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, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends with Benefits, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, POV Shane Hollander, Canonical Character Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Friend Hayden Pike, Minor Internalized Homophobia

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Big Bang 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-24 Words: 29,566 Chapters: 1/1

afterimages

Summary

Lily
Have you seen the pictures

Lily
I did not mean for this to happen

Lily
Hollander pick up the phone

OR

When explicit photos of Shane are leaked from Ilya’s phone, they decide to pretend to be in a romantic relationship to save their reputations, while continuing their strictly-sexual relationship in private.

Notes

omg this is the longest work i've ever posted and it's finally here!!!!

so many thanks to my betas, joetheneurotypical and blueberrybridges on tumblr and ao3

OCTOBER 2016

Shane’s phone won’t stop ringing. It’s annoying, because his wireless headphones are connected to it, and they keep pausing his podcast every time he gets a call. Thankfully, he can tap a button on the side to hang up, and continue his workout.

When he finally checks it, he has 18 missed calls.

Mom (4)

Unknown Number (1)

Amy Voyageurs Media (3)

Hayden Pike (4)

The rest are from Rozanov.

Lily (6)

There’s a series of texts, as well.

Mom
Call me. Now.

Amy Voyageurs Media
Hey Shane! It’s Amy from the media team of the Voyageurs. Give me a call when you can, we need to prepare a statement.

Lily
Have you seen the pictures

Lily
I did not mean for this to happen

Lily
Hollander pick up the phone

He calls his mom back first.

“Shane, thank god, I thought you were ignoring us!” Yuna says without even a hello.

“I was in the middle of a workout, sorry. What’s going on?”

“So you haven’t seen.” The purposefully vague statement sets Shane on edge.

“Seen what?”

There’s a pause that Shane doesn’t like at all. “There are some photos of you. Online.”

There are always photos of him online. “Mom?”

“Some rather… suggestive photos.”

Oh, god.

“Apparently, they were leaked from Ilya Rozanov’s phone.”

Fuck.

“Shane, baby? Say something.”

He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, honey. I just wish you’d told us that you and Rozanov were…”

He holds his breath.

“…in a relationship.”

He blows it out, loud enough that Yuna can probably hear it over the phone. “We’re not.”

“No?” His mother sounds cautious, wary.

“No. It’s just… casual.”

Yuna sighs on the other end. “Honey, you’ve got to admit that this looks bad. Especially if you’re not in an exclusive relationship. Is there some way we can spin this, so it doesn’t look… the way it looks?”

His phone beeps to let him know there’s someone on the other line. He checks. It’s Rozanov.

“Can I get back to you on that, Mom?” Shane asks. “Rozanov has actually been trying to get a hold of me.”

“Go take care of that. Call me back soon, though.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

He hangs up his mother’s call and picks up Rozanov’s.

“Hollander, thank god you have picked up the phone.” He sounds frantic. “You have seen the pictures, yes?”

“Uh, no. I haven’t actually. But my mom told me. So I can guess.”

“I am sorry.” Rozanov sounds truly, deeply apologetic. “I should have deleted photos. I am stupid idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Shane says automatically. The reality of the situation is finally setting in for him. “Oh, Jesus. Shit. Everyone knows. About us.”

“Yes,” Rozanov says regretfully.

“Wait, what about you?” Shane asks. “What about Russia?” He remembers Carter Vaughn talking about it during the Olympics, how Russia wasn’t safe for ‘folks like that’.

“I don’t know. My brother, he has seen. My father is— he has probably not seen, but will find out soon enough.”

“Fuck,” Shane says. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Is not your fault.”

“Still.”

It falls silent for a moment. Shane can hear Rozanov’s breathing, labored and heavy.

“My mom said—” Shane starts, then stops.

“Yes?” Rozanov asks.

“She said it would be better if we were in a relationship.”

“Oh,” Rozanov says, and Shane can imagine his mouth twisting unhappily. “But we are not.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mother— she is your manager?” Rozanov asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says.

“You are from Ottawa, yes? We play them tomorrow. Montreal, Ottawa, not so far, yes?”

“You want me to come to Ottawa tomorrow?” Shane asks. It’s a good idea, talking in person. It’ll give them a chance to collaborate on statements.

“Yes. We can talk with your mother, if you want.”

“I— yeah, that would be great.” He doesn’t know what it means, that Rozanov is offering this.

“Okay. Well. Goodbye.”

“Yeah, uh, bye, Rozanov.”

As soon as he hangs up, the panic, which had ebbed while talking to Rozanov, comes flooding back. He crouches on the floor of his home gym, fingers laced behind his head, trying to breathe.

Once he feels he can stand up without feeling dizzy, he gets his phone back out and searches up his name.

The photos themselves aren’t really that incriminating— a few waist-up shots of Shane, looking blissed out, one with someone’s thumb in his mouth, one where he’s clearly reaching down to touch himself. If they were on a girl’s phone, people would have made fun of him for a while, but everyone would have forgotten about it eventually.

But they weren’t on a girl’s phone.

They were on Rozanov’s.

Shane makes the drive out to Ottawa after practice. The Bears’ game isn’t until 7:30, so they’re meeting at Shane’s parents’ house at 3. Shane leaves as soon as practice gets out, because he does not want to leave his parents at the mercy of Ilya Rozanov. Or leave Ilya Rozanov at the mercy of Yuna Hollander.

He arrives at 2:30 and pretty much collapses onto the couch.

“Oh, honey,” Yuna says, pushing his hair out of his face. “How was practice?”

“Awful,” he mumbles. “Nobody talked to me. Even Hayden…” He shakes his head. “And it didn’t help that we lost last night.”

“They shouldn’t have benched you. You’re their best player.”

Shane mashes his face into the couch so he doesn’t have to respond. He’s not a braggart, but he is the best player on the team. Certainly the most well-known.

And now all those kids who looked up to him probably know that he’s… God, he can’t even bring himself to say it. His stomach churns, and he sits up.

“Have any brands dropped me yet?” he asks, not wanting to know the answer.

Yuna sighs, drawing her hands into her lap. “I think they’re waiting on your statement. I can’t guarantee that all of them will want to keep you, but if we go about this the right way… And the pictures aren’t even that explicit, for god’s sake!”

“But they were on Rozanov’s phone.” Shane resists the urge to draw up his knees into his chest and put his hood over his head and curl himself into a little ball. He clenches a fist instead.

“I do wish you’d told us, honey,” Yuna says, reaching out to smooth Shane’s hair again.

He jerks his head away. “What, that I was having sex with my arch-rival?”

“That you’re—” Yuna makes a gesture with her hands.

“That I’m what?”

“Gay,” Yuna says.

“Yeah, well.”

“We could have had a statement prepared, or something.”

Shane doesn’t respond.

Rozanov arrives in his game day suit.

“You haven’t been benched?” Shane asks.

Rozanov looks at him. “Am captain. Have to show up no matter what.”

Shane’s captain too, and they’d barred him from the arena.

They sit in the living room, Shane and Rozanov on the couch, Yuna in a chair across from them, David conspicuously absent.

“So!” Yuna says. “Where do we want to start?”

“I am very sorry about the pictures,” Rozanov says, slowly and deliberately.

Shane doesn’t say anything. Yuna glances at him, then says, “Thank you for the apology, but what’s done is done. We’ve got to focus on damage control now.”

“Yes,” Rozanov says. “Hollander said would be better if we are together.”

“Well, yes, but Shane made it clear that you’re not.”

Rozanov purses his lips. “But would be better, yes?”

“It would be seen as more of an invasion of privacy into a sweet moment between a committed couple, rather than a bad choice between— for lack of a better word— fuck buddies,” Yuna fiddles with her pen, flipping through the pages of her notepad.

“So, is an option, then.”

“What?” Shane asks. “No. We’re not dating.”

Rozanov shrugs. “Can pretend.”

Before Shane can protest once again, his mother cuts in. “Shane, honey, it’s the best idea. The brands would see you as more reliable. The public would be more sympathetic—”

“Aren’t there other options?” Shane asks desperately.

“Yes, let’s go through them,” Yuna says, taking charge. “First, we don’t acknowledge the pictures at all. This is not so great, because I know the Voyageurs are waiting on a statement from you, Shane, and I assume the Bears are doing the same for Rozanov.”

Rozanov nods.

“Second, you make a statement, claim it was a mistake to take the pictures, and don’t acknowledge any relationship between you two. Let people think what they want. Finally—”

“We pretend to date,” Shane cuts in. Yuna nods. “Is that it?”

“That’s all I have.”

Shane would prefer to go with option one, in the hopes that everyone else would go with option one as well, and the whole world would just never bring any of this up again and also forget it ever happened. But that's never going to happen. He puts his head in his hands and closes his
eyes, trying to breathe.

“Honey,” Yuna starts. Shane shakes his head, exhaling shakily.

Rozanov moves closer to him on the couch, placing a hand on his back. “Hollander,” he says softly, sliding his hand up to grip the back of Shane’s neck.

If they were alone, Shane would collapse into him, planting his face into Rozanov’s neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down his torso until he reached his crotch. He would mouth at his cock through the fabric, getting it damp with spit until Rozanov pulled him off and pulled his dick out.

But they’re not alone. So Shane stays where he is, inhaling deeply through his nose and breathing out heavily.

Rozanov massages his neck, and Shane looks up at him from where he’s hunched over. He looks— concerned. He meets Shane’s eye and asks, “You are okay?”

Shane nods slowly, and Rozanov removes his hand. Shane immediately misses the weight of it.
“The third option,” he says.

Yuna insists on Rozanov staying for an early dinner before the game, saying they’ll flesh out the details of the arrangement over the meal. Shane, not one to argue with his mother, doesn’t fight it.

“So,” Yuna says, passing the salad around the table, “What’s the timeline here? You two played each other a few years ago and, what, started dating then? It can’t be a new thing, that’ll look fragile.”

“Could always go with real thing,” Rozanov suggests, shoveling potatoes into his mouth.

“And— what is that?”

Rozanov looks at Shane then, like he’s expecting him to lead the conversation. “Uh, rookie year, I guess,” he says.

“Summer before,” Rozanov corrects.

Yuna looks shocked. “That long?”

Shane nods miserably. Rozanov glances at him, cutting apart his salmon with his fork. Shane is suddenly, intensely jealous of Rozanov, who seems so at ease in Shane’s childhood home, with Shane’s parents.

He drops his fork, realizing he’s gripping it too tightly.

“Okay,” Yuna says. “Since rookie year. Wow. Sorry, Rozanov, the summer before.”

“Ilya,” Rozanov offers.

“Ilya,” Yuna repeats. “Anyway, wow. That’s a long time.”

Shane pushes around the food on his plate, not hungry. He needs fuel, though, so he takes a reluctant bite. The food tastes like cardboard, but he chews through it anyway, taking a sip of water when it gets stuck in his throat.

“Okay. So. Dating since the summer before rookie year. Do we need more than that? I feel like we need more than that.”

“We can’t say that,” Shane realizes.

“Why not?” Rozanov asks.

“It’ll look like you’ve been cheating on me with a bunch of different girls every time you play in a different city.”

Shane watches Rozanov’s throat as he swallows harshly, jaw clenched. “I— yes. You do not deserve that.”

“So when's the last time you, uh, hooked up with someone besides Shane, Ilya?” Yuna looks as uncomfortable with this conversation as Shane feels.

Ilya raises his hands in a little ‘I don’t know’ gesture. “I went back to Russia this summer, but I was busy. Did not do much, um—” He clears his throat. “Mostly a friend, Svetlana, but she will keep secret if I ask.”

“Are the photos timestamped?” Yuna asks. “Because if they’re not, that would be helpful. If they are, though, we would have to create a timeline that involves an established relationship before the photos were taken.”

“Let’s just go with a year ago,” Shane says, “And if anyone comes out and says that they slept with Ilya during that year, we’ll deal with it when it comes.”

His mother is anxious, Shane can tell. He wishes he could calm her, tell her it will all be fine, but he can’t. He feels the same. He still hasn’t allowed himself to process it fully, since once he does, he’ll be useless.

“Should we post a picture tonight? I feel like we should.” Yuna speaks too quickly, talking just to say something.

David lays a hand over hers. “Ilya, would you like some more salmon? We’ve got plenty.”

Rozanov covers his mouth as he finishes chewing. “No, thank you. I have to be going soon. Thank you for lovely meal.”

Shane pushes away from the table abruptly, standing. He doesn’t know how Rozanov is doing this, acting like everything is fine, acting like he has dinner with his secret hookups’ parents all the time. Shane steps away from the table, into the kitchen, leaning over the sink.

It feels like Rozanov hasn’t reacted to this at all, and Shane is freaking out. He’s so controlled, and Shane feels the world crumbling around him.

Shane hears footsteps behind him, and turns around. It’s Rozanov, lips pressed into a frown.

“Rozanov,” Shane says.

“Ilya,” Rozanov— Ilya insists. “If we are going to be boyfriends, then Ilya.”

“Ilya,” Shane agrees, then shakes his head. “I’m fine. You don’t have to— keep checking on me.”

“You are not fine. You are panicking,” Ilya says.

“I’m not!”

Ilya gives him a look.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Shane admits. “But it’s not— It’s not your problem to deal with.”

“Is exactly my problem, Hollander. I created problem.”

“Shane,” Shane says. “If I’m going to call you Ilya—”

Ilya waves him off, stepping into his space, pushing him against the sink. Shane melts into the touch, Ilya’s hands on his waist. He leans into Ilya, dropping his forehead into the space where his neck meets his shoulder.

Ilya lets him rest there for a moment, before taking him by the chin and looking him in the eyes. “It will be okay,” he says softly.

Shane wants to kiss him so badly, his gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips. But he stops himself. It’s not real. They’re at his parent’s house.

He swallows and pushes Ilya off of him gently. “Not here,” he says.

Ilya nods, slowly. “I have to go,” he says.

“Yeah,” Shane replies, throat dry. He turns back to the sink and fills a glass. He needs to say something, anything, that will put them back in familiar territory. “Ottawa’s my hometown team, you know? So I won’t be rooting for you.”

Shane can hear the smirk in Rozanov’s voice as he says, “Oh? Well I won’t be going easy on them for you either.”

The Voyageurs' and Bears’ accounts post their statements the next day, the Bears’ statement being significantly more supportive, condemning the anonymous hacker for invading a player’s privacy. If anyone at the front office was surprised by the “confirmation” of their relationship, they don’t show it.

The team is still icing him out. Shane hasn’t said anything to anybody, but they’ll see the statement. He’s expecting a trade any day now.

He finds out that the commissioner of the NHL has been trying to get ahold of him. Shane doesn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He wants to go back in time and keep his eyes to himself in those damned showers.

Ilya calls him in the afternoon.

“The commissioner tells me that you are unreachable,” he starts without preamble. “So here I am, reaching you.”

“I don’t want to talk to the commissioner,” Shane says. “This whole thing is a nightmare and I wish it would just blow over.”

Ilya hums. “It will. Give it time.”

“What did the commissioner want to tell me?” Shane asks.

“Oh, nothing special. Just that we are disappointment to the league and he better not see any more scandals.”

“What?” Shane is shocked.

“Not in so many words, of course. But I get the message.” Ilya sighs. “I think he is maybe… what is the word? Like, homophobia.”

“Homophobic,” Shane supplies automatically. “And yeah, you think? The whole league is homophobic. Why do you think there hasn’t been an out player until now?”

“Yes, well. We are the first. We set good example.”

“I didn’t want to be the first. I didn’t want to be the anything!” Shane shouts, then tries to calm himself. “This is all your fault.”

He regrets it as soon as he says it, but still, it’s how he feels. If Ilya hadn’t taken those photos, hadn’t kept them… But then again, it’s not Ilya’s fault his phone got hacked. And anyway, Shane had agreed to take them. Shane had posed for them.

There’s silence on the other line.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. “I didn’t— I’m just— I’m mad.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I understand. I am mad at myself too. Was risky to keep those photos. But I did it anyway.”

“Yeah, well.” Shane doesn’t have anything else to say.

DECEMBER 2015

Lily
here

Shane jogs down the stairs to let Rozanov in. When he opens the door, Rozanov rushes inside, rubbing his hands together.

“Is cold, Hollander,” he complains.

“I came down as soon as you texted!”

Rozanov rolls his eyes, then backs Shane against the door, sliding his hands under Shane’s shirt. Shane yelps. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t lying, you’re freezing.”

Rozanov looks smug as he withdraws. “Maybe you can think of some activities that will… warm me up?”

Shane shakes his head as he heads up the stairs, Rozanov close behind him. “I’d offer you a drink,” he says as they enter, “But, uh, I don’t even think I have cups in this place.”

“Yes, yes, you buy whole building so we can fuck, whatever.” Rozanov kisses him as soon as the door is shut. “Maybe we can get to that instead of, what, chit-chat?”

Shane kisses him back, fiercely, to shut him up. Rozanov responds enthusiastically, stripping off his winter coat and leaving it in a heap on the floor. Whatever. It’s not like Shane has a coatrack here anyway.

He leads them back to the furnished bedroom between kisses. Rozanov starts undressing immediately, pulling off his pants, socks, and underwear in one fell swoop, hoodie still on. Shane chuckles at him, and Ilya scowls.

“What?” he asks, struggling with the bunch of clothing at his ankle.

“It’s just, the guys in the locker room make fun of you if you put on your shirt before your underwear. They call that look ‘Winnie-the-Pooh-ing it.’”

Rozanov stares at him, still only naked from the waist down. “You mean Vinni Pukh? He does not wear clothes.”

“What are you talking about? Winnie the Pooh iconically only wears a shirt. A red one. Here,” Shane fumbles for his phone and opens google, searching winnie the pooh. He shows Rozanov the results.

He looks aghast. “This is not Winnie the Pooh,” he insists. “Add ‘Russian’ to search, you will see.”

Shane does so, dutifully. “What the fuck?” he says as the images come up. “That looks more like a raccoon than a bear! And why is Piglet wearing pants?”

Rozanov squints at him. “What is this ‘raccoon’?”

“It’s like—” Shane casts around for a way to explain. “Those bastards that dig around in your trash.”

Rozanov makes an incredulous face at him. Shane sighs, and pulls it up on google. “These guys.” He shows Rozanov an image of a raccoon.

Rozanov’s expression clears. “Ah, yes, yenoty. I know them. They dig in your garbage in Canada? They are like— rare pet, in Russia.”

Shane sticks his phone back in his pocket, grinning. “I thought you didn’t want to chit-chat?” As much as it’s nice to have a normal conversation with Rozanov, he can’t help but want to get back onto familiar ground.

