then skates his familiar pattern in the blue paint. “Doing anything for Christmas?”

“Nope.” Ilya never has plans for Christmas. In Russia, the holiday was celebrated in January, for one. And for another, who was he possibly going to celebrate with? His father was in Russia, deteriorating by the day; his brother was a cokehead dipshit; he had no real friends. And Hollander would say no if he asked. He knows that for certain.

“You should come to the Huffs on Christmas Eve,” Bennett says, interrupting Ilya’s moping. “Big dinner, a bunch of the guys go.”

The unspoken end to that sentence: Especially the ones without families. Huff had extended the invitation to Ilya every year, but he’d never taken him up on it. Being the lone single guy at a party full of your coworkers and their wives and kids? When most of those coworkers don’t actually like you? No thanks.

Coach blows the whistle for the next drill.

“Think about it,” Bennett says as he takes his position. “Hanging out with the team more might help with whatever’s ‘not up’ with you.”

“Says Mr. Social Butterfly who only talks to his posts.” The quip is forced.

Bennett shrugs. “They’re good company.”

~~~~~~

The afternoon stretches out wide in front of them, but Ilya isn’t patient when they get to his apartment. As soon as they’re through the door, shoes kicked off, he practically drags Shane into the bedroom.

“What’s the hurry?” Shane laughs, but Ilya is already licking the words out of his mouth. He kisses him like he’s starving, like he’s drowning, like he’s a house gone up in flames. And Shane meets him stroke for stroke, stoking the fire higher and higher until they’re both consumed by heat.

More, more, more. It thrums through Ilya like a heartbeat. More of this, more of now, more of him, more forever. Forever. A terrifying word. One he doesn’t understand, but craves nonetheless. One he’s pretty sure he’s never going to have.

Unless, maybe, he plays his cards perfectly.

Ilya rolls so he’s on top of Shane, every possible inch of their naked bodies pressed together. He grinds down into Shane’s hardness, pushing him into the mattress and drawing out a groan from deep in his throat. More.

He mouths his way down Shane’s neck and torso. Avoids his dick, because Ilya knows if he starts sucking he’s never going to stop. He nudges Shane’s legs open, then pushes up his knees so he can see his hole. There it is. Just waiting for Ilya.

And he can’t resist.

Ilya drags his tongue over Shane’s asshole.

“What the--” Shane’s legs swing down, knocking Ilya in the side of the head. “What are you doing?”

“It is obvious, I think.”

“But, do you, you want to do that?”

“Do you not?”

“No, I do. I just...”

“You just, what?”

Shane shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge something. “I do.” He pulls his knees back up to his chest. Ilya should get a gift for Shane’s yoga instructor.

He uses the point of his tongue to trace around the tight pucker. “I do too.” Presses it directly to the whole and wiggles, trying to get inside. Ilya strokes his thumbs over Shane’s hips. The unspoken, Relax. You’re safe, he’s mastered over their years together.

Incrementally, Shane does. Ilya presses his tongue deeper and deeper inside him, alternating strong thrusts with broad licks. His fingers join the party and, wet with spit, open Shane for him. Ilya loves this part. He knows what it takes for Shane to be this vulnerable; he isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s the only one who’s ever seen how Shane’s face turns feverish when he’s done with fingers and ready for a cock to fill him.

A last savoring lick, then Ilya rolls on a condom and grabs the lube. Spit won’t be enough to keep this next part comfortable for long, and he intends to fuck Shane for a long, long time.

~~~~~~

Shane is sleepy and sore and well-used. This might be the best feeling in the whole world. Well, the actual fucking is the best. But this satisfied ache is a close second. (Or third, if we’re counting blowjobs separately.)

Ilya crawls back into bed next to him and pulls the covers up over them both.

“I should go,” Shane mumbles. He’s not sure why he says that, other than the fact that this is the part where he normally goes.

Ilya stiffens. “I thought you were staying until the game.”

Is that a good idea? That’s definitely not a good idea. There’s already something heavy in Ilya’s gaze and something tender in Shane’s chest and they probably shouldn’t let those two things spend too much time together.

Ilya wraps an arm around Shane’s waist and pulls him close. “Stay. Nap. I am not done with you yet.”

“Okay,” Shane says, so softly he’s not sure he actually says it. “Okay.”

~~~~~~

Waking up with Shane in his arms makes this the best nap that Ilya has ever taken. Not the actual sleep part, of course. He slept shallowly, always aware of who shared his bed, of every twitch and move Shane made. His heart was so full when his eyes flickered open.

Bare back against chest, bare ass against half-hard dick, thighs and knees and ankles tangling. One arm under Shane’s neck and the other slung over his ribs. Cradling him. Ilya savors the feeling, trying to commit every muscle and hair and skin cell to memory.

Shane stirs and Ilya quickly closes his eyes. He waits to see how Shane reacts to this closeness. Does he panic, pull away?

No. Oh god, no. Shane pushes back against him more closely. Runs a hand along Ilya’s arm. Makes a noise that can only be described as a purr.

More.

Ilya is in such big trouble.

He opens his eyes and goes for more.

~~~~~~

“Tuna okay?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever is fine.” Not Shane’s usual approach to pre-game meals (or any meals, really). Salmon or other fish, brown rice, and a steamed seasonal vegetable. Simple, straightforward, and (after several seasons of trouble-shooting) easy to source in every away city.

“Ginger ale?”

“That would be great.” Ilya hands him a can of his favorite brand. Shane sits at the kitchen counter, quiet and overwhelmed, as Ilya pulls plastic containers out of the fridge and starts cooking. His movements are smooth and practiced and it’s kind of sexy actually.

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“A little bit.” He starts the rice cooker and puts broccoli in a steamer basket to add later.

The well-patinaed cast iron skillet on the stovetop begs to differ.

“The rice will take a bit.”

Shane nods. He is very familiar with the exact cooking time of brown rice. He glances at the time. “I don’t have to leave for a couple hours.”

Ilya comes around the kitchen island and holds his hand out toward Shane. Shane’s brain glitches; what is he supposed to do next? There’s a script here that Ilya seems to be following, but Shane can’t figure it out.

He takes Ilya’s hand in his and follows him from the kitchen to the living room. It’s a soft gesture. Sweet and intimate. Not what this is supposed to be at all.

What is this supposed to be?

What script are they following right now? Are they following the same one?

Ilya guides Shane to the couch, then sits a few feet away from him. Close enough they could touch; far enough they won’t by accident. He turns on the matinee game and Shane is able to settle a bit. He knows how to watch a hockey game.

He hasn’t watched one with Ilya before. Not in person. While texting, sometimes, they’ll have the same game on. He likes those nights.

Their banter is easy, comfortable. This is good. Still weird, but good.

During the intermission, though, Ilya asks a question. A question out of absolutely nowhere.

“Do you like girls?”

What.

“What?”

“Girls. Do you like them? Like—“ He waggles his eyebrows insinuatingly.

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

Ilya shrugs. “Some people do not.” His face is unreadable. Is he suggesting that Shane is…

“I like girls,” Ilya says and how on earth is Shane supposed to react to that.

“I figured.” Ilya’s not a big enough name in the league for his exploits to make tabloids, but they’re posted about enough in certain corners of the internet that Shane definitely just stumbled upon and didn’t go searching for and doesn’t check on a semi-regular basis.

“But I also like you.”

Ilya is looking at him… expectantly? What is Shane supposed to say to that. None of this makes any sense.

Before Shane can formulate a response, Ilya stands and wipes his palms on his pants.

“I got you something,” Ilya says. He crosses the room, pulls something out of a drawer under the TV, and sits back on the couch. Closer, this time.

“What do you mean, got me something?”

“A present.”

Shane stares at him blankly.

“A Christmas present, Hollander. You do celebrate Christmas, yes?”

“I mean, yes. I thought you didn’t until January.”

“I’m adaptable.” He winks, but his attempt at levity doesn’t break through the buzzing in Shane’s brain.

“But...”

“But what? Do you not want your present? It is very nice.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“Is okay.”

“This isn’t something... We don’t get each other presents.”

“Is not a big deal.”

It kind of definitely is, though. “Ilya...”

“I saw it and thought of you. Is nothing.”

He thought of him? He thought of him? If these were attempts at reassurance, they weren’t working very well.

Without knowing the end of the sentence, Shane starts, “I need to...” He needs to what? Leave and never return? Go buy something of comparable financial and emotional value and come back before opening anything?

Ilya sets a giftwrapped box in Shane’s lap.

“What is it?” Shane asks dumbly.

“Open it.”

And so Shane does. Slowly, carefully, splitting the tape at the seams rather than tearing at the paper.

It’s a stuffed animal.

A bird.

A loon.

A loon with red eyes and a gold medal and Olympic rings emblazoned on its banded wing.

“What is this?”

“The Olympics are in February.”

“Yes.”

“You are going.”

“They haven’t actually named the rosters yet.”

“You are going.”

“Okay, yes, probably.”

“Definitely.” Ilya nudges Shane’s ankle with his own. “I was thinking, since I am not doing anything over break…”

“What are you saying?”

“What if I came to the Olympics?”

“Why? Russia’s not participating.”

“To…” Ilya thumbs at his nose. A nervous tick Shane has come to recognize. “To watch you?”

Shane doesn’t understand. This isn’t… This isn’t what they do. None of today is. Meeting before the game, napping, cooking, couch. Presents.

Presents.

Visiting him. Watching him. Doing… what? Being what?

No. No no no no no. This is so much. This is too much.

“I need to go.”

“What?”

“Traffic. To Brooklyn. I’ll be late.”

“No you won’t.”

“I…”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’ll eat there.”

“Shane…”

Shane looks around the room. Where are his shoes. His wallet. Is his phone in his pocket or charging on Ilya’s bedside table? Does it matter?

He has to go.

“Hollander.”

He can’t look Ilya in the eye, can’t stand to puzzle out what emotion he’d find there. Would it be hurt or confusion or something clouded over with ice?

He has to go. Fuck if he has his phone.

“I’ll see you… around.”

“Hollander.”

Ilya’s voice follows him into the hallway and echoes all the way to Brooklyn and Boston and beyond.

~~~~~~

…

Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

My take on Tuna Melts! Since they’re already going by first names, we needed something else to mix things up.

I had the Christmas idea early on, but have been AGONIZING over what gift Ilya gets Shane. Everything else was written last week, I just couldn’t figure out that last bit. Hopefully I ended up with a good choice?

I’m on vacation next week and have no clue if that means I’ll be writing a lot or not at all.

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

The Olympics. Rose. Realizations.

Chapter Notes

I'm on vacation with my in-laws this week, so this chapter was primarily written in a coffee shop with a gorgeous view of the mountains and also the worst chai I've had in my life.

I hope you enjoy!

Practically the last thing Ilya wants to do is go to the Admirals Christmas party. But since the actual last thing he wants to do is sit alone on his couch and stare at the space Shane last occupied…

Well. It’s Christmas Eve and Ilya is in Connecticut. He thanks the driver who drops him off outside a McMansion in a neighborhood of almost identical McMansions.

The bottle of vodka he carries is warmer than he’d like; it was a long ride from the city. It’s nice vodka, brought with him from Russia last summer, and he carefully tied a bow around the neck. (Using the ribbon he’d bought to wrap that ill-advised gift for Shane… No. Tonight is not for moping. He is here so he doesn’t mope. No moping.)

He can hear voices and laughter even from the front porch. He considers calling the car back, but knocks on the door instead. When no one answers for a long minute, he pulls out his phone to leave. Then he sees the home screen.

It’s the same picture it’s been for years: a sea lion in the Central Park zoo. He’d taken that picture with Shane pressed against his side. Their first Not Date.

Fuck this.

Shane clearly doesn’t even want to Not Date him anymore.

Ilya knocks on the door again and—when there is again no answer—lets himself in.

A chorus of “Roz!” greets him and… it’s kind of nice actually? The happiness to see him feels genuine (though maybe it’s just surprise he actually showed up).

He slaps the back of a few teammates, then finds Laura Huff and kisses her cheek. “Christmas present for you,” he says, handing her the bottle of vodka. “Better if it goes in the freezer for a bit.”

She thanks him warmly, then: “Did you bring anyone with you?”

“Ah, no. Not this year.”

“I have a friend you should meet! Annie. So great and she’s around here somewhere.” Lord save him from the WAG matchmaking network.

But, not two hours later: “I have so many single friends I can set you up with.” Holly has one hand on Ilya’s forearm and the other on Hunter’s shoulder. She’s definitely drunk. Most people here are a bit drunk, Ilya included.

Bennett, in contrast, is clearly, painfully sober. He’s standing behind his wife, hand vaguely on her hip but mostly hovering over her sweater.

“I have this friend Gretchen—“

Hunter shrugs off Holly’s touch. “I’m really not—“

“She’s so pretty though! And nice! And—“

“I’m not—“ Hunter snaps, but stops himself before going too far. “I’m okay, I promise. I don’t need any help finding someone.”

Ilya wonders if he can hear other words hidden beneath that sentence: I found someone for myself, but you can’t know about him.

Maybe Ilya’s projecting. Maybe he needs to go to bed. Maybe he needs to get laid.

He has no real interest in getting laid if it’s not Shane. The crux of the problem.

Trying to get out of his own head, Ilya goes back to observing the slightly off dynamic between Bennett and Holly. He hasn’t spent a ton of time with them as a couple, so maybe this is just how they are. But there’s a coolness between that doesn’t reflect their years of marriage. A platonic nature to how they talk and interact. Holly fiddles with her ring like she’s not used to wearing it.

Everyone in this damn conversation is full of secrets.

~~~~~~

“Shane, have you met Rose Landry before?”

Shane looks up from his phone—which isn’t buzzing no matter how much he stares at it and doesn’t actually want it to buzz—to see an absolutely gorgeous woman smiling at him.

He knows who Rose Landry is, obviously, but he’s used to seeing her get kidnapped on tiny airplane movie screens. The force of her smile in real life knocks him back. “I haven’t had the pleasure. Big fan.”

He holds his hand out to shake and her skin is just so soft. “Would you believe me if I said I’m a fan of you?”

Shane laughs. “Not really.”

“Well I am! Michigan. Born and raised a Detroit fan, but even my dad admits you’re good enough to root for.”

“What a compliment.”

“Oh, it is.”

A TV producer interrupts them. He’s at the Olympics and a morning show back in Boston wanted to interview Shane after Canada’s semifinal win (he was expecting lots of We love you, but please don’t beat Team USA jokes) and Rose was doing cross-promo for her upcoming movie (a romantic comedy set in a double-booked ski chalet).

Shane gives the same answers he gives in every interview and smiles at the expected jokes. Rose is funny and charming and even pulls Shane into some less-tortured-than-usual banter.

Once they’re done filming and their mics are unclipped, Rose looks at Shane brightly and asks, “What are you doing after this?”

Shane wasn’t sure why she was asking, exactly. Polite conversation? Wanting to do something with him? If the latter, why? To kill time or go on a date or just be vaguely friendly with the hockey star?

Rather than try and puzzle it all out, Shane answers honestly. “Figure skating. I trained with one of the Team Canada guys last summer.”

“Oh that sounds fun!”

Is Shane supposed to invite her or…

“Would you mind terribly if I tagged along? I have to leave tomorrow but have barely watched anything.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, relieved she took the choice out of his hands. “I’d like that.”

~~~~~~

Ilya sits at home and tries not to care about the Olympics.

Ilya sits at home and watches every game.

Ilya sits at home and scours the internet for every photo and clip and bit of promo.

Ilya sits at home and thinks about Shane.

His segment on the Boston morning show seems the same as all the others: Shane half-listening to the question and reciting the appropriate answer from his mental stock of answers.
The show cuts away to an interview with an actress next, but Ilya keeps watching until Shane returns for the Fun And Games portion of the show.

Sometimes it’s trivia they make him do—he’s excellent at hockey questions and terrible at pop culture. Surprisingly okay at geography. The ones where he has to cook something are always entertaining. Today, he’s giving a mini hockey lesson to the host and other guest.

It starts off fun, with Shane patiently showing the host how to hold a stick. The actress, Rose Landry, is much more familiar with the equipment. She talks about her hockey-playing brothers and banters with Shane over Detroit-Boston and Canada-USA rivalries. Shane banters right back. He’s more open than he ever is on these shows. Laughing his real smile, rather than his TV one. Hands lingering on Rose’s when he slightly adjusts her grip and standing close when she shoots a few pucks.

Ugly jealousy twists in Ilya’s gut.

Shane’s stammered, “Yeah, sure, of course I like girls” echoes in Ilya’s brain like a bullhorn.

~~~~~~

Shane asks Rose to join him for coffee before her flight the next morning and she accepts with a grin that makes his chest warm.

Their chat is friendly, familiar. Flirtatious, Shane dares to think. He likes a girl! He had been starting to wonder if this would ever happen. Apparently all it took was a movie star to catch his attention. Such reasonable standards, he thinks with a mental eye roll.

Shane walks Rose out of the Olympic village and to her car for the airport. He feels bold and holds her hand as they walk. He doesn’t think he’s held anyone’s hand since high school.
(Well, there was Ilya, reaching for Shane and guiding him… No. Not that.)

“So,” he says.

“So!” Rose leans against the waiting black car.

“Are you going to be in Boston anytime soon?”

“You want to see me again?” Her lips are pressed together, but curled at the corners.

“I mean, yeah.”

Rose steps forward and presses a soft kiss to Shane’s mouth. A peck, really, but every muscle in Shane’s body freezes. He doesn’t kiss her back. Doesn’t reach for her and pull her close. Doesn’t feel anything except wrong.

Rose leans back, but cups her hand to Shane’s cheek. She looks at him for a very long time. He wishes she’d stop touching him. “Can we talk in the car for a sec?” she asks.

“Sure?” God, what just happened? Is this how he finally fucks it all up?

Shane follows her into the backseat. The driver exits to wait on the sidewalk and they’re alone.

“Shane.”

“Rose?”

“You’re so cute.”

“Thank you?”

“I need you to know that whatever I say, whatever you say, is a complete secret. I’ll never mention a word to anyone. Not a priest, not a therapist, not my hairdresser”

Oh no.

“Are you…” She shakes her head like those weren’t the right words. “Do you like me?”

“Of course!” That’s not a lie.

“But do you like me like me? God, I sound like a middle schooler.”

“I…” Shane can’t talk.

“I’m going to be really honest and I’m so sorry if I’m completely off base here but…” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve had three boyfriends come out as gay and all three of them kissed me like that.”

Fuck. Oh fuck. He’s fucked.

“Shane.”

He was quiet too long. He confirmed everything he’d already proven through his actions.

“Shane, it’s okay.”

“It’s not, though.”

She touches the back of his hand, but quickly lets go when Shane flinches. “It is. I promise it is.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut.

“Does anyone know?”

He shakes his head.

“I won’t tell.”

“I know.” Shane does know that, actually. 30 hours of friendship or whatever this is with Rose and he trusts her.

The driver taps on the window and they both jump.

“I need to leave for my flight.”

“Okay.”

“You have my number. Text me anytime. All the time.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to be your friend, Shane Hollander.”

