Rating:

Mature

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, Original Male Character(s), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Smut, Developing Relationship, Canon Rewrite, Communication, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Student Shane Hollander, College | University Student Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Self-Discovery, Friendship, Fluff and Smut, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Coming Out, Meeting the Parents, Barebacking

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-24 Completed: 2026-04-27 Words: 58,524 Chapters: 9/9

your eyes, they turn me

Summary

The Boston Bears group chat had sixty-three new messages in the span of three minutes.

His coffee forgotten, Ilya swiped open the chat, scrolling quickly to find the source of the commotion. A link to The Athletic, posted by Jensen, their captain, followed by a string of exclamation points. Ilya tapped it, the headline materializing on his screen like a blow to the chest:

BREAKING: MONTREAL VOYAGEURS’ SECOND DRAFT SHANE HOLLANDER ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT

Ilya's pulse jumped, hard and sudden in his throat. The mug slipped from his hand, not falling but landing too heavily on the counter, coffee slopping over the rim. He set it down properly, his movements mechanical, and forced himself to read the rest of the headline:

20-YEAR-OLD ROOKIE OF THE YEAR STEPPING AWAY TO PURSUE HARVARD BUSINESS DEGREE

Or

Shane Hollander has spent his entire life living and breathing hockey. At twenty, at the height of his career, he makes an unthinkable choice: he walks away to discover who he is beyond the ice.

But some things don’t stay behind.

What happens when the rivalry between him and Rozanov ends, but the pull doesn’t?

Notes

Well… first fic in this fandom. I read the books years ago, so I’m more used to that setting than the show, which is why I talk about the Bears and the Voyageurs, but it’s not really important for the story itself.

Shane and Ilya pulled me out of a massive writer’s block, and honestly, I’m forever grateful for that. This story is already complete in my drafts, just needs a few tweaks here and there. I’ll be posting once a week, and I might turn this into a series. I’m also working on another fic, so I have my hands full atm.

The idea came from wondering what Shane would be like in a completely different environment, surrounded by different people. We know him as he is because hockey shaped him. So I started playing with that thought… and suddenly I had a full draft.

Alright, I’ll leave you to it. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to let me know what you think 💛

Title from "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" by Radiohead

Chapter 1

The Vegas air was thick with heat, even fifty stories up where the rooftop bar perched like a crown on the hotel's head. Ilya leaned against the glass barrier, champagne flute dangling loosely from his fingers, watching as neon lights painted the city in electric blues and pinks. Behind him, the party hummed with victory and expensive liquor, but his attention had narrowed to a single point across the terrace, Shane Hollander, silhouetted against the skyline, pretending not to notice him while doing a terrible job of it.

Three hours into the NHL Awards afterparty, and they'd managed to avoid each other in a room designed for collision. Hockey's golden rivalry, carefully separated by handlers and teammates, as if proximity might ignite something dangerous. Ilya drained his champagne, set the empty glass on a passing tray, and decided he was tired of the choreography.

He moved across the space with practiced ease, nodding at faces that blurred together after one year to mock him rather than celebrate. He leaned against the glass barrier, a half-empty glass of vodka warming in his hand, as he scanned the crowd for a familiar silhouette. Memories of that impulsive kiss with Shane flooded back, igniting a mix of longing and regret deep within him.

The party buzzed around him, laughter and clinking glasses blending into a background hum, but his focus remained locked on the terrace door. It was as if the universe had conspired to keep them apart, each event a reminder of the unresolved tension that lingered between them. Ilya sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of pride and hesitation pressing down on him.

As he turned away from the crowd, a flash of movement caught his eye. There, framed by the door, stood Shane, looking effortlessly out of place yet undeniably magnetic. The moment their eyes met, Ilya's heart raced, the familiar spark igniting once more. Shane’s expression was unreadable, a mixture of surprise and something deeper that sent Ilya’s mind spiraling.

He took a step forward, but the moment slipped away as Shane quickly averted his gaze, pretending to be engrossed in his phone. Ilya felt a pang of disappointment but couldn't shake the urge to bridge the distance. With a deep breath, he approached, determined to shatter the silence that had stretched between them for far too long.

"Congratulations, Hollander," Ilya said, stopping close enough that Shane had to tilt his chin up slightly to meet his gaze. "Winning looks good on you."

Shane's mouth twitched. "Thanks. You deserved it, too."

"So polite," Ilya replied, enjoying the way Shane's freckles darkened when he was trying not to smile. "Very Canadian."

Ilya grinned, sharp and real. "Also true."

The wind kicked up, hot and electric, carrying the scent of desert from the open terrace behind them. Below them, the Strip stretched like a glittering snake, cars and people reduced to specks of light. They'd been here before, in different cities, different hotels, always finding an excuse to orbit each other when the cameras weren't watching.

"You leaving tomorrow?" Shane asked, his voice softer, less certain.

"Moscow in two days," Ilya nodded, studying the way the neon caught in Shane's dark hair, turning it almost blue at the edges. "You?"

"Montreal. Early flight."

They stood in silence for a moment, the unspoken thing between them growing heavier by the second. Years of this. Of chirps and post-game handshakes that lingered a beat too long. Of watching each other from opposite ends of the ice, knowing exactly where the other was without looking. Of pretending it was just competitive fire that made Ilya's skin prickle when Shane entered a room.

Ilya was tired of waiting.

"Come here," he said, the words barely audible above the wind and the distant thump of music.

Shane blinked. "What?"

"Come here," Ilya repeated, reaching out to hook a finger in Shane's sleeve, tugging him closer to the edge of the terrace where the shadows were deeper and the neon spilled across their skin in waves of color.

Shane followed, hesitant but curious, eyes darting back to the party as if checking for witnesses. "What do you want?"

Ilya didn't answer with words. Instead, he slid his hand to the back of Shane's neck, fingers curling in the short hair there, and drew him in. For a heartbeat, Shane tensed, his eyes widening in the half-light. Then Ilya kissed him, and the world narrowed to just that, the press of his mouth against Shane's, the sharp intake of breath, the moment of surrender when Shane's lips parted on a sigh.

It wasn't tentative. Ilya didn't know how to be cautious, not with this, not after waiting so long. He kissed Shane like he played hockey, all in, daring and relentless. His free hand coming up to cup Shane's jaw, thumb brushing across the stubble there. Shane made a sound low in his throat, part surprise, part want, his fingers clutching at Ilya's shirt as if he couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

For ten perfect seconds, they existed in a bubble of heat and want, the taste of expensive champagne between them, the wind wrapping around them like a cocoon. Then Shane's brain caught up with his body, and he jerked back, eyes wide and breathing ragged.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, glancing frantically over Ilya's shoulder at the party. "Someone could see…"

"No one's looking," Ilya said, even as something cold and heavy settled in his stomach. He'd gambled and lost. "They're all too drunk to care."

