Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Patrice Drapeau

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Fuck the Metros, Confrontations, Experimental Style, idk what i was doing with this i wrote it in like six hours after i got off work, Outing, Social Media, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sub Shane Hollander, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, POV Outsider, Finger Sucking, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Friendship/Love, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Exhibitionism, its vague tho, Hand Jobs, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, hayden and ilya are friends even if they wont admit it, Banter, Pet Names

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-08 Completed: 2026-06-11 Words: 8,759 Chapters: 2/2

This is fine.

Summary

On a Thursday, a video of Canadian star hockey player Shane Hollander goes viral on the internet. The video was taken on the previous Sunday, and it’s not what anybody expects. It’s not a sex tape, or a drunken fight in a bar, or any of the other videos that have been captured of others in the league, but instead, it seems to be a sneakily filmed video of Hollander confronting his former teammates.

Notes

cw: use of f slur multiple times both by shane in reference to himself and by drapeau being a dick

takes place between seasons; shane is moving to ottawa prior to coming out publicly, but he comes out to the metros privately. it doesn't go well. obviously.

Chapter 1

On a Thursday, a video of Canadian star hockey player Shane Hollander goes viral on the internet. The video was taken on the previous Sunday, and it’s not what anybody expects. It’s not a sex tape, or a drunken fight in a bar, or any of the other videos that have been captured of others in the league, but instead, it seems to be a sneakily filmed video of Hollander confronting his former teammates.

It’s certainly unique among a collection that could be collected of leaked videos of celebrity athletes. Fans, as a whole, regardless of team allegiance or even sport preference, are somewhat used to the rude awakening that their idol or crush turns out to be a dick— of course there are the usual posts of At the end of the day, they’re just men and Disappointed but not surprised and the like. Videos of their favourite player verbally abusing his wife or saying slurs are almost anticipated. But Hollander’s leaked video is responded to with posts like Holy shit and Did not see that coming.

The video provides little context to the events posted online. It appears at a house party or get-together, in a living room that is poorly decorated, and the recording appears to have been clipped to begin when Hollander walks into the room. He looks angry. The voices in the room hush as the men turn to look at him.

The camera is shaky. It lowers upon Hollander’s arrival like the videographer is hiding it.

Somebody leaves after a moment of quiet. It appears to be a woman. Fans would later comment that it seems to be a player’s wife, leaving due to the tension in the room.

Oh, Hollander says dryly, looking intently at a player who, for the moment, is out of frame. Now you don’t wanna say anything?

The others’ eyes shift to look past Hollander, but the camera does not pick up on who has entered behind him. The men look confused. One or two look alarmed. Patrice Drapeau, goaltender, speaks first, stepping into frame, toward Hollander.

What the fuck is he—

Don’t fucking look at him, Hollander interrupts, stepping closer. Say to me what you fucking said where you thought I wouldn’t see it, you asshole. Fucking say it to my face.

Drapeau rolls his eyes, looking past Hollander once again, but this time another voice speaks. Hayden Pike, left winger for the Montreal Metros and Shane Hollander's best friend.

Man, did you really think I wouldn’t show him?

But the others’ eyes that are lingering past Hollander aren’t looking in the direction of Pike’s voice. Someone else is there. Someone quiet.

Say it, Drapeau, Hollander says again. He pushes Drapeau’s shoulder. It’s a rare moment of aggression from the usually mild-mannered Hollander. You don’t wanna say it to me, huh?

Another push. Drapeau takes it, stumbling back just a step.

Fucking coward, Hollander says. The phrase has become popular with online fan bases showing their support. You talk all that shit behind my back and won’t even look me in the fucking eye.

Drapeau does this now. He glares, angry. Almost as angry as Hollander

But angry isn’t all Hollander is, fans point out in the hours and days following the leak. His voice shakes, and his hands shake, and his breath shakes. He’s angry, and he’s hurt.

Fuck you, Hollander.

Me? Hollander says like he’s surprised. Fuck me? You fucking asshole, Drapeau, I can’t fucking believe you.

But Drapeau has found his voice, looking into Hollander’s eyes, jaw clenching.

I can’t believe you, man. What the fuck? You’re a fine captain for years and suddenly you’re fucking gay?

It makes Hollander laugh.

Fans are shocked. They had no idea. Nobody had any idea.

Well. Some people did.

Theories had circulated for years, random posts about Hollander's lack of a dating life— publicly, at least. Posts about the way his eyes averted every time a reporter asked about girls.

But they were silly. Nobody really bothered.

Suddenly he’s gay.

You’re so fucking stupid, Hollander says harshly. It’s mean. Nobody’s ever heard him talk like this. Even his former teammates look shocked. I was already fucking gay before you knew me, Drapeau, you know that, right? I was already fucking gay before I was signed on this fucking team, and I was already fucking gay when they made me your fucking captain.

He pushes him once again. Drapeau takes it, seething.

Now what? Hollander says. What, you’re not true to your word? You’re not gonna beat the faggot out me, Drapeau? Fucking try it.

A shove this time. Hard. Drapeau stumbles back, out of frame, and he finally reacts, swatting Hollander’s hands away so hard their arms blur. Pike’s voice says Shane’s name from off-camera, and another player stands to step in, but Drapeau seems to wave him off.

You know, he says, I’m glad you’re not our fucking captain anymore.

Yeah, I bet you are.

You’re fucking gross, Hollander, I can’t imagine having you on my fucking team—

Oh, you can’t imagine it? Hollander says. He sounds condescending. Fans’ posts refer to him affectionately and fondly as ‘bitchy.’ You can’t fucking imagine it? I was your fucking captain, Drapeau. You called me ‘your guy,’ he adds with airquotes.

Somebody tries again to intervene.

Hollander, maybe we should—

But Hollander snaps a harsh Shut the fuck up.