Scowling, Rozanov mutters, “You brought it up.” He’s still standing in his hoodie and no pants, which Shane can’t help but find endearing. He can just see Rozanov’s cock, hanging half-hard against his thigh, under the hem of his shirt. Stepping into Rozanov’s space, Shane sinks to his knees, watching as his cock twitches.

“Hollander, fuck,” he says, burying his hands in Shane’s hair.

Shane rests his forehead against Rozanov’s abdomen, mouthing softly at his dick before taking it into his mouth. He can almost fit the whole thing, and revels in the sensation as he grows harder.

He doesn’t suck, just holding it in his mouth, occasionally running his tongue along the underside. Rozanov swears softly above him, but Shane doesn’t react, eyes closed, lost in the feeling.

Rozanov scratches his nails lightly through Shane’s hair, and Shane shudders, nose pressed into Rozanov’s pubic hair. He can tell he won’t be able to keep it all in his mouth for long. Rozanov pulls him off before that happens though, and Shane whines.

“Shh,” Rozanov shushes him. “You were so good. But let us move to the bed, yes?”

Shane complies, pulling off his shirt on the way. Rozanov climbs on top of him, pinning him to the bed, and kisses him gently, just lips against lips. Shane wraps his legs around his waist, pulling Rozanov’s hips down to meet his own. He can feel Rozanov’s spit-slick dick through his thin sweatpants.

Rozanov, with some difficulty, gets a hand down the back of Shane’s sweatpants. He hums approvingly. “No underwear?”

Shane flushes. “I— Shut up.”

Kissing down his neck, Rozanov protests, “No, is good! I like! As long as it is for me and you are not expecting some other man to come here and, how do you say? Dick you down?”

Covering his flaming face with his hands, Shane asks, “Where did you learn that phrase?”

Rozanov pauses in his ministrations to give him a look. “Our job is locker room. You have never heard locker room talk?”

Shane surges up to kiss him instead of answering, harsh this time instead of gentle. He bites Rozanov’s bottom lip, capturing it between his teeth and pulling. Rozanov growls and slots their lips back together, licking into Shane’s mouth. Shane bucks up against him, trying to shimmy off his pants at the same time. Rozanov pulls away to strip himself of his hoodie and shirt in one smooth motion, then yanks Shane’s sweatpants down to his ankles. Shane kicks them off.

Rozanov sits back on Shane’s thighs, just looking at him. “Fuck,” he says, running a hand down the side of Shane’s face. “You are so beautiful like this.”

“Like what?” Shane asks. He knows the answer, but wants to hear it out loud.

“Wanting me,” Rozanov says simply.

For a moment, Shane just stares up at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling. Then Rozanov wraps a hand around his cock and wrenches a moan out of him. “Ah— fuck, Rozanov!”
Rozanov smirks at him. “Barely have to do anything to get you going,” he says. “Like you are teenager again.”

It’s you, Shane wants to say, but doesn’t, instead letting out choked out little breaths, halfway to moans.

Rozanov is still sitting back on Shane’s thighs as he strokes his dick, staring at him like he’s something worth worshipping. “Wish I had a picture of you like this,” he says, and precome spurts from the head of Shane’s dick. “Would touch myself to just your face, looking at me.”

“Take one,” Shane blurts before he can stop himself.

Rozanov looks shocked. “You would let me do this?”

“I mean,” Shane starts, embarrassed, “Don’t spread it around.”

Eyes flashing at the thought, Rozanov says fiercely, “Of course not. You are mine only.”

You are mine only. The phrase echoes in Shane’s mind as Rozanov gets up to grab his phone. He hates how much he likes it.

Rozanov settles back on Shane’s thighs, one hand holding his phone, the other on Shane’s dick. He shivers at the touch, mouth falling open. Rozanov works him with feather-light touches, dancing his fingers along the inside of his thighs until he’s begging for stimulation on his cock. When he finally gets it, he arches up into the touch, or would if Rozanov wasn’t pinning him down. As it is, he twists underneath him, panting with pleasure.

“Got it,” Rozanov says.

“Do you want more?” Shane asks shyly.

Rozanov’s eyes darken, and he doesn’t say anything, just raises his phone again. He slides his other hand up Shane’s torso, and Shane gasps at the sensation. The hand makes its way up Shane’s neck to rest on his chin, thumb tracing Shane’s lips. Shane opens his mouth and Rozanov slips his thumb in. Eyes half-lidded, Shane sucks on the finger as Rozanov works it slowly in and out of his mouth. His cheeks heat as he remembers that Rozanov is taking pictures of this, and he feels his cock twitch.

Rozanov notices, and takes his thumb out of Shane’s mouth. “Touch yourself,” he commands.
Shane reaches down to where his dick has been steadily leaking against his stomach. He gathers up the precome to make the glide smooth, and gets a hand around himself. Looking up at Rozanov, he parts his lips, breathing shakily through his mouth.

“Do not look at me, look at camera.”

Shane forces his focus to the camera on the back of Rozanov’s phone as he jerks himself. Evidently having gotten enough, Rozanov throws the phone onto the bed and leans down to kiss Shane again. Shane, taking his hand off his cock, wraps both arms around Rozanov, feeling the soft, warm skin under his hands. Rozanov presses his chest against Shane’s and Shane groans at the contact. Their cocks slide together and Rozanov reaches down to get a hand around them both.

“Jesus fuck,” Shane swears into Rozanov’s mouth.

Rozanov smirks against him. “Is good, yes?”

“Shut up, you know it’s good.” Shane’s breath starts to come in pants again. “Tell me— tell me what you’re going to do with the pictures.”

Rozanov pulls away to look at him. “What do you want me to do?”

Shane squirms, embarrassed, cheeks heating. “Look at them. Touch yourself to them. Think of me,” he adds.

A devious smile spreads across Rozanov’s face. “Maybe I come so hard looking at pictures it gets on my phone screen. Maybe my cock gets hard again looking at you, covered in my come. Maybe I cannot ever look away from these pictures, cannot play hockey again, too busy touching myself to pictures of you.”

Shane whines, overwhelmed. He recognizes somewhere, distantly, that he doesn’t actually want Rozanov to never play hockey again, but the idea that he’s so attractive, so desirable, that Rozanov can’t take his eyes off of him is incredibly hot. “Will you do it now?” Shane asks.

“Do what?”

“Come on my face.” He hadn’t known he’d wanted it until this second, but now he wants it more than he thinks he’s wanted anything.

Rozanov pretends to think. “Hmm. Maybe. Will you give me blowjob?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes, and Rozanov climbs off of him so Shane can get off the bed and sink to his knees. He finally gets Rozanov’s cock back in his mouth, and it’s better than it was before, now that Rozanov is fully hard and leaking onto his tongue. The salty taste, the familiar musk, Shane tries to burn every second of it into his mind— Rozanov has those pictures, but all Shane has is this. So he tries his best to remember it.

“Ah, ah,” Rozanov moans as he pulls Shane off. He finishes himself off with his hand, and lets his come splatter over Shane’s face. Shane just barely remembers to close his eyes before the first burst hits him. Rozanov tilts his head up, and Shane opens his eyes, gazing up at him, cock throbbing between his thighs.

Wiping his cheek with his thumb, Rozanov says, “Open,” and Shane does. Rozanov pops his come-covered thumb into Shane’s mouth and Shane eagerly sucks it clean.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov says, pulling Shane to his feet and palming his cock. “You want it now or after I clean you up?”

“Um.” Shane thinks. He doesn’t really want to stay here with come cooling on his face, but—
“Be honest,” Rozanov says, like he knows what Shane’s thinking.

“After you clean me up.”

Rozanov disappears into the bathroom, and Shane sits down on the bed, waiting. When Rozanov returns, he says, “Good, you did not start without me.”

Shane flushes. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

Straddling him again, Rozanov carefully wipes Shane’s face. Once done, he throws the washcloth carelessly on the nightstand, and pushes Shane down so he’s on his back. “My turn,” he says.

He settles himself between Shane’s knees and goes down on him. Shane’s always impressed at how far Rozanov can take him, and always embarrassed about how quickly he comes. Per usual, he pushes on Rozanov’s head to let him know he’s about to come, and per usual, Rozanov swallows anyway. Instead of collapsing next to him, like normal, Rozanov drops down on top of Shane.

“Oof,” Shane says as his weight settles.

“Sorry,” says Rozanov, not sounding sorry at all, his nose smushed into Shane’s ear.

They lay there for a moment, and Shane wonders fleetingly if Rozanov might kiss him again. But the moment passes, and Shane tries to roll out from under him, giving up too quickly. “Get off you me, you oaf.”

Rozanov levers himself up to look at Shane. “What is oaf? I do not know this word.”

“It’s like…” Shane thinks. “A big, clumsy person.”

Drawing back, Rozanov says, “I am clumsy? Me? No, I am like ballerina.”

“Graceful?” Shane guesses.

“Yes!” Rozanov gets up and dances around the room wildly, making Shane laugh. “Look at me, full of grace!”

“Yeah, fine, you’re not an oaf,” Shane concedes as his laughter subsides.

Rozanov flops back down on top of him. “When do I see you next?” he asks softly.

March seventeenth. Shane knows immediately. Instead of saying it out loud, he shakes his head and says, “I don’t know. March, maybe?”

“Ah, you are forgetting that we will both be named to the All-Star teams.”

“January, then.”

They lay like that for a while, bare skin on bare skin, breath syncing up, until Rozanov gets up, slaps Shane on the stomach, and says, “I will shower now.”

“Okay,” Shane says, not getting up from his spot.

When Rozanov comes back, rubbing a towel through his hair, Shane sits up and begins mechanically putting his clothes back on. This is always the worst part. He’s just touchy after sex, he tells himself. It’s not Rozanov. He doesn’t care about Rozanov.

Once dressed, they make their way back to the kitchen, where Rozanov picks his coat off the floor. “Well,” he says. “Goodbye.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Shane offers, then immediately feels stupid. “I mean, I’ve got to get back home, too, so…”

Rozanov nods curtly. Shane locks the door behind them. They make their way down the stairs in silence. There’s a cab waiting for Rozanov, he must have called for it in the bathroom.

They stand in front of the door. Shane shoves his hands in his pockets. “Goodbye for real this
time,” he offers.

“Yes,” Rozanov says, and turns towards his cab.

As Shane watches the car pull away, a feeling that he can’t quite pick out starts to settle in his chest, mixing with the satisfaction and slight worry that he feels every time they do this. He swallows harshly before hurrying to his car.

OCTOBER 2016

Hayden finally talks to him, apologizing for being weird. Shane wishes he could afford to be mad. But he can’t. So he accepts Hayden’s apology with a “yeah, no worries, man,” and a slap on the back and pretends like it isn’t still killing him that the rest of the team still hates him.

“Is it the gay thing, or the Rozanov thing, do you think?” he asks Hayden.

Hayden looks at him like he’s stupid. “The Rozanov thing, obviously.”

“Really?” That’s better than Shane expected. So when this whole thing blows over, and he and Ilya “break up,” he’ll have his team back. He can tell them the whole Rozanov thing was a mistake, and they’ll all tease him, but they’ll respect him again.

“Yeah, dude. I mean, the gay thing definitely doesn’t help, but…”

So they might still hate him. Great. It must show on his face, because Hayden tries to backtrack. “I mean—”

“No, I get it,” Shane says.

He makes a statement in the locker room next practice. It’s not long, and it’s not eloquent, but it’s something. No one looks at him with a newfound respect, but no one hurls slurs at him either. So.

The first time they play each other since… everything, Shane is nervous. It’s unusual for him to be anxious before a game, he’s been playing too long for that. So it must be Ilya.

They haven’t seen each other since that day at Shane’s parents’ house. Yuna, in a group chat she created, had informed them that she’d reserved them a table at a restaurant in Montreal, and they were expected there at 1pm the day of the game. Shane doesn’t know what to expect. He and Ilya haven’t really spent much time together outside of hooking up, and Shane has never been the most sociable guy. Spending time with him, in public, is a different beast altogether. He doesn’t know what to expect from Ilya. Will he be as unfailingly polite as he was with Shane’s parents? Will he flirt openly? Will he be content to just stew awkwardly in the awkwardness Shane knows he exudes?

Will he be expecting to hook up after the game? Not before— Ilya at least knows him better than to expect that. But they kind of have a routine.

That question is answered the day before the game, when Ilya texts him:

Lily
Coach says I am released from curfew since my boyfriend lives in the city. What do you say, “boyfriend”?

Shane can read between the lines well enough to surmise that Ilya is essentially asking if he can stay over for the night. At Shane’s house. Well, condo. But still. Ilya has never been to his house.

But for all intents and purposes, he’s Ilya’s boyfriend for the time being. And people with boyfriends usually stay at said boyfriend’s house while they’re in town.

So…

Jane
Yeah that’s fine.

Ilya arrives at the restaurant only five minutes late, although it feels much longer than that for Shane, who has been there since 12:45. Ilya’s shirt has a few too many buttons undone, and Shane tugs anxiously at the collar of his polo.

He stands when Ilya gets to the table, resisting the weird urge to pull out Ilya’s chair for him.

“Hi,” Ilya says gruffly as he sits.

“Hi,” Shane responds, sitting as well, and picking up the menu to fiddle with anxiously.

Ilya folds his hands on the table, something Shane has never seen him do before. But then again, Shane has never really seen him in this kind of setting. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Ilya was nervous. But that’s ridiculous— Ilya probably goes on dates all the time.

“So—” Ilya starts. “How is your mother?”

“Um. She’s fine,” Shane says.

They lapse into silence. Ilya peruses his menu while Shane pretends to do the same— he already knows what he’s getting: the whitefish with lentils and broccolini.

Thankfully, a waitress comes to take their drink orders. He’s been here before, they don’t have ginger ale. He orders a sparkling water instead. Ilya gets a Diet Coke, like he doesn’t even care about his body.

“What are you looking at?” Ilya asks. “For food,” he clarifies when Shane looks confused.

“Oh, um, I get the same thing every time I’m here. The whitefish.”

Ilya scans the menu. “Mmm,” he intones sarcastically, “Lentils.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Lentils are good for you. What are you getting, then?”

“Steak,” Ilya says promptly. “Mashed potatoes. Extra butter.”

If Shane could roll his eyes harder, he would. “You’re going to ruin your body eating like that.”

Ilya smirks. “You like my body.”

Shane clenches his jaw automatically, anxiously, before remembering that they’re out now. Which makes him even more anxious. “Can you– Can you not? Like, in public.”

Frowning, Ilya raises an eyebrow. “We are a couple now, yes? Couples, they flirt.”

“I don’t think I’m that kind of couple.” Shane has never been the kind of guy to really flirt with his (admittedly very few) partners. Jessica had never really taken it well, claiming she’d felt like he wasn’t attracted to her. Which, well. He wasn’t going to dwell on that now.

Ilya leans across the table. “Hollander– Shane. Look around,” he says, and waits. Shane does. “Do you see anyone looking at us?”

“Uh, no.”

“Even though we are both so sexy?”

Shane flushes. “Rozanov!”

“Ilya,” Ilya corrects.

“Ilya,” Shane concedes, face still burning. “And no, no one’s looking at us.”

“So tell me why am I not allowed to flirt with my boyfriend?” Ilya asks.

Because, Shane thinks, You’re not my boyfriend. You’re just pretending to be. But he can’t say that, out loud, in public. So instead, he says, “Because— I’m not— I can’t flirt back. I’m not good at flirting.”

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t flirt with you so you will flirt back. I flirt with you because you turn such a pretty pink when I do.”

Shane promptly turns the aforementioned pink. “Oh.”

The waitress brings their drinks, and they order their food. The conversation turns to hockey, which Shane thanks god for, then unfortunately, to Shane’s ESPN piece.

“I did not think that a cottage could be five thousand square feet,” Ilya remarks. “I thought cottage was like, small, cute, little house. Not big, giant mansion.”

“It’s a Canadian thing.”

“And here I thought Canadians were boring, but they are doing such interesting things, like changing the meanings of words!”

Shane smiles fondly before catching himself. Rozanov being nice to him outside of sex is kind of throwing him off a little. He has to get his head in the game.

But he can’t.

“Hey, uh, do you want to get together next month when we play Boston?”

Ilya gives him a look. “No, Hollander, I want to be in same town as my boyfriend and not fuck him.”

Jeez, he’s really laying the boyfriend thing on thick, Shane thinks, pressing his mouth into a thin line, agitated. “I’m just asking.”

Ilya pauses shoveling potatoes into his mouth. “Yes, I know you like schedule, you like plan. You will come over to my place, yes?”

Shane relaxes. “Yes, that’s— I’ll do that.”

Ilya smirks around his fork, like he’s realizing something that Shane can’t quite sense.

When the check comes, they fight over who gets to pay it, but Shane wins. It’s his city, after all. He’ll let Ilya pay next month.

The game goes terribly. Although he’s finally back in the lineup, Shane can’t seem to make a dent in the Bears’ defense.

Back in the locker room after a brutal 4-1 loss, Hayden says, “I’d like to punch that smirk off Rozanov’s face.”

Shane tenses, looking around the locker room to everyone nodding and agreeing. Just a month ago, he would have been with them. Now, it feels like a betrayal either way. He keeps his head down.

Someone slings an arm around his neck. It’s JJ. “Not this guy, though, right?”

A small, terrified laugh bubbles out of Shane. “What?”

“You don’t want to punch that face of Rozanov’s, do you?”

“Um.” He feels trapped, caught like a deer in the headlights. “I mean, after a game like this…”

The room erupts into cheers. “See, I told you! I told you!” JJ howls. “I knew he would not abandon us like that. He will keep that rivalry alive.

Shane takes a breath of relief, focused on getting out of his gear before he’s pulled for media. In the few games and practices since he’s been back, the mood has shifted. Whereas guys used to hang around the locker room in their sweaty uniforms, it seems like they’re all in a rush now to get to the showers. Unless he doesn’t have media, in which case they’ll wait for him to shower and dress before they do the same.

Shane’s not stupid. He knows what it means.

The media asks awful questions, like What is it like to play against your boyfriend? and Is the rivalry still alive? and How do you think Rozanov affected your play out there? Shane answers them as politely as possible. When he’s finally let go, he showers quickly, knowing he’ll have to shower again at home anyway.

Ilya is waiting for him when he exits the locker room. Shane stops in front of him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Ilya responds, arching an eyebrow.

“Let’s just go.” Shane turns on his heel without waiting to make sure Ilya is following him. They get to his car and Shane unlocks it silently, sliding into the front seat and gripping the steering wheel before resting his head on it.

“You are okay?” Ilya asks.