Shane stepped back, putting distance between them, his hand coming up to touch his mouth briefly before dropping to his side. "That's not, we can't just…"

"Can't what?" Ilya cut in, pride making his voice sharper than he intended. "Can't want this? Because I think you do, Hollander."

"It's not that simple."

"It is simple," Ilya said, and for a moment, the bravado slipped, revealing something raw underneath. "Stop overthinking everything for once in your life, Hollander."

Shane shook his head, his expression torn between longing and panic. "There are cameras everywhere. Reporters. Our teams…"

"Fuck the cameras," Ilya said, stepping forward, closing the gap Shane had created. "Fuck the teams. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to touch you every time I see you."

Shane flinched as if the words physically struck him. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't say it out loud?" Ilya laughed, the sound brittle.

"Rozan…"

"It's fine," Ilya interrupted, retreating into the familiar armor of nonchalance, though something in his chest ached. "Last time you weren’t so quiet…"

Shane looked away, the neon catching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension there. "That was different."

"How?"

"It was private. This is…" Shane gestured at the rooftop, the city below, the life they'd both built that had no room for whatever this was between them.

Ilya studied him, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides. He could push. Could remind Shane of hotel rooms in foreign cities, of hands and mouths and whispered confessions in the dark. But the fear in Shane's eyes was too real, too familiar from his own mirror.

"Okay," he said finally, stepping back, letting the moment dissolve. "Have it your way."

Shane didn't move, his expression caught between relief and regret. "Roz-"

"See you next season, Hollander," Ilya interrupted, already pivoting to go look over the city, his smile taut and devoid of warmth. He had no desire to hear whatever meticulous, rational explanation Shane had formulated. He didn't want the gentle letdown or the reassurances that it was for the best.

Hollander walked away, his posture rigid, chin elevated, as though his heart wasn’t pounding fiercely against his ribs. The neon lights wavered as he traversed the rooftop, faces glancing at him briefly before turning away, sensing a warning in his demeanor that discouraged any approach.

Ilya was left alone, watching the city into the distance, the silence thickening like the desert beyond, vast and desolate, a chasm that felt impossible to bridge.

Moscow mornings tasted like petrol. Ilya breathed it in, cold air scraping his lungs as he circled the rink, skates cutting precise arcs into fresh ice. Five A.M. training sessions were punishment and meditation wrapped in one, the empty arena echoing with nothing but the sound of his blades and the occasional barked instruction from his summer coach. No cameras. No opponents. No distractions. Except for the one he'd brought with him from Vegas, the memory of Shane's lips still burning against his own six weeks later.

"Again," his coach called in Russian, tapping a stick against the boards. "Faster entry."

Ilya nodded, circled back, and attacked the drill with renewed focus. Power through the crossovers, explosive acceleration, tight turn at the blue line, shot from the hash marks. Simple. Mechanical. He'd been doing variations of this since he was six years old, muscle memory so ingrained he could execute it half-asleep.

Problem was, the body remembered other things too.

The weight of Shane's hand clutching his shirt. The soft sound he'd made when Ilya deepened the kiss. The way his eyes had looked after, dark and wanting and terrified.

"Sloppy," the coach called as Ilya's shot sailed wide. "Again."

Three old teammates arrived, nodding silent greetings as they began their own warm-ups. Ilya raised a hand in acknowledgment but didn't break his pattern. They were used to his intensity during summer training. Used to the way he held himself apart, especially this year, with the Rookie Of The Year trophy missing from his collection and a target on his back for the coming season.

What they didn't know, what no one knew, was that Ilya Rozanov, the NHL's most electric offensive talent, the bad boy of Boston, the man with a highlight reel longer than most players' careers, couldn't get Shane Hollander out of his head.

"Enough," the coach said finally, checking his watch. "Cool down, then breakfast."

Ilya circled the ice slowly, letting his heart rate settle. Sweat cooled on his skin beneath his practice jersey, the temperature in the rink raising goosebumps along his arms. Moscow in summer was a study in contrasts, sweltering streets and frigid rinks, noise and silence, loneliness in crowded rooms.

"Dinner tonight," one of his teammates called as Ilya headed for the locker room. "My place. Bring your drinks."

Ilya waved without turning, a noncommittal gesture that could mean yes or no. They'd learned not to expect him, not to push when he declined. The luxury of success was the space it bought him, the right to be difficult and still wanted.

Back in his apartment, he showered, dressed, and tried not to check his phone. Failed. No new messages. Not that he expected any, he hadn't texted first, so why would Shane? And even if he did, what would he say? Sorry I panicked when you kissed me in public? Sorry I've been pretending for years that whatever happens between us in private doesn't count?

Ilya tossed the phone onto his bed, annoyed with himself. This wasn't him, this brooding, this fixation. He didn't pine. He didn't wait around for people to choose him.

His step mother's voice interrupted the spiral, a call for lunch that he couldn't ignore without questions he didn't want to answer. He found her and his grandmother in the kitchen, the apartment filled with the smell of borscht and fresh bread.

"You look tired," Polina said in lieu of greeting, studying his face with the clinical precision of someone who'd watched him train in rinks and knew the difference between normal fatigue and something deeper. "Not sleeping?"

"I'm fine," Ilya said, kissing her cheek before sitting. "Early practice."

"Always practice," his grandmother muttered, setting a bowl in front of him with enough force to slosh soup over the edge. "No rest. No life."

"Hockey is my life," Ilya replied automatically, the same answer he'd been giving for twenty years.

His step mother and grandmother exchanged a look, the kind that made him feel transparent, as if they could see past the carefully maintained image to the mess underneath. They didn't press, though. They never did. The Rozanov family specialty was silence around difficult topics, skating wide circles around the things that hurt.

"Your father called," his mother said instead. "He's coming for dinner tomorrow."

Ilya nodded, something cold settling in his stomach that had nothing to do with Shane Hollander and everything to do with complicated family history. "I'll be here."

The conversation shifted to safer topics, local gossip, his cousin's new baby, a neighbor's health. Ilya let their voices wash over him, responding when required, his thoughts drifting across oceans to a different continent, a different language, a different man.

Later, alone in his apartment, Ilya sat in the dark with only the glow of his laptop screen illuminating the room. Game footage played, Boston versus Montreal, late season. He'd watched it so many times he knew every shift by heart. Knew exactly when the camera would pan to Shane's face after a missed opportunity, frustration etched into the set of his jaw. Knew the precise moment Shane would glance at Boston's bench between plays, their eyes meeting briefly across the ice.