A friend sounds really nice, actually.

~~~~~~

They lose the gold medal match.

Shane’s mom texts him a long paragraph about how she’s proud of him and also they need to reach out to Olympic sponsors to get individual deals set up.

Rose texts him a crying face and a green heart.

Ilya doesn’t text him at all.

On the long, sad flight home, Shane sits consumed by a single thought: He fucked up with Ilya.
The tournament would have been better with Ilya in the stands, by his side. Maybe he would have played better in that last game if he had someone to show off for. Or maybe the loss would still have been shattering, but not as bad with Ilya there to catch the pieces.

He unzips his backpacks and finds the stuffed loon buried in its depths. He fucked up with Ilya and he needed to fix it.

Chapter End Notes

Okay so since Russia is banned from international competition in this universe, the Olympics obviously can't be held in Sochi. Also, I think I counted the seasons wrong from their draft year so these are the 2017 Unnamed City Olympics. Whoops!

A shorter chapter today, but we're SO CLOSE to the happy parts that I wanted to go ahead and get this bit up.

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

After the Olympics, Shane goes to New York.

Chapter Notes

A real up and down of a week for me: ski vacation (great), many bruises from falling skiing (less so), horrible altitude sickness from previous trips mostly under control (yay!), had the worst 24 hour stomach bug of my life.

This chapter is super gushy and I hope you enjoy 🩷

There were 24 hours between Team Canada landing in Toronto and Shane’s first practice back in Boston. If he timed his flights well, he could spend 15 of those hours in New York.

He shipped his luggage home—hauling four suitcases including a hockey bag through commercial customs would take too much time—and promised a driver five hundred dollars if he could get Shane from the airport to Ilya’s Manhattan apartment in record time. Money didn’t mean anything to him right now.

They narrowly avoided death at several intersections, but soon Shane was smiling at Ilya’s familiar doorman and tapping his toe the entire elevator ride.

When he knocked on Ilya’s door, though, there was no answer. Knock again. No answer.

Fuck. He’d been so focused on getting here that he never paused to consider that Ilya might be out.

Or maybe he was here, but Shane fucked things up too much and so Ilya had taken one glimpse out the peephole and ignored him.

No. It wasn’t that. There was a creaky board in Ilya’s entryway and Shane could always hear him a second before the door swung open.

What was he supposed to do now? How was he—

“Shane?”

Shane spun around so quickly he got a little dizzy. (When did he last eat? Sleep?)

Ilya. It was him, wearing a tank top and workout shorts. He was sweaty and his curls were plastered to his neck. Shane wanted to lick the sweat off his skin.

“Ilya.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the Olympics?”

“Got back this morning.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Boston?”

Shane shook his head and stepped towards Ilya, drawn in like a magnet. “First practice is tomorrow.”

He doesn’t even check over his shoulder before sliding his hand into Ilya’s wet hair and kissing him. Ilya’s entire body snaps into action like a panther pouncing from a tree. With his mouth, he ravages Shane’s; with one hand, he pulls him close as can be; with the other, he reaches behind them and fumbles open door.

“You are not being careful,” Ilya says into Shane’s lips.

“I don’t care anymore.”

“Should we talk?”

“After.”

They tumble into Ilya’s apartment, barely remembering to close the door. They never allow a breath of air between them, not even as clothes are torn off and scattered in a path from entryway to bedroom.

Shane licks the sweat from Ilya’s neck, feels the pounding of blood. How did he ever think he could live without this?

“I need you,” Shane says. “I missed you.”

Ilya says something in Russian and falls to his knees. He mouths at Shane’s stomach, his hips, his thighs. Words Shane can’t understand, repeated on a loop; they sink into his skin like a tattoo.

When Ilya finally wraps his lips around Shane’s cock, Shane whimpers. He groans. He doesn’t hold back his noises like he usually does, half-afraid the neighbors will hear.

He’s not afraid anymore.

Soon, too soon, orgasm comes crashing towards Shane like a tidal wave. His fingers are tight in Ilya’s hair; it must hurt. “I’m close,” he gasps. “So close—“

But the relief never reaches him. Ilya pulls back with two strokes to spare. Sinks back on his heels and smirks up at Shane.

“What was that for?!”

“I am not done with you.”

“I think we’ve already established I can come twice in a night.”

Ilya unfolds to his feet, ever graceful, and lifts Shane by the thighs. Shane eagerly wraps his legs around his waist, trying to find friction between their equally hard cocks.

“I don’t want to wait,” Ilya says. Sucking Shane’s bottom lip into his mouth, he adds, “And I like to see you pout.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, but the word is imbued with years of affection.

Ilya must be able to hear the tenderness, because his teasing kiss turns into something deeper. Something simultaneously sweeter and hotter, if that’s even possible.

Ilya carries Shane a few steps away from the bed, which is the wrong direction, but then they’re in the bathroom and the wall is hard against Shane’s back and Ilya is hard against his front and he’s shivering and burning up and Ilya is whispering, “Look at yourself.”

Shane turns his head to the full-length mirror and there he is. Or, more importantly, there they are, wrapped together as though they were one. One stretch of skin between them, one expanse of muscle. Dark hair and light, moles and freckles, twisting together until they could never again be separated.

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

“Take me to bed.”

~~~~~~

I love you.

Ilya can’t stop saying the words. He says them in Russian, so there’s at least some plausible deniability, but he’s sure his meaning is clear.

I love you.

I love you.

Shane in his bed, where he belongs. Straddling his waist, settling on his thighs. Where he should always be.

Ilya wets his fingers, opens Shane up, savors every gorgeous noise he is able to pull out of that gorgeous mouth. He’s letting himself be louder than usual, which Ilya appreciates. He usually has to really work to get Shane to let go and live in the moment, live in the spaces where their bodies connect.

When Ilya finally presses inside Shane, it’s like coming home. He hasn’t been with someone in… well. A long time. But even with them, it had never been like this. No one else was Shane and no one else would do.

I love you.

“What are you saying?” Shane’s eyes are closed and his head thrown back. It’s like the question is an afterthought.

Should he answer?

“Look at me.”

He does. Shane’s eyes skim his mouth, his cheek, his nose before settling on Ilya’s.

Should he?

Shane rests his hand on Ilya’s chest, right over his heart. His thumb on Ilya’s mother’s crucifix.

I love you, he says again. “I love you.”

A silence that feels like Ilya’s heart is turned to ice and hit with a hammer. But, in the moment before he shatters…

“I love you too.”

Oh thank god. Ilya lunges up and Shane dives down; they meet in the middle, more a collision than an actual kiss. Their noses crash and their teeth clash. Tongues everywhere, hands everywhere, Ilya still inside Shane and he’s never going to leave. They move together, rock together. They roll across the wide expanse of Ilya’s bed.

Ilya is on top now, Shane’s foot propped on his shoulder. Spread open wide for him, so beautiful. So deep, every thrust like it’s their souls twining together.

“Ilya…” Shane’s nails are sharp scrabbling over Ilya’s hips.

“Are you close?”

“I’m—“ Shane’s cock is red and angry (eager) and leaking on his stomach. He’s close.

Ilya tips his hips just the way he knows Shane loves and wraps a tight fist around him. Shane is loud: gasping his appreciation, whimpering Ilya’s name, moaning for more. And so Ilya gives him more. Of course he does.

Harder. Faster. Deeper. Until Shane flings back his head, bares his neck. Ilya presses his lips to the pulsepoint there and has to fight not to leave his mark. Shane is his, even without a hickey to prove it.

“Ilya!” Shane shouts—shouts!—and then he spills over Ilya’s fist. Onto his chest, Ilya’s chest where they’re pressed together. Ilya is soon to follow, filling Shane with everything he has to give.

God, this feels good.

This feels right.

~~~~~~

“Did you mean it?”

Ilya is half asleep, head resting comfortably on Shane’s pec. “Huh?”

“What you said. Did you mean it?”

“When I said what?”

“You know…” Shane waves his hand vaguely. “During…”

“That I love you?”

“Yeah.”

Panic flickering from Ilya’s fingers to his toes. “Did you not mean it? When you said it?”

Ilya rolls over. He’s still on Shane’s chest, but looking up at him now. Shane’s gaze is fixed on the ceiling and his eyes are wet.

“I read that it doesn’t count the first time if you say it during sex.”

No, oh no. Ilya pushes himself so his full weight is on Shane now; he knows how that soothes him. He peppers Shane with kisses: lips, cheeks, forehead, eyes, ears, the very tip of his nose.

“Of course I meant it. Of course it counts.”

“You did?”

“I love you, Shane Hollander. How’s that for first time?” Shane smiles and scrubs roughly at one eye. Ilya tenderly swipes his thumb under the other.

“I love you too.”

“Good. Would be very embarrassing if I am the only one.”

“You’re not.”

~~~~~~

They kiss for a long time. They cuddle for even longer. Eventually, Shane’s stomach lets out a comically loud growl and they both burst out laughing.

“When did you last eat?” Ilya asks.

Shane has to think. “About halfway over the Atlantic?”

“If I cook will you run away again?” There’s a thread of something—hurt?—running through Ilya’s words.

“Look, about that…” Shane crawls out of bed and pulls on a pair of Ilya’s sweatpants; they cover his toes.

“It’s not—“ Ilya starts to protest, his words undermined by his hand reaching for Shane’s shadow.

“No, it is, and I’m sorry,” Shane says. He had a lot of time to mull this over on flights. “I shouldn’t have done that. I…” His carefully prepared speech has disappeared. “I should tell you when I’m overwhelmed. Instead of leaving.” Shane nods brusquely. “I’ll be better.”

Ilya crawls across the mattress—naked, beautiful. “Come here.”

He’s only half a step away and it’s ground covered quickly. “What?”

Ilya’s lips are already on his stomach, the ridge of his hip, the dip of his navel. “You came back.”

“I did.”

“That is what matters.”

Shane runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair. The curls are wild and a little stiff with sweat. “You shower,” he says. “I’ll cook.”

“Shower with me,” Ilya whines. “You have plane on you.”

Shane’s stomach chooses that moment to growl again, rumbling against Ilya’s cheek. Food, then shower, they agree.

~~~~~~

“How were the Olympics?” Ilya asks over their easy meal of turkey sandwiches and pickle spears.

“Good. I mean, until the end. That sucked.”

“Mr. Always-First doesn’t know how to get silver.”

Well, no. Not really. He’d lost the cup finals against LA the year before, which sucked ass, but other than that… Even thinking this made him feel like a dick. “I dunno,” he jokes. “I’m good at making you come first.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Is not true. And besides, I came fifth.”

“I still can’t believe that.”

He shrugs, more nonchalant than Shane suspects he actually feels. “They had not seen me play.”

“I would have loved to play you at juniors.”

“I would have kicked your ass. Gone first overall and you’d have hated me.”

“I wouldn’t have hated you.”

“You do not deny the ass kicking.”

Shane’s turn to shrug. “I could have beaten you.”

“But then I would have hated you.”

“Maybe,” Shane says. He wipes a crumb from Ilya’s lip. “I think we still would have gotten here.”

“I am very sexy.” Ilya takes a provocative bite of his pickle. “Hard to resist.”

Shane laughs despite himself. Ilya Rozanov really, really was irresistible.

~~~~~~

Ilya can’t help but ask. He’s been trying for hours not to ask, but he just has to. “You made a new friend at the Olympics.”

Shane looks up from where he’s reorganizing his backpack. “What are you talking about?”

“Rose Landry.”

His face gets all scrunched and confused. Then, “Oh, the morning show.”

“Yes, what else?”

Shane dodges the question. “She’s cool. You watched that?”

“Yes, to put myself to sleep.” A blatant lie and they both know it. Shane doesn’t call him on it, though. “It was good segment. You actually smiled.”

“Like I said, she’s cool.”

“What else happened?” Ilya is nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

Shane freezes, hand deep in his backpack. “We watched figure skating. Got coffee.”

Shane is avoiding eye contact even by Shane standards. “And?” Ilya prompts.

“I…”

Ilya holds his breath.

“I kissed her.”

Shane has kissed a girl more recently than Ilya has? The world must have slipped out of orbit.

“And?”

Shane’s hand tightens on something in his bag. “She told me I was gay.”

Ilya’s jaw quite literally drops open. “No.”

“Well, actually, she told me I kiss like all her gay ex-boyfriends.”

“How many gay ex-boyfriends can a movie star have?”

“Three, apparently.”

Ilya crosses the room and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist. Presses his mouth to the crook of his jaw. “You are a very good kisser.”

“With you, maybe.”

“Is all that matters, yes?”

“Now it is.”

Shane turns in his arms and Ilya realizes what he’s been fidgeting with. The loon. That stupid stuffed loon that made him run away.

“You brought it.”

Shane nods.

“You took it to the Olympics. Even when…”

“Even when.”

Ilya kisses him like they haven’t kissed in months, even though it’s practically all they’ve been doing for fourteen hours.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~~~~~~

“What happens now?” Ilya asks.

Shane checks the time on his phone. “My car is five minutes away. Then the flight and straight to practice.”

“I meant…”

Oh. Oh. As much as Shane had thought about this thing with Ilya over the last few days—this thing that was now love—he never stopped to consider what happened when he got back to Boston.

“When do we play next?” Shane asks, sticking with the easy questions. The logistics.

“You play Jersey and Brooklyn next month, while I am west.”

“I hate when that happens.”

“Very inconvenient. Don’t the schedule makers know I need to get laid?”

Insecurity flashes through Shane, but he tries to cover it with a joke. “Like you were never getting laid out west.”

“Hey,” Ilya says. He tips Shane’s chin towards him. Doesn’t let him get away with the deflection. “Not anymore.”

“No?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No one will do but you.”

Shane’s heart flutters. “Or you. I’ll miss you.” Not the sort of thing they usually said, even if Shane (whether he had admitted to himself or not) had been feeling for years.

“I’ll miss you too. Six weeks, then I am in Boston.”

“That’s so long.”

“Afternoon game.”

“Does that mean you’re flying out right after?” Shane loves the afternoon games that mean they get to meet up at 4 or 5, rather than 10 or 11. He hates the ones that mean Ilya is on a plane before they even get a chance to kiss.

Ilya shakes his head. “Next morning.”

“Good.”

Shane’s phone buzzes. His car is here.

“Six weeks,” he echoes.

“Six weeks.” Ilya kisses him so tenderly it’s like he’s floating all the way to the car and the airport and home.

His teammates don’t understand why he isn’t more bummed about the silver medal. He had kind of forgotten about that part.

Chapter End Notes

My current guess is there will be three more chapters: afternoon game in Boston, New York’s playoff run, and The Cottage. Haven’t decided yet if I want to (or there’s a good way to) incorporate the funeral or Shane’s injury. Or if I want to keep going for teammates/relationship reveal/etc.

We shall see! Anything in particular you want me to include?

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya go on a date. An actual one.

Chapter Notes

If the previous chapter was sappy, this one is just fluffy. Enjoy!

When Hunter lobs an invitation for a charity gala to the locker room as a whole, Ilya doesn’t accept because he thinks Hunter wants him in particular to go. He doesn’t even accept because he cares about youth hockey access, though if he’s going to attend a gala there are certainly worse beneficiaries.

But no. Ilya dresses up in his best tuxedo and ties his bowtie three times because he has something to protect now. He has Shane.

If Hunter has some threat to dangle over them--if he knows about the two of them--Ilya is going to make sure he has something to dangle right back.

Ilya finds Hunter immediately upon entering the hotel ballroom. He’s standing near the bar, mostly ignoring the slick businessman he’s speaking to, and watching the door like he’s waiting for something. His eyes widen when he sees Ilya come in; not who he was waiting for. Good to note.

Ilya nods at him in acknowledgement, then accepts a flute of champagne and disappears into the crowd. Ilya can see Hunter over the head of an old woman who’s getting a bit handsy under the guise of keeping her balance. Hunter is still talking to the businessman; he’s slouched, disconnected, uninterested. It’s not hard to notice when Hunter’s awaited guest enters the ballroom. His entire body brightens, straightens, opens. He looks so happy.

Ilya isn’t sure he’s seen Hunter be truly happy before. A twist of something ugly in his gut. Taking Hunter’s joy and turning it into blackmail. Is he that cruel?

But then he pictures Shane, crouched on the floor, almost unreachable through the haze of anxiety. Whatever Ilya has to do to protect Shane, this something they’re building between them, he’ll do it.

Hunter moves quickly through the crowd, shrugging off handshakes and attempts at conversation. Ilya quietly follows.

A man is hovering awkwardly near the door, looking slightly out of place. Nothing concrete--he’s handsome, wearing an expensive and well-tailored suit, but he’s not comfortable here. His gaze doesn’t settle anywhere and he tugs on his jacket sleeves every few seconds.

When Hunter reaches the man, though, he undergoes the exact transformation Ilya just saw in Hunter. Every suspicion Ilya has harbored over the past months is confirmed in that single instant: Scott Hunter has a secret boyfriend.

Ilya spends the rest of the evening doing what hockey players do at charity galas. Smiling at middle aged men who “could have gone pro if not for [fill in the blank].” Dodging come-ons and wandering hands. Repeating the same few lines about the team’s playoff chances. He’s approached a good amount, but it’s far less attention than that attracted by the Admirals’ superstar captain.

Ilya keeps half an eye on Hunter throughout the night, half an eye on his date. The boyfriend didn’t actually come to the event as Hunter’s date, obviously. He hovers near the side of a beautiful woman in a long red dress who seems to be the actual invitee. A friend, definitely; their every touch screams platonic.

At one point, the woman drags Hunter onto the dance floor. She seems to be interrogating Hunter, giving him some kind of Best Friend Shovel Talk, which makes Ilya snort to think about. Ilya considers approaching the boyfriend while he’s standing alone, but thinks better of it. He’s not here to scare the guy off or anything. Just to gather information.

However, it’s not a hardship to sweep his beautiful friend into a dance near the end of the evening. Elena, he learns her name is. Kip, he learns his name is. A software engineer and a smoothie shop employee, respectively. That’s how he knows Hunter, Elena tells Ilya. Kip serves Scott Hunter his good luck smoothies. That’s it, she insists. Total coincidence they ran into each other here.

Ilya nods as if he believes that and leaves soon after the song ends.

~~~~~~

Shane worries he went a little overboard for his first Actual Date with Ilya. They’ve been on a lot of Not Date Dates throughout the years, but this one is different. This one should be special.

Which is why he picked out a three hour sunset tour of Boston Harbor on a private sailboat.

He worries that he’s being a bit obvious. That this isn’t something friends do together. That the captain and deckhand will know exactly why they’re there together.

He books it anyway. There’s plausible deniability and Shane can live with plausible deniability.

~~~~~~

“Where are you taking me?” Ilya asks for the umpteenth time. Shane drives a long and circuitous route out of Boston along a stretch of seaside Ilya had never been to before.

“You’ll see.”

He said that the previous three times Ilya asked too. Eventually, he pulls into a mostly empty gravel parking lot. Ilya steps out of the car and stretches his back. “Did you bring me here to murder me? This is great murder spot.”

Shane looks all around them, then presses a quick kiss to Ilya’s lips. Kissing Shane in the sunlight. It feels good. New. Ilya tries to deepen the kiss, but Shane pulls away before either of them gets too flustered. Probably a good idea, loathe as Ilya is to admit.

Shane grabs a large bag and a shoebox out of the back of his Jeep (why he still drives a Jeep, Ilya will never understand), then leads Ilya down a short path through some trees. The trees soon end and the ocean stretches before them, wide and uninterrupted, glinting from the low-hanging sun. There’s a rocky beach and a small dock and a... a sailboat.