That was before I knew what you are, Drapeau says. It’s followed by a moment of silence that’s tense, punctuated by a scoff from Hollander.

The camera is positioned perfectly for Hollander’s face to be seen. He smiles dryly.

God, he says. You fucking wish you could pull some shit about how fags can’t play hockey, don’t you? But you know you can’t.

More quiet.

You know, Hollander says slowly, gesturing toward Drapeau and then around the room. You all fucking know, that I’m better than fucking any of you. Don’t you?

He looks intently, unblinking, at Drapeau.

You know I fucking carried this team for years, and you know that I carried all of your sorry asses to the playoffs every time we made it. You know that I won those cups, and that I made this team what it fucking is.

I didn’t know you could be such an asshole.

This appears to catch Hollander off-guard. His eyes scan Drapeau’s face, and he exhales in a way that’s audibly unsteady, even through the audio of the phone.

That’s because you never knew me, he says. His voice shakes. I have spent… my entire fucking life pretending to be some fucking person that could be accepted by people like you, and I have spent my life acting like it’s fine that everything about me is wrong, and I have spent my life trying to be fucking palatable for you. And I—

He cuts himself off with a wet laugh, something wry and humourless and kind of scary to hear, waving his hands like he’s dismissing it all, like he’s fanning it all away.

I don’t fucking care anymore, and I need you to know that, okay? He sounds, suddenly, pitiful. Imploring, kind and sweet and gentle the way he’s always been off the ice, the way he’s known around the world for being. I need you to know that I don’t give a fuck what you think of me, or what you think of my boyfriend, and I don’t give a fuck if you hate me because that’s your fucking problem, Drapeau, not mine. And I need you to know—

He steps closer, almost out of frame, and the camera shifts slightly, silently, to keep him visible, but his face can’t be seen from this angle. Fortunately for nosy fans, Drapeau’s face can.

He’s seething, his cheeks red, his eyebrows drawn, and he’s trembling. Hollander is too. It’s clear to viewers when he lifts a hand and touches Drapeau’s face mockingly, grabbing his chin and swatting at his cheek, swerving around Drapeau’s hands shoving at his own like he’s just trying to annoy him, like this is something playful.

I need you to know, Hollander repeats, his voice clear and slow and soft, barely audible. I need you to really understand that a fag is fucking better than you, even after he takes it up the ass.

Drapeau is visibly disgusted and unsettled. Fans are enjoying using a zoomed-in screenshot of this expression in their posts.

Hollander pushes him again, the shove light, just fingers to his chest, and then Drapeau’s fist is rearing back, and there are muddled shouts, and the camera drops. For a few moments, the recording is almost, black, the phone tilted just slightly, just enough to show the texture of the carpet under it. There are voices, fabric rustling and skin landing on skin, the distinct sounds of a scuffle taking place in somebody’s home instead of on the ice.

And through it all, the shouting and yelling, the swears of You motherfucker and Fucking faggot, is a voice saying Get your fucking hands off him and Shane, come on. And the voice, accented and heavy and smooth, is recognized immediately by fans even with the audio muffled and the video blank. The voice belongs to Ilya Rozanov, center and team captain of the Ottawa Centaurs.

The video is cut off only after the noise falls a little more quiet, when it appears that Hollander and Pike and Rozanov have left, and only after Drapeau’s voice can be heard yelling Fuck! So loudly it’s like the audio isn’t muffled at all.

“Holy fucking—”

“Hayden, you are driving.”

“I— What?”

It’s almost more shocking than the entirety of the events that still have Hayden’s hands trembling. The keys to Rozanov’s stupid fucking car jingle when Hayden catches them against his chest, eyes wide, staring at Rozanov. He might have gotten a few too many hits to the head.

But Rozanov isn’t looking at him, caressing the back of Shane’s head and guiding him to the backseat, murmuring something soft that Hayden can’t hear before he gestures blindly at him, some waving Hurry up motion that sets Hayden into action, getting in the driver's seat without taking a moment to admire it all. It’s a fucking nice car.

He drives, glancing in the rearview to check that nobody’s following them— he doesn’t think any of them would, really, but he also wouldn’t be totally shocked if Drapeau has lost his fucking mind— and then glancing in the rearview to look at them.

Rozanov and Hollander. A force to be fucking reckoned with.

Rozanov is holding Shane’s face, checking that the bleeding is stopping— it is— and then inspecting his mouth, pushing Shane’s lips out of the way to check his teeth. They’re stained pink, but Rozanov doesn’t seem alarmed as he touched a few of them, prodding to check their stability. Rozanov is bleeding too, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Ilya,” Shane chokes. Hayden can barely hear it over the roar of the engine, but it makes his chest tighten. He knows that Shane hurts, his body and his head and his mouth, but he knows that’s heartbroken too. Devastated. Shane loves the Metros. He has since before he was signed. “Ilya.”

“I know, baby,” Ilya says softly. Hayden looks at the road, blinking his eyes when they start to sting. “I have you, I know.”

“I need you,” Shane says weakly. Hayden glances at them again. Shane is clinging to him, fingers clutching at his shirt and pulling him as close as he can. Rozanov tries hushing him, nodding, caressing his face. He tends to do that a lot— caress him. It’s unnervingly sweet. Tender. “Fuck, I need you, please—”

And suddenly, his voice is breathless, somewhere high in his throat, and he’s crying, whimpering, sniffling, and Rozanov is hushing him again, nodding. Shane falls quiet, his breathing still stuttered and desperate and panicked. Rozanov is whispering quietly. Hayden can barely hear him until they come to a red light. He runs his hands across the steering wheel. He can’t believe Rozanov is letting him drive this thing.

Shane is quiet. Hayden glances in the rearview, and freezes.