His phone sat heavy in his hand, Shane's contact information pulled up. No messages exchanged since before Vegas. No acknowledgment of what happened. No closure.

Ilya's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed, deleted, typed again.

Are you mad at me?

Delete.

I can't stop thinking about you.

Delete.

Do you ever think about me?

Delete.

Pride kicked in, sharp and protective. He was Ilya Rozanov. He didn't chase. He didn't beg. He didn't send pathetic middle-of-the-night texts to someone who couldn't even look him in the eye after a kiss.

He tossed the phone aside and closed the laptop, plunging the room into darkness. Outside, Moscow continued its summer night rhythm, distant traffic, occasional voices, the peculiar quality of light that never fully surrendered to black this time of year. Nothing like Vegas, with its artificial day, its heat, its reckless permission.

In the dark, Ilya pressed his fingertips to his lips, as if he could still feel the pressure of Shane's mouth against his own. The memory was already fading, details blurring, had Shane stepped closer before pulling away? Had his hand curled around Ilya's wrist for a moment, anchoring them together? Or was Ilya rewriting history to hurt less?

He rolled onto his side, staring at the wall. He didn't need closure. Didn't need Shane to explain himself or apologize. Didn't need to untangle whatever had been building between them since rookie year.

He had a season to prepare for. A title to chase. A career at its start.

He repeated these things to himself as he lay awake, the Moscow night stretching endlessly before him, his bed too large and too empty and nothing like the cramped hotel rooms where he and Shane had previously crossed the lines they'd drawn.

He didn't need closure.

Even as the thought formed, he knew it was a lie.

Morning light sliced across the marble countertop in Ilya's Cambridge kitchen, carving the space into sharp geometry. He stood barefoot on the cool floor, watching his coffee brew, still half-asleep and relishing the quiet. Three weeks since he'd returned from Moscow, and the rhythm of his American life had begun to settle back into place, morning workouts, team meetings, the steady approach of training camp. The calendar marched toward September, toward ice time and cameras and the familiar tension of game days. Toward seeing Hollander again, though he refused to acknowledge that particular thought.

His phone buzzed against the counter. Once, twice, then a cascade of vibrations that sent it skittering across the marble like something alive. Ilya frowned, reaching for it. Eight o’clock was too early for this kind of digital avalanche.

The Boston Bears group chat. Sixty-three new messages in the span of three minutes.

His coffee forgotten, Ilya swiped open the chat, scrolling quickly to find the source of the commotion. A link to The Athletic, posted by Jensen, their captain, followed by a string of exclamation points. Ilya tapped it, the headline materializing on his screen like a blow to the chest:

BREAKING: MONTREAL VOYAGEURS’ SECOND DRAFT SHANE HOLLANDER ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT

Ilya's pulse jumped, hard and sudden in his throat. The mug slipped from his hand, not falling but landing too heavily on the counter, coffee slopping over the rim. He set it down properly, his movements mechanical, and forced himself to read the rest of the headline:

20-YEAR-OLD ROOKIE OF THE YEAR STEPPING AWAY TO PURSUE HARVARD BUSINESS DEGREE

The words blurred, refusing to make sense. His phone continued to vibrate, new messages piling up, but Ilya couldn't look away from the headline. Shane Hollander. Retired. At twenty years old, in the prime of his career, with another decade or two of elite hockey ahead of him. With a dynasty waiting to be built in Montreal. With fifteen more years of facing Ilya across the faceoff dot.

Gone. Just like that.

His phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Ilya finally tore his eyes from the article to check the group chat, his teammates' reactions flooding in faster than he could track:

_Bro WHAT_

_HE RETIRED???_

_Harvard??? of all the fucking places_

_dude fumbled a whole dynasty_

_Rozanov finally broke him lololol_

_our odds just went up_

_Hollander at Harvard is the most Hollander thing ever_

_who's gonna score for MTL now?_

_@Roz you seeing this shit??_

The last message was directed at him, but Ilya couldn't formulate a response. His brain felt disconnected from his body, caught in a loop of shock and something else he couldn't name. Instead of answering, he scrolled back to the article, forcing himself to read the details he'd skimmed past.

Shane's statement was characteristically brief, thanking Montreal, his teammates, and the fans for trust and unforgettable past year. He explained his decision as a personal choice to pursue education and new opportunities, mentioning a business degree with a minor in sport management. The article mentioned he'd be attending Harvard, living in Cambridge…

Ilya's head snapped up, coffee forgotten. Cambridge. Where Ilya lived. Where Harvard stood, just minutes from Ilya's home.

Shane Hollander was in Boston.

The realization hit like a body check, unexpected and disorienting. Ilya's mind raced backward, trying to place when this decision had been made. Vegas? After? The article mentioned Shane had moved to Boston in late July, over a month ago. While Ilya had been in Moscow, nursing wounded pride and watching old game footage, Shane had been here. In Ilya's city.

A memory surfaced, sharp and sudden: three days ago, at the organic market near his house, a figure at the end of an aisle that had made him do a double-take. Dark hair, familiar profile, that distinctive way of standing, too straight, too still, as if perpetually under observation. Ilya had dismissed it as imagination, a product of too much thinking about Shane. But it hadn't been imagination. It had been real.

His phone continued to vibrate with notifications, but the noise seemed distant now, irrelevant. Ilya opened his contacts, thumb hovering over Shane's name. What would he even say? _Congrats on retiring? Welcome to Boston? Remember when I kissed you in Vegas and you looked at me like I'd set you on fire?_

He didn't text. Instead, he set the phone down and picked up his coffee, now lukewarm, and moved to the window that overlooked the quiet street. Morning light gilded the trees, the brick buildings, the cars parked along the curb. Somewhere in this city, Shane Hollander was waking up. Going about his day. Living a life that no longer included professional hockey, or the rivalry that had defined both their careers since the moment they were drafted. If not before.

The weight of it settled in Ilya's chest, heavy and unfamiliar. For the last year, Shane had been his benchmark, his mirror, his greatest challenge. The standard against which Ilya measured himself, on and off the ice. The opponent who made him better by sheer stubborn excellence. The man who appeared in his dreams more often than he cared to admit.

And now, suddenly, irreversibly, the structure of their relationship had collapsed. No more scheduled matchups. No more post-game handshakes where they held on a beat too long, neither willing to be the first to let go. No more excuses for hotel rooms in neutral cities where they could pretend the tension between them was just another extension of their professional competition.