Their first Actual Date and Shane got them a fucking sailboat. Ilya wants to pull him into a kiss and never let go, but then he sees that the beach isn’t unoccupied. Two figures circle the boat, doing something he doesn’t understand with ropes.

“Shane...”

“Is this okay?” He’s nervous.

No one has ever done anything like this for Ilya before. Planned something just for him. Ilya has organized everything for his family since he was 12, has never had a partner or friend close enough to consider treating him. Well, no one other than Shane and their Not Dates. Ilya can’t put into words how beyond okay this is, so he just nods.

He follows Shane silently down the beach, watching his step more carefully than strictly necessary. He needs to shake off whatever sentimental funk is threatening to consume him.

When Shane opens the shoe box he’s carrying, it’s just the thing to lighten the mood.

“Did you buy me Sperries?”

Shane nods and lays the shoes in front of him on the dock.

“Those are hideous.”

“They’re the best thing to wear on boats. I’m told.” Sure enough, Shane is wearing a matching pair of equally ugly brown leather shoes.

“I think you were being pranked.”

“Well, then I’m pranking you too. Put them on.”

Ilya acquiesces with more grumbling than he actually feels. (The shoes fit perfectly and Ilya is very handsome, so he can pull them off.) It’s fun to wind Shane up a little. To watch his eyebrows scrunch and hear him huff in mild frustration.

Ilya throws one arm around Shane’s shoulders in what he hopes is an appropriately bro-like manner. It probably isn’t, considering all he wants to do is pull Shane into his side and bury his face in his hair.

Yeah, there’s no way they’re getting through tonight without the boat employees knowing something was up between them. Ilya wonders how Shane planned to get around that when he booked this. Knowing Shane, he has a plan.

Once properly decked out in Sperries, Shane and Ilya make their way to the boat and introduce themselves to Captain Darren and to the deckhand, Mike. From there, they are quite literally shown the ropes. There are so many ropes. There was absolutely no reason for there to be this many ropes.

Mike explains what, exactly, each rope is for--“lines, not ropes”--and Shane listens intently like there’s going to be a test at the end. Ilya is mostly zoned out and watching Shane, but it doesn’t matter. They aren’t going to be the ones actually sailing this thing. (Right? He hadn’t exactly learned the parameters of the rental.)

Then comes the safety demonstration which, after a sharp elbow to the ribs, Ilya does actually pay attention to. A good bit of fear-mongering, but straightforward enough. Before boarding, Darren shares their itinerary: “We’re going to sail with your assistance about 45 minutes up the coast. At the anchorage, Mike and I will take a dinghy and let you have your dinner in peace for an hour and a half. Then it’s a 45 minute sail back in the dark, which we will handle completely.”

Ilya balks at ‘with your assistance’ and almost blushes at ‘have dinner in peace’ (but does not actually blush, of course, because Russians do not blush).

“Sound good?” Darren confirms.

“Sounds great!” Shane is practically bouncing with excitement as he accepts a life jacket and climbs aboard the boat. Ilya follows. Between the vest and the shoes, he probably looks like a fool. But Shane looks adorable practicing a knot in his sailor get-up, so Ilya doesn’t really care.

They raise the sail, he and Shane pulling on the appropriate rope--line!--together. Watching it unfurl pulls something loose inside of Ilya too. He too catches the wind and is pushed out to sea, Shane holding firmly to his lines.

Ilya scoots a little closer to Shane, in the guise of watching how he ties off the line. Captain Darren definitely sees how their thighs press together, but his gaze doesn’t linger, quickly moving on to check Shane’s knot.

“You’re a natural,” the captain says and Shane blushes.

“Did you practice this?” Ilya asks him.

“Not very much,” Shane demurs.

“Shane!”

“Just some of the knots! They seemed really confusing when I was looking at different rental options, so I watched a couple videos and kind of got into it. There are so many, it’s honestly fun to try and learn them all.”

“You are so boring.”

Code for I love you and they both know it.

“And you’re being an asshole.”

That’s code too.

~~~~~~

Darren and Mike leave them alone, anchored somewhere off the Massachusetts coast, in a boat neither of them can pilot, with the promise of returning in 90 minutes.

“If they never come back,” Ilya asks as the dinghy disappears into a cove, “how long before you eat me?”

“You think I’d eat you first?”

“Would you not? You have a very needy mouth.”

Shane rolls his eyes at the innuendo and says, “You have way more fighting penalties than I do.”

“Yes, but those men deserved to be punched. You are very nice. Do not deserve to be eaten.”

“You’re not going to eat me?” Shane abandons the table where he was laying out their dinner and saunters over to stand between Ilya’s knees. Their combined weight unbalances the boat slightly and a fork goes clinking to the floor.

“You have a cannibalism fetish now?” Ilya grabs Shane by the hips and steers him to the middle of the deck. They are not going to capsize this boat, no matter how horny Shane is. About cannibalism.

“No. About…” Shane scrapes his teeth along Ilya’s jaw. “Eating you.” He drops to his knees and the boat rocks slightly, but everything stays balanced this time.

Shane presses his cheek to Ilya’s thigh and looks up at him with those Bambi eyes no sane person could resist. “Can I?”

“You want to suck my cock?” Ilya says quietly, like the waves might be listening.

Shane nods, running a single finger down the fly of Ilya’s shorts. He’s already hard, because of course he is. It’s Shane Hollander on his knees. No sane person, remember.

“Then suck it.”

If Ilya thought kissing Shane in the sunlight of the parking lot was a rush, this is exhilarating. Shorts pushed down, pulled tight across his spread thighs. Hand reaching for the mast to steady them both. Shane’s mouth wet on his stomach, hot on his skin. And above them both the sky: pink sunset and orange streaked clouds. The wind ruffling their hair and the water lapping, lapping around them. The sway of the boat. The bob of Shane’s head, in rhythm with every slow wave.

Lazy. Unhurried. They have 90 minutes and all the time in the world.

Eventually, Ilya’s hand on the back of Shane’s neck urges him to go a little faster, a little deeper. Then a little more. A little more. Then Shane is swallowing him down and Ilya is coming with a shout. Shane’s name on his lips, in the air, whisked away on a breeze and carried across the wide ocean.

“Shane,” Ilya says, just for the two of them. “My Shane.” He pulls Shane up for a kiss and loves their combined taste on his lips. They sink together to the wooden deck, still kissing, still touching. Ilya’s dick is soft now, but no less interested in the situation. He shoves Shane’s shorts out of the way and wraps a fist around his hard, leaking cock.

Shane pants into his neck. “Ilya, Ilya.” Hearing his name on Shane’s lips will never get old.

Ilya twists his wrist in exactly the way he knows--has known for years--that Shane likes best and it doesn’t take long before he’s tipping over the edge too. His gasp is loud, unrestrained. Ilya slides down to lick the spilled cum from Shane’s stomach and his own hand.

“You’re so gross.”

Ilya kisses Shane with lots of tongue to make sure he tastes himself too. “You love me,” he teases.

“I love you,” Shane says with complete earnestness.

“Now, let’s eat.”

“I wasn’t enough for you?”

“You are always enough, moya tachka, but I saw fancy cheese with our dinner.”

“What does that mean?”

“My dear,” Ilya lies, then pulls back up his shorts and goes in search of the picnic basket and the camembert.

~~~~~~

“What do we do after this?” Ilya asks.

“Go back to my place? You don’t fly out until the morning,” Shane says like it was a stupid question.

“Not, like, tonight,” Ilya says like that should have been obvious. “Going forward. About...” He waves between them.

Oh. Oh!

“What do you want to do?” Shane asks carefully.

Ilya takes another bite of his cheese and baguette. “We are together, yes?”

“Yes?”

“Like, boyfriends?”

Shane gapes a little at that. Somehow, in all this, the word boyfriend had never passed through his brain. Certainly not to describe Ilya Rozanov.

“You plan this for me--” Ilya gestures to the boat and the sea surrounding them “--and say you love me.”

“I did and I do.”

“I think that makes me your boyfriend.”

Shane scooches so he’s sitting next to Ilya, rather than across the picnic basket from him. “I think it does.”

“Good.” Ilya brushes a kiss to his temple. “That is settled.”

“No one can know, though.”

Ilya seems distinctly sad at that thought, but doesn’t protest. “No. No one can know. Not while we are playing.”

“Boston and New York aren’t far, but--”

“Not by NHL standards, no.”

“But they’re not exactly close.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, but Shane waits. He can see thoughts spinning in Ilya’s head and bubbling in his throat. Eventually, when the last glimmers of sun disappear below the horizon, Ilya says, “I signed bridge deal with Admirals.”

“Okay?” Shane isn’t sure where this is going.

“Only this year and next on my contract. I doubt they’d fight if I ask to be traded earlier, but in less control then.”

“You’d leave New York?”

Ilya shrugs. “I almost left after last season.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Until All Stars, I wasn’t going to resign. They weren’t going to resign me.”

“What changed?”

“I played with you. They saw I could be good.”

“You’ve always been good.”

Ilya buries his head in Shane’s chest. “You say that.”

“Who do you think knows more about hockey, me or some suit?”

He doesn’t say anything, so Shane pulls Ilya tighter to him and continues: “You’re the best I’ve ever played against. For that one game, you were the best person I’ve ever played with. They’re all idiots if they can’t see that.”

“They’re idiots, then.” Ilya’s words are muffled and a little wet.

“You deserve a team, a city that worships you.”

“Now you’re just flattering.”

“I’m not.” He really wasn’t. Ilya’s numbers are astounding for someone who gets as little public notice as he does.

Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist and they’re holding each other. “Do you think Boston would want me?” Ilya asks in a small, vulnerable voice.

From his heart, Shane says, “They’d be lucky to have you.” Switching to his hockey brain, he does a quick run-through of their depth chart and contract statuses. “We’ll have room at center. Perrault’s going to ask for more than he’s worth to resign and the prospects are developing slower than hoped. It’d still be on the second line,” (behind Shane, though Shane has a feeling Ilya would challenge him for first before long) “but Coach LeClaire jumbles lines more than most and we’d be a menace on the power play together.”

“You’re saying...”

“We have the cap space now for your current contract and, once Perrault’s gone, room for you to sign something decent.”

Ilya squeezes Shane and jolts him out of analysis. “So?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I mean, I’m not management. I can’t guarantee anything.”

“But...”

“But you’d fit.”

“And you would want me there? I wouldn’t be... intruding?”

“Of course.”

Ilya kisses him with a fire that they don’t have time to quench. An entire lifetime may not be enough to dull the inferno between them, but the ten minutes before they have company on this sailboat isn’t enough to even try.

They make out for seven of those minutes, regardless, and spend the remaining three frantically straightening clothing and smoothing hair and hoping kiss-swollen lips aren’t too visible in the dark.

“What should we do about Darren and Mike?” Ilya asks. “They definitely know.”

“They do, don’t they?” The thought doesn’t scare Shane as much as it did even a few hours ago.

Darren and Mike end up answering that question for them. When the dinghy returns, after the motor cuts but before they toss lines up to the sailboat, the two seamen have a conspicuously loud conversation about how Mike’s sister has a wife but that would have been a problem with her job so they kept it a secret when they first started dating. Darren practically shouts his agreement about how unfortunate it is people still have to hide who they love but how important discretion can be.

Almost definitely a lie, but Shane sighs in relief and makes a mental note to add a couple hundred extra to each of their tips.

~~~~~~

Shane and Ilya sit close on the bench seat for the sail back. It’s dark, they think. No one can see them. And, anyone who can, well... They feel safe here, in this bubble on this boat.

Their vague plans for what comes next, the weight of the world finding them out, the years of circling and of sex that led them here: none of that exists. It’s just the sparkle of the stars above them. The crash and swell of the waves below them. The snap of sails and shouts of “ready about!” or “jibe-ho!” The warmth of arms clasped and fingers intertwined.

Plus, it’s chilly. They’re cuddling together because the nighttime sea winds are cold. Obviously.

~~~~~~

Upon disembarkation, Ilya claps Mike on the back. “Congrats on your sister’s wedding.”

“My who?” Mike says.

Darren elbows him.

“Yes! My sister! She is a lesbian and she is very happy!”

Shane hands Darren two envelopes thick with tip. “Thank you for the wonderful evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hollander,” he says with a duck of his head. “Good luck with the playoffs.”

“We’re not there yet, but I like our chances this year.”

“I’m not wishing you luck, Mr. Rozanov!”

“I do not need your luck. I will win the cup without it!”

Shane and Ilya hold hands for the short walk up the dock, across the beach, and to the car.

“Home?” Shane asks.

“Home,” Ilya agrees. And next year, maybe the next, Ilya won’t have to wonder whether that word applies to him. Soon, this place really will be his home.

Shane, of course, is already his home.

Chapter End Notes

You can read the gala from Scott’s point of view in Interlude: Hunter. I got the timeline slightly jumbled during the writing process, so ignore the fact that from Scott’s POV the gala is before the Olympics, while from Ilya’s it’s after.

Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

The playoffs have begun.

Chapter Notes

Shane loves playing against Ilya. He loves chasing him down the ice, battling for the puck, crashing into the boards with Ilya’s weight heavy against him. He knows where Ilya will be, what play he’s going for next, how fast he can skate from blue line to blue paint.

Ilya, of course, knows all the same about him.

He can’t wait for them to play on the same team. Putting the cart in front of the horse, he knows. There are a thousand moving pieces before that happens, a million things outside their control. Getting two professional sports franchises to make major money deals because you want to live with your boyfriend? Easier said than done.

Would they live together? Six months from now, would they be bickering over loading the dishwasher and putting the cap back on the toothpaste? Would they be falling asleep tangled together every night and waking in each other’s arms every morning?

Shane shakes his head to clear it. It’s round one of the Stanley Cup Playoffs and he needs to be focused on the game, not daydreaming about his boyfriend. (His boyfriend!) His boyfriend who is skating lazy circles in front of the Admirals’ bench during this TV timeout. They catch eye contact and Ilya smirks.

He had texted Shane before the game:

Shane ducks his head to avoid blushing, then the TV timeout ends and he hops the boards.

Ilya is still smirking when they crouch for the faceoff. “I want to be adventurous tonight,” he says, voice muffled around his mouthguard.

“I think it’ll be pretty boring.”

Shane wins the puck cleanly, but Marlow isn’t where he expects him to be and his pass goes off-target. Ilya is there to capitalize, of course, snatching the puck and racing for the other end of the ice. Shane is hot on his heels. He’s almost there, almost close enough for a poke check, when Ilya glances back at him.

In that single moment that his focus is distracted, that he’s looking at Shane instead of where he’s going, Marlow comes flying in with a massive open ice hit. Shane hopes he’s imagining he crunch he hears when bodies collide and Ilya goes flying to the ice.

Marlow pauses for half a second, waiting for the ref to blow his whistle, but there’s no penalty called. Clean hit. He snatches the puck and skates two strides then takes a quick shot. Deflected, harmlessly, into the netting.

Shane is glad Cliff hadn’t tried to make a passing play, that there wasn’t a rebound Shane should have been in position to knock home. He’s still standing where he had skidded to a stop to avoid catching Marlow’s hit himself. It’s like his skates are superglued to the ice. He can’t move towards Ilya. Ilya, who’s still lying crumpled. He can’t move away.

The trainers are quickly on the ice. Crouched around Ilya. Surrounding him. Shane can’t see what’s happening.

“Is he okay?” a disembodied voice asks. His voice.

It moves quickly from there. Ilya’s spine is cleared. He sits up. He stands. He skates off the ice--slowly, but under his own power.

There are only 10 minutes left in the game and Shane doesn’t remember a single one of them. Is Ilya okay? Is he okay? What’s wrong with him? What if he’s not okay?

Boston loses to the Admirals 4-2, with an empty netter from Hunter sealing the deal. The series is 3-2 and heading back to New York. Nothing’s over yet.

Not that any of that matters to Shane, half-dressed in the locker room and staring at his phone.

No reply, no matter how hard he wills one to come through. Not until he’s showered and dressed and unlocking his front door.

Shane feels selfish for asking his next question:

~~~~~~

Game 6 had ended with an Admirals victory, knocking Shane out of the playoffs. Ilya had gone out with his team for a celebratory drink; Shane with his for a commiserative one. They were in Ilya’s apartment now, sitting on the couch together. Fully clothed, unfortunately.

“So……” Ilya walks his fingers up Shane’s forearm. “Are we going to fuck?”

“I’m watching the game.”

“We just played the game.”

Shane slaps Ilya’s hand away.

“And already watched the game once.”

“I’m trying to see where it went wrong.”

“Perrault’s dumb penalty, I scored, Coach’s stupid challenge, Hunter scored, entire team panicked and forgot how to score. And defend.”

“This isn’t helping, Ilya.”

“See, I am about to score.” Ilya is proud of that goal. Tough angle. “And Huff was clearly onside.”

“It wasn’t clear.”

Ilya tries again, sliding his hand up Shane’s thigh. “I just won first round of playoffs, I want to celebrate.”

“And I just lost, Ilya!”

The harshness of Shane’s tone makes Ilya lean back and raise his hands in surrender. Shane was usually down for sex, even after a loss—their whole situation wouldn’t have lasted this long if either of them were too averse on that front. It was angrier sex after an especially bad loss, perhaps. Rougher. More teeth, definitely. Scratches on Ilya’s back that took days to fade, rather than hours.

Ilya should have known this would be different. Losing a regular season game, even losing one 7-0, to your hookup was not the same thing as getting knocked out of the first round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs by your boyfriend. Even losing the previous three games of this series wouldn’t feel the same.

Ilya stands. “I’ll go to bed.”

“Wait.” Shane pauses the TV. It’s almost time for Hunter’s goal. “I’m sorry, I’m being—“

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “I know it is hard.”

Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s forehead and he tips up for a sweet kiss. Ilya combs his fingers through Shane’s hair; it’s getting long. “You will shave in morning, yes?”

Shane can’t grow a beard, exactly, but tradition dictates he can’t shave during the playoffs. No one loves tradition like Shane, even if it means he has the scraggly whiskers of a teenaged castaway.

Shane runs his thumb along Ilya’s jawline, where he has the beautiful beginnings of a playoff beard for the ages. “You won’t.”

“No.” Ilya turns his attention to Shane’s freckles. At lease the ‘scruff’ doesn’t hide those. “Next year, we will shave on same day.”

Closing his eyes and tipping into Ilya’s touch: “I hope so.”

“Come to bed.”

“I’m still not horny.”

“I know. Come to bed.”

~~~~~~

“Roz.”

Ilya looks up from taping an extra stick.

It’s Hunter. “Can we talk a sec?”

Shit. Shane had attended the last few playoff games, tucked in a box far from the family suite. Is that what this was about?

Ilya follows Hunter to a treatment room. The moment the door closes behind them, Hunter asks, “What do you know?”

He had expected the question long before today. Waiting until they were two games into the Stanley Cup Finals was… a choice.

“What do you know?”

Hunter looks genuinely confused, which genuinely confuses Ilya. “Do you not know?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Hopefully his question hadn’t given too much away, then. Better to keep the conversation on Hunter. “I do know. About your…”

Hunter isn’t quick to finish the sentence. He looks confused, annoyed, and… heartbroken?