Shane’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing hard like he’s been running— or coming down from an adrenaline high, Hayden supposes— and his lips are closed around Rozanov’s thumb, uncaring of the blood on both their skin. He’s sucking on it softly, absently, and Rozanov is talking to him, eyes steady on his face like he’s memorising him.

He’s speaking Russian, Hayden realises after a moment. And Shane is listening, nodding slowly, jaw working at Rozanov’s thumb. Hayden, obviously, doesn’t understand a word until he hears his own name, the beginning H sound rough the way it always is when Rozanov says it. (Hayden still isn’t sure why Rozanov calls him by his first name instead of his last. He suspects it’s an attempt to get under his skin, but it doesn’t work if that’s the reason.) Shane nods again, his eyes fluttering, his cheeks pink, deepening his freckles and the already-forming bruise under his eye.

Hayden stares, eyes widening, watching as Shane sucks on Rozanov’s thumb, as Rozanov whispers and leans in to press their foreheads together, nudging their noses together, and it makes Hayden’s chest hurt. They’re so in love he can feel it from here.

And then Rozanov is kissing him, lips soft and tentative, even with Shane’s mouth full, and Shane’s mouth is opening absently, mindlessly, and he’s reaching for Rozanov’s neck, drawing him in closer. Rozanov kisses him clumsily, pulling his hand away so their mouths can latch properly, the kiss slow and deep and intent. He reaches for Shane’s neck, dragging his wet thumb along his skin and squeezing gently enough that Hayden isn’t even worried about Shane hurting. He’s kind of in awe.

His eyes scan down, watching the way their bodies shift closer, the way they turn into each other like it’s their default state, as close as possible. Like there’s no other way to exist. It’s beautiful. Not that he would ever say that to either of them. Especially Rozanov.

Their lips part with a wet sound that Hayden can hear from the front seat, and Shane shudders, a weak sound escaping his throat. Rozanov looks at him, nodding, whispering something in Russian that seems to prompt Shane to inhale slowly and steadily.

Hayden watches, admiring, until he finds that Rozanov’s free hand isn’t actually free, and it’s somehow found itself between Shane’s legs, gripping his visibly hard dick over the fabric of his pants, squeezing like he’s squeezing Shane’s neck.

“Are you fucking having sex while I’m driving?” Hayden says before he can stop himself, and Rozanov turns toward him, face contorting into something annoyed, like Hayden is in the wrong here. Shane groans, falling forward and tucking his face into Ilya’s neck.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Rozanov says.

“Wh—”

“Green,” Rozanov says pointedly, gesturing toward the lights with a tilt of his eyebrows, and this— all of this— is so fucking absurd that Hayden can’t help but let out a laugh as he drives straight, shaking his head as Rozanov murmurs to Shane. “‘S okay, I have you. Quiet, baby.”

Shane groans again, voice muffled in Rozanov’s neck, and Hayden shakes his head again, glancing at the dashboard and finding the radio dial to turn it on.

Of course, statements from both Hollander and Drapeau are issued following the leak. Drapeau’s comes first, two pathetic paragraphs posted to Twitter containing some nonsense about comradery and sportsmanship that sounds so stiff it’s like his begrudging attitude is coming through his PR manager. Hollander’s statement comes soon after. It reads as follows.

Don’t listen to him.

It’s hard for me to find an apology to make, but I understand that my fans are disappointed in my behaviour and lack of self control. Unfortunately, I am not sorry. Over two decades of maintaining composure were bound to cause a break at some point, and seeing the things that Drapeau said about me behind my back was an easy final straw. I won’t post them on here because I don’t want to get my account banned, but you can piece it together.

I didn’t know someone was recording, but I can’t say it would have changed anything if I had noticed. I was a man on a mission and that mission was to actually stand and speak up for myself for once in my life. I’m not sorry. Actually, I’m kind of proud.

I’ve left the Montreal Metros, and parts of me are devastated. This team signed me as a rookie, propelled me into my life-long dreams, and pushed me into the athlete that I am today. I gave everything for this team and I would have continued to do so if the circumstances were different. But I’ve learned that much of the team doesn’t feel the same way about me, and that my commitment doesn’t matter when I’ve fallen in love with a man. Hockey, and the world at large of course, is very behind in social progression. We all know this. I kept my queerness to myself (and the boy who would become my boyfriend) for my entire life out of fear. I have always been an anomaly growing up in a Western country playing a predominantly white game, and I knew that being openly gay would sideline me even more. My being a so-called prodigy would not protect me when there is too much about me that is unacceptable, and I have done my absolute best to be accepted. I have tolerated far too much. I have sat by and listened to racist and misogynistic language in silence out of fear of my own rejection, and I am ashamed of it. Parts of me are devastated because I trusted my teammates for years, and I trusted my teammates with who I am, and this is what I got. Many of them— not all— turned out to have no respect for me, in spite of everything I’ve done for them. I said it all in the video.

It is because of this that the rest of me is perfectly fine leaving the Metros. I’ve accepted myself— every part of me— and I’ve accepted that I actually dislike some people and that is okay. I have reasons to dislike them just like they think they have reasons to dislike me. The difference is that their dislike of me is based on what I am at my core, what I cannot change even if I spent most of my life wishing I could: Asian, neurodivergent, and gay. And my dislike of them is based on what they choose to be: hateful and mean and cruel.

I understand that this video has outed me as gay, and as much as I would have liked to come out on my own terms in my own time, I accept it and I actually like that this is out of my hands and I didn’t have to think up some creative post about how ~hockey is for everybody~ and ~all the colours of the rainbow belong on the ice~. This is fine. I’m gay.

I also understand that this video also outed me as a bottom. This is also fine.