Ilya took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the temperature. His gaze drifted back to his phone, still lighting up with messages. He should respond. Say something suitably cutting and confident, maintain the image his teammates expected. But the words wouldn't come.

Because beneath the shock, beneath the disorientation, something else was stirring, something that felt dangerously like hope. Shane was here, in Boston. Not for hockey, not for their ritual dance of public rivalry and private fascination, but for something entirely his own. And for the first time since Vegas, since that kiss on the rooftop that had left Ilya retreating to Moscow to lick his wounds, the possibility of seeing Shane again felt real. Immediate. Inevitable.

The rivalry was over. But Shane was in Boston. And suddenly, the city felt different, charged with potential, narrowed to the singular fact that somewhere within its boundaries, Shane Hollander was building a life that no longer had professional guardrails to keep Ilya at a safe distance.

Ilya set down his mug and picked up his phone again, scrolling past the group chat to his contacts. He didn't text Shane. Not yet. But as he stared at the name on his screen, he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth he'd been avoiding since Vegas: this thing between them had never been just about hockey.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I know I said I would update once a week, but this is finished so might as well give it to you all.

Thank you for taking the time to read and enjoy!

Ilya hadn't expected to find Shane Hollander in a suburban hockey shop on a Tuesday afternoon, yet there he was, studying the wall of tape with the same intensity he once reserved for analyzing power play formations. Ilya froze midstep, the familiar profile hitting him harder than expected, dark hair falling across his forehead, shoulders set in that perfect posture, fingers tapping methodically against his thigh as he considered the rows of colored Renfrew Pro. Shane hadn't noticed him yet, too absorbed in what appeared to be a deeply serious contemplation of whether to choose black or white tape. Some things never changed, even when everything else had.

A week had passed since the retirement announcement. A week of Ilya telling himself he wasn't looking for Shane in every coffee shop, every grocery store aisle, every street corner. Yet here he was, in Norwood of all places, thirty minutes from home because this particular store carried the specific grip tape Ilya preferred. And Shane was here too, examining hockey tape like a man who hadn't walked away from the game that had defined them both.

Ilya could have turned around. Could have pretended not to see him, avoided the awkwardness, the memory of Vegas heat and unreciprocated desire. It would be easier. Safer.

He'd never been good at easy or safe.

"Your technique hasn't changed," Ilya said, stepping up beside Shane. "Still overthinking tape like they'll make or break your season. But wait…" He paused, feigning realization. "You don't have a season anymore."

Shane's head jerked up, eyes widening at the sound of Ilya's voice. For a split-second, something unguarded flashed across his face, surprise, panic, and beneath it, a flicker of what might have been pleasure. Then his expression smoothed into careful neutrality, though the tips of his ears had gone pink.

"Rozanov," he said, voice steady but not meeting Ilya's eyes. "I didn't know you shopped here."

"I didn't know you still shopped for hockey supplies at all," Ilya countered, leaning against the shelf, intentionally crowding into Shane's space. "Shouldn't you be buying school notebooks and old jackets with that leather things on the elbows?"

A reluctant smile tugged at Shane's mouth. "I didn't retire from hockey. I still play. Just... not professionally."

"Unprofessional hockey," Ilya repeated, as if tasting the words. "Like those old men at public skates who can barely stand up?"

"Not exactly," Shane said, turning back to the wall of tape. "There's a faculty league. It's competitive enough."

"I bet," Ilya said, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice. "Very challenging for the Golden Boy."

Shane's mouth twitched again. "You'd be surprised."

They stood there for a moment, the fluorescent lights humming above them, the store's faint scent of rubber and plastic wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. A clerk moved boxes at the far end of the aisle, but otherwise, they were alone. Ilya studied Shane's profile, noting some changes since Vegas, he looked more relaxed, somehow. Less rigid in the shoulders. The perpetual crease between his brows had softened.

"So," Ilya said, reaching past Shane to tap a roll of green tape. "M&Ms."

Shane blinked. "What?"

"The tape. You once said picking tape colors was like M&Ms. They all taste the same, but you still have a favorite color."

Shane stared at him, something complicated happening behind his dark eyes. "You remember that?"

"I remember that," Ilya said, the words coming out more honest than he'd intended.

Shane looked away quickly, focusing too intently on the shelves. "Green was always your color."

"And blue was yours," Ilya nodded. "Boring. Very on-brand for Shane Hollander."

"At least I am consistent," Shane replied, a hint of the familiar competitive spark returning to his voice.

"Consistently second best," Ilya said, but the chirp lacked its usual edge, softened by the strange new reality where they weren't professional rivals anymore.

Shane seemed to sense it too, his posture shifting slightly, less defensive. "Harvard," he said, changing the subject. "I need to do this."

"Only you could retire at twenty to go to Harvard," Ilya said, shaking his head. "Most guys would buy a yacht or fuck their best friend if they are having a panick attack."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I didn't say I was disappointed," Ilya corrected. "I said it was very you. Mr. Perfect, going from one perfection to another."

Shane's expression closed off slightly. "It's not about being perfect."

"Then what? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like that."

The words hung between them, sharper than Ilya had meant them to be. Shane's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near his temple.

"Not everything is about hockey, Rozanov."

"But you love it," Ilya pressed, genuinely baffled. "You are good at it. You are…" He paused, frustrated. "Do you not like hockey anymore?"

Shane looked at him directly then, really looked at him for the first time since he'd approached. "I still love it," he said quietly. "But it was consuming everything. There was no space for…" He trailed off, gaze dropping. "For anything else."

The implication hung in the air, heavy with possibility. Ilya felt his pulse kick up, wanting desperately to ask what "anything else" might encompass. Whether it included late-night hotel rooms and rooftop kisses and the thing that had been building between them for years.

Instead, he asked, "So who's the best player in the league now?"

Shane's mouth quirked up at one corner, a rare, genuine smile that made something warm unfurl in Ilya's chest. "You," he admitted, the word coming out reluctantly. "But don't let it go to your head. Your ego's big enough already."

"Too late," Ilya grinned, triumph washing through him at the admission. "I'm going to have that on a t-shirt. 'Shane Hollander says I'm the best.'"

"I immediately regret saying it.”

"No take-back, Hollander."

They were standing close now, the easy banter carrying them back to familiar territory, the tension of the past few months momentarily forgotten. Shane was almost smiling, his body angled toward Ilya's, the distance between them narrowed to something intimate. The store around them faded to background noise, the space contracting to just the two of them, their shared history, the rhythm of conversation that had always come easily despite everything.