“Your Kip,” Ilya finishes for him.

Definitely heartbreak rippling down Hunter’s skin. “Have you told anyone?” he asks.

“Of course not! I would never.” Even in the face of Shane’s worrying about Hunter finding them out, Ilya hasn’t so much as implied that Hunter has a secret of his own. Let alone that Ilya has actually met the man’s boyfriend. Well, been in the same room as him. Seen him. Knows his name. Danced with his friend.

“You…” Hunter says.

Oh. Oh no. Oh fuck.

“Hollander.”

Fucking fuck fuck fucking fuck. “What?”

“You and Hollander. That’s why he flipped.”

That fight on the ice, months and months ago. The fight that Shane thought had given them away in the first place. They’d been safe then, apparently.

“You said you did not know.”

“I didn’t. Not until…”

It was Ilya’s attempts to give them security that led to this. He thought that if he knew about Hunter, it wouldn’t matter that Hunter knew about them. But it’s his poking and prodding that brought them here, to this realization. Why couldn’t he have just let sleeping dogs lie?

“Hey,” Hunter says. “You can trust me.”

“Shane has been freaking out for months. Thinking you would tell.”

“Let him know I won’t.”

~~~~~~

Sitting in the stands during a playoff game is torture. Shane would cut off his left foot if it meant he could be on the ice right now (although he probably wouldn’t do much good with only one foot).

Shane had spent an obscene amount of money getting a suite for all of the Admirals’ home games in the final round of the playoffs. The smallest suite on offer, but a suite nonetheless.

Just for himself.

He wishes there was someone, anyone, he could invite to sit here next to him. To be a part of this part of his life. There’s Rose, but she doesn’t know about Ilya. His parents, but they don’t even know he likes men, let alone all the rest.

Something he should change soon. Now that this thing with Ilya has changed from a “friend I fuck” thing to a “he’s the love of my life” thing, his parents should probably know.

Shane imagines Ilya meeting his mother, even just shaking her hand in passing. The family he loves and the man he loves existing in the same room together. Proving that they are both real.

He’ll take Ilya to the cottage this summer. Ilya needs to go home to Russia, Shane knows, but they can take a few weeks to be alone together.

Maybe he’ll take Ilya to his parents’ house. Just knock on the door and say, “Hi Mom and Dad, I like men and more specifically I love this man, you may have heard of him.”

Maybe his parents will stop by and see them playing on the jet skis or kicking a soccer ball and he’ll say, “Yes my friend is visiting, but so is my boyfriend.”

Maybe his parents will walk in and they’ll be making out against a window and they won’t have to explain anything at all.

This is what he’s thinking about, lonely in his suite, high above the clash of hockey and surrounded by the screams of fans. Because if he thinks about Ilya playing in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, if he thinks about how the score is 2-2 and Ilya scored the equalizer and there are 28.9 seconds left in the third and..

If he thinks about that he’ll go insane.

More insane.

Chapter End Notes

I already have half of Ch10 written and I am SO excited for y’all to read it. Finishing as quickly as I can!

Chapter 10

Chapter Summary

Overtime. The aftermath.

Chapter Notes

My apologies to any Scott Hunter Haters I fomented with the first two-thirds of this fic.

It’s overtime of Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final and Ilya is having the game of his life. The month of his life, really. He has bruised ribs, sure, but he also has Shane by his side and this playoff run has contained some of the best hockey he’s ever played. 12 goals and 17 assists so far and he would do anything necessary to make that 13.

Los Angeles manages to clear the puck and they scramble to change lines. The Admirals have kept them pinned in their own zone for most of overtime; they’re getting tired. Coach Murdock shouts for Ilya to change too, but he’s barely been on the ice 30 seconds.

The puck bounces oddly off the boards, avoiding icing, and Ilya sees his opportunity. He grabs the puck and pivots quickly toward the LA goal. Ilya’s left wing changed like he was asked, but Hunter is on the ice now.

He sees exactly what Ilya is doing. The LA defensemen are scrambling, trying to get back into position. Hunter streaks down the left side of the ice, slapping his stick like he’s asking for the puck to shoot.

Ilya feigns the pass. The goalie bites, lunging toward Hunter, and Ilya shoots the puck into the open right half of the net.

There’s a moment of silence. A moment of: Did it go in? Did that just happen?

Then the world erupts.

Screaming. Everyone is screaming. The crowd, the team. He’s screaming. Buzzer blaring. Stick, helmet, gloves thrown in the air like graduation caps. The team hugging him, mauling him, smothering him with excitement and elatement and relief and joy. There’s so much joy.

After the handshake line, the team antsily waits for carpets to be rolled out and speeches to be made. They all eye the Cup on its table like a hyena staring down its prey.

The commissioner gives a speech that goes on for far too long, ending with, “And the award for Most Valuable Player during the playoffs goes to…”

Ilya is ready for this portion of the evening to be done, to hear Hunter’s name and move on to the main event. But, instead:

“Ilya Rozanov!”

He thinks he heard wrong, that his ears are ringing and his head is fogged. Then Huff shouts congrats in his ear and shoves him toward the commissioner. The ice slides beneath his skates for a moment before Ilya remembers to take actual strides.

He won MVP.

He won MVP.

He hasn’t won anything since his last year playing in Russia and now he has the cup and he’s the playoffs MVP.

Ilya shakes the commissioner’s hand and accepts the surprisingly heavy trophy. He salutes it to the crowd and he soaks in the cheers that are just for him. He doesn’t linger—he knows this isn’t the main event—but still, he takes in the moment.

He’s the most valuable player.

Later, after they’ve all skated their laps with the Cup, players’ wives, girlfriends, and children start flooding the ice. Ilya isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He hugs Laura Huff and Holly Bennett and a few other wives he knows. He lifts a few kids he’s pretty sure ran up to him thinking he was someone else. He smiles and laughs and cheers with his teammates. He skates an aimless lap around the glass, applauding with the fans who are still in the stands.

He doesn’t have anyone to come down on the ice with him. He has Shane, of course. His precious Shane. His secret Shane, who is watching all this from a suite high above.

Ilya looks up to the boxes. He can’t find Shane, but has the craziest urge to blow a kiss in his direction. To shout, “My boyfriend is here! I have a boyfriend and his name is Shane Hollander!”

Hunter skates a similar lap and has that same look on his face, that joy and yearning and resignation all mixed into one.

When he comes near, Ilya slaps Hunter on the back. I understand you, he tries to put in the touch. You’re not alone.

Hunter looks at him, really looks at him. Then Hunter skates to the opposite side of the rink with renewed purpose. He’s scanning the crowd, waving at someone, gesturing for them to join him on the ice.

He’s not…

Is he…

Sure enough, it’s the man from the gala, Kip, who comes down the stadium stairs, hops the glass, and stumbles into Hunter’s arms.

He’s really doing it.

Hunter doesn’t hold Kip like a friend at risk of falling. All the cameras are on him and he pulls Kip in even closer. He says something soft, unheard, intimate.

He kisses him. All the eyes around the world are on him and Scott Hunter kisses his boyfriend.

Something inside Ilya slips. Something he didn’t realize was out of joint clicks right into place and gears start whirring instead of grinding.

He tips his face to the boxes again and this time he finds Shane. His Shane. Leaning over the railing with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. As if feeling Ilya’s gaze, he looks away from the kissing couple and to Ilya.

He mouths something; Ilya can’t tell what. “What the fuck!” probably.

Ilya wants to say fuck it, like Scott just did. Fuck keeping this a secret, fuck waiting until they retire. He just won the Stanley Cup and he wants to kiss his boyfriend where the world can see.

He doesn’t, of course, but he does give in to blowing a kiss and sending a saucy wink in Shane’s direction. Plausible deniability, isn’t that what Shane called it?

~~~~~~

It takes Shane a long time to make it from his box to the locker room. Partly because he doesn’t know the way; this arena is a maze at the best of times and there’s not exactly clear signage on how to get from the public areas to the private ones.

Partly because he can’t decide whether he wants to go.

The concourses have long since emptied out. Shane walks slowly in another loop around the club level. He doesn’t know whether Ilya is in his right mind, asking him to join the locker room celebrations. He doesn’t know whether he’s in his right mind, wanting to.

He knows that, if he joins the team, people will know. Maybe not everyone, maybe not the world, but some people will. Someone more than just Hunter. There’s no hiding it.

Shane spent so long worrying about the world knowing. No, not the whole world. Anybody knowing at all was more than enough to send him spiraling. But it feels like they live in a new world now:

A world where the captain of an NHL team kisses his boyfriend on the ice after winning the Stanley Cup.

A world where Ilya loves him.

A world where, just maybe, he can love Ilya in public as much as he loves him in his heart.

“Excuse me?”

Shane whirls around. An usher, making sure the arena is empty of lingering fans. Her eyes widen when she realizes who he is. “Mr. Hollander!”

Shane puts on his most charming smile, the one he practiced in the mirror with his mom in high school. “Could you help me find the locker room?”

“I don’t think I’m allowed…”

He glances at her name tag and sweetens his smile a little more. “Debbie. I promise they’ll be happy to see me.” (One of them, at least.)

“I don’t know…”

“If anyone asks, you can say you told me to leave and I made a wrong turn.”

Debbie hesitates, then gives him rough directions to the tucked-away staff door. “The locker room is somewhere off to the right, but I’ve never been down there.”

Shane thanks her profusely, then makes two wrong turns before he reaches the underbelly of the arena. Once through the door, though, it’s easy to follow the roar of celebrations.

Last chance to turn back.

He steps forward. Around the corner into the hall outside the locker room. Swarming with people. Who immediately see him.

“Shane Hollander?” a blonde woman slurs. Someone’s girlfriend, most likely.

“Uh…”

“What’re you doing here?”

“I’m… uh…” Perhaps he should have spent some of his rumination and wandering time developing practical answers to the basic questions he knew he would be asked. But, alas, he had not. “Where’s Rozanov?”

She gestures over her shoulder toward the open locker room door, then is handed a fresh bottle of champagne and seems to forget he’s there entirely.

Deep breath. Brace yourself for the wave of noise and beer and bubbles. You’re friends with Ilya. Good friends. This is a thing friends do. (Right?) And if someone suspects more… well… you’re not the first anymore.

Inside the locker room is as loud and messy as Shane feared—never two of his favorite things. He immediately gets a blast of champagne to the face.

“Oh fuck!” someone shouts. Then, the same voice, “Fuck, Hollander?”

The roar of the room dampens slightly with the mention of his name, then floods back even louder.

“Hollander!” the collective calls.

“Congrats guys,” Shane says, futilely trying to wipe the champagne off his cheek. There seems to be a literal haze of alcohol filling the room. “Where’s—“

“Shane!”

There he is. Bare chested, sweaty, sticky, wearing nothing but tight black leggings. Smile broad, beard thick, curls extra curly. He looks so fucking sexy Shane has to stop himself from lunging for him.

Ilya flings an arm heavy over Shane’s shoulder and nuzzles his face in Shane’s hair. That’s friendly. Friends do that.

Right?

“You came!” Ilya shouts.

“I came,” Shane says quietly, just for them. “Congratulations.”

Ilya, still loud: “I won MVP!”

The room cheers. Everyone is paying attention to them. Or maybe it just feels that way.

“Me! MVP!”

“I’ve been telling you for years.”

“Yes because you see me, Shane.”

Shane.

Surrounded by teammates, by families. Tucked tight into Ilya’s side. He’s still Shane here.

“I see you.” Shane lets his arm curl around Ilya’s waist. “How drunk are you?”

“Little bit. Not very. You?”

“Not at all.”

“You should be!” That’s one of Ilya’s teammates, shoving a bottle in Shane’s face. Or, more accurately, holding it to his lips and tipping up so Shane’s only options are drink or be booze-boarded. It’s mostly foam that slips past his lips and slides down his chin.

Ilya takes the bottle, but he doesn’t lower it from Shane’s mouth. Instead, he’s gentle with it. Tipping the champagne only enough for Shane to take controlled sips and swallows. Ilya takes his own gulps of the fizzy liquid before Shane gets too overwhelmed by it.

Shane takes stock of the busy room. It’s crowded, rowdy. Bottles being passed and sprayed and downed. The cup being filled and refilled—poured into mouths, dumped over heads.

Hunter sits on the bench before his locker and the man he kissed (kissed!) is propped comfortably on his lap (his lap!).

“That’s Kip,” Ilya says in his ear. “Works at smoothie shop.”

“Did you know?” Quiet. A conversation that can’t be overheard in the melee.

Ilya hesitates, then nods.

“Did the whole team?” If so, the Admirals had the tightest locker room he’s ever heard of. Not so much as a whisper had reached Boston.

“Only this week. Announced day before Game 3.”

“That’s when you told me he found out about us, but wouldn’t tell”

Again, a beat before Ilya’s nod.

“You knew before that.”

“I suspected after your fight, when I started watching him closer.”

“You’re so observant.” Shane has never been good at observing people. Not off the ice, at least.

“Knew for sure after Olympics. Went to a fundraiser and they were both there.”

“You didn’t say anything. Even when I was so paranoid.”

“Not my secret to tell.”

That’s one of the things Shane loves about Ilya, one of the reasons they made it through the years of furtive sex and public friendship. He knew, knew from the very beginning, that he could trust Ilya with his body and his secrets alike.

Shane smiles at Ilya softly, sweetly, adoringly. Indiscreetly. He disentangles their arms and takes a step away just as one of the Admirals’ black aces stumbles up to them. He’s still wearing his suit from watching the game in the press box; parts of his suit, at least. Pants. An unbuttoned vest. Nothing else.

“Roz!” the kid shouts. Hiccups. “We did it!”

“You didn’t do shit, Tenzy!” Ilya teases.

“We all played our own unique and important roles.” Hiccup. “That’s what Cap said.”

Ilya is dragged back into the swirl of team revelry. Not wanting to impose, Shane settles against a wall. He drinks champagne when offered, beer when it’s handed to him. He smiles genuinely and cheers when appropriate and has a pretty good time for someone who is, objectively, an intruder.

He’s pleasantly tipsy when Hunter sidles up next to him. “Hollander.”

“Hunter.” They watch the room in silence for a moment, then Shane blurts, “I’m proud of you.” Was that a weird thing to say to someone who is both the captain of a rival NHL team and several years older than him? “For… Not for the cup.”

“Thanks, Hollander.” He’s not acting like it’s a weird thing for Shane to have said. “It was time.”

“How did you know?”

Hunter looks at him with seeing eyes. “I found Kip. Having him was worth not hiding for.”

“Was it either/or?”

“For us, yeah. He couldn’t hide anymore and I… I didn’t want to hide anymore. It’s been long enough.”

“It’s been a long time,” Shane mumbles.

“I’m proud of you, too,” Hunter says.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

Shane swallows down the instinct to panic, to run. He knew Hunter knew about them. He knew that coming tonight opened the very real possibility that more people knew about them. He told himself that a dozen times and he was okay with it. He was.

“I wouldn’t be. If you didn’t.”

Hunter claps him on the back. “I won’t lie and say that’s why I did it, but that makes me happy to hear Hollzy.”

“We’re not the only ones.”

“I’m sure we’re not.”

“Shane!” Ilya shouts his name from across the room, long and drawn out.

“That’s my cue.”

Another slap to his shoulder. “Go get ‘im.”

~~~~~~

This is the best night Ilya has ever experienced and he doesn’t want it to end. Winning the cup, MVP. Really feeling part of the team. Shane joining the party, squeezing under his arm for everyone to see. Even Hunter made the whole thing better.

Hunter made him brave, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever admit aloud. But seeing his own loneliness reflected in Hunter’s face, then Hunter acting to make that loneliness go away?

It’s enough to make a man in love do very foolish things.

Like, in the middle of the party, sprawling both arms over Shane’s shoulders and slurring, “Let’s go home,” in his ear.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!” Ilya says. Drunkenly.

They stumble into the back of an SUV and Ilya keeps his hand on Shane’s thigh for the entire drive. He doesn’t want to let go. Ever.

His doorman greets them by name, the picture of professionalism, but then breaks into a whoop and a cheer. Ilya cheers right back, then drags Shane by the wrist into the elevator.

Add the doorman to the list of people who’ve probably figured them out. Before tonight, most likely. Maybe this is how they do it. No big announcement, no coming out party. No kiss on center ice. Just stop hiding and let whoever notices, notice.

Shane is sucking on Ilya’s neck and rucking up his shirt long before the elevator stops on his floor. Then the keyhole on his door keeps moving and it takes three tries to get it unlocked. But then they’re tumbling into his apartment. Literally tumbling. Tripping as Ilya tries to kick off his shoes. Shane losing balance. Falling, barely noticing the contact with hard wood, feeling Shane’s body firm on top of him and kissing. Kissing like they’re naked in bed rather than tangled in half-removed clothes on the kitchen floor.

The world is spinning, but Shane is steady. Shane is his center. It all comes back to Shane. Always. Ilya gets his hands everywhere, his mouth everywhere. A need, rather than a desire, to have Shane’s dick in his mouth, his throat. Coughing around it. Gag reflex comes back at this level of intoxication; good to know. But still he sucks, he licks all he can reach and he caresses the rest. Wet, sloppy, fast, needy. Shane pulling at his hair, like he should stop and go faster all at once.

“I’m going to come,” Shane whimpers. “Already. You’re going to make me--”

Yes. That’s what Ilya needs. He needs Shane to finish in his mouth. He needs to swallow him down, for some little part of Shane to live inside his body, even if just for a few hours.

They go slower, when it’s Ilya’s turn. Shane takes off each item of clothing, one by one. Turning undressing into something simultaneously erotic and full of care. He guides Ilya to bed--their bed--and splays him out on the comforter. Kisses his neck, leaving marks. Ilya wants marks. Kisses his collarbone, the bruise on his ribs that has faded from black to lurid green. The soft of his stomach and sharp of his hip. Ilya whines, but Shane just huffs warm into his skin and moves even more slowly. Ducks around his cock, kissing the thigh, knee, calf. Other side: ankle, shin, hip.

“Shane,” Ilya whimpers when he’s licking the crease of his pelvis. “Please.”

“What do you want?” Shane asks, blinking up at him with faux-innocence.

“You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, fuck.”

“You want... this?” Shane runs the point of his tongue around the base of Ilya’s dick, right where hard, hot skin disappears into a thick thatch of hair (playoff rules; no shaving anywhere).

“Yes.”

“What about... this?” His tongue flat now, broad up the underside of his cock.

“Fuck. Yes.”

Swirling around his cock head. Probing his slit. Lapping away drop after drop of precum.

“Leaking like you’re me.”

“Fucking hell. Shane.”

“You want more?”

“Please!”

Fingers tight in Shane’s hair. Pulling him close. Not letting him leave, not letting him tease. Shane’s mouth around him, hot, hot. He’s floating, he’s flying; Shane is his one tether to this world and he’s never letting go.

“Shane, baby…”

Shane hums and the vibration fills Ilya’s every cell until his whole body is a tuning fork. Touch, love, acceptance--all reverberating through him until he has no choice but to explode. Barely a gasped, “I’m--” and he’s pouring himself into Shane. Emptying himself and saying, Here I am, take me, and Shane takes. He takes and swallows and licks until Ilya is so oversensitive he doesn’t know which way is up.

Shane pulls himself up the bed; Ilya pulls him squarely on top. The world is still spinning. Shane’s mouth tastes like him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Don’t go.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Chapter End Notes

Ahhh I hope you enjoyed this chapter I had SO much fun writing it!!

Approaching the end now: some cottage time and the very beginning of next season left, I think.

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary

The cottage.

Chapter Notes

It’s a long drive from the airport to the cottage, one made longer by Shane’s insistence he drive like a blind grandmother.

“You know route, yes?”

“Of course I do.”

“You are going so slowly, I thought you were looking for turn.”

“I’m driving the speed limit!”

“Under.”

“Two under. It’s a limit!”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “You are so boring.”

“Following the law isn’t boring.”

“It is. Objectively.”