Shane sighs. “You probably got the same questions I did. The press, it’s just— I don’t know. I hate it.”

“Yes.” Ilya seems at a loss for words, so Shane just turns the car on and starts the drive back to his condo.

They sit in silence as he pulls into the garage under the building, and it’s not until Shane locks the door behind them that Ilya speaks.

“So…”

Shane looks at him, and he throws his arms up in exasperation. “What now, Hollander? We drink, we fuck, what?”

“I don’t really drink during the season,” Shane responds.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Oh my god Hollander you are so boring,” he says, taking a few steps toward him until he’s in Shane’s space. With his hands on Shane’s hips, he guides him gently backward to the wall, and kisses him.

It’s frankly embarrassing how quickly Shane responds. With the first lick of Ilya’s tongue into his mouth, his knees are weak and he’s throwing his arms around Ilya’s neck. Ilya rucks up Shane’s shirt to get his hands on bare skin, and Shane shivers at the touch.

He’s hard before he realizes it, grinding his erection into Ilya’s. It’s just when Ilya gets a hand down to grope him that he remembers. “Wait, Ilya.”

Ilya stops immediately, pulling away to look at him with concern.

Shane looks away, embarrassed. “I have to shower.”

“What, you did not shower at rink?” Ilya shrugs. “Is okay, little smelly is fine.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says automatically. “I did, but— there’s not— I can’t—”

Ilya looks at him, waiting.

“I have to clean my ass out, okay?” he finally hisses.

Ilya presses his lips together, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

Shane whacks him on the arm. “It’s not funny! Unless you want to get literal shit all over your dick, I have to douche.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, backing him back up against the wall. “Show me.”

“No,” Shane says flatly. He doesn’t think there’s anything that could convince him to show Ilya Rozanov the way he cleans out his ass. Even if they were really dating, that’s a step too far.

“Please, Hollander?” Ilya sinks to his knees and noses at Shane’s erection.

“It’s not sexy.”

“I don’t care. Please?”

Shane shakes his head. “No.”

Ilya huffs, but Shane stands firm. He leaves Ilya in the bedroom to entertain himself while he goes to the bathroom. When he opens the door, Ilya is lying on the bed, naked, his cock soft against his thigh. Shane hangs his towel on the rack and joins him.

Ilya sets his phone down on the nightstand and runs a hand up Shane’s side, then sweeps it across his chest. His nipples harden at the stimulation. He’s not really in the mood to be teased, though, so he climbs on top of Ilya and kisses him, hard. Their bare skin pressed together always sends a thrill through Shane, and he grabs Ilya’s pec with his right hand and massages it, the way Ilya has done so many times to him. Ilya grunts and flips them over, sliding a thigh between Shane’s for his rapidly hardening cock to rut against.

“Lube?” Ilya asks.

“Drawer.”

Somehow managing to open the drawer with his lips firmly attached to Shane’s, Ilya uncaps the lube before pulling back to spread some on his fingers. WIth the hand not dripping lube, he urges Shane’s legs up.

Shane holds his knees to his chest as the first finger breaches him. It’s better on his hands and knees, but whatever, Ilya’s in charge. Ilya rocks the finger in and out of Shane, curling it inside, playing with his rim, before finally deciding he’s had enough. It’s good, of course it’s good, but Ilya takes such care with him. It’s uncomfortable, the attention.

“You okay?” Ilya checks.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, feeling helpless in his current position, like a bug on its back. “Just— get on with it.” Fingering has never been his favorite part of the process, too intimate, too familiar.

Ilya chuckles lowly before inserting a second finger beside the first, scissoring them to stretch him even wider. Shane’s trying not to move, but he can’t help but arch upward at the pleasure, then back down again when the arch gets him further from Ilya’s fingers.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready,” he pants.

Ilya takes his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets (which, gross), then fumbles in the drawer for a condom. Shane barely lets him roll it on before he’s grabbing him by the dick and guiding him inside of him.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, bracing himself with one arm on the bed, leaning down to kiss him. Shane lets him, but, feeling suddenly overwhelmed, turns his face to the side after it ends.

“It’s better on my hands and knees,” he grumbles, sparing a glance at Ilya, who rolls his eyes before pulling out and letting Shane turn over.

Shane breathes a sigh of relief at the slight disconnect that comes with not fucking face to face. It’s just so intimate, and as much as Shane likes the reassurance sometimes, he can’t handle it right now, after the pictures, after losing, after the locker room.

Ilya, usually so talkative during sex, must pick up on the mood that Shane’s projecting, because the room is silent but for the sound of skin slapping together and harsh breathing. Shane goes down onto his elbows and arches his back a bit in the way that Ilya likes. Ilya grips his hips a little harder, thumbs digging into the meat of Shane’s ass.

When they’re done, Ilya makes to put his arm around Shane as they collapse on the bed together, but Shane squirms out of his grasp.

“You can have the first shower,” he says, standing awkwardly at the edge of the bed. When Ilya doesn’t immediately move, he continues, “I’ll change the sheets while you’re in there.”

Ilya sighs. “Okay,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed before standing up and trudging to the bathroom.

Shane tries to make quick work of the sheets, but Ilya is in and out of the shower before he’s done. “Go,” he says. “I can finish. You shower.”

As much as Shane is loath to leave his sheets in someone else’s hands, he can feel the sweat and come drying on his skin. “Thanks,” he says simply before escaping to the bathroom.

When he emerges, Ilya is sitting on the bed in his underwear, comforter over his legs like he’s going to spend the night. Which, obviously, he is, but Shane just kind of assumed that he’d be in the guest room.

“Um,” Shane starts, eloquently. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water, pajamas?” A different room?

“Ah, no,” Ilya says, looking up from his phone. He puts it down and shimmies under the covers, then reaches out to Shane. “Come here.”

Shane is still in a towel, and he’s never really been a “sleeping naked” kind of guy, so he carefully folds his towel and puts it on the dresser (to save the trouble of walking back to the bathroom), and gets out his pajamas. Trying not to feel self-conscious about nudity in front of Ilya with no expectation of sex, he slips them on— boxers, flannel pants, long sleeved tee.

“You sleep like old man,” Ilya says. “Or little kid.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says automatically, drawing up the covers and slipping under them. It’s definitely too late to offer the guest room now. Does Ilya even know he has one? Maybe he should have made that clear earlier.

“Hollander,” Ilya says in a stage whisper. “You are thinking so loud.”

Shane blinks, shaking his head to clear it. “Sorry,” he says, reaching over to turn off the lamp.

In the darkness, Ilya’s body finds his.

Shane wakes up disoriented, having slept well, but unused to someone else being in his house, much less his bed. For one, he’s too hot— he supposes he hadn’t really factored in “someone else’s body heat” when choosing his fall/winter pajamas, and Ilya is a furnace. For another, Ilya is stuck to him like an octopus, if instead of eight limbs, an octopus had four. Well, five, from the way Ilya’s cock is pushing insistently at Shane’s hip.

Trying to disentangle himself without waking Ilya, Shane carefully peels his hand off of his chest. But as soon as he tries to get out of the crush of Ilya’s thighs, the arm is back. Shane sighs, and looks at the clock on his bedside table. 6:34. Whatever, he thinks, and falls back asleep.

When Shane wakes again, it’s 9:42, and Ilya is gone. He rubs his head with one hand, and wanders absentmindedly into the bathroom to do his usual morning routine: piss, wash hands, wash face, brush teeth. But before he gets there, Ilya pops his head out of the doorway, a toothbrush sticking out of the wide grin on his face.

“Ah, Shane! Big sleepyhead, yes?” he says, garbled through the toothbrush.

“That better not be my toothbrush, asshole,” Shane says, pushing past him and suddenly feeling grateful for the fact that the toilet has its own room.

It feels domestic, getting ready together, even as Ilya puts on last night’s clothes. Shane hates it, wants to go back to when there were strict rules to their relationship. To when nobody knew.

But now the whole world knows, and Ilya Rozanov is pulling open the doors to his fridge and asking What’s for breakfast? and Shane is shaking his head and pulling out ingredients for both a smoothie and a protein shake, and Ilya is scoffing and saying he’d prefer to eat his calories rather than drink them, and Shane forgets, for a second, that it’s fake. That they’re not even really friends.

When Ilya leaves, Shane works out, despite the fact that he has practice later. There’s something itching under his skin that he’s desperate to get out, and although the rush of blood and the pump of muscles doesn’t cure him, it distracts him.

He’s glad he never took Ilya on a tour of the condo, because it means he can look at his home gym in peace, rather than thinking Ilya, Ilya, Ilya every time his eye catches on a thing he’s touched. He pointedly thinks about nothing but counting his reps.

NOVEMBER 2016

Shane walks past Ilya holding the door open and into his house. He’s been here before, but always for one reason: sex. Now he’s expected to sleep over and, what, talk to him? Pretty much anyone who’s ever met him has told Shane that he’s not great at talking to people. At least this time he’s mentally prepared himself to sleep in the same bed as Ilya.

They do need to talk, though. Yuna had made that clear. Establish a timeline for the relationship. They can’t just pretend to be in love forever, although the idea sounds more and more appealing to Shane the more he thinks about it. He’d never have to date while still having sex on a regular basis, with a more-or-less trusted individual.

But that’s not fair to Ilya, who’s probably normal and wants to get married someday. Who can’t do that if he’s shackled to Shane for his whole life. So today he’s determined to make Ilya sit down and talk.

Okay, so they got a little distracted. But Shane’s still set on having that conversation. As they’re getting cleaned up (Shane in the bathroom, Ilya with a single probably-already-used tissue), Shane says, “Hey, we need to talk.”

Ilya freezes in the process of wiping himself down. “Okay,” he says, too quickly, not looking at Shane.

“My mom said we should establish a timeline for the relationship,” Shane says, reentering the bedroom.

Ilya squints at him. “And this means…?”

“Like, when are we going to end this? Like, ‘break up,’” Shane clarifies, using air-quotes.

Throwing his hands up in the air, Ilya lets out a short burst of air from his lips in frustration. Not helpful.

Shane, still naked, sits on the edge of the bed. Ilya’s eyes flicker down to his crotch, and Shane resists the urge to cover himself. Leaving the bed, Ilya returns with a shirt and some sweatpants, which he hands to Shane.

“What, no underwear?” Shane asks.

“I want easy access.” Ilya grins like a lion, baring his teeth. “Okay. Talk.”

Shane speaks as he gets dressed. “Well, I was thinking, if it’s not too long to, y’know, ‘stay together,’ we could split up in the off-season. After the awards and stuff. That way nobody’s speculating about us during playoffs.”

Ilya presses his lips together in a tight line, nods once, then looks away. Even Shane can recognize the expression for what it is: discomfort. “I mean,” he backtracks, “We can, uh, ‘break up’ sooner. If you want.” He probably does. He’s probably bored, probably misses going out, having sex whenever he wants rather than just when they’re in the same city.

Ilya shakes his head. “No. Is fine. July, yes?”

“Uh,” Shane starts, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, then gets up and retrieves a fresh pair of underwear from his dresser, slipping them on before finding a pair of sweatpants and putting those on as well. “Okay,” he repeats. “Hungry?”

“Um,” Shane says, following as Ilya heads toward the kitchen. “I guess?”

The true answer, of course, is that he’s always hungry. He’s a professional athlete, he needs to eat a lot. But he doesn’t want to be rude and admit that he doesn’t think Ilya has anything in his fridge that aligns with Shane’s diet.

“What do you want?” Ilya asks, opening the fridge.

“What do you have?” Shane counters.

Ilya shrugs. “Come see.” He moves out of the way so Shane can take his place in front of the open refrigerator, and to Shane’s surprise, there’s more than just junk in there. There’s lots of meal-prepped items, but also leafy greens, vinaigrettes, raw salmon and chicken, and low-fat high-protein unsweetened Greek yogurt. He turns to Ilya, impressed.

“Wow,” Shane says. “You eat better than Hayden.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Hayden has, what, fourteen children? Is not hard.”

“Can I look in your pantry?” Shane asks, not waiting for a response before opening cabinets at random.

Ilya guides him to the right one with a hand on his back. “Go wild.”

Cans of chickpeas, boxes of quinoa and whole-wheat pasta, bags of lentils and brown rice. Shane could totally make a meal of this stuff.

“So?” Ilya asks. “What am I making?”

“I can cook,” Shane says defensively, before realizing—

“Hollander, is my house. Let me cook for my guest.”

They eat, oddly formally, at the dining room table. Ilya still hasn’t put a shirt on. This probably would have been a better time to bring up the relationship timeline thing, rather than when they were both still naked, just after sex. Shane internally curses himself.

“So,” Ilya starts, jerking Shane back into the moment. “How is your mother?”

“She’s good,” Shane responds, nodding awkwardly. “Um, how’s your father?”

Ilya sighs. “He is, um, sick.”

“Oh,” says Shane, taken aback. “Like, cancer?”

Shaking his head, Ilya says, “No. Like dementia.” He works his mouth for a moment, then continues, “Sorry to tell you this now, but I thought you should know. Because…” He gestures back and forth between them. “You know.”

“Yeah, no, thank you for telling me,” Shane says quickly. “I mean, that must be hard.”

Closing his eyes, Ilya nods. “Yes. He does not remember that he is not supposed to speak to me. Because of… you know. And then my brother gets angry at him, my stepmother gets angry at him, and he does not know why. And he calls me again. It is like…” He twirls his fingers around each other.

“A circle,” Shane supplies.

“Yes. Constant circle. Again and again. And I cannot stop taking his calls, because he is my father, and he is so confused, and he needs someone.” He sighs. “They were already so angry at me for not being there to help, even though I pay for everything! And now they have new thing to be angry at me for. And I am still paying for everything.”

“Wow, um,” Shane starts, not knowing what to say. “That sucks. I mean, that’s awful.”

Ilya shrugs. “It is the way it is.” His phone rings, and he glances down at it. “Speak of the fucking devil.” He excuses himself from the table.

It must be his father. Shane can hear him speaking in Russian in the other room, calm, placating tones.

“Sorry,” Ilya says as he returns, voice rough, hands clenched on the back of his chair. “That was my father.”

Shane nods, wanting to do something to comfort him. He stands and puts a hand on Ilya’s back. He flinches at the touch, but Shane keeps his hand there, rubbing it gently up and down, placing his other hand on top of Ilya’s on the chairback. Eventually, he relaxes, his grip releasing, his back muscles untensing. When Shane looks back at his face, there’s a single tear rolling down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“Oh, um,” Shane starts, “It’s— you’re good. It’s fine.” Ilya is clearly not good or fine, but he doesn’t know what else to say. “Um, do you want…?” he asks, then holds his arms out awkwardly.

Thankfully, Ilya seems to understand what he’s saying. He steps into Shane’s space and wraps his arms around him tightly. Shane hesitantly rests his arms around Ilya’s shoulders.

“He is going to die,” Ilya states. Shane doesn’t respond, just squeezes tighter. “He will die and I will not be allowed back for funeral— even if I get into Russia, friends of my father, friends of my brother, they will not want my father disgraced by me being there. And I will still be expected to pay for it all!” Ilya rips himself away at this. “Every drop of vodka, every piece of food, I pay for it!” He returns to Shane, somber. “After he dies, I will not do it anymore. A trust for my niece, yes, but the rest of them, no.”

Shane nods. “That’s— yeah. Do you know how soon?”

Ilya shakes his head. “Next month, next year, I do not know. I am just waiting for call.” He blinks, wiping at his face. “Food is getting cold. Eat.”

Shane reels at the abrupt change of subject, but sits back down without argument, piling the now-cold salmon and quinoa onto his fork. He looks up at Ilya, still standing, staring off into the distance. “Are you okay?”

Ilya shrugs, sitting and picking up his fork. He drags it through the food on his plate. Shane looks away, unsure of how to respond to Ilya’s non-response.

After dinner, they settle in the living room to watch a game, San Francisco versus Vancouver. Ilya settles his arm on the back of the couch, barely an inch away from Shane’s shoulders. He stops himself from leaning into it. Halfway through the second intermission, Ilya’s hand drops onto Shane’s shoulder, pulling him into his chest. Shane goes along willingly, heart beating too fast. When his head finally reaches Ilya’s shoulder, Shane can’t hear anything but the rush of blood in his ears.

“Okay?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, trying to focus on the game. But then Ilya runs a hand through the back of his hair and sends shivers down his spine. Fuck the game. He tilts his head up toward Ilya, hoping he’ll get the hint.

Thankfully, he does, and chuckles lightly before pressing a soft kiss onto Shane’s lips. Shane deepens the kiss, but Ilya draws back. “Just like this, for now,” he says.

Shane flushes, and realizes that he’s trying to mount the guy who just cried about his dying father to him not fifteen minutes ago. “Sorry,” he mutters, trying to retreat to his seat, but Ilya tugs him back.

“Stay,” he murmurs, pulling him closer. He’s practically in Ilya’s lap now. He’s getting hard, too, but he ignores it. What Ilya needs right now is comfort, and if that means not having sex, Shane will do his best to give that to him.

They watch through the end of the game, and Shane can’t even focus enough to remember the score. Ilya’s been running his hand through Shane’s hair and down his neck and back, keeping Shane’s erection a prevalent concern.

“Okay,” Ilya says as the broadcast switches to a different game, “Come here.”

Shane isn’t really sure how much more ‘here’ he can get, but then Ilya pulls him into his lap so he’s straddling his thighs, his cock poking Ilya’s stomach. “So needy,” Ilya says, palming him.

Gasping at the sudden friction, Shane bucks into Ilya’s hand.

“You did so well,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear, “Waited so long, did so well for me.”

Panting, Shane captures Ilya’s lips in a bruising kiss. When he slips his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, Ilya sucks on it, drawing a moan out of him. Ilya finally dips a hand into his pants, which Shane eagerly shoves down his thighs.

“I told you,” Ilya says. “Easy access.”

Shane is too out of it to understand what he’s referencing, and instead begins to massage Ilya through his pants. Ilya swears under his breath and shoves them down, then takes both of them into his hand. Shane scrambles for something, anything, to brace himself on, so he doesn’t topple over from sheer arousal, and winds up with his forearms on Ilya’s shoulders, his hands wrapped around the back of his neck. He rests his forehead against Ilya’s, breathing open mouthed as Ilya strokes them both gently.

“Fuck, Ilya,” he says.

“You like that?” Ilya asks, then takes his hand away. Shane whines, rutting down against him, but Ilya just lifts Shane’s shirt and slides his warm hands up his torso, until he’s urging the shirt off. Shane practically rips it off, then plasters himself back to Ilya, pressing his mouth to his. Ilya takes their cocks back in hand, just holding, squeezing lightly every so often.