Then something shifted. Shane's gaze caught on something over Ilya's shoulder, the store clerk, perhaps, or his own reflection in the security mirror at the end of the aisle. Whatever it was, Ilya watched the warmth drain from his expression, replaced by the careful mask he wore for cameras and strangers.

"I should go," Shane said abruptly, reaching for a roll of tape without looking, white, not his usual black. "I have a… thing."

"A Harvard thing?" Ilya asked, trying to recapture the moment, but Shane was already stepping back, creating space between them that felt vast and deliberate.

"Yeah," Shane nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Sorry, bye."

It was such an obvious lie that Ilya almost called him on it, but something in Shane's posture, the return of tension to his shoulders, the way he clutched the tape roll too tightly, stopped him. Whatever ease they'd found had evaporated, replaced by the familiar dance of approach and retreat that had defined them for years.

"Don't let me keep you, Hollander," Ilya said, unable to keep the edge of hurt from his voice.

Shane nodded, already backing away. "Good to see you, Rozanov."

"Is it?" Ilya asked, but Shane was already turning, moving toward the register with quick, determined steps.

Ilya watched him go, frustration and confusion warring in his chest. One step forward, two steps back, always the same with Shane. Just when Ilya thought they were getting somewhere, Shane retreated, as predictable as his black tape and methodical pre-game routine.

Speaking of tape, Ilya's eyes narrowed, focusing on the roll in Shane's hand as he paid. White Renfrew Pro, not the black he'd always used, not the cloth grip he preferred for his stick handles. Shane Hollander, the most precise, particular player Ilya had ever known, had grabbed the wrong tape in his haste to escape.

Ilya smiled slowly, a plan forming. If Shane wouldn't stay and talk, wouldn't acknowledge whatever was happening between them, then Ilya would have to force the issue.

And now, he had the perfect excuse.

Ilya's kitchen smelled of garlic and onions, sizzling in olive oil as he chopped vegetables with practiced efficiency. Outside, evening settled over Cambridge, golden light fading to blue through the tall windows of his home.

The correct rolls of tape, black cloth Renfrew Pro, Shane's exact preference, sat on the island counter like evidence, a tangible excuse. He'd bought them immediately after leaving the store, an impulse and a strategy wrapped into one simple purchase.

Ilya noticed Shane’s black tape on his stick being changed more frequently than other player's. He liked to write his mother’s name, Yuna, in white on the tape, that gave it away. Ilya noticed details no one else would bother to catalog, and now it would finally prove useful for something other than knowing how to get under Shane's skin on the ice.

Ilya tipped the cutting board, sliding diced peppers into the pan where they hissed and popped. He worked by memory, a recipe his mother had taught him when he was too young to see over the stove without standing on a chair. Cooking centered him, gave his hands something to do while his mind turned over the problem of Shane Hollander how he'd almost smiled in the store, how his body had angled toward Ilya's until something spooked him, how he'd grabbed the wrong tape in his hurry to retreat.

He set the knife down, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and reached for his phone. No more waiting for Shane to make a move. No more pretending Vegas hadn't happened or that they could keep circling each other indefinitely. The time for careful distance was over.

His thumb hovered over the screen for only a second before he typed:

You grabbed the wrong tape.

Simple. Direct. No room for misinterpretation or denial. Ilya set the phone down and returned to the stove, stirring the vegetables, refusing to watch for a response. Either Shane would answer or he wouldn't. Ilya had made his move.

Three minutes later, the phone buzzed against the marble counter.

Doesn't matter.

Two words, but they were enough. Shane had responded. Was engaging. Ilya smiled, something loosening in his chest as he typed back:

It does. I got you the right one

The response came faster this time, as if Shane had been waiting, phone in hand:

You can use it.

Ilya could picture him, brow furrowed, standing too straight, probably in some spartan Cambridge apartment that wouldn't look lived in despite the month he'd spent there. Probably wearing one of those soft, worn t-shirts he preferred off the ice, hair slightly damp from a shower. Probably pretending this conversation was just about tape.

Send me the address, Hollander

Ilya set the phone down again, turning his attention back to dinner. He added rice to a pot of boiling water, adjusted the heat, all the while acutely aware of the silent phone on the counter. The request was clear, either Shane would provide his address, acknowledging whatever was happening between them, or he wouldn't. There was nowhere to hide in those four words.

The silence stretched, one minute becoming two, then five. Ilya didn't check his phone, didn't allow himself to wonder if he'd pushed too far. Instead, he focused on the rhythm of cooking, stir, taste, adjust. The familiar motions grounded him, kept him from reaching for the phone, from typing something else, something that might give Shane an out.

He was adding salt to the rice when the phone finally buzzed again.

Ilya wiped his hands, picked it up, and found an address staring back at him. No accompanying message, no explanation or invitation. Just a street number, a building name, and a unit number in the Riverside neighborhood of Cambridge.

He smiled, small and private in the warm light of his kitchen. Shane had answered. Had chosen to open the door, even if just a crack.

Ilya turned the address over in his mind, placing it on his mental map of Cambridge. Riverside. Along the Charles, less than ten minutes from Ilya's own home. Walking distance, in decent weather. Close to Harvard, but also close to here. To him.

Shane could have gone anywhere after retirement. He could have stayed in Canada, in Montreal, where he'd build his career, to any city in the world where his name and reputation would open doors. Yet he'd chosen Boston. Chosen to live minutes from Ilya's doorstep.

That wasn't nothing.

Ilya set the phone down, his fingers brushing against the rolls of tape. Tomorrow, he'd deliver them. Would stand at Shane's door, would see his face when he realized Ilya wasn't going to let him hide anymore. Would finally get an answer to the question that had been building between them since Vegas, since Moscow, since the first time they'd locked eyes across a faceoff circle years ago and recognized something in each other that defied simple rivalry.

The vegetables sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with warmth and the promise of a good meal. Outside, Cambridge settled into evening, streets quieting as lights came on in windows. Somewhere nearby, Shane Hollander was going about his evening, perhaps cooking his own dinner, perhaps sitting with a book, perhaps thinking about the texts he'd just exchanged and what they meant.

Ilya stirred the pan, a sense of anticipation settling in his chest, not urgent but steady. He felt certain. Not of the outcome, Shane was too spotaneous in his own way, too guarded for certainty, but of his own path forward.

He glanced at the phone again, at the address still displayed on the screen. Riverside. So close all this time.

Tomorrow, he would go to Shane's door with tape as his excuse and everything unspoken between them as his real purpose. And this time, Ilya was not going to let him walk away.