I also understand that this video outed Ilya Rozanov as my boyfriend. This is more than fine. I am so in love with this man it makes me crazy, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. At the risk of sounding terribly cliche and painfully corny, Ilya is my rock. He’s kept me steady for years. He understands me in ways I didn’t know I could be understood, and it is a fucking blessing to be able to call him mine and to call myself his. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to love someone else this much, and I also didn’t know it was possible for someone to feel so loved by someone. I don’t know what I would do without him.

I’m joining the Ottawa Centaurs in the upcoming season, and I can’t wait to represent my beloved hometown on the ice and to wear the same colour sweater as the man I love. I can’t wait to win more games with Ilya as my teammate and captain instead of my opponent, and I can’t wait to play more hockey with a team that respects me and values me as a person and not just as a player.

See you next season. If you need me I’ll be with the love of my life learning to be shameless.

Rather than a statement, Rozanov posts a series of photos on his Instagram account with the caption cat’s out of the bag.

The first photo: A sunset golden photo of Rozanov and Hollander side-by-side, looking past the camera. Hollander is sitting lower than Rozanov, his head resting against Rozanov’s upper arm that’s propped up on what is assumed to be Rozanov’s knees. Rozanov is holding a cigarette between two fingers loosely. Hollander is smiling just slightly. Two comments compare him to the Mona Lisa. One reads So this is what Mona Lisa was thinking about. Gays. Hollander likes this comment.

The second photo: What appears to be a screenshot of a video, the quality of the image fuzzier than the rest of Rozanov’s posts. A side profile view of them, Hollander sitting on the ground with his knees bent up, arms resting over his knees, and Rozanov in position for push-ups, holding himself up with his hands on Hollander’s feet. They’re both shirtless, wearing exercise shorts, and a tattoo is visible on Rozanov’s chest. Their eyes are closer, and their lips are touching in a soft kiss.

The third photo: A close up photo of their faces. Rozanov is looking up at Hollander like he’s sitting down and Hollander is leaning over him, his eyes almost closed like he’s sleepy, lips smiling, and Hollander’s lips are puckered, kissing the tip of Rozanov’s nose.

The fourth photo: Taken in a living room. They’re on the sofa, Rozanov slumped over onto a pillow that’s cushioning the armrest, and Hollander is laying down, his head resting on Rozanov’s hip. Rozanov’s hand is on Hollander’s head, his fingers in his hair, and they both appear to be sleeping.

The fifth photo: A side profile view. Their noses are pressed together, and they are both smiling. Hollander appears to be laughing, his eyes squeezed shut, and Rozanov is gazing at him.

The sixth photo: At a picnic table. Rozanov, fully visible in the foreground, is turning to take a selfie with the rest of the table, smiling brightly, while Hollander, sitting next to him and mostly hidden from Rozanov’s forward lean, has his eyes closed and is pinching the bridge of his nose as if in exasperation. Hayden Pike is tagged in the corner and it is assumed that he took the photo.

The seventh photo: At night, taken with a harsh flash. Hollander and Rozanov are kissing passionately, arms around each other, Rozanov leaning forward like he’s falling, and Jean-Jaques “JJ” Boiziau is next to them, mid-turn toward the camera with an alarmed and simultaneously ecstatic look on his face.

The eighth photo: Holland Rozanov standing on the ice, arms wrapped around each other as they pose for the camera. They are wearing their gear and holding sticks, but only Rozanov has his helmet on. Hollander’s gloved hand is visible holding the back of Rozanov’s neck. Hollander is grinning, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and Rozanov is leaning in close enough to press his tongue against Hollander’s cheek. Hollander does not seem to mind it.

The ninth photo: Asleep on the sofa again. It appears to be the same sofa, in the same living room, but they are wearing different clothes. Hollander is sitting with his legs outstretched on an ottoman, holding a pillow to himself, and Rozanovis laying against his shoulder. Hollander’s head is resting on his, and he is holding Rozanov’s wrist.

The tenth photo: In a locker room. Nobody can explain the photo, and Rozanov and Hollander seemingly refuse to provide context. They are standing, but their bodies are tangled together, limbs woven and holding them up against the lockers, stretching out over the bench down the middle of the aisle. They are held up only by one foot each and Hollander’s hand holding onto the bench. Comments provide theories that range from interpretive dance to That’s just their natural state.

Many comments are deleted. Many are liked by both Hollander and Rozanov as well as other players in the league.

haydenpikeofficial the girls are expecting you to have you own dress for your playdate on saturday

| ilyarozanov81 tell them i am already prepared and will bring glitter

| | haydenpikeofficial do NOT bring glitter i swear to god

thescotthunter21 Happy for you guys! You’ve come such a long way. ☺️

| ilyarozanov81 oddly progressive for an elder… i will accept it.

| | shanehollanderhockeyplayer Ignore him. Thank you Scott.

boiziaujj16 cutie pookie pies ♥️♥️♥️😍😍🥹🥹🌈🎉

| ilyarozanov81 POOKIE PIES

| | shanehollanderhockeyplayer jj what have you done

jackie_pike24 love you boys!!! so proud of you both!! ❣️

| ilyarozanov81 kisses <3

theroselandry CUTIES!!! I love your love so much.

| ilyrarozanov81 thank you, Rose Landry

svetlanavetrova Я так сильно тебя люблю. вас обоих.

| ilyrarozanov81 Мы вас тоже любим. xx

Hollander later posts a photo to his Instagram account. It’s a photo from the photoshoot when they were rookies, dark in the ice rink, both wearing helmets and leaning down so their hockey sticks are touching. They’re looking up at one another, and at first glance, they look serious. Nothing odd about it. But upon a further look, they are both suppressing smile, their eyes squinting, smiling without their mouths, looking into one another’s eyes. They look young, soft and sweet and new at it all. They look like friends instead of committed rivals.

The caption reads, Who would have thought?