Shane’s about to resort to begging, but Ilya finally begins to stroke again. Shane just about collapses with relief, head on Ilya’s shoulder in a way that isn’t comfortable at all, but he craves the closeness. Ilya kisses down his neck and bites the junction where it meets his shoulder, and Shane shivers, before remembering why they usually don’t do that.

His eyes fly open. “Ilya! No marks!”

Ilya chuckles. “Everybody knows about us now, remember? No need to be careful.”

Shane colors, then feels the blood drain from his face. But Ilya doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and continues anyway. Shane comes with a strangled gasp, not expecting it. He sits there, limp, as Ilya finishes himself off.

He’d forgotten. How could he be so stupid? Of course Ilya’s not biting him because he likes it, of course it’s for a higher purpose. Shane shakes his head. He’ll never get used to this— where every action has a double meaning, every word a hidden motive.

“Hollander?” Ilya asks, and Shane jerks his head up, realising that he’s been sitting on Ilya’s lap for longer than is probably necessary for the afterglow.

He tugs his pants up, wincing at the way his cum-covered dick sticks to the loose fabric, and stands. “I’m gonna, um…” He jerks a thumb back toward the bathroom, and escapes. When he returns, after cleaning his dick off, splashing cold water on his face, and telling himself to get it together in the mirror, Ilya is in the kitchen, washing the dishes by hand. As much as Shane wants to leave, he stays, picking up the towel next to the sink and drying the next dish Ilya cleans.

It’s only 9pm, and Shane’s typical be-in-bed-reading time is 10. So he has an hour to kill. With Ilya.

Obviously they can’t have sex again, three times in one day is probably too much, even for Ilya. But Shane’s at a loss for what to do.

They end up watching more TV, some stupid reality show that Shane doesn’t know the name of and that Ilya seems unwilling to provide. More than a foot of space between them, they sit on the couch uncomfortably.

It’s times like these Shane’s glad it’s fake. He doesn’t have to try to fill the silence or come up with something exciting to do, because it’s okay that it’s boring. It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s fake.

The moment it hits 9:53, Shane stands up, stretches, and tries to say off-handedly, “Well, it’s time for me to get ready for bed.”

Ilya looks at him, disgusted. “Is not even ten PM.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane says defensively.

But Ilya just throws his hands up in the air and says, “Okay, fine, we get ready for bed.”

That’s not what was supposed to happen. Ilya was supposed to complain that Shane was boring and stay on the couch, watching TV. Ilya was not supposed to get ready with Shane.

Shane’s not superstitious per se, he just has routines. Routines that Ilya will definitely make fun of him for.

But he can’t back out now, so he just says, “Okay,” and leads the way to Ilya’s en suite.

What ends up happening is Ilya leaning against the counter, a smile playing at the edge of his lips, watching Shane prep his skin. What ends up happening is the two of them brushing their teeth side by side. What ends up happening is Ilya trying to copy Shane’s cool-down nighttime yoga routine and falling over dramatically several times.

What ends up happening is Ilya’s arm around Shane’s waist when they turn out the light.

In the morning, they go out to a breakfast place, to be seen together. Shane looks at the menu despondently, thinking back to the lovely low-fat high-protein unsweetened Greek yogurt in Ilya’s fridge. He orders an egg white omelette with “as much spinach as you can put in there” and quietly despairs at his diet.

It’s easier this time, being in public with Ilya. It’s also harder, with Ilya flirting with him, taking every chance he can to compliment Shane, all while Shane has to remember, painfully, that it’s all for show.

They talk, idly, about nothing, until Ilya reaches across the table to wipe away a bit of egg from Shane’s cheek. Shane immediately forgets the conversation as his brain zooms in on the softness of Ilya’s thumb against his face.

“Shane?” Ilya prompts.

Shane blinks, shaking his head. “Sorry, uh, what were we talking about?”

“Zullo on the Admirals’ power play.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, he’s much better suited for the penalty kill, with his aggressiveness. They don’t need that so much when they’ve already got possession, but they could do with more of it when they don’t.”

Ilya takes a bite of his waffles, then speaks with his mouth full. “He was on PK before, yes? Why move him?”

Shane shrugs. “I’m not the Admirals’ coach, don’t ask me.” He’s actually just interested in Ilya’s answer, and wants to hear it without giving him the satisfaction of knowing he wants it.

Thankfully, Ilya delivers. “I think he was too aggressive on PK. He was getting penalties on top of one they were already trying to kill. Can’t do so much on power play.”

Shane chews for a moment, thinking. “Yeah, I can see that. But then the question is, why have him on a specialty team at all? If he’s going to cause a problem either way, I mean.”

“Ego.” Ilya says it matter-of-factly. “Ego and money. Player like Zullo wants high time on ice, he can use to negotiate better contract. Also, he wants to be best, wants to be on specialty team. If he is not, he makes it problem for everyone else. So it’s easier to just give him what he wants.”

Frowning, Shane says, “That makes no sense. Hockey is a team sport.”

“Yes, well, you know that, I know that. We know we need team to be best. Zullo thinks, team needs him to be best.” Ilya sighs. “When I was rookie, there was veteran on the team, Brady, that thought he was best. But now I was first line center, not him. So Brady made stink in locker room, and for some time, coaching staff did not care. But all guys care. So they told coaching staff, you give him what he wants or we make stink too. So they switch off first line. Is team best? No. But locker room is better. Which makes team better.”

“Wow,” Shane says. He hasn’t played anything but first line since before Peewee, but he remembers it shaking the hockey world when Ilya was suddenly demoted to second line. “That must have been annoying for you.”

“Yes. I knew I was better than him. But I knew better than to cause fuss. And then he got knee injury halfway through the season and retired early. So, good for me. But anyway, Zullo is like Brady.”

“Jeez.” Shane thinks about the silent ways everyone on the Voyageurs are making a stink. They’re still passing to him, sure, but the locker room turns silent whenever he walks in. Is he the Frank Zullo in this situation?

“Yes, well, at least we don’t have to play on team with him,” Ilya says.

“Yeah,” Shane says. But maybe the Voyageurs do.

They play Ottawa, so Shane visits his parents. He’s been dreading talking to his mother, dreading the way she’ll put out everything in clear terms that he can understand. It was easier when it was nebulous— the public perception, the idea that some brands had dropped him— when all that was just floating around in the stratosphere. But Yuna was going to pull them right down to Earth, right down into Shane’s lap. The only good thing was that she was going to tell him exactly what to do about it, no guesswork required from him.

“Hi, honey,” Yuna says as Shane toes off his shoes in the entryway. “I assume you want to get right to it?”

Shane nods, and the two of them sit down at the kitchen table.

Yuna shuffles some papers in her hands. “I’ll start with the bad news. Rolex is out.”

That hurts. Rolex was his first luxury brand.

“They say it’s not because of the whole, um, gay thing,” she continues, “But because of the pictures. I’m not sure that I believe them, but if they’re not willing to stay with you, then fuck ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Shane says half-heartedly.

“But Omega reached out— that’s another watch brand, not quite as nice as Rolex, but still great quality— and said they would love to have you on their team. I said we’ll think about it. They’re especially interested in having you and Rozanov together, but I don’t think that’s the direction you should go. You want to cultivate your own image outside of him, so that when you’re no longer, well, together, it won’t be such an abrupt shift for your audience.” She folds her hands and looks back up at Shane. “So, what do you think?”

“Um.” Shane blinks, head spinning. “I trust your judgement. Whatever you think.”

Yuna frowns. “Shane, honey, I want you to take an interest in your sponsorships. You can always look into real estate more if brand deals aren’t up your alley, actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your portfolio—”

“Mom,” he interrupts, “It’s fine, I just need some time to think about it. What have the other sponsors said?”

“Oh! Well, CCM hasn’t backed away yet, but they said, essentially, that you’re on thin ice…”

The conversation goes on like that for a while. Rolex is the only major sponsor to drop him, but a cologne company he’d done an ad for recently reached out to say that they were unsure if they would be using him in the future because of “market appeal”. Basically, straight guys don’t want to buy cologne that gay guys use.

Finally, Yuna says, “A lot of LGBT organizations have reached out to us. Some brands, some nonprofits, you know the works.”

Shane doesn’t say anything.

“Are those organizations you’d be willing to partner with?” Yuna prompts.

His instinctive answer is no. He doesn’t want to be the first gay in the NHL, he doesn’t want to be the first anything in the NHL, and he’s already half-Asian. He wants to keep his head down and play good hockey, and if he’s famous, let it be because of that, not because of some stupid incidental minority feature that he happens to possess.

“It’s okay if the answer is no,” Yuna says gently.

Shane looks away, tears brimming in his eyes. He won’t let them fall.

“I don’t want to be a role model,” he confesses. “I just want to play hockey.”

“Oh, honey.” Yuna stands and circles around the table to hug him from behind. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

Shane shakes his head, wiping at his eyes. “I already am.”

It’s not even a week later when Shane gets an opportunity to do what his mother had suggested, to cultivate his own image outside of Ilya Rozanov. JJ calls with news of a “little” party at his friend’s restaurant. He doesn’t really want to go. But he knows he should. So he does.

Shane is aware of his own fame. But being here, surrounded by household names, he feels small. JJ is larger than life, and Shane is grateful to him for sucking up the attention.

When he bumps into Rose Landry, though, everything changes.

She looks at him, a smile spreading across her face. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Shane Hollander,” she says, and offers her hand.

He takes it, and says, “Rose Landry. Same.”

She leads them to a secluded table and tells him about her childhood, being a little actress in a house full of hockey boys. “And I mean,” she says, face growing more serious, “Growing up in that culture, I know how toxic it is. And to be forced out like that must have been awful, so I’m really sorry for that. But you’ve been really brave, and handling it really well. You and Rozanov both.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” Shane says, taken aback. He’s never had someone, especially not a virtual stranger speak about the outing to him like this. It’s kind of cathartic, and Shane feels the urge to spill his soul to Rose Landry despite only meeting her tonight. Instead, though, he says, “Yeah, it’s been hard.”

“And the League? Have they been supportive?”

Have they been supportive? Shane has no idea what passes for support. They haven’t kicked him off the team, at least. “Uh, yeah, I guess.” With a burst of inspiration, he shifts the conversation away from himself. “I think it’s harder for Ilya. You know, with Russia and everything.”

“Oh my god, I hadn’t even considered that.” Rose looks genuinely horrified. “That’s awful. Is he able to go back at all?”

Shane bites his lip, unsure of how much information he’s allowed to reveal. Either way, Ilya hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the politics of it all. “I think it’s a family issue as much as it’s a country one,” he says finally.

“That’s awful,” Rose repeats, then blanches. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be interrogating you like this when we’ve just met.”

Shane shrugs, but is inwardly relieved. “So how long are you in Montreal for?” he asks.

They spend the rest of the night together. His teammates mostly back off, too star-struck by Rose Landry to say much to him, but some of them tease him anyway, calling ”Yo, Landry, you know you’re barking up the wrong tree, right?”

Rose just laughs and says quietly to Shane, “I’ve barked up the wrong tree more times than I can count. I mean, I went to theatre school. At least this time I know you’re gay, so I’m not doing any barking, even if you are the wrong tree.” She pauses. “Wait, does this metaphor even make any sense anymore?”

“Um, maybe?” Shane says, equally confused.

“Anyway, I don’t get to spend a lot of time with guys like you, who are one, down to earth, and two, not attracted to me. It’s kind of refreshing, you know?”

Rose also has tips for him for navigating relationships that are in the public eye. “I mean, our fans are probably way different but it’s useful either way, right?”

They make plans to meet up again while she’s in Montreal, and Shane leaves with her number in his phone and a feeling of pride in his chest for making a new friend.

DECEMBER 2016

When Shane wakes up, his phone is full of messages.

Rose Landry
lol sorry about the press

Rose Landry
if you weren’t very publicly in a relationship with a man they’d swear we were dating

Rose Landry
i don’t think that would work out so well considering my lack of penis but whatever

Mom
Great to see you getting out more, honey!

Lily
What is this

Lily
Lily sent a picture. Tap to load

Lily
You are dating girl now?

Shane sighs and opens his phone. His mother won’t expect a text back, and he can ignore Rose for at least half a day before it becomes rude, but he needs to respond to Ilya.

Jane
I’m allegedly dating you

Ilya’s reply comes moments later.

Lily
Does not seem to stop you from going out with Rose Landry

Jane
She’s a friend

Lily
Good friend. Hugging.

Jane
We were saying goodbye

Jane
She thinks I’m gay, “Lily”

Suddenly, his phone rings. It’s Ilya. Shane answers irritably. “What?”

“Are you gay?”

Shane, taken aback, doesn’t have a response. Is he gay? He’d always figured— but now with Ilya— “Um, do we have to talk about this?”

“Yes. Tell me.” At Shane’s silence, Ilya sighs. “Okay. I will go first. I am, I think they call, bisexual. Lots of hot women, some hot men. Like you. Your turn.”

“I—” Shane doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “Maybe? I haven’t really dated, or, um, hooked up, since… well, since around the draft.”

There’s silence on the other end. “No one?” Ilya finally asks, voice low.

“Um, no?”

“I did not know this,” Ilya says, after a moment. “I thought, maybe, I was only man, or only repeat, but only one?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, embarrassed, rubbing at the back of his neck, glad that Ilya can’t see the way he’s flushing. “But,” he backtracks, “I mean, I’ve had girlfriends, so, I mean, I’m probably not gay, right?”

Ilya scoffs over the line. “Yeah, right.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, heated. “You’re not— I mean, you’ve always—” I thought I was straight before I met you, Shane thinks desperately. That has to count for something, right?

“Right,” Ilya repeats. “I will fuck off, then.”

The call ends.

JANUARY 2017

Rose has been begging him to go out with her. He doesn’t know if it’s some mistaken stereotype that gay guys (of which he may or may not be) are more fun, but she’s excited when he finally says yes.

The day she chooses, is, unfortunately, the day that Montreal and Boston play each other. He knows that if she knew she would immediately let him have the night off, but she doesn’t have many nights free with her shoot schedule, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her. He texts Ilya:

Jane
Hey Rose wants to go out tonight after the game. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.

Lily
Maybe. If we win the guys will want to go out too. Don’t have hotel again though

Jane
You can come back to my place afterward. I’ll text you the code if you’re earlier than I am.

Shane doubts he will be.

Boston wins, unfortunately, so Shane knows Ilya won’t be joining them. Rose texts him the club address and he gets an Uber there once he’s changed. It’s nearly 11PM, but at least they don’t have practice tomorrow.

When he finds Rose, she immediately pouts at him. “What happened to the stereotype of gay guys being good at fashion? We have got to go shopping sometime.”

Shane chuckles, and waves awkwardly at Rose’s castmates. He only really recognizes Miles, who is actually gay and way better at fashion than Shane.

“Are you drinking tonight?” Rose asks. Something Shane really likes about Rose is that she’s never made him feel bad about his performance diet, unlike some other people he could name.

“Uh, sure,” Shane says. The loss stings, especially with the way the guys react whenever they play Boston. It’d be nice to take his mind off of it for a while.

Rose grabs his hand and tugs him toward the bar. “You’re paying,” she teases.

“As if you don’t get paid the big bucks for your big-shot movie roles,” Shane jokes back.

After they get their drinks, Rose leads them to the dance floor. Rose dances. Shane just sort of rocks awkwardly back and forth.

“Put your hands on my waist,” Rose instructs, draping her arms around Shane’s neck. She tugs him closer to her until their chests are touching. “Like that. Now sway with me in time to the music.”

“Sorry,” Shane apologizes when he doesn’t get it. “I’m not really… musically inclined.”

Rose smirks. “I can see that.”

Just then, the uncomfortable feeling that he’s being watched washes over him. He looks around for the source, and there, standing on the edge of the dancefloor, hand tightly wound around the neck of a beer, is Ilya Rozanov.

A shiver runs down Shane’s spine. Rose must feel it, because she asks, “Are you cold?”

Shane shakes his head, then takes a breath. “Ilya’s here.”

Rose lights up. “Where?” She turns to scan the crowd, then waves excitedly when she spots him. Ilya turns away.

Shane detaches himself from Rose. “Um, I’d better go find him,” he says, already on his way.

He finds him at the bar, scowling, with a bunch of other Boston players. “Ilya,” he calls. Ilya looks up, then away again, then rolls his eyes and stands. Shane pushes through the throng of people toward him.

“I didn't know you’d, uh, be here,” Shane says when he reaches him.

Ilya looks at him. “Obviously,” he remarks. “Otherwise you would not be dancing with superstar celebrity?”

“I mean…” Shane trails off.

“You have never danced with me at club,” Ilya says rather pointedly.

“Oh, um, you never asked?” Shane says, voice pitching up at the end to make it a question.

Ilya rolls his eyes again. “Oh, please, Hollander, dance with me at boring club,” he says, dripping sarcasm.

“I was just— I mean, Rose practically had to beg me— but if you want to, we can.” Shane doesn’t know what he’s saying, offering to dance with Ilya. He’ll never take him up on that, he—

“Okay,” Ilya says, downing the rest of his beer and setting the empty bottle down on the bar.

“Wait, what?” Shane follows as Ilya strides purposefully through the club.

Ilya stops at the edge of the dance floor, turning back to Shane. “I said okay. Let’s go,” he says, offering a hand to Shane. Shane takes it, and lets himself be pulled into the crush of people.

While Rose was content to let them just kind of sway back and forth awkwardly, Ilya situates himself behind Shane, hands on his hips, controlling his movements. His hands are all over Shane, his hips, his ass, his stomach, his shoulders. His mouth presses, bites, sucks, all over Shane’s neck. Every few moments, Shane has to remind himself that this is allowed, not only allowed, but encouraged. He even gets into it a little bit, grinding his ass back against Ilya’s crotch until Ilya growls and turns him around to kiss him properly.

Ilya’s at least half hard, from what Shane can feel. Not that Shane isn’t turned on, but he’s been spending a lot of mental energy willing down an erection that Ilya has probably been spending teaching Shane to dance.

“Do you want to get another drink?” Shane asks, trying to give them both a chance to cool off.

Ilya nods, and lets himself be led off the dance floor. On their way to the bar, they run into Rose. “Oh are you guys getting another drink?” she asks. “I’ll come with!”

Ilya immediately stiffens, which Rose doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she sticks out her hand to him. “I’m Rose,” she says.”

Ilya’s jaw clenches as he shakes her hand. “Ilya.”

“Shane’s told me so much about you!” Rose continues to chatter on their way to the bar. Ilya doesn’t relax, slinging an arm over Shane’s shoulder, clearly marking his territory. Shane suddenly realizes that Ilya is jealous. He’s jealous of Rose.