Shane stood at the kitchen island of his nearly empty Boston apartment, heart thudding louder than before a playoff game. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the occasional creak of the new building settling and the faint sound of traffic from below. He checked his watch, then his phone, then glanced at the door again. Ilya was coming here. To his apartment. To see him. The sensation was familiar, he'd felt it first in Toronto after that CCM shoot, that electric current of anticipation mixed with fear, the ache of wanting something he wasn't supposed to have.

He pushed away from the counter and paced the length of the living room. The space echoed with emptiness, walls bare except for a single framed print he'd hung yesterday, moving boxes just delivered, stacked in corners to be unpacked. In order. His footsteps sounded too loud against the hardwood floors.

"What am I doing?" he whispered to the emptiness.

The apartment smelled of new paint. Shane ran a hand through his hair, already disheveled from how many times he'd repeated the gesture. He rehearsed lines in his head, discarding each one as too formal, too casual, too revealing. What did you say to a rival who was now... what?

Shane swallowed hard and moved back to the kitchen, pressing his palms against the cool marble of the island. His mind slipped sideways, away from the present and into memory.

Five weeks earlier, his parents' kitchen in Ottawa. Afternoon light spilling across the oak table where they'd eaten family dinners for almost twenty years. His mother's hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, her eyes watchful. His father sitting straight-backed but patient, the way he always did when Shane needed to say something difficult.

"I got accepted to Harvard," Shane had said, the words falling into the quiet kitchen. "I've decided to go. Starting in five weeks."

His mother set her mug down carefully. "Harvard? You mean..."

"I'm taking a break from the NHL," Shane said. The words felt strange in his mouth, almost forbidden. "Not forever. Just... I need this."

His father nodded slowly. Not surprised, Shane realized. As if some part of him had been expecting this.

"The Voyageurs won't be happy," his mother said, her voice gentle.

Shane smiled tightly. "No. They aren't."

His father leaned forward. "But you're sure?"

Shane looked down at his hands. How could he explain it? The locker rooms full of crude jokes and automatic praise. The constant sense of performing rather than belonging. The way hockey had shaped his entire adolescence, automatic passing through school, no late-night study sessions, no room to be anything but "the prodigy."

"I'm not quitting," he said finally. "I just... I need space to figure out who I am outside of the game. In the league, there's no room for that. Every minute is scheduled. Every interview scripted. I don't know who I am beyond hockey anymore. Maybe I never did."

His mother reached for his hand, her fingers warm against his. "You don't have to justify it to us, sweetheart."

But Shane needed to say it out loud, needed to hear the truth of it in his own voice. "It started after the draft," he admitted. "All that scrutiny. And then... Rozanov."

His father's eyebrows lifted at the name, but he said nothing.

"Being around him has made me face parts of myself I'd avoided. Things I didn't want to name." Shane's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "He's so... unafraid. Even when he shouldn't be."

His mother squeezed his hand, and Shane was grateful she didn't ask the questions lingering in her eyes.

"I applied on a whim," he continued. "Back in December. I almost forgot about it until the letter came."

His mother nodded. "So you'll play for Harvard?"

"The Crimson, yeah. But it's different. I want to take classes. Walk around campus like a any other student. Figure out who Shane Hollander is when he's not on the ice."

"Your contract…" his father started.

"Is paused. I talked to management. They're not happy, but they'd rather have me back in three years or better two than lose me completely." Shane ran a hand through his hair. "They think I'm having some kind of breakdown."

"Are you?" his mother asked, direct as always.

Shane considered it. "No," he said finally. "I think I'm trying to prevent one."

The memory dissolved as footsteps sounded in the hallway outside his apartment. Shane straightened, heart resuming its frantic rhythm. He glanced around the sparse space, suddenly seeing it through outside eyes, the half-assembled furniture, the single lamp casting warm light against the evening shadows, the stack of textbooks on the coffee table.

A future that wasn't dictated by league schedules and playoff brackets. A life he'd chosen for himself, deliberately and with intention.

The footsteps paused outside his door.

Shane took a deep breath, steeling himself. Ilya Rozanov was on the other side of that door, and whatever happened next would redefine everything. Again.

Chapter End Notes

Feel free to share your thoughts. Being the first time writing in this fandom, I'd like to know what you are getting from these characters. Thank you 💛

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Thanks everyone for following this story.

In this chapter, we learn more about Shane’s decision to leave the NHL and we meet a new character.

Enjoy the reading!

A firm knock cut through the silence. Shane froze, breath catching in his throat. Before he could move, the door opened, he'd given Ilya the code when they texted earlier, and there he was. Ilya Rozanov, in worn jeans and a black henley that stretched across his shoulders, looking as if he owned the space he'd just entered. He tossed something onto the kitchen island, the hockey tape Shane had forgotten to buy, and let his eyes roam over the half-furnished apartment in silence.

Shane felt pinned by that gaze, unable to speak. The tape between them like a small monument to everything left unsaid in Vegas.

Ilya broke the silence first. "Did you know in Vegas?" His accent curled around the words. Shane had missed it.

He blinked. "Know what?"

"That you were going to quit hockey," Ilya said, eyes sharp on Shane's face.

The word "quit" hit like a slap. Shane's spine stiffened. "I did not quit," he snapped. "I told you I am playing for the Harvard Crimson. And I received the acceptance letter after Vegas."

Ilya's gaze sharpened. "You applied and said nothing."

"Fuck you, asshole," Shane retorted, surprised by his own vehemence. "As if you cared. You and your team must be overjoyed I'm not there scoring against you."

Ilya's mouth curved into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, maybe them. Not me." He paused, something shifting in his expression. "Until now."

The words hung between them, strange and weighted. Shane swallowed. "Why? What changed your mind?"

Ilya pushed off from the door where he'd been leaning and crossed the room in three long strides. Before Shane could react, Ilya was crowding him against the kitchen counter, close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I am in Shane Hollander's house now," Ilya said, voice low. "He's not my rival anymore and he lives ten minutes from my house." His lips curved up. "Best fucking convenience."

Shane's heart hammered against his ribs. "Convenience for what?" His voice came out steadier than he felt.

Ilya leaned closer, his breath warm against Shane's cheek. "Keep up, Hollander, I said it. If you still want, that is."

Shane's mind raced through every interaction they'd ever had. Every charged look, every touch. Had Ilya been waiting for this? For them to no longer be rivals?

Ilya lifted a hand, tilting Shane's chin up with two fingers. His eyes searched Shane's face, dark and intent. "Можно я тебя поцелую?" The words rolled off his tongue in a husky whisper.

Shane's breath hitched. "What does that mean?" His voice was barely audible, even to himself.