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

car scene extended cut

Chapter Notes

wasnt planning on doing a part 2 to this but i needed to elucidate on this dynamic w hollonov and hayden

The radio station is the same one Ilya usually sets it to on the rare occasion that he isn’t using the aux cable. He doesn’t even register what song is playing, even when the volume raises as Hayden tries to drown them out.

Ilya wonders distantly where they’re going, where Hayden is driving, but he doesn’t care enough to ask. He’s busy, too focused on the sound of Shane’s muttered I need it, I need it, I need it to care about anything else in the world.

He knows Hayden must still be able to hear them, so he whispers in Russian. Shane understands enough to follow along, to nod and say things like Yeah and Fuck, thank you.

«You’re so amazing,» Ilya murmurs in Shane’s ear, squeezing him over his pants, ignoring the way the strap of the seatbelt is cutting into his hand. «I’m so fucking proud of you.»

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane chokes. His voice is muffled in Ilya’s neck, his breath warm and damp, and Ilya holds back a groan, still at least semi-conscious that they have company.

Though, Ilya thinks as he wrestles the button and fly of Shane’s jeans undone, Hayden could tell them to knock it off. He could pull over and get out to leave them alone. He doesn’t seem to mind.

He’s looking at the road every time Ilya glances at the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t even look angry or intent or anything of the sort. Ilya is reminded of when Hayden finally realised that Ilya was the person giving Shane a blowjob while he was the phone with him that one time— he’d just rolled his eyes and made a face at Ilya, but there was no malice. No anger. Just like now. He’d laughed before turning on the radio, but it sounded bewildered. Amused, almost. He doesn’t seem to care at all, and Ilya’s not going to look a horse in the mouth or whatever the phrase is.

“My good boy,” Ilya says softly, his fingers finally slipping under Shane’s pants, and Shane moves, lifting his hips to give Ilya space to touch him. «Fuck. That’s it.»

Shane moans, lips parting in a pretty gasp. He’s so hard, already wet and sticky, and fuck, Ilya wants his mouth on him. Shit.

“Talk to me,” Shane says breathlessly, just audible over the music. Ilya’s respectful enough to not tell Hayden to turn the radio off. He just ducks his head closer to Shane’s. “Say something, please.”

«I got you,» Ilya murmurs, turning toward him, shifting in a way that catches Hayden’s attention.

“Seatbelts stay on,” Hayden says suddenly, loudly. It startles Ilya, but Shane is so out of it he doesn’t seem to notice. “I can tolerate you guys fucking, but do not take off your seatbelts.”

Ilya huffs, making a face at him as he buries his hand in Shane’s hair, arm wrapping around his head to hold him in the restricted position. Shane exhales slowly, falling into him.

“Boring,” Ilya says.

“Safe,” Hayden spits back. Ilya makes another face and turns his attention back to Shane.

«This is good?» he asks gently, stroking him slowly under his pants. «You like it?»

“Yeah,” Shane says, nodding into Ilya’s shoulder. “I love you so much.”

“I love you so much too,” Ilya whispers, turning his head so his mouth is by Shane’s ear. «My perfect fucking boy. You are so amazing.»

“Ilya.”

«That was so fucking hot, Shane. I love watching you like that. I love seeing you stand up for yourself.»

Shane nods, moaning weakly into Ilya’s neck. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut tightly, licking his dry lips, letting his tongue brush Shane’s ear.

“Shane fucking Hollander,” Ilya whispers. «My man.»

Shane moans, hips jerking into Ilya’s hand, and Ilya smiles, shifting to let Shane’s arms wrap around him tightly. The position is a little awkward, arms reaching where they can, restricted by their seatbelts and the confined space of the backseat, but it’s okay. Ilya pets through Shane’s hair, turning his head to mouth at Shane’s ear the way he loves.

“Fuck,” Shane says, breathing hard. “Ilya, I can’t…”

«You can,» Ilya murmurs. «Take it like a good boy.»

Shane’s lips part on Ilya’s neck, his breath hot, his tongue wet, and Ilya can’t take it anymore. He huffs, tilting his head to give Shane space as he fumbles clumsily with the waistband of Shane’s jeans, cursing Hayden’s strict requirement of car safety when he has to wrestle past the band of the seatbelt. Shane groans, letting space form between them enough for Ilya to pull his cock out.

«There you go,» Ilya murmurs, stroking him slowly, watching his head fall back and his eyes flutter in bliss. «My perfect boy. Fucking shameless, aren’t you? You need it so fucking bad.»

Shane is nodding, and Ilya smiles, letting himself feel so fucking proud of him, so pleased with his progress in Russian. He still understands more than he can speak, and he’s annoyed by it all the time, by his own limitations, but Ilya loves it. He loves being able to say what he needs to, what he wants to, and he loves being understood, even if it’s just mostly, even if sometimes their conversations are interrupted by things like What’s that word? and Say that slower.

«I do,» Shane says breathlessly, nodding, squeezing his eyes shut. «I need it so much.»

Ilya swears under his breath, grabbing at Shane’s hair, pulling so his head tilts back, and he looks at his face intently. His flushed cheeks, his pretty freckles, his swollen lips. Ilya holds back a groan, analyzing him before he tears his eyes away, ducking his head and spitting onto Shane’s dick. Shane moans, squirming in his seat, fighting against the seatbelt restricting him, and he lets out a beautiful whine. Ilya nods, watching him carefully.

He admires him. Every twitch of his eyebrows, the way they draw together as his eyes squeeze shut like he’s in pain, like he doesn’t love it. The way his chin quivers, the way his throat bobs. Exquisite.

“Fuck, baby.”

“Make me come,” Shane chokes. Ilya nods.

He glances down, watching the pretty shine of Shane’s dick as his fingers slide up and then down, as they twist and squeeze, and he lingers just under the head, pressing his thumb firmly and rubbing against the spot he feels the most. Shane lets out a beautiful moan, something that’s high in his throat and pitiful.