Shane would never in a million years tell anyone this, but he kind of likes the attention. He likes Ilya’s possessiveness. He likes feeling like he belongs to someone.

And if Rose is causing it… well, he might have to hang out with Rose a little more.

Ilya is still tense when they get back to Shane’s place. He practically attacks him when they get through the door, mouths crushing together while his hands work to unbuckle Shane’s belt. Shane had been worked up the whole ride home, glancing at the bulge in Ilya’s pants that was noticeably not disappearing.

“So cool that you got to meet Rose tonight,” Shane says as Ilya kisses down his neck. “She’s been wanting to meet you for ages, but you weren’t in town until tonight.”

Ilya huffs. “Enough about Rose fucking Landry,” he says, before spinning Shane around and essentially frog marching him to the bedroom.

Dropping to his knees, Ilya tugs his pants down just enough to get at his dick, then immediately gets his mouth on it. Shane’s hands fly to his hair, burying them in the curls.

Ilya’s sucking him so enthusiastically that Shane’s already close. “Ilya!” he gasps. “I’m not gonna last!”

Pulling off to smile wickedly at him, Ilya says, “I know. Can go again, though, right?” And pats him on the thigh before diving back in.

After Shane has come, Ilya shoves him into the bathroom and tells him to “clean yourself out or whatever,” which Shane takes to mean that Ilya wants to fuck him, so he should do his bottom prep. Shane warns him that it takes a while, but Ilya waves him off. “I have phone,” he says. “I am not baby. I can entertain myself.”

When Shane emerges, it’s nearly 1AM, and he’s not even sure Ilya will still be awake. But he is, and is idly playing with himself on the bed. He perks up when Shane appears.

“I fingered myself as well,” Shane says. “So you can just fuck me.”

Ilya frowns. “Hollander,” he complains.

“Rozanov,” Shane mimics, getting a condom from the bedside drawer and tossing it to Ilya.

But Ilya, instead of catching it, just lets it land on the bed next to him.

“Ilya,” Shane says.

Ilya gets up from the bed and faces Shane, the frown on his face now exaggerated. “Is my favorite part,” he says, hands skating down to grab Shane’s ass. As he dips a finger between the cheeks, though, a smile spreads across his face. “Although I will say, I like you like this, dripping for me.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but he lets himself be led to the bed.

Led is probably the wrong word. Shane lets himself be dragged to the bed, then thrown down, face first, ass up. He moans as Ilya presses him into the mattress, lining himself up and splitting Shane open on his cock.

Ilya mutters things that Shane can’t quite make out, mindless dirty talk, probably, as he fucks him. Shane can’t do anything but pant and moan at how deep Ilya can get in this position. He thinks he hears the word “mine” a few times, and shakes his head at how jealous Ilya got over Rose Landry.

“This good?” Ilya says, slightly louder than the rest of his mutterings.

“Yeah,” Shane pants, rocking back and forth to meet the thrusts.

“Best you ever had?” he asks, and Shane can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Maybe,” Shane allows. He’d never say it aloud, but his favorite time was when they took the pictures, as much trouble as it had gotten them into. He liked the way that Ilya had acted, playful and demanding at the same time. Most of all, he liked the way that he’d felt he belonged to Ilya, and was only letting him take what was his.

But Ilya just takes it as motivation to fuck him harder.

After, Ilya collapses on top of him, not even bothering to pull out. Shane, smushed in the sheets with his own drying come, lets him lay for about thirty seconds before pushing him off.

“Hollander,” Ilya complains. “Let us enjoy afterglow.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Who taught you that word?” he asks as he heads to the bathroom. Too tired to shower again, he just runs a washcloth under warm water.

Ilya comes up behind him and takes the washcloth out of his hands and begins to clean Shane off. Shane, taken aback, just lets it happen, feeling oddly vulnerable.

“Do you want to change sheets?” Ilya asks softly when he’s done. “Wet spot is on your side.”

Shane shakes his head. “It’s too late. I just want to get to bed.” Then, realizing what Ilya said, “What do you mean, ‘my side’?”

“You always sleep on left side.” Ilya says it so matter-of-factly, Shane can’t help but believe him.

“Do I? Huh.” Shane takes the washcloth from Ilya and heads back into the bedroom to wipe the come up from the sheet. He doesn’t want to sleep in a wet spot, but he really doesn’t want to change the sheets.

“Is okay, you can cuddle up to me,” Ilya says, stretching out on his (dry) side of the bed.

“Asshole,” Shane says, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice.

And if he does end up curled around Ilya, well, that’s just to avoid the wet spot.

For the first time ever, Shane and Ilya were on the same All-Star team. The league was playing it up, making a big deal about a couple being on the same team. They were being asked to pose for way more pictures than usual, and had been, for the first time since their rookie season, set up at a table for reporters together. It had been awful. Shane is here to play hockey, not be the showboy for gays in sports.

Which, he’d done some thinking, and he probably is. Gay, that is.

Yay.

The league had also roomed them together.

Double yay.

But the people had voted him captain, which is actually exciting. It proves that at least some people, most even, don’t care about his sexuality. That he’s still a great hockey player, and people see that.

Shane’s pumped for the game. He and Ilya are on a line together, Ilya giving up his precious position as center to play right wing for Shane.

Carter Vaughn finds them at the bar, the day before the game. “Hey, dudes,” he starts, clapping both of them on the back, “I just wanted to say that it’s really shitty that you guys got outed, especially the way you did. My sister’s a lesbian, and if that happened to her—” He punches his hand with his fist. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’ve got your back. Scotty does too, he’s bummed he had to miss this. Actually, he’s like, weirdly invested in your relationship? But yeah, just wanted to say that we support you. And if anyone has anything to say to you, you send ‘em my way, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks Vaughny,” Shane says, reeling at the onslaught of information.

Ilya studies Vaughn intently. “Thank you,” he says finally.

“Yeah, dudes, no problem!” he slaps each of them on the back again and heads toward the pool.

“That was nice,” Shane offers, after a moment.

Ilya snorts.

“Well, weird,” he amends, “But nice!”

“Scott Hunter is ‘weirdly invested’ in our relationship,” Ilya says, making air quotes with his fingers. “Maybe he would not have turned down that threesome if we had offered it.”

“What?”

“Rookie year All-Stars.Scott Hunter had room next to mine.” Ilya reminds him. “You were so worried about him overhearing.”

Shane shakes his head. “At least we have allies.”

They win, of course. How could they not, with both of them on the same team. They play like they’ve been playing together forever, connecting no-look passes with nothing but years of studying each others’ play.

The guys want to go out afterward, but Shane just wants to relax. Ilya comes with him to sit on the beach.

“I think,” Shane starts, then stops, staring straight out at the sea.

“Yes?” Ilya prompts.

“I think I am gay.” Shane sneaks a look at Ilya, whose face is splitting into a wide grin with eyebrows raised.

“You think?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“No, no, tell me more. You think you are gay?” Ilya bumps his shoulder against Shane’s.

Shrugging, Shane says, “I just don’t think that girls— women— do it for me.”

“And how did you figure that out? Drunken hookup with Rose Landry?” Ilya teases, but when Shane doesn’t answer immediately, his face falls. “No. Really?”

“No, no,” Shane assures him. “It’s just—” He takes a breath, processing. “I was spending all this time with this amazing, attractive woman, and I liked her, obviously, she’s my friend, but I didn’t want more. And I was surrounded by these guys that were telling me what they’d do to fuck her, and I just— didn’t want that. And at first I tried to convince myself that I was just really good at being in a monogamous relationship, even though it was fake, but then I thought back to meeting you and I knew that wasn’t true because—” Shane stops, twisting his hands in his lap before continuing. “Because I wanted you, even when I was with my ex. So, yeah. I’m probably gay.”

Ilya stares at him. “You— even before commercial?”

Shane nods shyly. “Before the draft, even. I mean, I was the one to introduce myself to you, remember? And yeah, I thought you were an asshole— still think you’re an asshole, actually— but I thought you were, um, attractive.”

A slow smile spreads across Ilya’s face. “You thought I was attractive?” he asks, before tackling Shane into the sand.

Shane sputters. “Fuck off, asshole, you’re gonna get sand in my hair.” But with Ilya on top of him in the moonlight, he can’t really bring himself to mind.

FEBRUARY 2017

Shane is keenly aware of the way that Hayden isn’t inviting him over anymore. He misses it. He misses the kids, misses Jackie, misses Hayden too, when he isn’t being a homophobic asshole. They see each other at practices, at games, but that’s work and Shane was under the impression that they were real friends, not just work buddies.

The invitation, actually, comes from Jackie.

Jackie Pike
Hey, my husband is being a dick. Come over for dinner tonight anyway

Shane debates accepting it. On one hand, he does want to see Hayden, force him to talk. On the other, it’s going to be an awkward fucking dinner.

Shane
Thanks. I’ll be there.

He shows up to the house with flowers for Jackie, Anna and Elsa toys for the girls, a soft toy truck for Arthur, and nothing for Hayden. He realizes, when he sees Jackie’s protruding belly, that he hadn’t been around for most of her pregnancy, and feels weirdly guilty for a moment before he remembers that he’s not Jackie’s husband, Hayden is.

“Shane!” she says, wrapping him in a side hug to avoid her stomach. “It’s been too long!”

“Yeah, it has,” Shane admits. “Sorry.”

Jackie gives him a look. “Shane, I do not blame you one bit for this. Hayden, kids, Shane’s here!”

He plays with the girls for a while as they wait for dinner to be ready. Hayden comes in halfway through, hands in his pockets, looking sheepish. Sorry, he mouths.

Shane sighs, and waves him over to take over being Marshmallow, the ice monster from Frozen. The girls like it better when he’s Olaf, anyway. Arthur, of course, is Sven. There is no Kristoff.

Jackie takes the kids to bed after dinner so that Shane and Hayden can talk.

“Jackie talked to me,” Hayden starts, after a long silence of them looking anywhere but each other, “I was a dick. I’m sorry. But to be fair, I was doing it in a ‘my best friend has been keeping this massive secret from me’ way, and not in a homophobic way.”

“You realize I didn’t tell anyone, right?” Shane asks. “Like, the only person who knew was Ilya, and that’s because… yeah.”

Hayden shakes his head. “God, he’s ‘Ilya’ now? I think I liked it better when you guys were hiding your relationship.”

Shane’s face must betray how he feels about that statement, because Hayden quickly backtracks. “I mean— yeah actually, I don’t know what I mean. That was a shitty thing to say. Sorry. Again.”

“Well, I mean, if I’d had it my way, no one would ever know. Like, it’s private, yeah? I didn’t get a choice in coming out.”

“I can’t believe you took those pictures for him,” Hayden grumbles.

Shane flushes. “I’m sure you’ve taken worse for Jackie,” he shoots back, harsh.

“Yeah, but—” Hayden falls silent when Jackie enters the room, giving him a sharp look.

“Now I hope you weren’t critiquing Shane for those pictures when you know full well I could have an entire hard drive of dick pics, just from when we were dating,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him.

“It’s different,” Hayden complains.

Jackie puts her hands on her hips. “Tell me how it’s different. Right now, with your words.”

Hayden throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. “It just is, okay? You don’t play for Boston!”

Jackie rolls her eyes and focuses on Shane. “I’m very sorry about my husband’s behavior. Rest assured he will be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“Jack—” Hayden starts, but Jackie once again silences him with a look.

Sitting down, she asks, “So, what are you two doing for Valentine’s? I know you’ll be apart, but you must have something up your sleeve.”

Shane blanches. He hadn’t even thought of doing anything for Valentine’s. “Um, I don’t really know. I mean,” he says, trying to cover himself, “What do you get for the guy who has everything?”

“Well, what did you get him last year?”

God, they’re supposed to have been in a relationship for over a year. Shane inwardly curses himself. “We didn’t really… I mean, we were keeping it a secret, so… And neither of us are really holiday people.” He has no idea if Ilya is a holiday person.

Jackie frowns. “He’ll get you something this year, I know it, and you don’t want to be the one leaving him empty-handed.”

“Maybe,” Shane allows. “I don’t know… I could get him new stick tape? Or wax?”

“Maybe something unrelated to hockey,” Jackie says gently.

I don’t really know him outside of hockey, Shane realizes. Hockey and family issues, neither of which would make good gifts.

“Something personal,” Jackie continues, unaware of the internal crisis Shane is having. “Something only you would know to get him.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” Shane promises.

By, “think about it” Shane means “text Ilya about it”.

Jane
Hey, are we doing anything for Valentine’s Day?

Lily
You will see ;)

So that clears nothing up. By the 9th, he’s scanning Ilya’s Instagram for clues to what he might like. By the 10th, he’s openly panicking. By the 11th, he’s texting his mother.

Shane
What should I get Ilya for Valentine’s Day?

Yuna is no help.

Mom
I don’t know, honey. What does he like?

He’ll have to figure this out on his own. Chocolate is right out— Shane would never encourage Ilya’s lackadaisical eating habits. Flowers are a maybe— they seem impersonal to Shane but he’ll keep the idea on the backburner. He can’t give him an experience— those are for couples who can actually spend time together. Jewelry is a possibility— he knows Ilya wears that necklace of his but he’s never seen him in anything else.

It’s not until he’s scrolling through the results of men’s jewelry not ugly and still finding some truly hideous pieces that it hits him: cufflinks.

Shane doesn’t wear them himself, they’re too fiddly and he prefers all his shirts to be more or less the same, but his dad likes them. He has no idea if Ilya wears them, but he seems like the kind of guy who might pull them out for special occasions.

The second he’s decided on it, he’s grabbing his coat to head to the jeweler’s.

The jeweler that David likes in Montreal is a cluttered, eclectic place. Shane prefers jewelers who are all clean lines and bright lighting, but this one is dark wood and stuffed to the brim with display cases and cabinets. The man who greets him isn’t wearing a nametag and doesn’t bother to introduce himself.

“Hi, um,” Shane starts, wishing he’d prepared better in his head on the drive over, “I’m looking for some cufflinks?”

The man nods, asking, “For yourself or a gift?”

“They’re a gift. I, um, don’t really know what he likes.” Shane looks at his shoes, then at the wall, feeling embarrassed.

“Are they a Valentine’s gift?” The man’s demeanor doesn’t change.

Shane shifts uncomfortably, biting his lip, before saying, “Yes.”

The man nods again, turning away, and Shane breathes a sigh of relief. He never knows how people will respond when he has to turn on the giant blinking sign above his head that says GAY!

Coming back with a tray, the man asks, “Tell me about this person, and we’ll see if we can find something that works for him.”

Shane thinks of things that would be appropriate to share. “Well, he likes hockey. And clubbing. He’s very masculine, but his taste is…” Awful? Gaudy? Completely and utterly tasteless? “Different than mine.”

“In what way?” the man prompts.

“He just… like, he’ll wear a Hawaiian shirt and I can’t tell if he’s doing it ironically. And he has these silk shirts that he wears out that have like, leopard print on them. Mostly he just wears athletic clothes, but he knows how to dress up when he needs to. Like, he owns a lot of suits.” All NHL players do, for walk-ins, but he’s not going to mention that to the jeweler.

The jeweler nods thoughtfully. “Let me see what I can pull.”

He’s back a moment later with a few pairs on his tray. One pair is lion heads, roaring. To Shane, they’re terrible, horribly ostentatious and objectively pretty heavy for cufflinks, but Ilya would love them. Shane reaches out to finger them. “Can I?” he asks.

“Go right ahead.”

He picks them up, weighing them in his hand, watching the red gems of the eyes glint in the light. The only thing that would make them better is if they were bears. He knows it’s a long shot, but, “Do you have these in any other animals?”

“Certainly,” the man replies, “Would you like to see the deer, the bears, or both?”

Shane’s heart skips a beat. “The bears, please.”

The man goes to pull them, and Shane fidgets with his coat, thumbing the bottom buttonhole, which is already worn down so much that the button practically slips out when he tries to do it up. He’s nervous. Is it weird to get Ilya what basically amounts to merch for the team he already plays on? Shane wouldn’t know what to do if someone got him something to do with voyageurs— put it away and thank them politely, probably. But Ilya seems more invested in his team. He’d told Shane once that he’d thought about getting a tattoo after he was drafted, a huge, growling grizzly bear over the left side of his chest. For mother Russia, he’d said, and for team that took a chance on me. He’d been talked out of it by someone, but either way, Shane can’t imagine making a mark so permanent on himself for something as ever-changing as hockey.

The jeweler’s back with the cufflinks, and Shane barely has to look at them to know, “I’ll take them.”

If the man is surprised by Shane’s quick decision, he doesn’t show it. He just says, “Excellent!” and leads him to the register.

On Valentine’s Day, Shane is a nervous wreck and trying not to show it. They have practice, not a game, though, so if he’s a little sloppy on his feet (which he’s not), it’s okay.

Will Ilya like his gift? Is it too much? Too little? He’d checked his mail this morning and there hadn’t been anything from Ilya. What if Ilya had decided doing something for Valentine’s was too much work for a fake relationship, and Shane is going to look stupid for paying for priority shipping?

The guys are all talking about their plans, pointedly excluding Shane. He keeps his head down, trying to focus on hockey, not Ilya Rozanov or the way all his teammates seem to hate him now. JJ tries to rope him into conversation once or twice, but Shane shrugs him off. He doesn’t actually want to make the guys uncomfortable, and talking about Ilya will do nothing but that.

When he gets back to the dressing room, a little later than the other guys, the room goes silent. It’s not uncommon for that to happen since the pictures leaked, so Shane doesn’t clock it right away, until he sees the way his teammates are glancing between him and his stall. Which is filled with flowers. Lilies, to be exact.

Shane feels his face heat as he crosses the room, picking up the card on the seat of his stall.

For my Jane, it reads.

XO

Love,
Lily

“Um,” Shane says, trying not to read into the love too much, “Sorry about this guys, I didn’t know.”

“No, no sorries!” JJ says, clapping him on the back. “Rozanov is a softie, who knew?”

The rest of the guys, even Hayden, are purposely looking everywhere else but Shane and his stall.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” Shane apologizes. “This is inappropriate, I’m sorry.”

JJ starts to protest, but Shane brushes him off. Why didn’t Ilya just order a bouquet to his house? Why did he have to embarrass him in front of his team?

He asks for a couple of trash bags to bring the flowers home in, not wanting to waste them. When he gets back to his condo, he realizes that he doesn’t even have enough vases for them. He fills up some pitchers and drinking glasses to fit more in.

Ilya texts him in the evening, after his game.