~~~~~~

Shane is nervous to show Ilya his cottage. Ilya has been to Shane’s place in Boston, obviously, a million times, but the cottage is different. It’s not just his place; it’s his home, even if he only finished building it the summer before. He loves it up here. The quiet of the woods, the wind coming up off the lake.

“This is not a cottage, Hollander.”

“What?”

“Cottages are from fairy tales. A hut in the woods.”

Shane snorts out a laugh. “Well, we are in the woods.”

Ilya leans forward to get a better view of the house through the windshield. Shane tries to view it through Ilya’s eyes:

It’s a big house, objectively speaking. More house than one man needs. Framed perfectly between the trees, the blue of the sky and the lake making it shine. And it’s all glass, from roof to foundation.

That was the first thing Shane had told his architect—he wanted windows. He’d been presented two blueprints a few weeks later. One was a normal cottage with big windows. The other is the one he fell in love with. No exterior walls. All windows.

“What about your neighbors?”

“I don’t have any.”

“None?”

“I, uh—“ Shan mumbles the next bit. “Bought the whole lake.”

“Huh?”

“Um.” Shane climbs out of his car and grabs Ilya’s bag out of the trunk.

Ilya follows and presses him against the side of the SUV. “What did you say? I did not hear.”

Rather than at Ilya, Shane looks at the reflection of them in his front door. “It’s why we’re so far from the city. I didn’t want neighbors so I found a lake with no houses. My realtor found it. I mean, there was an abandoned hunting cabin, but that was demolished. No inhabited houses.”

“You wanted to be alone so badly you bought a lake?”

It sounds embarrassing when you put it like that. “Yeah. This is only my second summer here.”

“Already you are tired of being alone, inviting company.”

“You’re not company.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re…” Shane blushes hot. “I don’t want you to be a guest here, Ilya.”

“What are you asking?”

Shane buries his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t know.” And he doesn’t, in words and in practicalities. He knows in his heart. “Let’s go inside.”

He can practically hear the question marks thumping with Ilya’s pulse. But he just says, “Inside. Show me tour of everything I cannot see from here.”

~~~~~~

Ilya is kind of, sort of, immediately in love with Shane’s cottage.

It seems like Shane actually picked out the decor here, as opposed to his Boston place, which screams interior designer. The couch was squishier than a designer would have chosen. Throw blankets unmatched and unfolded. A few pillows with so aggressively Canadian a pattern they could only have been purchased at a souvenir shop.

It’s bright, light, open to the world. Every wall is ceiling to floor windows and the view is kind of, sort of, outstanding. Trees surround the house on three sides like an embrace. A patio and grill, a grassy hill, a dock, a perfectly smooth lake that stretches out several hundred meters before turning into wooded shoreline.

“No curtains?”

“No neighbors.” Shane hovers awkwardly as Ilya slowly peruses the great room. Hands in pockets, eyes glued to his every motion. “The bedrooms are through here.”

“Which one will you put me in? I have very specific requirements.”

“Oh, do you?”

“I will need lake view, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And a king bed.”

“They all have king beds.”

“And an attached bathroom, with--” Ilya holds up a finger when Shane starts to speak. “With a shower big enough for two.”

“Well, we only have one room that fits that description and it is already occupied.”

“That’s a shame.” Ilya slowly stalks toward Shane.

Shane slowly backs toward his bedroom. “We shall, however, do our best to accommodate you regardless.”

“Will you now?”

“He can share.”

And Ilya pounces. Shane is on the bed the moment it is within reach. Ilya on top of him, knee spreading his thighs. They’ve only been apart a week or so--nothing compared to what they’re used to during the season--but it feels like forever since he’s had Shane’s skin bare, lips hot, body writhing.

To have Shane here: in his home, in his bed, in this place where his soul can rest. It’s everything Ilya could ever hope for.

And more.

They eventually get to the rest of the tour. The large gym in the basement, complete with synthetic ice sheet (very Shane). The boat house containing kayaks (boring) and jet skis (not boring). The backyard and grill and fire pit. (“You just sit out here and stare at fire?” “Yeah, it’s great.” “Whatever you say.” “I’ll show you.”)

~~~~~~

“Let’s go swimming.”

“The water is nice?” Ilya asks.

“I mean, we’re in Northern Ontario. It’s cold as balls.”

“Why would I want to go swimming?”

“That’s kinda the fun of it. How much it sucks.”

“You make no sense, Hollander.”

“It’s like a run. The best part is the end, when you think you can’t go any farther and you do.”

“That is not true. At all.” Shane had a very weird relationship with self-induced suffering, Ilya was starting to realize.

“C’mon, it’ll be a good time.”

“I don’t believe you.”

By this point in the conversation, they’ve both shed their shorts and made it halfway down the dock.

“What is this called again?” Ilya asks.

“Skinny dipping?”

“Yes. Skinny dipping. Weird name.”

They’re at the end of the dock now, staring down into the slightly murky water.

“How’s the water?” Shane asks.

“How would I—“ And Shane shoves him. The fucker shoves him into the freezing cold lake and it is freezing cold.

“Oh fuck you!” Ilya shouts, sputtering to the surface. A second wave overcomes his head. Shane cannonballed in right next to him.

Shane coughs when he surfaces, and coughs again when Ilya splashes him in the face. “It’s so fucking cold, oh my god.”

“This was your idea!” Splash. “You shoved me in!” Splash. “You can’t complain!” Splash splash splash.

Ilya wraps his arms and legs around Shane like a koala and makes him tread water for them both. He kisses his wet freckles, the drops of water off his eyelashes.

The sliver-thin water between their naked bodies is warming to something just above ice. If Ilya stays very still and doesn’t move at all, maybe he won’t get hypothermia.

“This was a terrible idea, Hollander.”

“Do you want to get out?”

“Am too cold to swim. You will have to carry me. Like Baywatch.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, but he doesn’t make any further attempt to splash or dislodge Ilya. His strokes are a bit labored, but they slowly approach the shore. Move water is colder than still, but Ilya’s entire body has started to go a little bit numb. He holds tighter to Shane, which only makes swimming more difficult.

Worth it. And he deserves it.

Eventually, Shane staggers to his feet on dry land. Ilya still clings to him like a limpet.

“You can let go now.”

The air somehow feels even colder than the water. How?

“No.”

“You’re Russian! You should be used to the cold!”

“Russians are not stupid enough to swim in cold lakes. Russians know how to stay warm. You will get me warm.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Shane’s arms have to be getting tired. Ilya knows that. But he hasn’t been held, lifted, carried like this in... well. A long time.

Ilya runs his tongue up the spiral of Shane’s ear. “Take me to bed.”

Shane huffs out a laugh, but he’s out of breath. He does carry Ilya, though. Up the steep slope of the bank, the gradual roll of grass, the few steps up to the sliding back door. It’s cracked and Shane manages to open it with one foot, but they only make it a few steps inside before Shane says, “Ok, fuck,” and plops Ilya down hard on the kitchen counter.

“That was impressive,” Ilya says. He peppers Shane’s face with kisses. “Sexy.”

“I should lift more.”

Ilya caresses both of Shane’s biceps. “You are so strong. So sexy.”

“Do you want a bath?”

“Bed.”

“You’re going to have to walk.”

Ilya hops off the counter, every inch of his skin sliding down Shane’s front. “Race me.”

~~~~~~

“What do your parents do?” Ilya knows a lot about Shane. He knows the placement of his every freckle and what he likes to eat and, down to the millimeter, where he’s ticklish. But being here, in what is undeniably Shane’s home, is making Ilya realize he never asked some of the basics.

“My dad works for the government.”

“Being boring must be genetic.” It’s evening and they’re lying on opposite ends of the couch with their toes pressed together. Shane rolls his eyes at the ribbing.

“My mom is a sports… attorney.”

The way he mumbles that last word… “Shane?”

“Mhm?”

“Is your mom your agent?”

“She’s not just my agent!” Shane says defensively. “She’s a lot of people’s agent. And… also mine.”

Ilya laughs. NHL entry level contracts obviously aren’t nothing, but he had been wondering how Shane bought an entire lake and built this ridiculous house before his raise kicked in. “This is why you get such good commercials.”

He’s blushing. “Please tell me you don’t watch those.” Ilya loves when Shane blushes.

“On loop, to fall asleep,” Ilya teases. “I like the one where you’re all wet.”

“God, that pop was terrible. I couldn’t get a good take and they made me drink so much of it.”

“You are not a good actor?”

“Ilya,” Shane says flatly.

“Shane,” Ilya mimics.

“Do you really think I’d be a good actor?”

“I don’t know. You acted like you were not gay for a long time. Like you were not fucking me.” He tries to keep his tone light and playful. He’d be able to see through himself, but he’s not sure Shane is.

“That’s different,” Shane says.

Ilya isn’t entirely sure it is.

“That wasn’t acting. It was… hiding.”

“What about now?” Ilya asks in a small voice. A vulnerable voice.

Shane looks at him with an openness mirrored by Ilya’s splayed heart. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“You want to—“ big swallow “—tell people?”

“I thought… going to the locker room… people might just find out. Without us having to have, like, a press conference. Or make out at center ice. We could just...”

“Next time I win cup, I will kiss you at center ice.”

“Next time, huh?”

“I considered this time, but thought, eh, let Hunter have his moment. He is old. Not many left. And we will hopefully be on same team next time.”

Shane laughs, but quickly returns to the more serious topic at hand. “When you invited me down, what were you thinking?”

Ilya hadn’t been thinking, is the most truthful answer. He had needed Shane by his side, damn the consequences. “Same. If people know, they know.”

“I like that.” Shane’s eyebrows crinkle a bit. “I don’t know what it actually means, though. With like management and your trade and—“

“Does your agent know?”

The question jerks Shane out of his thought spiral. “My mom?”

“Yes. Your parents. Do they know?”

“Not about you.”

“About you?”

“Oh.” Shane shifts uncomfortably. Ilya runs his toes along the arch of Shane’s foot.. “No.”

“Would they be bad about it?” Ilya’s father would be bad about it. If the news reaches him and he even understands it, he would be very bad about it.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. They’re great.”

“But…”

“You just never know, you know? It’s not what they expected of me.”

“Must you always be what is expected?”

“Kinda? Yeah?”

Ilya crawls on top of Shane. “I did not expect you. At draft, when you scolded me—“

“I did not scold you. I complimented you and you ignored me!” Ilya barely had the English at the time to translate Shane’s words into a compliment.

“Scolded me. I did not expect this. Your freckles, I was curious. But I never expected.”

“And?”

“This with you is better than I ever could imagine.”

Ilya presses a quick kiss to the freckles on the bridge of Shane’s nose, but Shane catches his chin and brings their mouths together.

~~~~~~

Shane is happy. He is so, so very happy. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. He and Ilya have had, like, eight orgasms apiece in the last 48 hours. Of course he’s happy.

It’s midafternoon and he’s in the kitchen, mixing up burgers for their dinner.

“I thought we were having burgers?” Ilya, done with his shower.

“We are.”

His fingers on Shane’s hips, dipping under his waistband. “That is not hamburger.”

“They’re chicken burgers.”

“Not a real thing.” Lips on Shane’s neck.

“It’s chicken and spinach and feta, and—“

“Still not real.” Teeth on his earlobe.

“They’ll be good!”

Ilya hums in skepticism, then steps closer and grinds his hips into Shane’s ass. He’s hard. Again. Already. “That’s a lot of meat.”

Shane’s hands are covered in chicken, so he can’t push him away. “I’m not horny. I came like 20 minutes ago. And so did you!.”

“I bet you can again. I was talking about that though.” Ilya gestures to the massive bowl of burger mix.

“The recipe makes eight.” Obviously.

“You cannot do math? Make four?”

“…the recipe makes eight.”

Ilya’s teeth again, scraping his trap. “Come upstairs.”

“My hands are dirty.” Which they are, but Shane still tilts so Ilya is hot against his back.

“Not a good excuse.”

Ilya’s hand slips under Shane’s shorts, cups him through his briefs. He’s hard now too. Again. Already. “Fuck.”

“I thought you were not horny?” Ilya purrs.

Shane wishes his hands were clean, because he wants to turn around and pull Ilya’s hair and bite his lower lip. “Fuck you.”

“Do you think you are still stretched out and ready for me from last time?”

Yes. “Jesus Christ, Ilya, let me clean up here.”

Ilya lets Shane move to the sink, wash his hands, cover the bowl of chicken and put it in the fridge. He doesn’t make it easy, though. He never once takes his hand out of Shane’s pants. Hand molded to Shane’s dick as he waddles around the kitchen. It’s embarrassing.

It’s hot.

Once everything is sufficiently cleaned and put away, Shane turns in Ilya’s arms. Ilya’s hand slides from cock to ass. Fingers delving into his crack, finding his hole. His slick and tender and relaxed hole.

“You are ready.”

“Fuck off.” The words are softened by the line of wet kisses Shane runs down Ilya’s jaw.

“Maybe that is what I do the rest of the week. Make sure you are always ready to be fucked. Fill you up with a plug if my cock won’t do.”

“I don’t have a plug.” As if that’s the primary logistical problem here.

“Amazon.” In one smooth movement, Ilya lifts Shane by the thighs. Shane’s legs immediately loop around his waist. God, Shane loves when they do this. Ilya has a couple inches on him, but Shane is solid. Heavy. Made of muscle. And Ilya carries him around like he’s nothing.

“Should I fuck you on counter, couch, or bed?”

“Couch. Closer than bed. Cleaner than counter.”

“Maybe we should make it very, very dirty.”

Only a few steps, a few seconds before Ilya tosses Shane onto the couch. His upper body falls hard, but his legs are still twined around Ilya’s hips. Down he comes, pushing Shane deep into the soft upholstery.

Their clothes come off easily. Perhaps they simply shouldn’t bother putting them on again after. It’s not like anyone else would see and he would get even more chances to gawk at Ilya. When they’re like this, when they’re fucking, Shane experiences all of Ilya, but he only gets to see him in pieces. His chest, his thighs. Oblique, trap, bicep. Face, contorted with pleasure and exertion.

Ilya mouths at Shane’s nipples and reaches to again find Shane’s already slick, already open hole. Two fingers in easily, three, a fourth. He’s full and stretched and ready and--

“Fuck me already.” Through gritted teeth: “Please.”

“So impatient.”

Shane whimpers at the loss of Ilya’s fingers, even though he knows they’ll soon be replaced by something even better. The click of the lube cap (they’d learned to leave some on the side table after an unfortunate interruption yesterday).

Ilya flips Shane onto his side, manhandling him with such ease. He curves around Shane like a comma and presses in, in, in. So slowly it’s torture. So perfectly it’s paradise.

Ilya’s mouth on his ear. Hand on his pec. Arm holding him in tight. Thighs pressed to thighs and ankles tangled. He rocks inside of him and it doesn’t matter that they fucked half an hour ago, he needs this. Shane would live in this moment if he could. Make it stretch out for hours, days. A lifetime of Ilya inside of him and around him and possessing his very being.

Forever with Ilya. He would make this happen. He has to.

~~~~~~

They rinse off again. Between the fucking, the swimming, and the working out, the two of them might be setting some kind of record for Most Showers Taken. Good thing they take the majority of them together. Conserve water, and all that.

Almost as soon as they have their pants back on, Ilya asks, “Where do your parents live?”

Odd non sequitur. “Ottawa, mostly.” Shane answers. “They have a cottage 45 minutes south of here. There’s a cove on the other side of the lake, though, I’m trying to convince them to build something closer.”

“Is their cottage a mansion too?”

“This is not a mansion! And no, it’s a normal house.”

“Are they… there now?”

“I think so.” Why would Ilya be asking this? “They mentioned doing something together this weekend, but...”

“But I am here.” Ilya sits on the bench at the foot of the bed. He’s pointedly looking away from Shane.

“Hey. Hey.” Shane sits next to Ilya and rests a gentle hand on his thigh. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

“It’s...” Shane is at a loss for words, because it kind of is like that. He told his parents not to visit because Ilya would be here, true. But did he actually do it because he doesn’t want them to meet? Doesn’t want them to know? Know about Ilya. Know about him.

“Should we tell them?”

Ilya’s head whips to look at him. “What?”

“My parents. Do you want to tell them?”

“That is... not my decision to make.”

“If we don’t want to hide--” Shane is stumbling over his words now “--this would be what to do. Tell my parents.”

“Shane...”

“What?”

“Don’t be impulsive.”

“This isn’t impulsive.” It isn’t, even with the adrenaline flooding Shane’s system. “It makes sense. It’s the next step, with everything we’ve said, to stop hiding this.”

Ilya’s eyes scour Shane’s face, like he doesn’t understand what he finds there.

“If you want, of course.”

“Of course,” Ilya says. “Of course I want.”

Shane’s heart is like a helium balloon with a rock tied to the bottom. A stone. A pebble. Elated and terrified all at once.

“Then we tell them.”

“When?”

“I’ll invite them to dinner or something. Tell them I have a friend visiting.”

“Surprise them with me?”

“I mean, they know we’re friends.”

“They do.”

“It’s time they know the rest.”

“Should they know everything?” Ilya kisses the hinge of Shane’s jaw.

“Maybe not everything.”

“When do we do this?”

“Well,” Ilya says, kissing tenderly down his neck. “You did make eight burgers.”

Chapter End Notes

They kept wanting to be cute and I didn’t want this chapter to end up at like 7k+, so what was envisioned as one cottage chapter is getting split!

Not sure how I’m going to be able to let go of this version of these two.

Chapter 12

Chapter Summary

Meeting the parents.

Chapter Notes

Approximately 62 seconds after texting his mom, Shane wants to throw himself off a cliff.

He’s going to throw up. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to squeeze his eyes shut too hard and go permanently blind.

“Shane?”

Shane opens his eyes—somehow he ended up crouched on the floor at Ilya’s feet.

“We don’t have to do this.”

He looks up, but mostly sees Ilya’s pecs rather than his face. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t have to tell them.”

“We decided…”

“We can change our minds.”

Shane rocks back on his heels so he can actually see Ilya. “But…”

“Cancel dinner and tell them you have a headache. Or hide all the lube and rumple sheets in guest bedroom and say I am just friend. Like they already think I am.”

“Shit we should hide the lube.” He hadn’t thought of that.

“I meant what I said earlier. Don’t be impulsive and regret me.”

“I will never regret you, Ilya.” Shane grabs both of Ilya’s hands and pulls him down so they’re sitting on the floor together. “No matter what.”

Almost as one, they both lean in so their foreheads are touching. So they’re sharing their breaths.

“Do you want to cancel?” Ilya asks.

The world still kind of feels like it’s ending. But, the thing is, it’s ending no matter what. He wants it to end with Ilya.

“No,” Shane says. “I want to tell them. I just—“ He presses his forehead harder into Ilya’s, until it hurts just a little bit. “Change.”

“Change is hard.”

“I’ve never been good at it.”

“The loon.”

Shane pulls back and kisses the red marks he left on Ilya’s face. “Yeah. The loon. I’m not running away this time.”