Ilya draws him into a clumsy kiss, humming into his mouth that’s already hanging open, and he cradles him, caresses the back of his head like his skull is fragile, like he didn’t just put up a solid fight against another professional athlete, like his right hook wasn’t pristine.

Fuck, it was hot.

His mouth tastes like blood, and there’s a distant throbbing pain somewhere on Ilya’s face from a hit that must have landed while he dragged Shane away from it all, but Ilya kind of loves it. He lets Shane’s tongue into mouth, and he sucks on it in a way that he really, really shouldn’t while there’s someone else less than five feet away from them, but he doesn’t care. It’s lewd, and it’s gross, and he knows Shane loves it.

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, grabbing at him, his hands tight and trembling. “Fuck, I’m…”

“I know, baby,” Ilya murmurs. «Come on, angel, come for me.»

Shane grunts, gasps, and his mouth falls open, but Ilya realises as he’s witnessing it that actually, he doesn’t want Hayden— or anybody, really— to know what Shane sounds like in the midst of an orgasm, even with the noises hidden under loud rap music. He lets go of Shane’s hair and grabs his face, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand. It lands hard, probably too hard, but Shane seems to like it. He groans, his voice muffled, and his eyes roll back, and he holds Ilya’s wrist so tightly it hurts.

Ilya looks at his hand. His knuckles are bruised, and there’s a spot of dry blood on his perfect skin, and Ilya finds himself thinking about how perfect he is, how he can be so gentle and sweet and tender with Ilya, how he’s always so careful when he’s playing with the Pike kids or when he was petting a stranger’s dog while on a run the other day. How he wakes Ilya up with the softest of touches to his face and how he puts glass and ceramic dishes away in shelves and cabinets as quietly as he can. He’s such a sweet boy, Ilya thinks, gazing at him, cooing something under his breath that could be in English or Russian or fuckign gibberish.

And yet.

There’s blood on his teeth, and today Ilya heard him call himself a faggot in a way that didn’t even sound like a slur, in a way that sounded proud and bold and brazen. Today he heard him say No, I’m not fucking putting up with it anymore. Where is he? and for a brief moment it had worried him, had scared him, but his fear had been overridden by everything else. But how hot Shane is with his brow drawn and his jaw clenched, by how set he was on confronting Drapeau.

Shane has never fought on the ice before— except the brief scuffle with Scott Hunter that was quickly stopped by referees and teammates— and Ilya had never even considered that he would see Shane fight at all.

«Fuck, Shane.»

Shane moans, muffled, breathing hard, holding Ilya’s hand in place. Ilya hums, leaning in to press his lips to Shane’s face, peppering kisses across his forehead and cheeks and nose, gentle on the skin that’s already blooming with bruises.

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbles, voice barely audible. Ilya smiles, caressing the underside of Shane’s chin with his thumb, nuzzling their noses together. He lowers his hand when Shane takes a slow breath, nodding as he kisses him tenderly. “Fuck, Ilya.”

“I know,” Ilya whispers. “I have you.”

Shane groans into Ilya’s mouth, falling forward, falling into him. Ilya kisses the side of his head, nudging him closer, prompting him to tuck his face into Ilya’s neck as he tucks him back into his pants gently. He looks past Shane, glances across the seat to the jacket that’s laying there from a few weeks ago, and fuck it, that’s fine, he guesses. He lifts his hand to his mouth absently and slides his tongue across his finger, swallowing some of Shane’s come before he reaches for the jacket and cleans his hand on it.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps. He’s crying. “Ilya.”

Ilya hushes him softly, nodding, tossing the jacket to the ground and finally holding Shane’s head again. He’s as gentle as possible, conscious of any bruises that might be hiding under his hair, any bruises that Shane might not even know about yet. He kisses Shane’s temple, and he whispers in his ear.

«I am so proud of you,» Ilya says, lingering to kiss his ear, to slip his tongue along the shell of it in a way that makes Shane shiver before he decides that he needs Shane to understand him, to really understand him. He pulls away and tugs at him so their eyes meet. “You have been putting up with too much for too long.”

“Ilya.”

“You don’t have to anymore,” Ilya says firmly, holding Shane’s face, his palms squishing his cheeks a little bit. He brushes his thumbs over his freckles. “You don’t have to deal with any of it anymore, darling, you can be free, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane breathes.

“I am so proud of you,” Ilya says quietly. His voice breaks.

Shane lifts his chin, his eyes fluttering, and Ilya indulges him, leaning in to kiss him. It’s clumsy, just a press and slide of their mouths, wet with spit and then with tears. Ilya’s entire body aches as he listens to Shane’s breath stutter, as he sobs into Ilya’s mouth weakly. Ilya nods, letting their mouths slide until Shane is hiding in his neck again.

He’s crying, but Ilya can’t tell what kind of crying it is. Sometimes it’s good after he comes, tears of overwhelm and pleasure, tears that make their way into Ilya’s open mouth and taste like salt and desire. But this…

Ilya knows that the pleasure of an orgasm doesn’t take away the pain of everything else. He knows that better than anyone, maybe.

He knows Shane is hurting. He knows he’s been betrayed, knows how disappointed and devastated he is to know that his beloved teammates are so cruel, to know that they hate him so much just because he’s him. He knows that Shane’s body hurts, that he’s bruised and a little bloody, and he knows that the more time passes, the more the pain settles into his skin, the darker the bruises blossom.

The radio turns down to play quietly, background noise, and Ilya glances at the rearview mirror. Hayden is looking at the road, and after a moment he meets Ilya’s eyes. He looks sad. They look at each other for a few moments, Ilya’s view of his eyes shifting as he and Shane rock back and forth as much as they can with the restriction of their seatbelts, and it’s like they’re communicating something that Ilya isn’t really sure about. And he thinks briefly, as Hayden is looking back and road, that he kind of loves him, this fucking guy that loves Shane so much that he’ll break his fucking heart so he knows what kind of people he’s around, so much that he’ll go with him to confront his own teammates— the teammates that he’ll have to keep seeing because he’s not trading— and so much that he’ll tolerate the sounds of sex just behind while he drives aimlessly.