Lily
You like my gift? ;)

Shane hits call without thinking about it.

“What the hell?” he says as the call connects.

“Shane?” Ilya asks, sounding confused.

“How did you even get the flowers into my stall?” Shane paces the kitchen, pulling at his hair.

“I got in contact with— it does not matter. What is wrong?”

“The team already isn’t okay with me being gay, Ilya,” Shane spits. “Let alone that I’m dating you.”

“So the flowers were… bad?” Ilya asks.

“Yes, Ilya, the flowers were fucking bad. Jesus Christ, I just patched things up with Hayden. He couldn’t even look at me in the dressing room.”

Ilya is silent for a moment. When he speaks, it sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I am sorry. I did not know that…” He sighs. “I did not know. I thought… I don’t know. You never said that your team… I am sorry. I should not have assumed.”

Despite Ilya’s apology, Shane still feels the heat of a fight simmering under my skin. “Yeah, I bet you thought it’d be real funny, huh? Embarrassing me in front of my teammates? Well, it worked. You fucking succeeded. Have a great Valentine’s Day, Rozanov.” With that, he hangs up the phone.

He resists the urge to throw his phone across the room, instead putting his hands on the table and trying to slow his breathing.

It’s not Ilya’s fault. He didn’t know how the Voyageurs would react. Still, it feels like a purposeful jab. Salt in a wound that Shane’s not sure will ever heal.

His phone buzzes, and he looks at it.

Lily
I am sorry

Lily
My team is not so bad. I thought yours would be the same

Lily
Thank you for my gift

Lily
Lily sent a link. Tap to view

Shane doesn’t want to open the texts, but curiosity gets the better of him. He taps in the link and it sends him to Instagram, a post by bostonbears. It’s a picture of Ilya during walk-ins, fiddling with his sleeve.

Jane
???

Lily
Lily sent a picture. Tap to load

The same picture, zoomed in on Ilya’s sleeve. He’s wearing the cufflinks Shane got him. Shane’s heartbeat quickens.

Jane
Oh. Glad you like them.

Jane
Sorry. I wasn’t sure what to get you.

Lily
Is perfect. Thank you

Suddenly, Shane feels bad for yelling at Ilya. He thumbs up to Ilya’s contact and hits call again.

“Shane?” Ilya answers.

“Hey,” Shane starts. “Sorry I yelled. I was just frustrated. And… I guess I was sad as well. I miss being a part of the team. Like, properly. No one invites me out anymore. Not that I really accepted invitations in the past, but. The rookies don’t ask for help. The vets don’t ask for advice. JJ’s the only one to treat me like I’m normal. Even Hayden— I’m not even really the captain anymore.”

“That is… hard,” Ilya says. “I assumed, because the public has supported you, because you were chosen for captain for the All-Star Game, that your team didn’t care. I was wrong. Is my fault.”

Shane shakes his head, trying to ignore the tears welling in his eyes. “No, it’s fine. I didn’t tell you.”

“Can be both our faults,” Ilya offers. Shane chuckles wetly. Neither of them speak for a moment, just listening to the other’s breathing. Finally, Ilya says, “We won against Admirals last night.”

“I know.” Shane keeps up with the Bears’ stats.

“Scott Hunter was disappointing. He is supposed to be on big winning streak, but he was very easy to beat. I told him so, and he looked like he wanted to punch me, but instead he asked me out for drink.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I told him no thank you, I have boyfriend I am very happy with.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Ilya.”

“I am just kidding. I was too curious about what Scott Hunter would want so I said yes. Was very interesting night.”

“Why?” Shane asks. He has to admit, he’s curious too, about what Hunter would want with Ilya.

“He, um, how do you say? He talked around a lot of things. He talked about how inspiring it was to see queer players in the NHL, and how he hoped it would encourage change within the league, but he never said he was ally.”

Shane frowns. “You don’t think Hunter’s an ally?”

“I think Scott Hunter can be something other than ally and still support gay people,” Ilya says, purposefully vague.

“What?”

Ilya sighs. “Oh my god, I am trying to be respectful but clearly you do not understand. Hunter is gay.”

“He said that?” Shane asks, taken aback.

“No, of course he did not say that, we were in public.” Ilya sounds exasperated. “But I can tell when somebody is trying to tell me something.”

“Oh.” Shane takes a moment to mull that over. “You really think so?”

“Yes, Shane.”

“You think he and Vaughn…?”

Ilya laughs, full throated and loud, in a way that dissolves the rest of the anger and sadness in the pit of Shane’s stomach. “No. Carter Vaughn is very nice, but he is straight.”

“Oh.”

“Some people really are just very good allies. But Scott Hunter is not one of those people.”

“Well, good that he has a friend like Vaughn, in any case.” Shane yawns, glancing at a clock. It’s nearly midnight. “I’d better get going. It’s late.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya says softly.

“Goodnight, Ilya.”

MARCH 2017

They’ve been texting more since Valentine’s. Almost every day, after practice or a game, there is a new text from Ilya on Shane’s phone. They aren’t all or even mostly flirty, most are genuine inquiries about Shane’s day, pictures of dogs he sees on his runs, or boasts about his most recent games. Shane finds himself looking forward to checking his phone after practice.

Before he even touches down in Boston, he has a text waiting from Ilya.

Lily
Come overrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Jane
Before the game?

Lily
Yesssssss I miss your hole

Shane snorts before glancing around to make sure no one can see his screen.

Jane
Fuck off.

Jane
I’m not letting you fuck me before a game.

Lily
Fineeeeee. I miss your cock. Happy?

Jane
We’ll see.

Jane
Let me get to the hotel first, at least.

Ilya sends back a series of Russian eyeless frowny faces. Shane rolls his eyes and stuffs his phone in his pocket.

He goes to Ilya’s. Of course he does. He doesn’t tell him, just shows up at his door, and watches Ilya’s face morph from confusion to excitement to suspicion. He ushers him inside, asking, “Why did you not tell me?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Then, second guessing himself, he asks, “Is that okay?”

“Of course is okay.” His face shifts. “If I am being honest, I asked you to come over so I would have excuse to ignore my family.”

“Is everything okay?” Shane asks, cataloguing the weariness in his eyes.

Ilya sighs. “Polina— my stepmother— she is planning for my father’s death.”

“Oh.” Shane doesn’t know what to say. “That’s… good?”

“No.” Ilya shakes his head. “She knows there is no money left. She knows I have money. She will not stop calling.”

“That’s bad,” Shane amends. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

Ilya shrugs. “Okay. Enough of that. Time for sex,” he says, stripping off his shirt.

Afterward, when Shane is putting back on his clothes, Ilya says, “Come over tonight.”

Shane looks at him. “We just had sex.”

“So? Can do again.” He gets out of bed and wraps his arms around Shane, still naked. “I want to fuck you,” he murmurs into Shane’s neck.

Shane pushes him away, a smile creeping onto his face that he hopes Ilya can’t see. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

They lose the game, but at least Shane scores. Ilya, the bastard, scores twice, in a move that Shane knows was specifically crafted to one-up him. Ilya’s waiting for him when he gets out of the locker room.

“What took you so long?” Ilya asks.

Shane ducks his head. “I, uh, like to wait for the other guys to shower before I go in.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow as they start walking. “Worried they will all start to hit on you like I did?”

“No!” Shane flushes, shoving Ilya so hard he stumbles into the wall. “Jesus, I’m not— they would never!”

Shane barely catches Ilya’s face go through a million different expressions before it settles on sadness. “Right,” he says bitterly. “I forgot. Your team is…”

“Yeah,” Shane says as Ilya trails off. “They are. So I shower separately so I don’t make them uncomfortable.”

Ilya clenches his jaw. “They are your team. And you are their captain. I do not understand why—”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?” Shane interrupts.

They walk in silence to Ilya’s car. The drive back to Ilya’s place is similarly quiet but for the annoyingly catchy pop songs that play through the car radio. When the door finally closes behind them, Shane wants nothing more than to collapse into Ilya’s arms. But he doesn’t. Because Ilya’s not his boyfriend in private.

They both toe off their shoes and Ilya asks in a low tone, “To the bedroom, yes?”

Shane nods wearily. After a bit of foreplay, he’s sure he’ll be raring to go, but right now he feels too downtrodden to even speak.

Ilya shepherds him to the bedroom, pushing him gently onto the bed and climbing on top of him. He kisses him slowly, reverently, and Shane’s glad he’s lying down because he’s pretty sure his knees would give out if he were kissed like this standing up.

Just as Ilya’s hands start to drift toward Shane’s belt, Ilya’s phone rings. He digs it out of his pocket and glances at it before throwing it aside.

“Is just my brother, asking for money again,” he says, leaning back in to kiss Shane.

But Shane doesn’t let him, a thousand possibilities running through his mind, one much more stark than the rest. “Ilya,” he says. “What if it’s not? What if it’s—” He can’t bring himself to say it.

Ilya pales immediately, grabbing for the still-ringing phone. He stands, answering the call in Russian. He listens for a moment before sitting down heavily on the bed and letting out a harsh breath. Shane can’t understand anything except “Andrei” and “Papa”, but the conversation quickly devolves into what sounds like an argument. He sits up, wanting to put a hand on Ilya’s back, to do something to comfort him, but Ilya’s already up again, pacing. When he finally hangs up, his breathing is shaky and unsteady.

“My father is dead,” he says bluntly.

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane says, reaching for him. Ilya sits down on the edge of the bed and lets Shane wrap his arms around him. Ilya’s breath doesn’t even out. When Shane lifts his head to look at him, his eyes are shining with tears. Shane brings a hand up to cup his face and swipes a thumb under his eye.

Ilya breaks. His breath catches into a sob as the tears finally run down his face. “I did not even like him,” he gasps. “Why do I feel like this?”

Shane doesn’t respond, just grips him tighter. He’s never been good with words, not when it matters. Years of media training did not prepare him for this moment. All he knows how to do is evade, dodge, restate. He doesn’t know how to be there when it matters. He doesn’t know what to say to try to bandage the gaping wound Ilya has just received. So he says nothing.

Ilya doesn’t seem to mind, tears and snot soaking into Shane’s shirt. When his breath is finally even, Shane pulls away to look at him.

He’s a mess. Worse than Shane had seen him the last time they’d talked about his father. He swipes a hand over his face, and looks at Shane, as if just realizing he’s there.

“I am sorry,” he apologizes. “I should not— I was prepared for this. I should not be like this.”

“Even if you didn’t like him, he was still your father,” Shane says. He wants to somehow convey to Ilya that there’s no way he should feel, that he’s allowed to have complicated emotions about his family, but every time he tries to phrase it, it feels clunky and unhelpful. He doesn’t want to just pat Ilya on the back and say ‘let it out’ like his mother used to do for him— Ilya’s not a child crying over cruel peers, he’s an adult going through a major life change and the beginnings of grief. He wishes there was some sort of manual on this, like Helping Your Fake Boyfriend Cope with the Loss of a Parent Who He Didn’t Even Like All That Much, Actually. But there isn’t, so he just asks, “Um, do you want some water?”

Ilya nods wearily but makes no move to get up. Shane stands, going to the kitchen and spending a few moments trying to remember where the glasses are. He opens cabinets at random until he finds one, filling it with water and bringing it back to the bedroom.

Ilya is exactly where Shane left him, which Shane is both relieved and concerned by. Shane hands him the glass and he takes a sip almost mechanically before setting it down on the nightstand.

Okay, clearly Ilya isn’t going to be doing anything without Shane’s help tonight. Shane goes through his usual night routine in his head. Probably Ilya won’t want to shower again, given that he showered at the rink, but he’ll likely want to brush his teeth and change into pajamas.

Shane doesn’t know if Ilya will want him to stay.

He can’t dwell on that now. His primary concern is getting Ilya into bed and possibly notifying the Bears staff about the death.

He coaxes Ilya up with a simple, “Do you want to get ready for bed?” Ilya responds with a nod and walks stiffly to the bathroom. He doesn’t shut the door, so Shane follows him in. He realizes, with a pang, that his toothbrush is still sitting in a cup on the sink. Did Ilya put it out for him in preparation for him coming over? Or is it there constantly, reminding Ilya of him?

Ilya begins brushing his teeth, gesturing at Shane to do the same. So maybe he is staying. Shane obeys as Ilya leans against the sink, eyeing him. Shane frowns, recognizing the look in his eyes. “Ilya, no.”

“It would make me feel better!” Ilya protests. Which, maybe it would, but considering how despondent Ilya was literally seconds ago, Shane doesn’t think it would be a good idea. He rolls his eyes and spits his toothpaste in the sink. Ilya comes up behind him as he does, grabbing his hips. “Please?”

Shane shakes his head, turning around.

If they were really dating, he would probably kiss Ilya softly and lead him to bed, dressing him carefully in his softest pajamas, and cuddle up to him under the covers.

But they’re not.

So Shane just pushes him away.

Gently, of course. He doesn’t want to be too harsh on the man who just lost his father. But firmly.

Back in the bedroom, Ilya strips his clothes off and climbs into bed. Shane hovers awkwardly at the edge of the room, torn between wanting to get his suitcase from the hall and wanting to make sure that Ilya’s alright.

Ilya catches his eye, raising his eyebrows. “Go. Do your—” he waves a hand, “—routine.”

Shane grabs his suitcase and brings it back to the room, changing into his pajamas and taking his shave kit into the bathroom, where he does his evening skincare routine.

Ilya is staring at the ceiling when Shane climbs into bed beside him. “Do you want me to send an email to the Bears’ front of house people, so they know?”

“No,” Ilya says, not looking at him. “In the morning.”

“Okay.” Shane doesn’t know what else to do. “Goodnight, I guess.”

“Yes, goodnight.” Ilya turns off the light, and turns on his side, facing away from Shane. Shane hesitates for a moment, then slots himself behind him, sliding his arm around Ilya’s waist. Ilya tenses, going rigid against Shane. Shane presses a kiss to the back of his neck. If there was ever a time for softness in their weird relationship, this was it.

“I’m here,” Shane says. “If you need anything.”

Ilya relaxes, bit by bit, and his hand comes up to grab Shane’s around his waist. He squeezes.

Shane wakes early for his flight to Detroit, but Ilya’s already out of bed. He wanders into the kitchen after his morning routine and packing, and Ilya’s lounging against a counter, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Did you even sleep?” Shane asks.

Ilya shrugs. “Little bit. And yes, I already emailed Bears’ staff about death in the family. Also I told them that I would not be flying out for funeral, so, maybe no leave.”

Shane frowns. “They should still give you leave.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Ilya doesn’t seem too bothered by it. Shane wonders if he’s faking nonchalance. “Maybe I don’t want leave.”

“Ilya—”

“Fuck off, Hollander,” Ilya practically snarls. “You get to go home with your perfect little family in Canada, where you are allowed to be gay. I get to do nothing but play hockey in America, so I play hockey in America, where you are allowed to be gay, but maybe not for long!”

Fuck, Shane hadn’t even thought about the intersection of Russian and American politics under a conservative president. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Just go, Hollander.”

Shane goes.

The next few days, Ilya doesn’t text. Shane hadn’t realized how much he’d gotten used to the constant bombardment of messages until they stopped. He doesn’t want to pry, though, so after an initial Hey, everything okay? text, he leaves it alone. That doesn’t mean that every notification doesn’t have him reaching for his phone, checking to see if it’s Ilya.

It comes to a head when Ilya gets into a fight with Dallas Kent in a game against the Guardians, barely a week after his father died. They’re shoved against the glass, fighting for the puck against the boards. In the clip Shane watches, he can barely see Kent’s mouth move, but he must say something, because Ilya drops his stick and gloves and skates back, urging Kent to do the same. He does, and they circle each other for a moment, before Ilya goes in, grabbing Kent’s sweater and swinging wildly at his face. It’s messy and rough, neither of them are regular fighters, but where Kent seems to be enjoying himself, Ilya is clearly filled with rage. The ref finally separates them when Kent lands a hit on Ilya’s nose, which starts to bleed.

Shane watches, horrified and a little turned on, as Ilya is escorted down the tunnel for medical, at which point the clip ends. From what he’s read and seen on social media, Ilya was out for the rest of the second, but came back for the third, a little bandage across his nose.

Jane
Holy shit are you okay?

Ilya finally texts back.

Lily
Yes. Just broken nose

Jane
What did Kent say to get you to react like that?

Lily
Was nothing. Just stupid

Shane’s fingers itch toward the ‘call’ button, but he resists. If Ilya wanted to talk, he would have done it by now.

Jane
Well, I’m glad you’re okay.

Ilya doesn’t respond.

Not that Shane really expected him to, but still.

He misses Ilya, he realizes. He misses the different ways he flirts with him in public and in private. He misses the way he talks about dogs he sees on his runs, as if they’re just waiting to be stolen. He misses the way he brags about his games, the way they talk about hockey, the level of connection they both have to the sport they love.

It washes over Shane like a bucket of cold water. He doesn’t just miss Ilya like a constant presence gone missing, strange for a while but ultimately adaptable. He misses him like he misses hockey in the summer. Like something a part of him yearns for.

He won’t call it love, because romantic love is something he’s never really known before. But it’s starting to feel like it could be, with time.

And that scares him.

APRIL 2017

They can’t break up, that’s the problem. There’s a plan, one that Shane’s going to stick to. But they don’t have to keep hooking up. Hooking up is what caused this in the first place, this whatever that Shane is feeling for Ilya.

But because he’s weak, he decides it can wait until after they see each other next. He’ll bring it up casually, say something like, hey, we probably won’t see each other until playoffs and if we do, we shouldn’t be hooking up anyway. Because of playoffs. Yeah, that can be his reason. Playoffs.

And he can’t deny that he’s looking forward to seeing Ilya one last time, and trying to both memorize and forget his body all at once.

The day they play each other, Ilya texts him the eggplant emoji and the water droplets emoji and nothing else. Shane rolls his eyes fondly. Too fondly, probably.

Across from Ilya in the first faceoff, Shane is reminded of the first time they did this, eight years ago, in Saskatchewan. Before they fell into bed together. Before they were forced, violently, out of that bed and into the public eye.

Shane loses the faceoff and Ilya grins at him after passing the puck backward. Shane grits his teeth and takes off after the puck.

At the end of the second, Montreal is up by two goals. And Shane’s not going to miss an opportunity to make that gap three. He battles Ilya for the puck against the boards, takes off down the ice, and then—

They don’t let him watch the clip of himself being hit, probably wary of screens as much as anything else. The hospital is cold and white Shane is grateful when they tell him that they’ll release him in three hours if he has someone to look after him. His parents are probably already on the way from Ottawa.