~~~~~~

Ilya is being the calm one. That’s his role right now and he can fulfill it. That’s what Shane needs. He needs someone who’s calm.

Ilya is not feeling particularly calm right now.

He is meeting! Shane’s! Parents!

Shane is coming out! To! His parents!

Ilya has quite literally never met the parents of someone he slept with before, unless you’re counting when he was a teenager and already knew them beforehand.

He’s never been a boyfriend before. He doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend! Shane’s parents are going to take one look at him and know their beloved son deserves someone much, much better than Ilya.

It’s not that he wants Shane to change his mind. He is bursting with pride at the idea that Shane is in a place to tell his parents about his sexuality.

He just…

He doesn’t want Shane to make this decision because of him, for him and resent him if/when things go a little to shit. Because things always go at least a little to shit.

“I’m not running away this time.” Shane’s kisses are soothing. Forehead, cheeks, the corners of his eyes. “They’re going to love you.”

Ilya lets his vulnerability crack through. “Are you sure?”

A huff of laughter. “I’m not sure they aren’t going to call me a slur and never speak to me again.”

“That’s not going to happen.” That’s what would happen if Ilya told his father.

“I know. But, like, point-zero-zero-zero-one percent, I can’t say I’m sure.”

Shane’s inability to take something like the word “sure” less than literally is often charming, but it is not what Ilya needs right now. It is not helping the spinning in his brain and the churning in his gut.

He’s not good enough. He’s not… He’s too wild, too unreliable. He slept with too many girls. He corrupted Shane so he likes boys. He’s too angry and he’s too sad and he’s…

“Ilya?”

“Yeah?”

Shane cups both of Ilya’s cheeks with his hands. “As sure as I can be sure of anything, I’m sure they’ll love you. Because I love you.”

“I love you too, Shane.”

“Now, let’s go make sure all the lube is hidden.”

~~~~~~

They find seventeen separate bottles of lube scattered around the cottage. And gym. And boathouse. And backyard.

Why does Shane even own seventeen separate bottles of lube? Of eight different brands!

~~~~~~

Shane can’t decide whether he should be cooking when his parents arrive. It would be an out, should the conversation turn sour. It would give him something else to look at, something to do with his hands.

It was also something he could burn or otherwise mess up and then they wouldn’t even have dinner.

So, no cooking.

“Shane?”

He whips his head around. Ilya is perched on an arm of the couch, just out of sight of the front door.

“You are going to wear hole in new floors.”

Oh. He’s pacing. Apparently.

Ilya reaches both his hands out to Shane and he immediately goes to him. His touch is solid, comforting. He tugs Shane between his knees and his very presence is centering.

Shane’s heart rate drops by two notches, but then comes the crunch of gravel and it jumps by five.

“They’re here.”

Ilya squeezes his hands. “Do you want me…”

“No, stay here.”

Ilya tips his head and, while Shane can’t quite read the expression on his face, Shane realizes that delaying the introduction another 30 seconds isn’t going to help anything.

Wouldn’t he rather have Ilya by his side than hiding in the next room? Isn’t that the point of all this?

A knock on the front door. His parents usually just let themselves in.

“Actually,” Shane says, and he tugs Ilya from the living room to the entryway. Hands clasped. Fingers intertwined. Shoulders pressing together.

Open the door.

“Mom! Dad!” Too peppy.

“Shane!” Mom says and then Shane can tell the exact moment the door swings wider and she sees Ilya. Her eyes widen and mouth drops a little at the corners and, “Oh! Hi.”

Dad’s eyes drop to their hands and stick there.

Mom has her agent smile on now. That doesn’t feel like the best sign. “Mr. Rozanov. We weren’t expecting you.”

“I, um...” Shane tries to say. “I told you I had a friend staying.”

Ilya reaches out his hand to shake, even though it means dropping Shane’s. “Ilya,” he says.

“Yuna.”

“David.”

Polite greetings. Shane reclaims Ilya’s hand as soon as it is free.

“Should we...” Mom says and Shane realizes they’re still standing in the doorway.

“Oh. Yeah,” Shane says. “Come in. Get whatever you want in the kitchen.”

“Beer?” Dad asks.

“There’s beer in the fridge.”

“Too early for stronger?” Mom forces a laugh.

“Vodka in freezer,” Ilya offers.

“A man after my own taste.” Dad quickly finds the bottle and examines the cyrillic label. “I don’t know this brand.”

“Is good. I bring back with me from Russia.”

“Russian is always the best. Hard to find.”

“Very.”

Not the point here, but: “Dad, I didn’t know you liked vodka?”

Dad chuckles. “I think there’s a lot we don’t know.”

That felt pointed. Was it meant to be pointed?

“Ilya.” Mom says his name like the shape of it doesn’t belong in her mouth. Shane hates that. She continues, “How long are you visiting for?”

“Two weeks, then I am needed back in Russia.”

“You have family there?”

Ilya nods, but doesn’t say anything. While they haven’t had a long conversation about it, Shane knows the general outline of Ilya’s mother’s death, his father’s illness, and his brother’s fuckery. Not a topic for today.

“He’ll be back in the fall,” Shane says, trying to speed this whole revelation up without saying the words himself. “The week before pre-season.”

Mom immediately shakes her head. “You have to be in Boston that week. The final meeting with Rolex.”

Always a manager. Never just a mom.

Ilya jumps in. “We are not sure of dates yet.”

“You’re visiting a second time,” Dad says. A delayed echo. “You must be very good friends.”

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand. This is the opening. This is the time. “Yes. We’re...” Why can’t he make himself say the words? “We are...” Say the words. They’re simple words. Another squeeze of Ilya’s hand. “We’re together.”

Mom’s eyes dart between them. Down to their clasped hands. Back to Shane’s face. “You two are...” Down to hands and back to face. “Together?”

“Yes.”

“As in...”

“Yes.”

Mom doesn’t say anything. Dad doesn’t say anything. Ilya doesn’t say anything. Shane doesn’t say anything.

Until, eventually, Dad: “You played well together at All Stars last year. Great chemistry.”

“Was good to play together,” Ilya says.

“Is that when...”

“Ah. No.”

“More recently?” Mom sounds something like hopeful.

“Longer. Since, um... rookie year.”

Mom’s jaw drops. “You’ve been together since rookie year?”

“Not, like, together. But, um... yeah.”

“Wow. We knew you were friendly, but...”

“This explains a lot,” Dad says.

What. “What?”

“We had wondered...” Dad starts. “It seemed like you...”

Mom jumps in. “You never had a girlfriend, Shane. Look at you: you could have a girlfriend. At the Olympics, the way you talked about Rose Landry, we thought you had finally...” She gestures vaguely: Finally found a girlfriend like we always wished you would.

“No,” Shane says. “We weren’t... compatible. In that way.”

Ilya pulls their joined hands to his mouth and presses a soft kiss on Shane’s fingers. The tender motion makes Shane’s heart swell. He’s brave enough to say the words: “I’m gay. And I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you--”

“Shane,” Mom interrupts. She sets down her mostly-untouched glass of vodka, crosses the room in several large strides, and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. It wrenches his shoulder uncomfortably, as he still doesn’t let go of Ilya’s hand. With his other arm, though, he returns her embrace. He tucks his face under her hair, the way he always did as a child.

“Did you really know?” he asks, voice muffled.

“We didn’t know anything,” Mom says.

“We wondered...” That’s Dad.

“We knew you were a wonderful boy and we knew you weren’t letting anyone close.”

“We certainly didn’t know about Mr. Rozanov, here.”

A soupçon of guilt rises in Shane’s gut. All those years he hadn’t let even Ilya to be close. The way he panicked, he ran away.

Shane steps back from his mom’s embrace and sees the stuffed loon in its home next to the TV.

He came back.

He’s here now. He’s close.

~~~~~~

“Shane,” Mr. Hollander--David--says. “These are not hamburgers.”

Shane is manning the grill, while David hovers over his shoulder. “I never said they were hamburgers. I said burgers.”

“Burgers implies hamburgers.”

“There are lots of types of burgers!”

Ilya, seated on a nearby patio chair, is in complete agreement with David. “This is what I said. Not burgers.”

Shane whips around and glares at him, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Not when you are wrong!”

“You invite a man over for burgers...” Ilya likes David, he decides. Good taste in vodka and in burgers.

“You’re going to love these,” Shane says confidently. He’s probably correct, but that’s not really relevant right now.

Yuna comes out of the house carrying a pitcher of lemonade that Shane will definitely not drink. Ilya thanks her and pours himself a large glass.

“So,” she says, clapping her hands together. “What’s the plan?”

“The burgers are like two minutes out,” Shane says, ever literal.

“I will sign with Boston,” Ilya says. They haven’t really worked out an actual plan beyond that.

Yuna’s eyes narrow slightly, in the exact same way Shane’s do when he is thinking too hard. “Easier said than done.”

“Yes.”

“Are you planning on telling other people? Coming out publicly?”

“We were thinking--” Shane starts, but is distracted by something hissing on the grill.

“No press release,” Ilya finishes for him. “But not a secret either.”

Yuna nods slowly. “That’s an option.” She sounds skeptical.

“Burgers are ready!” Shane calls before the conversation can progress any further.

Time to eat. Giant conversations about the fate of their futures can wait.

~~~~~~

Yuna sits across from Ilya and Shane at the dining table. She’s donned a blazer over her summer top.

“Mom, do you keep a blazer in your car?” Shane asks.

“Of course not. I keep it in your guest bedroom.” (Undeniable, then, that she knows Ilya is sleeping in Shane’s room.)

Shane turns to Ilya. “Agent stuff comes up whenever, in normal conversation, but serious contract talks only happen with the blazer.”

“I want to be clear, Ilya,” Yuna says to Ilya, “that I am not your agent. I am not your lawyer. This is not a professional conversation and I am not providing legal advice.”

Ilya has seen disclosures like this in comment sections online. Some quirk of the system, closing some loophole. “I understand.”

“You still put on the blazer,” Shane mumbles.

Yuna shoots a glare (lovingly) at her son, then turns her attention back to Ilya. “The biggest problem I see is that you were too good in the playoffs.”

“How can I be too good?” Being good is the point of playing hockey, after all.

“You have a year left on your contract, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re playoffs MVP, you’re young, and you’re on an extremely cheap contract--you need a better agent, by the way.”

The contract hadn’t felt cheap when Ilya signed it, but he knew it was peanuts compared to what Shane was being paid (not even counting sponsorships, of which Ilya had none).

“New York will likely want to keep you.”

“New York has never liked me very much.”

“That has changed, I can assure you. If they do trade you, though, they’ll be looking for a big return. There will be multiple offers on the table and they’re unlikely to send you to a conference rival like Boston. You would most likely go out West.”

West. Farther from Shane, when the whole goal was to get closer. “What can I do?”

“The simplest option is to wait a year. Stay in New York or go wherever they send you, then sign with Boston in free agency. Assuming they are able and willing to sign you, which I believe they will but can’t guarantee.”

A year. A year potentially spent on the West coast, playing Shane twice a year instead of four plus all Shane’s other visits to the city.

“You said that was simplest option.”

“Yes. The others are... riskier.”

Living without Shane felt like a risk to his sanity. “What are they?”

“You can approach Admirals management and tell them your situation--your entire situation--and request a trade to Boston. It doesn’t make sense to the team from a business perspective, unless they can somehow leverage Boston into paying your full value, but you may be able to appeal enough to their personal side.”

“You think an NHL General Manager would make a subpar trade so his MVP can live in a rival city with his gay lover?”

“Ew Ilya, don’t say lover.” That’s Shane. He’d been sitting quietly at the corner of the table thus far. His face is drawn and his mouth tight. He doesn’t say more.

“That is a very fair point,” Yuna agrees. “You can also speak directly with Boston, show them how enthusiastic you are and encourage them to put together a winning bid.”

“But?”

“If they know you plan to sign with them during free agency regardless, they may be less likely to spend big now.”

“They would only be paying for a year whether I sign with them or not.”

“Players who are traded with a year or more left on their contract often sign an extension with the team they were traded to. While not guaranteed, those increased odds of a longer-term are part of what teams pay for in a trade. So, if your signing next summer is a given, that may--may-- lower their bid.”

Ilya nods. That made sense, actually. His actual agent never tried to explain things like this. He presented options and recommended one, which Ilya typically went with.

That was easier than this whole “figure out hard things on your own” method. Although, no. He wasn’t alone in this. He had Shane and he had Technically-Not-Providing-Legal-Advice Yuna. He had David too, even though he was outside and listening to baseball on the radio.

~~~~~~

Shane’s mom hugs them both and says she’ll call in a couple days when she’s had more time to think through Not Legal Advice for Ilya.

“I love you,” she says as she squeezes Shane tight. She rests her hand on Ilya’s cheek for a long moment, like she’s going to say something. But she just ducks her head and leaves with another, “Goodbye, boys.”

The door clicks behind her and Shane turns to Ilya. “Holy shit,” he says. “Holy shit, holy shit.”

He collapses into Ilya’s chest, hunching over and tucking his head under Ilya’s chin so he feels small.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

After a few more heartbeats, Shane leans back in the circle of Ilya’s arms.

“You did it,” Ilya says.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Shane lunges up for a kiss. Tries to put every confused, overwhelmed, incredible emotion he feels into the kiss. Into the open of his jaw, the thrust of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the curve of his lips.

I love you.

I’m so scared.

I can’t believe we do that.

Did we do the right thing?

I love you.

I couldn’t have done anything else.

I can’t live without you.

Ilya pulls Shane’s shirt off and his own quickly follows. He crowds Shane against the wall between entryway and living room. His emotions flood through the kiss, too. Through his seeking fingers and his insistent thigh. His every action screaming:

I love you.

I need you.

I’m proud of you.

Whatever comes next.

I’m yours.

Neither of them hear the door open. They don’t hear the sharp intake of breath or the quick step backwards. What they do hear, however, is the distinctive jangle of dropped keys landing on a hardwood floor.

It still takes another half-second for Shane to open his eyes, drugged as he is by Ilya’s kisses and the sense of possibility swirling around them. But, when he does manage to look, his heart grinds to a stop.

His dad. Is watching them. Make out.

This feels exactly like when Shane was 12 and had his first wet dream and his mom found him trying to figure out the washing machine and he had to explain what happened.

“Dad!”

Ilya stops pushing Shane into the drywall, but he doesn’t move away or turn toward the door. Probably good. The way he’s standing now, Dad can’t see how hard they both are. Even if mortification is starting to make Shane droop.

“I thought you, uh, left.”

Dad takes half a step back like he’s going to run for it. “A charger. I was going to ask if you had a phone charger. With the old plug. Mom only has the new one in her car.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, trying not to sound breathless. “Plugged in by the couch.”

“I don’t, uh--” Another step back. “--actually need--” Hand on the door handle. “I’ll just--” Halfway out the door. “--leave you be.” And he’s gone.

The car pulls out almost immediately, as if Dad ran from the house and told Mom to gun it like this was a bank heist.

Shane drops his head to Ilya’s shoulder, mortification still flooding his every cell.

“Should we go after him?” Ilya asks. He moves forward again, so that his chest and Shane’s are flush together. His steady breaths help Shane’s smooth out.

“No,” Shane says. That would just embarrass them all more. “I’ll call tomorrow and...” And what? Apologize for kissing his boyfriend in his own house? “See how they’re feeling about all this.”

Ilya kisses Shane’s jaw. He cants his hips forward and is just as hard as before the interruption. “I like them,” he says.

“Yeah?” Shane traces his fingertips up Ilya’s spine.

“I love you,” Ilya coos. “They love you. I like the people who love you.”

“I love you too.” Shane lifts his knee and Ilya takes the hint. Picks Shane up like he weighs nothing, not 200 pounds of solid muscle. It’s hot. “Now, take me to bed.”

“Should we lock the bedroom door behind us?” Ilya teases.

Shane laughs. He loves laughing during sex; it isn’t something he ever thought he would experience. Sex with women had always been frustrating and guilt-ridden. Sex with men had been paranoia-inducing. Sex with Ilya had so often been rushed and flush with post-game adrenaline.

“I don’t think they’re ever coming back without calling ahead and also knocking very loudly.”

“Good.” Ilya tosses Shane on the bed and unbuttons his shorts with his teeth. “I have you all to myself.”

Chapter End Notes

A comment from TheRagnaBuck got me thinking and I just couldn't resist including a bit of David embarrassment.

Beyond the little knowledge I've picked up about contracts/trades as a casual-ish hockey fan, I am pulling everything Yuna says in that scene straight out of my ass. Hopefully it's not distractingly inaccurate!

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

Summer in Russia.

Chapter Notes

I have told myself, “Oh, only a chapter or two left” several times at this point and. Well. We’re in Russia now. Your guess is as good as mine at this point.

Ilya hates being in Russia. He spends as little time here as possible. A month or two in the summer, usually. See how much worse his father has gotten. Up the intensity of medical care he receives, more often than not. Make sure the family house and his Moscow condo aren’t falling apart. Fight with Alexei about drugs and women and money and Father.

Rinse and repeat, year after year.

This year, sitting cross-legged in the grass by his mother’s grave, he wonders whether he’ll ever return. Whether he’ll ever be allowed to return. If he goes through with this plan with Shane--and there’s no if anymore, not really--it would probably be too big of a risk. His very presence would be deemed propaganda.

His mother is the only thing he’ll miss about this wretched country and she’s been dead for a decade. It’s easy to imagine not returning to the gloomy house or his anonymous apartment. His life would be better without Alexei. But the idea of never sitting next to his mother again? Never bringing her flowers and telling her about the color of the sky at that very moment? Never introducing her to Shane?

Impulsively, he calls Shane, even though it’s the middle of the night there. It takes a few rings, but Shane answers, sleepy and blurry. “Is everything okay?”

Ever the worrier. Justifiable in this scenario, Ilya has to admit. Unexpected 4am phone calls are rarely good news. “I’m okay,” he says. “Everything is okay.”

“That’s good.” A rustle, like Shane is settling back into his pillows. Ilya wishes he could see him; Ilya wishes he were there. “What are you doing?”

“I’m at the cemetery.”

“Oh.” Shane clearly doesn’t know what to say to that.

“What are you doing this week? Or next.”

“I don’t...” Shane yawns. “I don’t have my calendar memorized.”

“Can you check?”

“Sure. Why?”

The faint hum of static, like Ilya is on speakerphone now. The tap of Shane’s thumb on the screen. “I have a commercial shoot on Thursday, then nothing until the next Wednesday.”

Today was Monday. “Would you want...” Ilya starts. “I was wondering...” He doesn’t know how to say it. Ask it.

“What’s going on?” He’s back to the handset. Voice right into Shane’s ear, instead of echoing around the bedroom.

Ilya traces his mother’s name on her headstone. I-R-I-N-A. How many hundreds of times has he run his fingers along those letters? “I am realizing I might never come back here.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Confused,” Ilya admits. “I’d like you to visit. While I am still allowed here. If you can. If you want.”

Shane is quiet. Too quiet, for too long.

“You don’t have to,” Ilya says in a rush. “Of course. I know it’s--”

“I’d like to,” Shane interrupts. “I don’t know if it’s possible. Visas are hard to get, I think. But I would like to. I’ll try to.”

Something like grief settles over Ilya, even though what he’s feeling is relief. “I didn’t think about visas.”

“I’ll try, Ilya. I’ll really try. I... I’d like to see it.”

I-R-I-N-A. Such comforting letters. “I’d like you to meet my mother.”