He’s kind of great.

Ilya closes his eyes, resting his face on Shane’s head, sighing. He holds the back of Shane’s neck, squeezing it gently, steadying him as he traces shapes over Shane’s back. He kind of wants him to fall asleep here, to just hold him and let Hayden drive wherever the road takes them. Shane doesn’t fall asleep. Ilya knows because he can feel his breath, can hear him sniffling and swallowing and holding it all back. He stifles sobs, groaning against Ilya’s neck, until he soothes himself by mouthing at him, licking at Ilya’s skin and sucking it between his teeth. It’s not suggestive, not sexual in any way, and Ilya loves it. He tilts his head to let him. He hopes it leaves a bruise darker than anything he obtained during the fight.

Shane’s tongue is warm and wet and soft, and his teeth hurt a little as they dig into Ilya’s skin like he’s trying to draw blood, but Ilya moans softly, combing through Shane’s hair.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs. “My baby boy.”

Shane hums, nibbling and sucking and sighing against Ilya’s skin. It makes him shiver, the wet sounds eliciting a shiver that starts at the crown of his head and cascades down his spine.

“I love you,” Shane whispers.

They fall quiet. Shane lays on Ilya’s shoulder, silent and occasionally pressing soft kisses to Ilya’s skin, occasionally slipping his tongue over where there must be a bruise forming. And then, after a long while, he finally speaks, his voice rough but strong enough to be heard.

“Sorry, Hayden.”

Hayden lets out an abrupt laugh, bright enough that Ilya can’t help but smile too, his eyes downcast, watching Shane’s hand find his and tangle their fingers together. There’s blood in the cuticle of his index finger.

“Man, you’ve walked in on me jerking off enough times to make up for it,” Hayden says.

“Seriously?” Ilya says. Shane laughs into his neck. Ilya sees Hayden’s eyes crinkle under a smile in the rearview mirror. “Gross.”

“Gross,” Shane agrees.

“Okay, rude.”

“Nobody wants to see your gross penis, Hayden,” Ilya says dryly.

“Okay, rude,” Hayden says again, glancing at Ilya in the mirror and making a face, but Ilya can see the sparkle in his eyes when Shane giggles. “I’ll have you know—“

“You guys are intolerable,” Shane interrupts. “Please don’t talk about your magical dick.”

“But it is—”

“Shut up,” Shane says, laughing, shaking his head against Ilya’s shoulder.

“Ah, something that Hayden and I have in common.”

“Holy shit.”

“You do not have a magical penis, Ilya,” Shane says loudly, his voice flat.

“If you had a womb we would have more babies than Pike family.”

“I do not need to be hearing this.”

“Oh, this you think is over boundaries, Hayden?” Ilya exclaims, looking at the rearview mirror. He lets himself laugh when he feels Shane shaking against him, giggling into his palms, when he sees that Hayden is laughing too, his eyes squinting under his smile. “You do not want to hear about how pregnant Shane could be?”

“If you really had a magical penis you would be able to get him pregnant without a womb,” Hayden says, glancing at him in the mirror. Shane chokes on another laugh, reaching to draw the collar of his shirt up over his face.

Ilya is quiet for a moment before, “Fuck, that’s a good point.”

Shane’s face finally emerges as Hayden is laughing, and he’s bright pink and grinning and it’s a fucking vision.

“This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever been a part of.”

“That’s because you’re boring.”

“I just got jerked off in the backseat three feet away from my best friend,” Shane says defensively. “You don’t get to call me boring. Not today.”

“No,” Ilya says, his voice softening. “You are not boring today. Very not boring.”

Shane melts against him again.

“Where are we going?” he asks, looking out the window, reaching for Ilya’s leg, squeezing his thigh gently. Ilya laces their fingers and lifts his hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles one by one. Shane watches.

“I don’t know, man, I’m just driving.” Hayden pauses, glancing at the rearview and catching Ilya’s eye for a brief moment. He still looks amused. “...Where do you wanna go?”

“Uhm,” Shane says, sighing. He looks back out the window. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

“Do you want quiet or do you wanna be distracted by a potential tea party or princess movie?”

Shane scoffs, smiling, softening, and Ilya watches fondly, stroking the side of his hand.

“Y’know, a tea party sounds fun.”

“Perfect,” Hayden says. “Tea party and princesses it is.”

Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand. They fall quiet, but it’s an easier quiet than earlier. Ilya can breathe in this, even when he looks at Shane’s reddened eyes and nose and his wet eyelashes. Shane closes his eyes, exhausted, his head resting on Ilya’s shoulder.

After a while he pulls his phone out of his pocket and Ilya watches, turning his head to watch as Shane opens a new text notification. It’s in French, but Ilya can see JJ’s name in the contact. The photo is a closeup of JJ’s face, smiling cheesily— the only photo Shane had kept from the time JJ had found his phone left unattended in the locker room.

“What’s he saying?” Ilya asks softly as Shane reads the text.

It’s a longer text than what JJ usually sends, which tends to be just a few words, short texts in rapid succession like it’s his stream of consciousness. This one, a paragraph, is clearly something drafted, something he probably copy-and-pasted from his notes app or something.

“Uh,” Shane says, eyes scanning the text again. “He’s… at his grandma’s so he can’t call. But someone told him what happened.”

“And?” Hayden says from the front seat.

“He says, uhm.” Shane stops again, sniffling, blinking his eyes quickly, pausing before he reads, translating clumsily. “‘I’m with you, whatever you need. Fuck the— the rest of them.”