Concussion and a broken arm. Could be worse, but he’s out for the playoffs.

The nurse says he has a visitor much earlier than he expects. She must be a hockey fan, because she raises her eyebrows when she looks down at her clipboard and says, “It’s an Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane nods, and she goes to bring him in.

“Hollander,” Ilya says hoarsely as he enters.

Shane tries to smile at him, to show he’s okay, but it comes out as more of a grimace. His head hurts, a dull persistent ache that seems to worsen every time he turns. “Hey, Ilya.”

“How are you?” Ilya swallows, not coming closer than the wall beside the door, jamming his hands in his pockets.

Huffing a laugh, Shane says, “I’ve been better. Out for the playoffs, for sure. Concussion and a broken arm.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. “Are the lights too bright?” He gestures to the light switch behind him.

“If you could turn them off, yeah, that would be great,” Shane says.

The room is abruptly plunged into darkness, the only light the moonlight from the window.

Shane blinks a few times, eyes adjusting. Ilya’s still standing awkwardly near the doorway.

“You can sit down,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the side of the room where a few chairs are set up.

Ilya sits gingerly in a padded chair. “When will they release you?”

“Three hours. Maybe two and a half. I need to stay under observation for the concussion for four hours, and it’s been some time already.” Shane picks at a thread on his gown, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t have to stay.”

“No, I will stay,” Ilya says.

“I mean, my parents are probably coming, I don’t actually know, they haven’t let me have my phone. Actually, can you call them?”

Nodding, Ilya gets out his phone. The dial tone rings for maybe half a second before Yuna picks up.

“Ilya? God, I’m sorry, we didn’t even think to call you. We’re on our way now. Do you know what his condition is?”

“Shane is here,” Ilya says.

“Hi, Mom,” Shane says.

“Oh, Shane, we were so worried! That looked like a bad hit, I’m surprised you’re up. Concussion, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, and a broken arm.” Shane sighs. “I’m out for the playoffs.”

“I figured. How bad is the concussion?”

“Doctors say it should be healed by the time my arm is, if not sooner.”

“Any vomiting?” Yuna asks.

“Not so far. Just light sensitivity and headaches.”

“Well, we’ll take our wins where we can get them. Rozanov— Ilya, you still there?”

“I am here,” Ilya says.

“Take me off speakerphone, I want to talk to you,” Yuna orders, and Ilya obeys, holding the phone up to his ear and leaving the room.

Shane wants to fall asleep, but he’s not supposed to while he’s still on watch. He stares up at the ceiling until his head hurts, then looks at the wall.

When Ilya comes back in, he comes immediately to Shane instead of going back to the chair, brushing his hair off his forehead and gazing at him so softly that Shane feels sick.

How the fuck is he going to break things off with him like this?

Shane can get up the stairs just fine, but Shane’s parents insist on taking the elevator while he’s hurt, so as not to jostle his arm. Ilya stands motionless in the corner of the elevator, eyes on his shoes. Shane’s not entirely sure why he’s still here, with them, near one AM, instead of sleeping in his hotel with his teammates. He stayed for three hours with Shane, entertaining him until his parents arrived, and then sitting silently in the corner when they did. Shane doesn’t know why he didn’t just leave.

“I only have the one guest room,” Shane says as they enter his condo, “So Ilya, you’re in with me.”

Ilya’s eyes flicker to Shane’s parents. “Is okay, I can sleep on couch.”

“Don’t be silly,” Yuna says, “Besides, we’ll need someone to wake him up every four hours.”

“Okay,” Ilya relents.

“But don’t be afraid to let us know if either of you need anything!” Yuna says as they make their way to the guest room.

Ilya helps him undress, slowly and carefully. He can’t shower until they get a cast cover, so Ilya helps run a washcloth over him, which is undeniably erotic. The only reason he doesn’t get hard is because of the dull ache in his head, too overpowering for him to even think about sex.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says as they’re getting into bed.

“For what? Getting hurt? No, is my team’s fault. Fucking Marleau,” he says, shaking his head.

“No, for um…” Shane looks down at his hands in his lap. “Not being able to… y’know.”

Ilya squints at him. “You are hurt.”

“Exactly. So, I’m sorry.”

“Shane.” Ilya places a hand on his shoulder. “We are friends, yes?”

Shane makes a noncommittal noise, and Ilya rolls his eyes. “I think we are friends, by now. You are my friend, and I—” He pauses for a moment, like he’s trying to find the words. “I care about your health more than I care about sex, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane repeats. He’s never really seen Ilya be sweet before, outside of the bedroom. Unfortunately, he likes it. Another tally in the column of “feelings for Ilya”. But how is he supposed to bring up not hooking up anymore now, when Ilya cares about him?

Whatever. They probably won’t see much of each other through the playoffs, anyway.

MAY 2017

Shane and his parents watch Boston get knocked out of the playoffs on TV. Shane, still in his cast, debates texting Ilya. The Voyageurs got knocked out last round by Detroit in six. Shane showed up to every game in a suit and tie, knowing that they would have done better with him on the ice.

If he did text Ilya, what would he even say? Sorry about the playoffs? Everyone Ilya knew would probably be telling him that.

Yuna gets up as the handshake line forms on the television. “You should ask Ilya to come stay with you in Montreal, now he’s out of the playoffs.”

Shane can’t say anything for a moment, too shocked to speak. “You— what?”

“Is he going back to Russia before the NHL Awards?” she asks as she cleans up their dishes from the coffee table.

“Um, I don’t know.” The answer was almost definitely no, given the state of Russian politics and the state of his family. Shane didn’t even know if he was going back at all.

“Well, invite him to train with you, at least, see what he says,” Yuna says. “He seems like he’s become a good friend.”

They’ve never spent more than a few days together, and that was only at the All-Stars, where they at least had hockey to distract them. What if they hate each other?

Shane opens his text thread with Ilya, twiddling his thumbs over the keyboard.

A hand plucks the phone out of his hand. “You shouldn’t be on this thing,” David says. “Watching the playoffs is too much screen time as it is, kiddo.”

“I’m texting Ilya!” Shane says, grabbing for his phone.

David keeps it out of reach. “You can call him later. He’s definitely still in the locker room.”

Shane sighs, knowing he’s right. His head still hurts, especially with the bright white ice on screen. He turns the TV off, thinking about what he wants to say to Ilya.

He doesn’t get a chance to call until the next morning, but Ilya picks up on the second ring.

“Hello, Shane. Here to tell me how I could have played better?” Ilya, not surprisingly, sounds weary.

“I mean, not bruising your ribs would be a start,” Shane says automatically, then winces. “No, I mean—”

“How do you know about that?” he asks suspiciously.

“My mom suspected, but thanks for the confirmation. Sorry about the loss. Are you doing okay?” Shane inwardly curses. Of course he’s not doing okay, he just got knocked out of the playoffs.

“Is hockey.” Shane can imagine him shrugging, weary. “Has to happen to someone.”

“Doesn’t mean you want it to be you.” Silence falls over the line. Shane stands and paces, trying to work his way up to the reason he called. He’s nervous. Why is he nervous? “Anyway, I wanted to, um, invite you to Montreal for the summer. Or at least until the NHL Awards.”

“Did your mother put you up to this as well?”

“…Yes.”

Ilya laughs. “Let me guess, is good for our appearance as a couple?”

“Probably,” Shane says. He didn’t ask. “Are you going to come or not?”

Ilya is silent on the other end.

“Ilya?” Shane prompts.

“Ah, sorry. Yes, I will come. Let me, what is English idiom? Tie up loose ends in Boston. Then I will come.”

“Okay, sounds good. Just let me know.”

“I will.”

“Well,” Shane starts. “See you soon, I guess.”

At least he has some time to figure out how to tell Ilya he can’t sleep with him anymore.

Ilya arrives sooner than Shane is emotionally prepared for. The drive from the airport is painfully short, and then Ilya’s in his house.

“Here’s your room,” Shane says, gesturing to the open door of the guest room.

Ilya frowns, and Shane can guess why. But he quickly schools his expression into something more neutral, and says, “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” Shane sticks his hands in his pockets. “For sure.”

Not wanting to linger outside the door while Ilya puts his things away, Shane makes himself busy in the kitchen. When Ilya wanders in, he asks, “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

Ilya shrugs. “I am always hungry.”

Shane opens the fridge. He doesn’t have much in the way of snack foods, because that’s a habit that he tries not to indulge, but he’s aware that not everyone shares that sentiment. “I made some guacamole the other day that should still be good. I don’t have any tortilla chips, but, um, I have carrot sticks?” He really should have gone grocery shopping for normal people food.

“Sounds good,” Ilya says.

Shane scoops some guacamole into a bowl and plates the carrot sticks, placing them in the middle of the island. Ilya sits on one of the barstools while Shane just leans over the counter. Suddenly aware of how seemingly domestic the scene is, Shane makes a decision.

He’s not going to tell Ilya they should stop having sex.

It’s unfair to Ilya, who came out to Montreal, probably under the expectation that he would be having hot, awesome, meaningless sex with someone who also thought it was hot, awesome, and meaningless. Which, the first two, definitely.

And selfishly, Shane wants to keep having sex with Ilya. First off, who else is he going to have gay sex with? But also, Shane wants it to be Ilya.

So he’ll keep pretending it’s meaningless until July, and then he’ll never have to see Ilya again except over a faceoff dot.

“Is good,” Ilya says, gesturing to the guacamole. “You made yourself?”

“Uh, yeah,” Shane says, scratching his head. “I mean, from a recipe, but…”

Ilya nods approvingly. “Of course, would be better with real chips, but I will settle for carrots.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we can go shopping tomorrow. Buy some processed shit for you.”

“Me?” Ilya lays a hand on his chest dramatically. “I would never! Only whole grain, GMO-free for me!”

“Yeah, right. I’ve seen you demolish a bag of Doritos.”

Ilya turns to him, wide eyed. “But that is before you have introduced me to the wonders of carrot sticks! I have new orange food that I love!”

“Okay, you can stop making fun of me now,” Shane says, sticking a carrot into his mouth.

“But is so much fun,” Ilya pouts.

Shane wants to kiss that pout right off his face. But he can’t, so he shakes himself out of it and says, “The game’ll be on soon, so I need to get started on dinner. Do you want to help or be annoying?”

Ilya raises his eyebrows as if to say, what do you think?

Shane sighs and gets out a pot. “Go watch the pregame. You can bother me when I’m grilling the chicken. The quinoa salad is boring.”

Looking at him with a smile playing at the edges of his lips, Ilya says, “I like boring.”

A thousand things run through Shane’s mind. He always calls Shane boring. Is he saying he likes Shane? Is he flirting? He doesn’t need to flirt, they’re not in public. “Um,” Shane says, speechless.

“Make your quinoa,” Ilya says, then saunters off into the living room.

Shane takes a moment to collect himself, then busies himself putting the quinoa on the stove and chopping the vegetables to go in the salad. When he takes the chicken outside, to the tiny balcony he barely uses except to grill, Ilya follows him.

“They like the Admirals’ chances,” he says conversationally.

“Oh yeah?” Shane asks. “What about you?”

Ilya shakes his head. “I cannot cheer for team that knocked my team out of playoffs. But I admit, they look good. Especially without Zullo.”

Zullo was arrested on Valentine’s day after getting into a bar fight, and was then placed on waivers, at which point Toronto picked him up. He wasn’t playing for them yet, and Shane strongly suspected he was in rehab.

“Yeah, their power play is stronger without him.” Shane pokes at a piece of chicken. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Zullo.” He takes a breath, considering. Is this something he wants Ilya in July, when they’re nothing to each other, to know? He plunges forward anyway. “I think I’m the Zullo in the Montreal locker room.”

When Shane looks up, Ilya is watching him carefully, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth slightly open. “What do you mean?” Ilya asks neutrally.

“I’m the guy who makes people uncomfortable in the locker room. I’m the guy who’s forcing the team to conform around me. I’m the guy who… fuck, who fucks everything up for everyone else.” Shane keeps his eyes on the chicken, basting it with marinade just to do something with his hands.

Ilya steps closer to him. “Shane,” he says. “You are not Frank Zullo. What did you do besides be gay? You did not even come out on purpose.”

“I guess,” Shane says. “But it’s still the same dynamic in the locker room.”

“Look at me,” Ilya says, and Shane forces his eyes away from the grill and onto Ilya’s face. “I do not know your locker room dynamic. But I do know this: you are not asking anything from anyone except acceptance. And they are still not giving it to you. They are the ones at fault here. Not you.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Shane admits.

“Then fuck them!” Ilya says fiercely. “Fuck the stupid Voyaguers if they are not going to respect captain that brought them two Cup wins in two years! Fuck them if they are not going to respect player they built franchise around!”

Shane flips the chicken with his tongs. “I wish I could feel that way. I wish I didn’t feel like I owe them so much.”

Ilya sighs. “I cannot tell you how to feel. But I can tell you that they are shitty ones, not you.”

Shane nods, lips pressed into a tight line. “Thanks,” he says quietly, not looking at Ilya.

Dinner is eaten in front of the TV, where the Admirals beat Detroit 5-1. It’s the third game but the first win for the Admirals in the series. Shane, of course, is rooting for the Admirals, since he can’t cheer for the team that knocked his out of the playoffs.

Ilya is a bad sport about the Admirals losing, and refuses to get up from the couch. “I will die here,” he claims. “Wake me when Detroit wins again.” He falls over on his side, staring morosely at the television screen.

Shane clears their plates, then stands behind the couch, watching the post-game. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t notice Ilya’s hands creeping toward him until he’s being heaved over the back of the couch. Shane flails and lands directly on top of Ilya.

“The fuck?” Shane asks, bewildered, then, “Wait, your ribs!”

“They are fine.” Ilya shrugs. “I need comfort for loss of my team.”

Narrowing his eyes, Shane asks, “What kind of comfort?”

Ilya smirks. “I think you know.”

Sighing, Shane leans down to kiss him. He’s trying not to think about the fact that this will be the first time they’ve hooked up since he realized his feelings. Ilya kisses back ruthlessly, deepening the kiss immediately and leaving Shane out of breath.

Drawing back, Shane asks, “Are you gonna be like this every time Detroit loses?”

Tugging him back down, Ilya kisses him long and slow before answering, “Maybe when they win as well. I need to celebrate.”

Shane rolls his eyes before shimmying down the couch so he’s lying between Ilya’s legs. He pulls down his basketball shorts and mouths at his cock through his underwear. Ilya’s hands slide into his hair. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says, before Shane’s even really done anything.

Shane loves it. He loves the effect he has on Ilya, loves the way he can take him apart. He pulls down his underwear and finally gets his mouth around his cock. He’s glad that his cast is on his left arm, so he can wrap his right hand around Ilya’s dick. Shane can feel Ilya’s eyes on him the whole time, and he does his best to be sexy about it. He pulls his mouth off and runs his palm over the head of Ilya’s cock, cupping his hand over the tip. Ilya groans.

“You like that?” Shane asks, knowing the answer.

“I like everything you do,” Ilya says, and Shane has to put his mouth back on Ilya’s dick before he says something embarrassing, like, I like everything you do, too.

The Admirals win in six, and Shane spends a lot of time “comforting” Ilya, because they win every subsequent game. He doesn’t mind. Even if Ilya didn’t reciprocate, which he always does, Shane could get off from the noises Ilya makes alone.

But the extended amount of time they’re spending together does nothing quite so well as convince Shane that they would be good together, if only they were together. But they’re not. Ilya’s just doing this as a favor to Shane, an apology for getting them into this mess.

They spend almost every second together and somehow don’t tire of each other. Shane brings Ilya along to train with him, they go out to restaurants and farmers markets, even grocery shopping together doesn’t get old.

On Shane’s end it’s probably the fact that he’s slowly falling in love with Ilya. Which, yeah, he’s using the L word now. It has come to his attention that never having been in love before doesn’t necessarily preclude him from being in love now. He looks at Ilya and thinks, god, how could I not love him?

Shane doesn’t know what’s going on in Ilya’s head. He’s probably able to compartmentalize things way better than Shane, probably had tons of friend-with-benefits situations before. Because they are friends now, it’s impossible to deny that. But maybe Ilya’s like this with all his friends.

Either way, it’s getting kind of painful for Shane. Constantly being around Ilya, constantly being flirted with by him. Constantly being touched by him.

Because Ilya is touchy. Shane had never noticed it before, maybe because they’d never spent this much time together before, but Ilya is constantly putting his hands on him. Touching his back, grabbing his hips, resting his chin on his shoulder. Shane would have thought they’d have strict boundaries between sex time and friend time, but Ilya blurs those boundaries more and more with every day that passes.

Ilya passes behind the couch and squeezes Shane’s shoulder, before sitting down on the other end. “How is your concussion?” he asks, resting his feet against Shane’s thigh.

Shane shrugs. “Mostly healed, I think. I still get headaches, mostly with too much screen time, though.” He’s been avoiding his phone and his laptop, and spending his allotted screen time watching the Conference Finals.

“Mm, and your arm?”

“I get the cast off this week.” Thank god for that, honestly, because his arm has been itching something crazy under the cast, and Shane’s desperate to wash it. But also, Yuna has some sponsorship stuff lined up for when he gets it off, which he’s not looking forward to. “How’re your ribs?”

“Healing, I think. Is better now I am not playing hockey games every other day.” Ilya lifts his shirt up. “Bruising is mostly gone.”

“I know, I see you shirtless like every day.” Shane thinks back to last week, when Ilya had hauled him over the couch. “I can’t believe you pulled me on top of you that first day. That must have hurt.” When Ilya had taken off his shirt the day after, Shane had gasped and berated him for not taking care of himself.

Ilya brushes him off. “I was fine.” He shifts, wiggling his way down the couch so his calves rest in Shane’s lap. “What’s for dinner?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re here for so long you’re more like a roommate than a guest. You can make us dinner once in a while, you know.”

“Ah, but I am injured,” Ilya says, clutching his ribs.

“I’m injured too, asshole,” Shane responds, whacking him with his cast. “Anyway, we can either have salmon—”

“Again?” Ilya interrupts.

“Yes, again. Or we can go out for dinner. We haven’t done that in a while. But that means you’d have to put on real clothes instead of sweatpants.”

Ilya groans like he’s been grievously injured. “Okay fine, we go out.”

The place they end up at isn’t super fancy, but Shane’s glad he forced Ilya into jeans, because he can see people snapping pictures out of the corner of his eye. Which, whatever.

As always when they’re out, Ilya flirts egregiously. At one point, he reaches over the table to wipe a bit of sauce from Shane’s face with his thumb, then sticks the thumb in his mouth to clean it off. Shane stares, wide eyed, at him, nearly forgetting to breathe. Ilya just smirks.