~~~~~~

Shane doesn’t tell Ilya that he has had the Russian Consulate’s homepage bookmarked since the day Ilya left. He doesn’t tell him the application form is already printed and half-complete on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t tell him he’s been waiting to be asked.

Shane manages to wait until it’s almost a decent hour before calling his Mom.

“What’s wrong?” she answers, not halfway through the first ring.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” she repeats.

Deep breath. “I need help getting a visa.”

“Russia?” she asks without hesitation.

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. I have a few days between the Reebok shoot and the animal shelter thing.”

Shane can practically hear the whirring in Mom’s brain. “The earliest we can submit your visa application is tomorrow. Expedited processing should be four to seven days…”

“You looked this up already?”

“Shane,” she says like it’s obvious. “I’ve already contacted a travel agency. They’re just waiting on trip dates to provide your sponsorship.”

Air slides through his lungs like syrup. “Mom…”

“Everything goes perfectly and we can get you on a plane Friday. More realistically, sometime next week.”

“Mom.”

“Up your donation, send a couple signed jerseys for auction, and you can miss the Humane Society Gala.”

“Mom!”

“Yes?” It’s almost like she forgot he was on the other end of the line.

“Thank you. For being…” There’s not a word or phrase that can encapsulate how Yuna Hollander has thrown herself into action over the past few weeks. Extricating Ilya from his current agent, beginning discussions with the Admirals regarding a trade, even lining up a few sponsors for Ilya to meet with when he gets back from Russia. And now this?

“Thanks,” Shane repeats dumbly.

~~~~~~

It takes three visits to the embassy and a week and a half of waiting before Shane is on a plane to Moscow. Well. Planes from Ottawa to Toronto to Paris to Istanbul to Moscow. It’s a very long and very horrible day and he isn’t even allowed to touch Ilya in the arrivals pickup lane.

“Hi.”

Ilya scans the area behind Shane. “Did anyone recognize you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Ilya nods jerkily. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he’s the one who just spent 27 hours on four separate planes.

“We’re going to your condo?”

“Yes. Not far. 15, 20 minutes.” Ilya drives quickly, bordering on recklessly. Everyone around them is also driving recklessly, by Shane’s standards, so maybe that part isn’t a reflection of Ilya’s mindset.

They’re quiet for most of the drive. Short questions about customs and comments about the flight. Shane tries to tell a story about the toddler seated near him on the Paris to Istanbul flight, but Ilya isn’t particularly interested.

“Are you alright?” Shane asks as they pull into a parking lot.

“Yes,” Ilya says sharply. Then: “No. I don’t—“ He whips into a spot. “This is harder than I expected.”

Shane nods, but doesn’t press further. Ilya insists on carrying Shane’s bags and soon they’re riding a creaky elevator through sorta-nice building and jiggling the key to get into Ilya’s sorta-nice apartment.

“This is a nice place.”

“It’s not.” Lock clicks shut. Chain rattles.

“It’s—“

Bag thumps to the floor. “Shut up.” Ilya cradles Shane’s face in both his hands and pulls him into a hard, hot kiss. Shane knows he should ask what’s wrong. The quiet, the tense, the fear: that’s not Ilya. He should ask what’s wrong.

But Ilya is holding him like a chalice and drinking from him the elixir of life. How can he not give himself over?

There’s a desperation to how Ilya takes him apart. A franticness. More like their early years together; hookups with a deadline, rather than the ease they’ve settled into over the past months.

Clothes scattered. Lube waiting on the bedside table. One finger, two, quickly three. And then Ilya himself, hard and thick, slick and insistent.

Ilya fucks Shane like he’s going to disappear by morning.

After, still naked, when Ilya is curled with his face buried in Shane’s armpit, Shane asks, “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Ilya, voice muffled: “In the morning. Sleep now.”

True to his word, Ilya quickly falls asleep. Or, at least, is quiet and still. Shane, carefully not to move, looks around what he can see of the small apartment. The curtains are thick and black, covering every inch of every window. The open closet doors reveal just enough clothes for a week or two before laundry day. The walls lack even the generic art you’d find in a hotel room.

It would be hard not to be sad in a place like this.

~~~~~~

“It would be a bad idea for you to meet my father.”

Shane sets down his fork, which had been halfway to his mouth. “Okay.”

“And my brother.” Ilya knows he’s being hurtful. He says it anyway. “Would be a bad idea.”

“Okay.”

He should explain. He should tell Shane… He invited Shane all this way—Shane worked so hard to come all this way—he should tell him.

“You know my father is sick.”

“Yes.”

“He’s not… He’s not a good man. Even when he was well… he was cruel. Vindictive.”

Shane moves from the chair across the table to the one right next to Ilya.

“He knew exactly how to make your life hell.”

Shane grabs his hand.

“He does not remember a lot, but he remembers how to do that. If he…”

Presses the back of Ilya’s fingers to his mouth. A mirror of Ilya’s kiss in the cottage.

“If he guessed who you are to me… Even if he just knows you are important… He will be horrible to you. I do not want to subject you to that.”

“Come here,” Shane whispers and Ilya feels silly going to him. Crawling into his boyfriend’s lap right there at the kitchen table. This is what his father was talking about every time he called Ilya weak. When he mocked him for crying, punished him for wanting his mother.

“Ilya,” Shane says. “Look at me.”

Fingers on his chin and Ilya didn’t realize he had been craning his face away from Shane.

“Look at me.”

Shane’s eyes are filled with tears. Tears for him.

“I wanted you here so bad,” Ilya admits, “but now you are here and I only think of the ways it can go wrong.”

“I can. Just. Stay in the apartment. We don’t have to. I don’t want to be a problem.”

“I don’t—“ Ilya presses his face into Shane’s hair. Hides there. “You are not the problem.”

“I’m—“

“And—“ Ilya interrupts, “if you were, I would never want the problem to go away.”

“Ilya…” Shane cradles him tighter against his chest.

“Do you want to meet my mom?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I’d love to.”

~~~~~~

Shane is careful on their trip to the cemetery. Careful not to touch Ilya. Not to reach for him, regardless of how badly he wants to hold his hand or squeeze his shoulder in comfort. He’s also careful not to look at Ilya too much. Or in the wrong way. In a loving way.

In the way he always wants to look at Ilya.

He should be well-practiced at this, but it’s difficult and Shane perhaps overcompensates. He stays feet away from Ilya, never within arm’s reach. He hardly looks his way at all.

Ilya’s head is on a swivel as they walk through the cemetery, but no one else seems to be there. He knows the labyrinthine path well, leading them quickly to a small white headstone. Ilya rests his hand on the marble, then sits cross-legged on the grass. Shane sits a careful distance from him; he doesn’t actually know the last time he was in a cemetery. It’s an eerie place.

Irina Mikhailovna Rozanova
1970-2003

“She was so young,” Shane whispers.

“18 when they got married.”

“That’s…”

“Father was 51.”

“He’s…”

Ilya’s jaw is tight. Shane wants to hold him so badly. “Yes. He is.”

“Tell me about her. Something happy.”

Ilya fists his hands, knuckles white, then shakes them loose. “I don’t know if this counts as happy, but it’s good.”

“Tell me.”

“She loved the zoo. They expanded it when I was little. Six or seven. Added a… bird cage. Do not know English word.”

“Aviary.”

“Yes, aviary. And an aquarium. She loved the aquarium. She would pick me up after hockey practice and we would go. I was tired and usually in a bad mood. Was not as nice as I should have been.”

“Ilya…”

“We went all over—I had the whole map memorized—but she always made sure we saw the tropical fish. There was a bench by the tank and everyday she would pick out a different fish and just watch that one. Watch it swim lap after lap, always the same. She would make up stories. Which ones were in love. Which ones were heartbroken. Which ones had left their husbands and babies in a coral reef on the other side of the world and if they were okay alone out there.”

“Ilya.”

He swipes roughly at his eyes. Clears his throat. “The other place we’d always go was the sea lion show.”

“You took me... The zoo. The sea lions.”

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I didn’t pay attention all the times she took me.”

“Thank you.” Shane tries to imbue the words with such meaning. I love you. I wish I’d let myself love you sooner. You deserve all the love in the world. You don’t deserve any of this pain. He’s not sure he succeeds.

“I think she would have liked you.”

“I think I would have liked her.”

“I’m not sure she would have… understood. But liked you, I think. As a person.”

“I hope so.”

“You are a good person, Shane Hollander.”

“So are you.”

Ilya shrugs. Scrubs at his face again.

“Do you want some time alone?”

“No. I just. Talk to her now?”

Shane nods and tucks his knees to his chest. In quiet Russian, Ilya speaks quickly. Faster than Shane has ever heard him talk before. Now is not the time for sexual thoughts, but it’s kind of hot how confidently the words flow off his tongue. Maybe Ilya should speak Russian to him in bed. Maybe Shane should learn Russian.

Ilya speaks for quite some time, then whispers, in English, “Ok, I am done.”

After looking around to make sure the cemetery is still empty but for them, Shane runs his thumb along Ilya’s lash line. So gentle. Brings his finger to his lips and licks away the salt.

“Let’s go.”

“One minute,” Shane says, then he turns to the gravestone. Traces his finger along the I. Speaks in French so Ilya won’t understand. “Thank you. For… raising him. For giving him to the world. To me. For taking him to the zoo. I hope you would have liked me. I hope you would have approved, understood. Eventually, at least. I hope… He loves you so much. Still. I know you love him. I love him too and I will always, always take care of him. For the both of us.”

Turning to Ilya: “I am done.”

“Let’s go home.”

“Your apartment?”

“The cottage.”

Chapter End Notes

Okay, sorry y’all I wasn’t expecting another emotional chapter either.

The Moscow Zoo really did expand in 1997, including adding a sea lion exhibit. Absolute complete coincidence I had made their first not-date include a sea lion show. Couldn’t believe my luck after I started googling!

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

Soft launch.

Chapter Notes

For those who don’t follow hockey, each player on the Stanley Cup winning team gets to spend 24 hours with the trophy over the summer. They usually do so in their home town, often with a parade, charity visits, parties, etc.

Ilya is alone in his Manhattan apartment when the scheduling email comes through. The Keeper of the Cup first apologizes that they cannot celebrate Ilya’s day with the cup in his home town--the trophy hasn’t been allowed in Russia for over a decade at this point. The Keeper assumes that Ilya will spend his day in New York and he needs to provide a full itinerary at minimum two weeks ahead of time. If Ilya does not want to be in New York for his day, he needs to inform them as soon as possible as it may change his assigned date.

Staying in New York would be the easy thing to do, even if (hopefully) it won’t be his town much longer. Take the trophy to a children’s hospital, community center, the Mexican restaurant from that first dinner with Shane. Maybe he could take it to the zoo and see if the sea lions can do tricks with it. Nose a ball into the cup, or something.

He doesn’t really want to do the easy thing, though. The number one thing Ilya wants to do on his day with the cup is have sex with it as a voyeur. There isn’t really a number two on the list and he can’t do number one without Shane.

Ilya has an idea.

~~~~~~

Shane paces the kitchen while his mom is on the phone in the next room.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor, son,” Dad says. He looks far too calm sipping coffee on a barstool.

“That’s what Ilya told me,” Shane says distractedly. “Before you guys came up for burgers.”

“Not burgers.”

“Dad,” Shane says, feeling like an exasperated teenager despite being well familiar with his dad’s distraction tactics.

“I’m just saying! Ilya and I agree on a few things.”

“A few things too many,” Shane grumbles, but then the door to the spare bedroom/office creaks open. “Is it done?”

“Nothing is done until the papers are signed and approved by the league.”

“But is it done?”

“Yeah,” Mom says, smiling broadly. “It’s done. He’s talking with them now.”

Shane drops into a squat, overcome with relief. It’s done. Ilya is moving to Boston. His parents leave him to process, but Ilya crouches by his side the moment the call ends. Shane melts into him. Mom and Dad quietly leave the room. (Dad has seen enough of them canoodling for one lifetime.)

“Shane.”

“Ilya.”

“I’m being traded.”

“To Boston, right? I swear if it’s not Boston...”

Ilya laughs and rubs the back of Shane’s neck. “It’s Boston.”

Thank god. The idea of spending another year or more without Ilya by his side made Shane feel like he was being torn in two. Hockey was unpredictable; he knew that. Even this move didn’t guarantee that they would be playing together for their entire careers. Trades happen. But they’ll be playing together for now; they’ll be doing all they can to play together going forward. That’s enough.

~~~~~~

The trade came together more easily than they had feared, though not as seamlessly as they had hoped. Yuna was a miracle worker, is what it came down to. She had more or less shamed Ilya’s former agent into activating his release clause without penalty. Ilya didn’t have a single sponsor; Ilya paid for his own skates, which is apparently almost unheard of. She had gone on the warpath for him.

Ilya had never had someone fight for him before. It made him want to cry.

He still doesn’t know exactly how she got the Admirals to agree to the trade. It had involved numerous phone calls, he knew. Raised voices. Accusations of purposefully underutilizing him in order to lowball him on a bridge contract. Ilya doesn’t know whether any of that was true (or even a legal negotiation tactic); he doesn’t think the Admirals brass actually, purposefully had it out for him. He thinks they simply didn’t care about him. And now Yuna cares.

Boston seems to care too. They say all the right things on their phone call, at least.

He’ll be playing with Shane. Even if the rest of his life goes to shit, he’ll be playing with Shane.

“I will need to find an apartment,” Ilya says, curled against Shane on the cottage couch that evening.

Shane whips his head around, that adorable little crinkle between his brows. “You will?”

“I do not want to be homeless,” Ilya deadpans.

“I thought... Never mind.”

“Do you have thoughts on neighborhoods? Teammates who like their buildings? Should I be closer to arena or training rink? Many questions to be asked.”

Shane’s forehead smooths as he realizes the game Ilya is playing. “I can think of a place.”

“Oh, can you?”

“Mhm. Comes furnished and everything.”

“What if I do not like the furniture?”

“It is very inoffensive furniture. Impossible to dislike.”

“A great bed. So I hear.”

“A fantastic bed.” The cottage has a pretty fantastic bed too.

~~~~~~

“I had an idea.”

Shane is half-asleep, face pressed into Ilya’s bare chest. “What’s that?”

“My day with the cup is August 13.”

“Okay?”

“What if I brought it here?”

Shane pushes up onto his forearms. He needs to see Ilya’s face, even if the one bedside lamp leaves him half-shrouded in shadow. “To the cottage?”

“Yes.”

“Then... They’ll...”

“Yes.”

“People will know.”

“They will.”

“Even if we don’t, like, say. The cup comes with a staff. And pictures... I’ve filmed promo stuff here.”

“Wonderful yoga video. Great for bedtime.”

“I can’t believe you watched that.”

“I watch everything.” That really must have been boring; Shane is not good at promo.

“What are you saying with this?” Shane asks. “Like, actually saying.”

Ilya turns his face slightly so his eyes are more in the light. They’re soft and full of love. “Soft launch is what I think people call it.”

“Soft launch... me?”

“Us, yes. I don’t want to hide. I want to spend my cup day with you. So let people know. Let people figure it out.”

“After the locker room, some people already are.” Shane is online as little as possible, but Mom has kept him updated--vaguely--on the swirling rumors.

“Exactly. No press release. No kiss at center ice. But make it so people will not be surprised when I move in with you.”

“I like that.”

“Keeper of Cup will be very mad at me. I was supposed to tell him weeks ago if I wouldn’t be in New York.”

“Worth it.”

~~~~~~

The soft launch comes in two parts. Or maybe more, depending on how you count.

The first, kind of, was Shane going down to the locker room. Joining the team like he was one of the WAGs.

The first actual, planned ahead part begins when Ilya receives an exasperated email telling him it’s really quite inconvenient to relocate his day with the cup from Manhattan to Northern Ontario. (In Ilya’s defence, he never actually confirmed where he would be and did provide the requested itinerary with two weeks’ notice [the itinerary being: drop off trophy at cottage and pick up next morning].)

Yuna insists on filming when the Keeper of the Cup pulls into Shane’s driveway and unloads a massive travelling case onto the porch. Ilya imagines how he must look when the lid opens and the gleaming trophy reflects the sun silver onto his face: like a kid on Christmas, probably.

The Keeper--Jonathan--wears white gloves, the kind Ilya imagines people wear when handling precious artifacts.

“Do I need?” Ilya asks.

“Nope. Just for me,” Jonathan says, then hands Ilya the trophy.

It’s heavier than Ilya remembers and the most awkward possible shape to lift. Adrenaline must have fuzzed this part of his memory. Ilya kisses it, then, not knowing how else to hold it, sort of just rests it on his head. He looks past Yuna and her camera to find Shane hovering in the front doorway.

“You come kiss,” Ilya says.

“Not a chance! I’m not getting cursed by that thing.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Bad luck to touch the cup if you haven’t won the cup, apparently. Shane is going to be paranoid all day and it is going to be so fun to tease him.

He can tell the exact moment Jonathan realizes what is happening. A sharp intake of breath. A soft “Oh,” on the exhale. Ilya tenses and the cup bobbles slightly on his head.

“Try not to drop it,” Jonathan says, voice carefully even. “Vaughn dropped it while dancing on a bar and it took me days to get the dents out.”

“Not surprised. Vaughn is very bad dancer.” Ilya’s arms are getting a little wobbly, though, so he carries the cup into the kitchen and sets it on the counter. Jonathan, Yuna, and Shane trail behind him.

Jonathan’s eyes dart between Shane and Ilya, then scan the rest of the room, like he’s expecting more of a crowd. “The itinerary said to just drop off the cup here and pick it up in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to take it anywhere? To a restaurant, or...”

“Does jetski count as anywhere?”

“No, but please do not drop the Stanley Cup in a lake.”

“I will not.” He might, but he will certainly try not to.

Jonathan gives them a quick rundown of rules and care instructions. Wipe any food or drink out with a damp cloth, don’t use soap, don’t drop it in the lake. He really emphasizes the don’t drop in a lake bit. Says it like four times. This thing must have been dropped in a lot of lakes over the years. He eventually leaves them be, saying he will return at 9 the next morning. 24 hours exactly.

After his car crunches away over the gravel, Ilya turns to Shane. “Come on. Kiss.”

“I am not kissing the cup!”

“Not the cup. Me.”

Shane kisses him softly. Barely a brush of his closed lips. “Congratulations.”

“Next time we will get cup for 48 hours.”

“We will.”

~~~~~~

Photos Ilya posts of the day:

Ilya on a jetski, cup propped in front of him and strapped into a life jacket. A second jetski is just visible in the distance, rider indistinguishable.

A dinner table set with five plates. Three chairs are empty. Ilya is in the fourth. The cup is in the fifth.