Instead of answering, Ilya leaned forward, pressing his lips to Shane's in a kiss so gentle it made something crack in Shane's chest. Ilya pulled back just enough to murmur, "Это хорошо?"

Shane's hand curled around Ilya's wrist, anchoring himself. "Please," he murmured, the word inadequate for the wave of sensation washing through him.

Ilya's smile was quick and real, nothing like his media grin. He traced a finger along Shane's jaw, down his throat, to the collar of his t-shirt, fingers slipping under the hem.

Shane lifted his arms to let Ilya peel the shirt off. The air felt cool against his suddenly heated skin.

Ilya paused, brushing a fingertip along Shane's chest, following the line of muscle with something like awe.

“Rozanov," Shane exhaled, barely recognizing his own voice.

Ilya's fingers continued their path, trailing down, making him arch slightly. With a fluid motion, Ilya picked him up and carried him to where he tought the bedroom would be, dropping him on the bed once there. He positioned himself between Shane’s legs. "красивый," he whispered against his neck, the foreign word vibrating against his skin.

Shane didn't know what it meant, but the tone made him flush all over. Ilya's hands slid to the waistband of Shane's sweatpants, fingers dipping just below the elastic.

"This off?" Ilya asked, eyes locked on Shane's.

Shane nodded, lifting his hips to help as Ilya slid the pants down along with his boxers.

Ilya stepped back just enough to rid himself of his own clothes, and Shane let himself look, or better stare, at what he'd arefully avoided thinking about. Ilya was all lean muscle and angles, his body reflecting the same confidence he had on his face.

When Ilya stepped forward again, fitting himself back between Shane's legs, he placed a hand on Shane's chest, right over his heart. He was panting, chest puffing at every breath. "We stop if you want, Hollander."

The use of his surname, softened by Ilya's accent, made Shane's throat tight. "Don't stop, please" he said, steadier than he felt.

Ilya's hands were everywhere then, stroking, exploring, as if learning the map of Shane's body again, with careful attention. He produced a small packet of lube from somewhere, had he brought it with him? Had he known this would happen? And slicked his fingers.

The first touch was careful, gentle, at odds with Ilya's usual intensity. "Is cold?" he asked again, watching Shane's face.

Shane nodded, unable to form words as Ilya's finger breached him slowly. The sensation was always strange at first, then increasingly good as Ilya found a rhythm.

"Relax," Ilya murmured, his free hand stroking Shane's thigh. "Trust me."

And Shane did. He always trusted Ilya for this. Letting his head fall back on the pillows, Shane gave himself over to the feeling as Ilya added another finger, then another, stretching him carefully.

Ilya leaned forward, kissing Shane's neck, his collarbone, his lips. "Готов? Ready?" he asked, his voice rough with want.

Shane gripped Ilya's shoulders and nodded. "Yes," he said, voice steady despite the thundering of his heart.

Shane's mouth had gone dry, tongue thick against his teeth, tasting his own shallow breaths.

The lingering bitterness of ginger ale sat at the back of Shane's throat, mixed with something that might have been fear or anticipation.

Ilya lined himself up and pressed forward with deliberate slowness, watching Shane's face for any sign of discomfort. "Ты мое," he murmured as he slid home, the words soft and possessive.

The stretch and burn gave way to pleasure as Ilya began to move, each thrust measured and precise. Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, pulling him closer, demanding more without words.

Ilya obeyed, understanding the urge, his pace quickening as his breath came in jagged gasps. "ты чувствуешь себя так хорошо," he groaned, the Russian spilling from his lips like a forbidden song as his control shattered into tiny little pieces.

Shane didn’t need to understand the words; the sentiment lacing Ilya's voice, the deep wonder igniting his gaze as he locked onto Shane, that transcended language. He pulled Ilya in closer, their mouths crashing together with fierce desperation, surrendering entirely to the electric rhythm that pulsed between them.

When Ilya adjusted his angle, striking a hidden spot that ignited a storm of sparks behind Shane's eyelids, he gasped, his hands clawing at Ilya's back, fingernails digging into the flesh like a desperate plea.

"Here?" Ilya teased, a smirk threading through his voice, laced with a potent mix of satisfaction and challenge.

"Yes," Shane gasped, lost in the overwhelming tide of sensation, stripped of all shame, engulfed by pure, unadulterated need.

Ilya fucked him in earnest then, all restraint abandoned, whispering Russian endearments and curses against Shane's skin. And Shane let himself be loud, let himself take what he needed, let himself come apart completely in Ilya's arms.

Later, they lay side by side on Shane's bed, the only piece of furniture he'd fully assembled. Ilya's arm pressed warm against his, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, its soft whirring the only sound in the room. Shane could feel Ilya's gaze on his profile, but couldn't bring himself to turn and meet it. What happened now? What was the protocol for this, for rivals who weren't rivals anymore, for teammates without a team between them, for whatever they had become in the past hour?

"Why Harvard?" Ilya asked finally, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Why go away?"

Shane swallowed. His first instinct was to deflect, to fall back on the polished answers he'd given management, reporters, teammates. That he wanted to broaden his horizons. That education had always been important to him. That a year or two of college will set him for his future after the game.

But lying naked beside Ilya made those practiced lines feel hollow.

"I've always been different," he said instead, the truth uncomfortable in his mouth. "Even before I knew why. And I don't mean about being gay. Not only, at least." He traced a pattern on the sheet between them. "Hockey made my world smaller. Everything funneled through it, who I talked to, what I could say, how I had to act. And the higher I climbed, the narrower it got." He almost stopped there, ashamed of how juvenile it sounded, but Ilya only grunted, propping his head on one hand, waiting.

"I never really belonged," Shane said, his tongue catching on the word. "I know I was good enough, but sometimes I felt like I was just supposed to fill the role. Like, the coaches, the fans, my agent, they invested in the idea of me, not the actual me. Even my friends." The confession felt like ice cracking underfoot, dangerous and unavoidable. "And that’s on me, not them. I never let anyone see past the hockey stuff, not even my parents. Not enough of me existed outside it."

Ilya's breathing was so steady it felt rehearsed, but his finger traced a small circle on Shane's bicep, gentle in a way that contradicted every memory Shane had of him on the ice.

"I want to know if I can exist outside of it," Shane went on, voice unsteady. "If I am anything more than stats or prospect rankings, or some story they’d already written for me." He picked at the rough edge of a callus on his palm, refusing to look at Ilya. "The longer I did it, hockey at that level, the less I liked myself. I hated the parts of me that never fit. I kept thinking maybe if I just worked harder, if I was more like everyone else, it would stop feeling so fucking hard all the time." The admission felt naked, infinitely worse than anything that had just passed between their bodies.