Obviously, the conversation turns to hockey. They talk about the playoffs for a while, until finally, the question that Shane’s been bursting to ask comes out. “Can I ask, what did Kent say to you to get you to react like that?”

Ilya’s face turns stony. “Was nothing. Not important. I, ah, over-reacted.”

“Was it your father?” Shane pushes.

Huffing a laugh, Ilya shakes his head. “No. He tried that. Did not work, so he switched tactics.”

“To what?” Shane is desperate to know what made Ilya Rozanov drop the gloves.

Ilya works his jaw, not looking at Shane. “Was you, okay? Kent said very rude thing about you.”

Shane, taken aback, says, “What? What did he say?”

Ilya finally looks at him. “He called you slur. You know the one. Asked if I was whoring you out. Said he is not gay, but you have a pretty mouth.”

“Oh,” Shane says.

“Yes.” Ilya’s still looking at him, intensely, like he’s boring into his soul.

Shane doesn’t know how to feel. On one hand, it feels romantic, the way that Ilya fought for his honor. On the other, it’s incredibly vulnerable, knowing that other people have seen the photos and have thoughts about them. For so long, it was avoidable, thinking about other people’s opinions on the photos. The only way they changed his life was coming out and having to publicly date Ilya. But he hasn’t really done any digging, inside himself, to explore how he feels about having the most intimate part of his life exposed.

“I am sorry,” Ilya says.

Shane sighs. “It’s not your fault that he said that shit.”

“Is my fault the photos leaked.”

Shane doesn’t want to play the blame game. It’s his fault, he suggested the pictures, it’s Ilya’s fault, he kept them. It’s the hackers’ fault, they leaked them. “It is what it is,” he says.

JUNE 2017

Stanley Cup Final. The New York Admirals versus the San Francisco Mission. Game six.

They’re in Ottawa, with Shane’s parents. They might end up making the drive again in a few days if it goes to game seven, but Yuna doesn’t think it will. And with the way that Scott Hunter has been playing, like a man possessed, Shane doesn’t think it will either.

Ilya bemoans the fact that the team that knocked his out of the playoffs made it all the way to the Final, but also doesn’t want to root for the team that he played when he won his Cup. He watches the game passively, making snide remarks about each team.

The seconds count down in the third period. The fans chant. The buzzer sounds. Red jerseys fill the ice.

The Admirals have won the cup.

Yuna whoops, saying, “I told you, I told you!” Shane smiles. Ilya buries his face in the cushions.

David gets up, beginning to clear plates from the coffee table. “Well, that’s that, I suppose.”

“Scott Hunter’s first Stanley Cup,” Yuna says as he makes his loop around the ice on the television. “Can you imagine?”

“Yeah, actually, mom,” Shane responds. “I have two.”

“He is almost as old as Stanley Cup,” Ilya says, face still smushed in the couch, as Hunter passes the Cup to Vaughn.

Shane thinks about what Ilya said, all those months ago, about Scott Hunter being gay, and wonders if he has anyone. Surrounded by teammates and their families, he’s alone on the ice. He skates aimlessly through the crowd on the ice until he reaches the glass, then starts waving to the crowd behind it. No, wait, waving down a specific person. A man?

“What’s he doing?” Yuna asks.

Hunter opens the boards for the man and he steps onto the ice, led by Hunter to the center.

Then they’re kissing.

“Holy shit,” Shane says.

Ilya looks at him. I told you, he mouths.

The announcers don’t know what to make of it. The crowd is going crazy. Shane stares at the screen, mouth agape, as they break apart and wave at the crowd.

”The NHL has just had its third player come out,” an announcer says from the TV. ”Hollander and Rozanov paved the way and by god, Hunter is taking that road.”

Shane looks at Ilya, who’s already looking at him. He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t have the words.

“Well, that certainly is exciting,” Yuna says. “Are you boys staying here or going back to Shane’s?”

“We’re gonna go back,” Shane says without consulting Ilya. He wants, badly, to debrief whatever just happened with Ilya, and crucially, doesn’t want to do it in his parents’ house.

“Okay, be careful on the roads, it’s late. Do you want any dessert before you head out?”

Shane shakes his head, and pinches Ilya, who’s starting to nod. He glances at Shane, who must have some sort of expression on his face, because he immediately says, “No thank you, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna,” Yuna corrects.

“No, thank you, Yuna,” Ilya says. “We had better get going, I think.”

“Yeah, Mom, before it gets too late,” Shane adds.

They say their goodbyes as Shane hustles them out to the car. Shane drives, because he’s seen the kind of cars Ilya likes and doesn’t trust him with it.

“So,” Shane starts once they’re on the road. “Hunter.”

“He got a much better coming out than we did,” Ilya says.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Yeah, he did.”

What he would give to have a coming out like Hunter’s. Completely chosen, not pressured by anyone, not outed by technology. In fact, Shane is kind of amazed that Hunter wanted to come out at all. Either way, he can’t help but respect him for it.

Shane has so many complicated feelings about coming out. Knowing what he knows now, about how the Voyageurs reacted, he probably wouldn’t come out until retirement, if he had a choice. But then again…

He glances at Ilya, who looks right back at him. Ilya’s hands lay folded in his lap, and Shane wishes that he was brave enough to hold his hand when they’re alone.

The drive back is long, and Shane puts on the radio. Music, rather than talk radio, because he doesn’t think he can bear to listen to the comparisons to Scott Hunter that everyone will be making. Ilya fiddles with his phone.

Shane wonders, not for the first time, about Ilya’s friend, Svetlana, who keeps their secret for them. He’s grateful to her, sure, but also wildly jealous that he’s not Ilya’s only fuckbuddy. Or whatever they are. Of course, there was also his coach’s son back in Russia, and who knows how many others that were repeats. But Shane only knows about this one. And he can’t help but fixate on it. Was she sad, when Ilya told her they couldn’t hook up anymore, he had to pretend to date Shane? Did they even stop hooking up, if it was guaranteed that she would keep the secret? Svetlana is a Russian name, maybe she only lives in Russia, and they only hook up during the summers, and Shane was keeping Ilya from her now. He feels an inane sense of satisfaction at that.

“What are you thinking about?” Ilya asks, and Shane becomes aware that he’s gripping the wheel too tightly.

“Um.” Shane searches for a believable lie, and settles for a half-truth. “Russia.”

“Oh,” Ilya says.

“Sorry.” Shane doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but the tone of Ilya’s voice makes him want to.

“No, I have been thinking about Russia, too,” Ilya says. “My country, that no longer loves me. I cannot go back. I do not want to go back, except for one thing.”

“What is it?” Shane asks.

“My mother.” Shane glances at Ilya, fingering his necklace.

“Is she still in Russia? Couldn’t she come here?”

Ilya chuckles humorlessly. “She is dead.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I was young.”

That doesn’t make it better, Shane thinks, but aloud, he says, “She’s buried there?”

“Yes.”

Shane wishes he wasn’t driving for this conversation, wishes that he could wrap his arms around Ilya and squeeze him tight enough to convey all the things he can’t say out loud. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Ilya shrugs.

Tentatively, Shane rests his hand, palm facing upward, on the center console. Ilya looks at it, looks up at Shane’s face, then, just as carefully, reaches out to take it.

They stay like that for the rest of the drive, and Shane is reluctant to pull his hand away, even just to put the car in park.

Once inside, Ilya drops a tender kiss at the base of Shane’s neck, and whispers, “Go shower.”

Shane shivers. It’s like a secret code word that means, I want to fuck you. He hurries through his shower and comes back to his room to find Ilya laying out a towel on the bed for the mess. His heart aches.

Ilya backs Shane against the bed, completely clothed to Shane’s fully naked. They topple backward onto the sheets. Shane leans up to kiss Ilya, who kisses back so sweetly that Shane’s sure he tastes sugar.

Ilya opens him up gently, the same careful hand that took his in the car stroking his inner thigh as the other works him open. They’re face to face, unbearably intimate.

When Ilya deems him ready, he lies back down and pats his thighs. “On top,” he says, rolling a condom on.

Shane’s never ridden him before. He wonders what it means that they’re doing it now, after Hunter’s kiss, after Ilya’s mother. He climbs on top of Ilya and guides him inside, sinking down onto him slowly. The stretch is almost unbearably good, different when he can control it himself. Different when he can see Ilya staring up at him in awe.

It makes him feel something, something he’s been trying to repress. So he leans down and kisses him instead.

They both groan at the change in angle. Shane tucks his ankles under Ilya’s legs, and levers himself up with his thighs experimentally. Of course it’s good, it’s always good with Ilya. But it’s a strange kind of good that leaves him feeling raw inside.

He rests his forehead against Ilya’s as he works himself up to the speed they both prefer. Leaning over him, their stomachs touch as they breathe in and out. Shane loves it, loves the feeling of Ilya’s bare skin on his own, loves the feeling of them pressed together. Loves Ilya.

He’d known, of course, that he loved Ilya. But it was a passive thing, the way he knows he loves hockey even when he’s not on the ice. Now, though, he can feel it, all-encompassing and burning bright within his chest.

It doesn’t scare him anymore. He’s content to know that it happened, determined to not grieve it until it’s over. For now, he’ll stay in the warm glow of Ilya for as long as it lasts.

Neither Shane nor Ilya are up for any awards this year, but they go to the NHL Awards anyway. Shane is keen to talk to Scott Hunter, and when he invites people out to a gay bar after the ceremony, Shane knows that’s where they’ll need to go. Also, where they’ll be expected to go.

“Rozanov! Hollander!” Hunter shouts when he sees them, slightly drunk, hanging off the man he’d kissed after winning the Stanley Cup. “This is Kip, my boyfriend!”

They introduce themselves to Kip, and Hunter herds them toward a free table. “I know you guys probably didn’t want to come out,” he says as they sit down, “But it meant a lot that you didn’t deny it. I mean, I was terrified those first few months, that people were going to start investigating other hockey players, but then I met Kip, and, well…”

“Means a lot for us, too, that there is another,” Ilya says. “It should be more normal, um—”

“Normalized,” Shane says. Secretly, the reason he’s glad that Hunter came out is that there’ll be someone else to be hockey’s gay golden boy after he and Ilya break up. He doesn’t want to hold that mantle, and Hunter, who is a perfectly normal hockey player in a perfectly normal relationship with a perfectly normal guy, is a perfect contender.

“Yes, absolutely,” Hunter agrees.

“So, how did you two meet?” Ilya asks.

Hunter and Kip tell them, fondly, interrupting each other, about Kip’s smoothie shop and Hunter’s superstitions.

“We broke up for a while because Scott wasn’t ready to come out to the team,” Kip says, “And I was feeling frustrated by that, especially because I was seeing all these pictures of the two of you looking happy and holding hands in public.”

Shane and Ilya glance at each other. Well, at least Yuna’s plan worked.

“But then I realized that I wanted Kip to be in my life, no matter the cost,” Hunter says sappily. “And if that meant coming out, then I was going to come out.”

“I didn’t mean for the whole world!” Kip exclaims.

“How has your team been?” Ilya asks. Shane tenses.

“Oh, great,” Hunter says. “I mean, there’s always gonna be some guys, but I think Zullo was the ringleader of that, and he’s long gone.”

Shane doesn’t say anything. Ilya’s hand finds his under the table, and squeezes. “Good. That is good,” Ilya says.

“What about you guys?” Hunter asks. “How’d you get together?”

Shane opens his mouth, then closes it again. What is he supposed to say, that Ilya cruised him in the showers?

“CCM commercial. Before our rookie year,” Ilya says.

“That was the first time we hooked up,” Shane clarifies. “We hooked up on and off for a few years before we, uh, got together.”

“Since your rookie year?” Hunter asks, shocked.

“Summer before,” Ilya corrects.

Shane rolls his eyes.

“How’d it happen, though? The getting together part.” Kip says.

Shane tries not to visibly wince. “Um,” he starts. “It just kind of… happened?”

Ilya jumps in. “I think, for me, I first realized I wanted something more when we would talk about things— not sex things or hockey things, but normal things. We had conversation about the differences between, Vinni Pukh or, ah, Winnie the Pooh, in Russia versus North America.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “That was, um, a long time ago.”

Ilya shrugs. Shane stares at him. Did he just say the first thing that came to mind and twisted it to fit the narrative, or did their silly little Winnie the Pooh argument actually mean something to him?

“Well, we should probably circulate,” Hunter says, as if sensing Shane’s discomfort.

Shane jumps on it. “Yeah, don’t let us keep you. Good to see you guys, and congrats again, Hunter.”

“Yes, congratulations,” Ilya repeats.

They don’t stay long after that. Shane almost wishes that they could dance, like that one time in Montreal, with Ilya’s hands all over him. But after they make their rounds with the (admittedly very few) players that came out to the bar, Ilya tugs Shane toward the door.

They’re silent in the car on the way back to the hotel. When the door closes behind them, Shane says, “So this is it, huh.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, “So let us make it count.”

Ilya fingers Shane open on his hands and knees, but Shane lays down on his back once he’s ready. He wants to look at Ilya for this.

If Ilya has noticed the way they’ve been fucking in missionary so often recently when Shane used to say his favorite position was hands and knees, he hasn’t said anything. But he definitely notices the way Shane’s eyes are full of unshed tears by the way he caresses his cheek gently.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, voice soft and concerned.

Shane shakes his head. “I’ll miss this,” he whispers hoarsely.

Ilya leans down to kiss him, and the tears fall. When he pulls away, Shane notices that Ilya’s eyes are a little red-rimmed as well, and wonders if, maybe, Ilya will miss him as much as Shane will.

“Do not think about it. Is tomorrow. Focus on tonight, yes?” Ilya says, almost desperately.

Shane nods, trying to blink away his tears.

Ilya kisses his forehead. Shane almost breaks down. Just one more night, he thinks, I just have to get through this night.

He tries to focus on the sex, but ever since that night that Ilya opened up about his mother, it’s been different. Shane can’t differentiate between sex and emotions anymore.

Ilya fucks in and out of him agonizingly slowly, and Shane wraps his legs around his back to keep him inside for longer. Ilya responds by grinding his dick into Shane in a way that has Shane arching up and digging his heels into Ilya’s ass in an attempt to get him even deeper.

Shane looks up at Ilya, knowing that his emotions are written on his face, hoping that Ilya might read them and say something.

Ilya’s eyes are wet too, now. He blinks and a tear falls onto Shane’s face. Wildly, Shane has the urge to wipe the tear up and suck it off his fingers. But he doesn’t, because that would be weird, and lets it roll down his cheek instead.

“Sorry,” Ilya gasps. “Sorry.”

Shane reaches up to hold his face, wiping away his tears with his thumb. Ilya shudders, his arms trembling. “Shane,” he whispers.

“Ilya,” Shane says, looking into his eyes.

Ilya buries his face in the place where Shane’s shoulder meets his neck, and Shane can feel the tears leaking from his eyes tracing paths down his skin. He presses a kiss into Ilya’s hair. I love you, he thinks. I love you I love you I love you I love you.

“I love you,” he whispers into Ilya’s curls, quiet enough that Ilya can ignore it.

He doesn’t. He lifts his head, face shocked and tearstained. “No,” he croaks.

It’s too late now to take it back, and Shane doesn’t want to. “I do,” he says. “I love you.”

Ilya’s face crumples into a fresh wave of tears. Shane doesn’t know what to do, can’t tell what Ilya’s feeling, if it’s good or bad.

It was probably a bad idea to do it in the middle of sex, because Ilya has gone still inside of him and Shane doesn’t know what he’ll do if Ilya kicks him out now.

But then Ilya begins to move again, kissing down his neck, and it kind of feels like whiplash. Shane’s still not clear on where they stand, and getting more confused by the second.

Ilya whispers something in Russian, a phrase, repeated over and over again. He gets a hand on Shane’s dick and then he’s coming inside of him. It only takes a few strokes of Ilya’s hand for Shane to follow suit.

Ilya pulls out and ties off the condom, going to the bathroom to throw it away, and presumably, to wash the come off his hand. When he comes back, he climbs right back into bed with Shane, fitting himself behind him. Shane lets him, desperate for the contact. Ilya strokes up and down his side with his thumb, just touching to touch.

“Um,” Shane says after a while, still off-kilter.

“Yes?” Ilya asks.

“What does that thing mean? That you were repeating?”

“Oh,” Ilya says, pulling away, and Shane turns to face him. “It means, ‘I love you.’”

Shane lets that sink in for a moment, before grabbing a pillow and hitting him with it. “You dick! Saying it in Russian doesn’t count! I was so worried that I’d messed everything up!”

Ilya laughs, bright and loud, a stark contrast to the previous silent tears, and gathers Shane in his arms. “I love you,” he says.

Shane softens. “I love you too,” he says back. Then he jerks upright. “Wait, does this mean we don’t have to break up?”

“Yes, we had terrible breakup sex for no reason,” Ilya says dryly, bringing him back into his arms.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Shane protests, settling back against Ilya’s chest.

“Mmm, it was good because I love you,” Ilya says.

Shane twists around to kiss him. “I love you too.” He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of saying that. “How long, for you?”

“I told you, at the bar.” Ilya shifts behind him.

Shane’s mouth falls open. “Since we took the pictures? That’s— I thought you were just saying that!”

Ilya chuckles. “No. It was hard for me to leave that night. You had just trusted me with something very intimate, and I gave you nothing in return, when I had just started to realize I wanted more with you. Why, when was it for you?”

“March. So, not as long as you,” Shane says.

“What made you realize?”

Shane knows exactly what made him realize. It was the fight Ilya got into. It had been creeping up on him for longer, but he’d only been able to grab it then. “Um, I mean, after your dad died, we had that fight and you stopped texting me. And then you got into that fight with Kent and… I don’t know. You didn’t really talk to me. And I figured out that I missed you.” Shane shrugs. “I hadn’t ever really felt that way about someone before.”

“Me either,” Ilya says. “You are the only person I have ever loved, and I thought I would never get to have you. I thought we would go our separate ways and I would never see you again.”

“And you were just fine with that?” Shane can’t help but ask.

“I thought it was what you wanted.” Ilya sighs. “I had already messed up so much for you, I didn’t want to… I don’t know, burden you with another thing.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Shane says. “This is a burden I’ll gladly carry.”

They post a picture at the cottage that summer, with the lake in the background and Ilya kissing Shane’s cheek.

shanehollanderhockeyplayer and ilyarozanov81 Several months ago, we were outed in a leak of extremely private photos. It caused a lot of turmoil, and we continue to feel that everyone should be able to come out on their own terms. Despite that, we are so happy to be able to love each other in public now.