Ilya napping on the couch, cup tucked next to him under a blanket. A stuffed loon visible in the background.

Sunset over the lake. The cup sitting on the grass. Ilya’s feet. The sole of a man’s shoe peeking in the left side of the frame.

Ilya smiling. Beaming. An ear and short black hair reflected in his sunglasses.

~~~~~~

Not pictured:

“How is this?”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you think it has good view?”

“I swear to god Ilya, the cup does not have eyes, stop messing with it and come fuck me already.”

“So impatient. So needy.”

“Yes! My parents were here all day!”

“Can’t even go 12 hours without getting fucked before you beg for it.”

“Correct! Now just—“

He’s cut off by Ilya’s tongue in his mouth, mouth on his cock, cock in his ass. The cup has an excellent view.

~~~~~~

The next morning, Jonathan pulls into the driveway at 9:00 on the nose. Ilya carries the cup out to his car, showering it with kisses. “Until next year,” he promises the cool metal.

Jonathan takes the trophy and nestles it carefully into precisely shaped padding. When he straightens, he clears his throat. Swings his hands like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Eventually, he says, “I won’t tell anyone. About…” He nods to Shane’s outline through the kitchen windows.

“Thank you,” Ilya says genuinely. “But that won’t matter for long, if things go to plan.”

“You guys have a plan?”

“This is part of plan. Post pictures. Famous cottage.”

Jonathan nods. Double-checks the latches on the cup’s case, then hauls it into his trunk. “Normally there aren’t pictures, but you guys are not the first cup day like this I’ve seen like this.”

“No?”

“Not even close.”

Ilya knew he and Shane weren’t the first queer guys in the NHL. Hell, he wasn’t the first man to like men on the current New York Admirals roster. But to hear Jonathan to confirm it like that?

“Maybe the next one will have a parade.”

~~~~~~

The second part of the soft launch is facilitated by Yuna.

CCM was Shane’s longest-running sponsor—theirs was the first actual commercial he had filmed, the summer before his rookie year. They’d been good to Shane in the intervening years, so they were the first official call Yuna had made as Ilya’s agent.

Now, at the end of August, Shane and Ilya are skating slow laps around a mostly-empty Toronto rink, waiting for a crew to finish setting up the camera and dramatic lights.

A joint commercial. Part of Shane still can’t quite believe this is happening, but another part of him thinks it was inevitable. From the moment Ilya blew smoke in his face outside that arena in Los Angeles, everything led to this.

“You look pretty,” Ilya says.

“Fuck off.”

“I like the blush. Too much foundation, though. Can’t see your freckles.”

“You’re wearing makeup too!”

“Yes, but I do not look pretty.”

Shane disagrees. Ilya always looks pretty. Beautiful. Stunning. Handsome. Hot. Sexy. Regardless of everything else—and everything else is pretty damn good—Shane can be proud of the fact that he bagged himself a 10/10.

“You are—“

“We’re ready for you boys!”

The commercial shoot goes pretty much like all the other ones Shane has done over the years, but this is Ilya’s first. He’s like a shiny new toy for the crew to play with: gorgeous, but unsure of his angles. (Shane hadn’t expected knowing his best angles to be part of a hockey career, but c’est la vie.) Ilya thrives on the attention, because of course he does.

New York hadn’t been the right spot for him. Not much attention paid to hockey in the first place, and what existed was drawn to Hunter like a syphon. Ilya deserves to be a star and the spotlight in Boston is plenty big for both Shane and Ilya. Especially if they stand very close together.

The last shot of the day is the two of them crouched down in a faceoff. Mere inches separated their lips and it would be so easy to turn this soft launch into a hard one.

“A little more intensity in your eyes, Shane!”

Ah, yes. Strength. Hockey. Not the tenderness and love that were practically overflowing from him.

“You have sweated off most of the makeup,” Ilya whispers.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking.”

“We talk during actual faceoffs.”

“It’s going to look weird in the pictures.”

“I can see your freckles again.”

“I don’t understand why you love them so much.” If anything, Shane usually asked makeup artists to add more foundation during ads to hide them. In part because they felt childish, for some reason. But also, he was starting to realize, because they felt like Ilya’s. Splashed across his cheeks for everyone to see, but privately existing solely for Ilya to kiss, touch, caress.

“My china doll.”

“I’m half-Japanese.”

“Is saying. Little ‘c’ china. You know this.”

“I do.” Shane smiles, then remembers: intensity. He narrows his eyes, tightens his jaw... and Ilya bursts out laughing.

“Oh come on!” Shane says, but he’s laughing too. They collect themselves, skate back around, lean down for the faceoff, and immediately start laughing again. This whole situation--their whole lives--feels utterly ridiculous at this moment. Shane is a professional hockey player, wearing makeup, shooting a commercial. With his boyfriend. Who he had sex with for years and years before realizing how perfect they were together. Or, perhaps, just without admitting it.

“Let’s try to hold it together, boys!” the director calls to them.

They try again. They very much do not hold it together. They don’t manage it the next time either. Or the next.

“That’s probably the best we’re going to get,” the director finally admits.

“Sorry!” Shane says, still laughing. “I’m so sorry.”

Dismissed, they make their way to the locker room and the showers. Empty except for them. Ilya turns on two showerheads, next to each other. While they wait for the water to heat up, he presses Shane into the cold tile.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks, but his head has already tipped back to bare his throat, down which Ilya trails little nipping kisses.

“Whatever I want,” Ilya says.

“You want?”

“Do not worry. It is what you want too.” Ilya trails fingers up Shane’s inner thigh. Just barely skims his balls.

“You promise?” Shane’s cock is hard and wanting. Waiting for Ilya’s touch. The touch which comes, teasing and eager all at once. “Should we be doing this here?”

“No one but us.” Ilya sucks Shane’s earlobe into his mouth.

“Just us.” Shane shoves Ilya backwards into the hot water and they both gasp at the sudden change of temperature. His hand strokes around Ilya’s dick: loving and impatient all at once. Fingers tug at Ilya’s curls. Skin on skin everywhere, wet and slick. A bit frantic, the way they take each other apart.

The kind of orgasm you chase when you know it’s not your last of the night.

~~~~~~

Shane and Ilya only booked one hotel room, number 1412. It has a king bed. Shane leaves a very large tip for housekeeping the next morning.

~~~~~~

When the commercial airs, several weeks later, it doesn’t have the tone Shane expected. They don’t look like rivals. They never have been, in reality, but the way they were chasing each other around the ice, battling for pucks and bodychecking--Shane had thought intensity is what the director was going for.

What Shane hadn’t realized is that he was smiling the entire shoot. There’s one bit of the commercial where Ilya checks him into the boards (harder than necessary) and Shane is downright grinning. And then they’d used one of the later faceoff takes: Shane and Ilya were both laughing before they’d even skated into frame. There was even candid footage of them between takes, passing a water bottle and letting their fingers linger.

“What do you think?” Shane asks his mom.

“I think if anyone watches this and doesn’t realize you’re in love, they’re blind.”

Chapter End Notes

I truly did not plan this fic ahead, and it wasn’t until I was writing the commercial shoot that I realized I had reached a natural endpoint to Shane and Ilya’s story. I think (but do not promise!) that there is only one chapter left: an epilogue showing team reactions to their coming out.

Thank you all for reading!

(Oh, there were for sure some terms of the CBA and maybe employment law more generally broken during this whole trade negotiation, but this is fic and I am not a lawyer, so we ball.)

Chapter 15: Epilogue

Chapter Summary

The plan works.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay! My parents were visiting and then the idea of this being the end gave me a bit of writer’s block. I’m going to miss these boys so much!

Boston reacts:

The first day of preseason, Shane and Ilya walk into the Boston locker room holding hands. It’s mostly rookies and call-ups here this early; nearly all eyes widen at their entrance, but that may just be awe at their new captain and/or the reigning playoffs MVP.

“I fucking knew it!” Connors shouts, one of the few veterans already dressed.

“You did not know,” Shane says.

Marlow enters the locker room behind them. “Knew what?”

“I knew you had a girl in New York! Even though you always denied it!”

“I didn’t have a girl in New York.”

Ilya chimes in, helpful as always. “I am not a girl, you see.”

Connors rolls his eyes. “I basically knew.”

“You didn’t know, like, any of the important parts.”

Marlow drops his gear bag with a loud thud. “What the hell are you talking about? Rozanov is a girl?”

“Rozanov is not a girl,” Ilya corrects.

Connors, to Marlow: “How I always said Cap has a girl in New York? It was Rozanov!”

Marlow looks confused. “We always knew Cap was friends with Rozanov? They’d go to the zoo and shit, it was weird.”

Connors is getting more and more worked up. “No, they’re—“

Shane clears his throat. “We’re right here, guys.”

Every rookie and prospect in the locker room stares at them. More veterans file in. Shane is still holding Ilya’s hand. He closes his eyes and braces himself for the official announcement. Ilya squeezes his fingers; his touch, his very presence, makes the words easier.

“I’m gay,” Shane says into total silence. “Rozanov and I are… together.”

Not a word. Not a sound. A seeming eternity of quiet, until one of the rookies—Peterson, Shane thinks—asks, “Is this why New York agreed to get fucking fleeced?”

“Not if a lawyer asks you!” Ilya jokes. How can he joke? Shane had been so fixated on getting Ilya to Boston, he had barely paused to consider the legality of it all. Could Mom get in trouble? Could this come back to bite them?

No. The league and both teams had signed off on it. And, while his mom would obviously do a lot for him--them, now--she took her job as agent very seriously. Hence the blazers.

Also, none of this was anywhere near the point right now.

“We wanted to play together and the timing worked out,” Shane says diplomatically.

“They got fleeced and WE’RE GONNA WIN THE FUCKING CUP!” Peterson screams.

“Let’s not get ahead of--” Shane starts, but Ilya raises their joint hands over his head like a boxing champion.

“Win the cup!” Ilya shouts and the room is raucous around them. Quietly, into Shane’s ear, Ilya says, “See, they do not care you are gay. They only care I am best at hockey.”

“Fuck off,” Shane mumbles, but he’s smiling around the words.

A few players are quiet and sink to the edges of the locker room. Perrault, their second line center with a single year left on his contract, has a vein in his forehead that looks about to pop (but that may be because he knows Ilya is his replacement). A defenseman acquired in the off-season stares at them with what can only be called revulsion.

This isn’t all going to be smooth sailing. This locker room isn’t going to be some queer paradise.

But Shane lets himself get swept away in the optimism of preseason and the joy of finally being known by those around him. And the love of Ilya. Always: the love of Ilya.

~~~~~~

New York reacts:

Ilya’s first game back in New York and he’s a little nervous, to be completely honest. Yuna’s “negotiation tactics” probably hadn’t left the best taste in everybody’s mouth and Ilya hadn’t heard from any Admirals players over the summer.

During the first TV timeout, a tribute video to Ilya’s time with the team plays on the jumbotron. Ilya leans against the boards to watch it. Shane is right by his side, of course.

The video is... interesting. It’s mostly normal--all the highlights Ilya would have expected--but a few clips stand out. There’s footage of Ilya’s first ever game against Boston: the first faceoff against Shane, the briefest flash of the two of them standing together, keeping each other out of that fight. Past-Ilya’s hand covers his mouth and Present-Ilya knows exactly what he’s saying. “I want to see you, Hollander.”

Shane gasps a little at Ilya’s shoulder. He recognizes the moment too.

And then, near the end of the montage, Ilya’s overtime Stanley Cup winning goal. Lifting the cup, kissing the cup. Obvious inclusions. But then there’s Ilya drifting around the ice during celebrations, eyes scanning high in the stands. And, the final shot, the one that freezes and fades to black: Ilya standing on the shore of Shane’s lake, holding that hard-fought trophy and smiling with the kind of joy Ilya had long wondered whether he was even capable of feeling.

The kind of joy that overflows from him when Shane is around.

“Where did they get that clip?” Shane wonders idly, as if that’s the important part of its inclusion.

“Yuna, probably.”

“Whoever edited this...”

“They know.”

“This was the plan.”

The crowd is cheering. Cheering for him. A bit teary-eyed, Ilya waves. “The plan worked.”

~~~~~~

Crouching down for a faceoff across from Scott Hunter. “How’s Kip?” Ilya asks, half snark and half genuine.

“How’s Shane?” Hunter asks, matching his tone exactly.

Ilya is unable to conjure a quip. “Wonderful.” Then he wins the faceoff.

~~~~~~

Shane is nervous. Ilya can feel the anxiety radiating off of him and filling the backseat of the Escalade like a fog. “We are almost there,” Ilya says.

“There,” Shane echoes.

“Baby’s first gay bar!”

Shane shoves him, not appreciating the teasing. “It’s--” he starts to say, but cuts himself off.

“What? Is not your first?”

Shane blushes. Or, at least, he seems to in the dim light of the car. “That’s none of your business.”

Ilya’s stomach and jaw drop in tandem. “I think it might be.”

Shane’s hands fist on his thighs and Ilya teases one loose. Holds it between both of his own.

“In LA,” Shane says with his eyes squeezed tight. “On a road trip. Years ago.”

“Did you...” Ilya wants the answer to be no, but kind of hates himself for wanting that. He’s been with other people. Shouldn’t Shane have gotten to experience that too? If he hadn’t, would he someday want to? Wish he knew more of queerness than what can be found in Ilya’s bed?

“Sort of,” Shane says. His fingers curl around Ilya’s palm. “I went into a back room with this guy and he...”

“Did he hurt you?” Ilya decides he would rather Shane have had mind-blowing sex with a million men that weren’t him, rather than have been hurt by one asshole.

“No. We just... blowjobs. Then he asked me back to his place and I said no.”

“Why?”

Shane presses a kiss to the back of Ilya’s hand. “He wasn’t you.”

Ilya’s heart just about bursts out of his chest. “He wasn’t me.”

Shane shakes his head just as the car rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” Ilya says. “Baby’s second gay bar.”

~~~~~~

The Kingfisher is more of a pub, like Hunter had promised, but Ilya is glad to see a small dance floor off to one side. He loves dancing and he’s never danced with Shane.

They weave their way through the half-crowded room to the booth Hunter has saved in the corner. Bennett is there too, which surprises Ilya. Although, spotting his now-bare ring finger, perhaps it shouldn’t.

They exchange quick greetings, then Hunter says, “Kip will be right back. He’s bringing drinks.”

“He works here?” Ilya thought he made smoothies or something.

“Yeah. Started at the beginning of the season, but he’s off tonight.”

As if summoned, Kip appears carrying a pint and a glass of something shockingly purple. “Kyle’s trying out a new special.”

A blond man--cute, young--soon brings another purple drink. Kyle, presumably. “Kip, you grabbed the wrong drink. This Scott Hunter has booze.”

“Scott Hunter?” Shane asks. The first thing he’s said since they entered the bar. His eyes haven’t stopped moving, drifting, darting around the room. His shoulder bumps Ilya’s, but otherwise they aren’t touching. Aren’t canoodling, like Hunter and his Kip.

“Name for the cocktail special we’re trying.” Kip sips the new drink, then hands his original to Bennett. “Mocktail for you.”

Ilya bursts into laughter. “Virgin Scott Hunter!”

Hunter reddens and Kip rolls his eyes. A slow, seductive smile spreads across Kyle’s face. “You’re new here. What’s your name, hottie?”

Bennett’s expression sours slightly at the flirtation--very interesting--but Ilya’s attention is consumed by Shane’s palm sliding high on his thigh. A possessive move.

“I’m Ilya.” Ilya reaches his hand out for a shake and Kyle’s fingers linger.

“Kyle. You’re too pretty to play hockey, but Scott doesn’t know anyone else.”

Shane’s fingers dig deep into Ilya’s leg. Five small bruises will bloom by morning, Ilya is sure of it. Buoyed by Shane’s jealousy, Ilya decides to put him out of his misery and slings an arm around Shane’s shoulder. “I play for Boston. So does my boyfriend, Shane.”

Kyle pouts dramatically. “Scott, there’s no point bringing your hot friends if they’re all taken!”

Ilya nods across the table at Bennett. “We’re not all taken.”

Genuine interest takes over Kyle’s face and it couldn’t be more different than his put-upon flirtation with Ilya. “You’re not wearing your ring,” he says to Bennett.

“I’m not.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, then Kyle snaps back into his server persona. “Can I get you two something to drink?” he asks Shane and Ilya.

“Ginger ale?” Shane asks.

“Absolutely,” Kyle says. “Or I could make you a Scott Hunter mocktail? It’s ginger beer, blueberries, and lemon.”

“Sugar?”

“Nothing added. Just what’s in the fruit and soda.”

“Sounds good.”

“And for you?”

“Shane will have the virgin Scott Hunter and I will have a sexual Scott Hunter please. Extra promiscuity.”

Hunter blushes deeper, Shane squeezes his thigh again, and everyone else at the table laughs. Exactly the reactions Ilya had hoped for.

~~~~~~

The company is pleasant enough as they sip their too-sweet-despite-no-added-sugar drinks. Kip is fun, Bennett and Hunter are boring (Shane is too, but Ilya loves that about him), and Ilya has to repeatedly shift the topic of conversation to literally anything other than hockey.

It’s nice, sitting with Shane like this: tucked up against his side in public. His boyfriend for all to see. The conversation settles intractably on Nashville’s goalie rotation and Ilya runs his lips along the shell of Shane’s ear. “Dance with me,” he whispers.

“I’m talking,” Shane says softly, but he tilts deeper into Ilya’s touch. At full volume: “The net belongs to Johanssen. Pettrof is too green and Yurin hasn’t been the same since—“

“Dance with me instead.”

“—his MCL.” To Ilya: “I’m no good at dancing.”

“You will be with me.”

Shane shrugs his apology to the rest of the group, then trails Ilya through the maze of close-set tables. It’s filled up since they got here and a good number of couples crowd the dance floor. Ilya tips his head back and lets the music settle into his bones. Moving smoothly with the beat, he opens his eyes and sees Shane... bopping. That’s the only word to describe his boyfriend’s awkward, slightly off-tempo bouncing.

“I told you I can’t dance!”

Ilya grabs Shane by the hips, spins him around, and pulls him close. His ass, his glorious ass. Ilya rocks into it in time with the music. “Move with me.”

“I can’t... Everyone else is...”

“Ignore everyone else. Imagine I am fucking you,” Ilya growls into his ear. “Move with me. You are good at this part.”

It takes a while for Shane to settle into something resembling tempo--and they practically have to start over when the song changes--but eventually he’s dancing properly. Or, well, quite improperly. It’s downright filthy, the way his hips grind into Ilya. Hands slip between them and ruck up Ilya’s shirt. Neck twists and teeth scrape along Ilya’s jaw, nip at his earlobe.

It’s an odd sort of paradox: The world around them disappears. Just Shane and Ilya here, dancing together, moving together, sharing breath and space like they’re one being. Yet, simultaneously, Ilya is hyper aware that they are in public. They aren’t hiding. Not anymore.

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. Boyfriends. Teammates. Dancing together in a gay bar.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter End Notes

This story is the longest thing I’ve written in years and it has been an absolute joy to work on. Thank you all for coming on this journey and sticking with me. I hope you have enjoyed it! I’d love to hear if you made it this far; every time I see a new comment it makes my day :)