Oh.

Ilya knew he liked JJ.

He hears Hayden exhale softly, like he’s relieved, and he nods absently, looking at Shane. He’s got his head tilted back, his eyes glistening again, his lip quivering. Ilya can’t help but smile, his chest tightening as he reaches to brush the backs of his fingers over Shane’s cheek lightly.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

Shane hums shakily.

“‘M fine.”

“Shane.”

“Oh my god,” Shane says around a laugh that sounds almost delirious, rubbing his face harshly. “I’m fine, holy shit. Uhm.”

He’s breathing hard suddenly, panting, and he looks like he’s going to start laughing. Ilya turns toward him, reaching for his hand and pulling it down as gently as he can.

“Hey, hey, hey—”

“No, I’m okay,” Shane says, nodding, looking into Ilya’s eyes. “I’m…”

“Do you need to start over?” Hayden asks, looking at them through the mirror. “I could tolerate that once, I don’t know if I can do it a second time, but I can pull over—”

Ilya can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Shane just laughs, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” he says again.

“The more you say that, the less I believe it, man,” Hayden says.

“I’m fine, I swear to God I’m fine.”

“Sure, dude.”

Shane laughs again, rubbing his face before he rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder, squishing his face against him. His hands are shaking as he responds. Ilya watches, but it’s all French, so all he can understand from the mess of letters and accent marks is Merci.

He exhales slowly, letting his head fall to rest on Shane’s, and he closes his eyes. His stomach hurts a little, but it lessens as he feels Shane breathing next to him, as he listens to the tapping of his fingers on his phone screen, talking with JJ— Ilya’s new favourite Metro, because Hayden has been demoted to #2— and he feels relieved. He’s angry, and he’s bitter, but JJ Boiziau is still, as Jackie once described him, a sweetie, even if he knows Shane is gay, even if he probably knows Shane is seeing Ilya.

«You have real friends,» Ilya says quietly, absent. «You know that?»

It takes Shane a moment to respond, still typing out a response before he looks up at Ilya. His gaze is blank for a moment, and Ilya opens his mouth to repeat himself, but then Shane is nodding, lips turning into a soft smile.

«Yeah, I know,» he says softly, his Russian tilted, crooked in his mouth. «Three is a lot of friends.»

«And Sveta,» Ilya points out. «And Cliff. And Jackie and Miles. And the Centaurs are going to love you, they are already so excited about you joining the team, they are planning parties and barbeques and—»

«Too fast,» Shane interrupts, smiling, amused. Ilya huffs, fighting a smile, and he repeats himself, slower. «...Serious?»

«Yes,» Ilya says, jostling him gently. «You have friends, Shane.»

Shane’s eyes drift, focusing somewhere vague on Ilya’s neck. Ilya wonders if it’s a hickey or if he’s just zoning out.

“You have support system,” Ilya says softly, touching Shane’s face. Shane lets him, tilting into it. “You have friends, and your parents, and your new team, and the Pike kids, and your fans— your real fans— and…” He trails off, his eyes stinging, his throat tightening. Shane meets his eyes.

Ilya’s body aches. Everything in him. His muscles, his skin, his organs, his bones. Every cell, every molecule— it all feels tender to the touch, like his love for Shane is bruising his entire existence. He hopes it never heals.

“You are so loved, Shane Hollander,” he murmurs.

Shane’s lips quiver into another smile, and he closes his eyes, turning to press a light kiss to Ilya’s palm before he falls toward him with a sigh. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s hair, inhaling, and he hums, letting Shane tuck into him, settling in a way that means he won’t be moving until they get to the Pike home. Ilya pets his hair. He makes soft noises like he always does when Ilya does this, soft enough that Ilya assumes Hayden can’t hear them from the front seat. He’s glad. These noises, so tiny and vulnerable and sweet, belong to Ilya and Ilya alone.

«Sweet boy,» he murmurs before he looks up at Hayden in the rearview. “I can’t believe I am letting you drive my car.”

“I’m loving this,” Hayden says with a nod, running his hands over the wheel in a way that makes Ilya wrinkle his nose. “It doesn’t smell like Cheerios in here.”

“This is one-time thing.”

“I know,” Hayden sighs. “I know.”

Ilya likes driving. He’s always liked driving, and he’s always preferred to be the one driving, until Shane picked him up at the airport. He hadn’t realised how nice being a passenger could be until he felt fine with it, until he felt relaxed enough to allow it to happen. He hadn’t even felt the need to keep his own eyes on the road, to look for debris in the road or cars coming from down the road or pedestrians that couldn’t even exist on the backroads to Shane’s cottage. He’d closed his eyes and almost fallen asleep, more comfortable than he’d been on the plane.

Normally, he would want to be driving. Of course he would.

But he knows Hayden is a safe driver— he’s used to driving school buses, anyway— and he knows that he’s as safe as he can be right now, so he closes his eyes, resting his head, letting his cheek squish against Shane’s head. Shane squeezes his hand, somehow settling even more.

Hayden turns the radio off. It’s quiet now, except the gentle white noise of the world passing by outside and the engine of the car, and Ilya likes this more, he thinks, understanding Shane’s opinion on music for the first time. He supposes he should savour the quiet before they get to the Pike house. Jackie and her brother will want to know what’s going on, why Shane looks like he’s been crying, and the girls will be excited to see their Uncle Ilya— he always enables their unfiltered joy— and a tea party at the Pikes’ is always at risk of being unhinged, especially when Ilya is there. He has that effect on the twins.

So he savours this while it lasts, but he finds that he’s also kind of excited for when it ends.

Chapter End Notes

at some point when hayden stops at a red light he takes a picture of the boys in the backseat and sends it to jackie. shane has fallen asleep and ilya just has his eyes closed but they look so peaceful and so sweet that she saves the pic for their wedding