He waited, expecting Ilya to say something dismissive or mocking. Instead there was just the steady sound of their breathing, the fan ticking on its slow rotation. It felt like the whole apartment was listening.

"I did not know you thought this," Ilya said finally, his voice gone strangely soft. Shane felt him shift slightly, turning to face him more fully.

"When you showed up," Shane continued, "it was like... I don't know. Like someone ripped off a blindfold I didn't know I was wearing." He paused, searching for words. "You made me face parts of myself I'd never named."

"I make you gay?" Ilya asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Shane snorted. "No, asshole. You didn't make me anything." He rolled onto his side, finally meeting Ilya's eyes. "But you made it impossible to keep pretending I was someone else."

Something softened in Ilya's gaze. He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from Shane's forehead. The gesture was unexpectedly tender.

"The media watches everything we do," Shane said quietly. "The locker room... you know how it is. No room for anything different. Anything..." He trailed off.

"Queer," Ilya supplied, the word matter-of-fact.

Shane nodded. "I couldn't explore that part of myself. Couldn't let myself get attached to anyone. It was easier to just focus on hockey and ignore everything else."

"And Harvard changes this how?" Ilya asked. Not challenging, just curious.

Shane thought about it. "It's neutral ground. I'm not Shane Hollander, NHL rookie star there. I'm just another freshman. I can figure out who I am when hockey isn't the only thing defining me." He looked down at the space between them. "I can try things. Meet people. Make mistakes that don't end up on the newspaper. I can live without the pressure of being… observed."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Shane had ever heard it. "The rink will feel wrong," he said, almost reluctantly. "Without you there."

Shane heard the click of Ilya's jaw before the voice, a faint shift in the bedding and then a sigh. "It will feel wrong for me," Ilya said, as if he needed to be even clearer. "You were the only one who made it hard. Made me have to think, or sweat, or get angry enough to want to break something." He let out a brief snort, the kind Shane knew from news clips, a sound meant to be funny, but not quite hiding the punch beneath. "Sometimes I hated you for it. Many times, honestly. But I always played better. Always wanted to smash you, but also wanted you to see it. I hated that even more, that need for you to know."

Shane managed a faint smile at the ceiling, his body still a little out of alignment from what they'd just done. "That's sick, Rozanov.”

"Yeah," Ilya agreed, no apology. "But you get it.”

The admission caught Shane off guard. Ilya Rozanov, admitting weakness? Admitting he missed Shane? He opened his mouth to respond, but Ilya was already moving, sitting up and reaching for his discarded clothes.

Shane watched him dress, the lean lines of his back, the way his muscles shifted as he pulled his shirt over his head. He wanted to ask Ilya to stay, to spend the night, to be there in the morning when Shane woke up. But the words dried up in his throat. What right did he have to ask for more than this? They'd barely established what "this" even was.

Ilya seemed to sense his thoughts. He turned, fully dressed now, and leaned against the dresser. "When is your first class?" he asked.

"Tuesday," Shane replied, pulling the sheet a little higher over his chest, suddenly aware of his nakedness.

Ilya nodded. "I'm in Chicago Tuesday. Back next Thursday." He tilted his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "You want get together, maybe dinner?"

Shane blinked. "You... want to see me again?"

"You are Harvard boy now, but still not so smart," Ilya teased. "Yes, I want to see you again."

"I just thought…" Shane started.

"What, fuck and run?" Ilya shook his head. "Maybe if we are still rivals. But now..." He shrugged. "We're not rivals anymore. We can be friends."

Friends. Shane turned the word over in his mind, examining it for hidden meanings. "Friends," he repeated slowly.

Ilya's grin widened, turned wicked. "Friends who know what other friends look like when they come. Friends who live ten minutes apart. Who can do this again, maybe." He pushed off from the dresser. "Better kind of friends, I think."

The way he said it, casual but heated, like their new "friendship" was both simple and intricate, made warmth pool in Shane's stomach.

Ilya crossed to the bed, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Shane's mouth, lingering just long enough to make it clear this wasn't goodbye. "Text me your schedule," he murmured against Shane's lips. "I work around it."

Then he was pulling back, that lazy smile still in place. "See you next week, Hollander." He headed for the door, paused in the frame, and shot one last look over his shoulder. His laugh was low and warm as he left.

Shane stayed in the bed, listening to the front door open and close. His lips still tingled from Ilya's kiss. His body ached pleasantly. And despite everything, the uncertainty, the newness, the fear of what came next, he found himself smiling into the quiet of his nearly empty apartment.

Shane arrived at the lecture hall twenty minutes early, anxiety humming under his skin like pre-game jitters. The room was cavernous, with tiered seating that reminded him of press conferences. A handful of other students were already there, some with coffees, others with laptops open, all strangers. He chose a seat halfway up, not front row eager, not back row hiding. Middle ground. Neutral ice. He pulled out his notebook, perfectly clean and labeled, and lined up two pens beside it, precise as face-off dots.

The lecture hall filled slowly. Each new arrival triggered a quick assessment from Shane, were they looking at him? Did they recognize him? But most students were in their own worlds, yawning into travel mugs or scrolling through phones. No double-takes. No whispers. The anonymity was both strange and exhilarating.

He opened the course packet, flipping to the assigned reading for their first paper. He'd already read it three times, had practically memorized the key arguments. But the ritual of rereading, of underlining passages he already knew were important, steadied him. Control what you can control. Prepare for what's coming. Hockey habits, repurposed for academia.

The pages blurred as his mind drifted back to the night before. Ilya's hands on his skin. The surprising gentleness behind his usual brashness. The way he'd looked at Shane, like he was seeing all of him, not just the hockey player, not just the rivalry, but everything underneath.

A smile spread across Shane's face as he remembered Ilya's parting words. "Friends who know what other friends look like when they come." So typically Ilya, bold and unashamed. And yet there had been moments of unexpected vulnerability too. The quiet admission that the rink felt wrong without Shane there. The careful way he'd checked Shane's reactions, made sure he was comfortable, even if they had fucked much harder than that. Ilya knew Shane could take it.

The public Ilya was all swagger and sharp edges, loud in his confidence and unapologetic in his desires. But last night, something softer had emerged from beneath that armor, something Shane couldn't stop thinking about.

He nearly reached for his phone to text Ilya, then stopped himself. It was too soon, wasn't it? Too eager. He didn't want to seem desperate, even if part of him already ached for Thursday to arrive.

Someone dropped heavily into the seat beside him, startling Shane from his thoughts. He looked up, blinking at the interruption.

"Sorry about the dramatic entrance," said the newcomer with a grin that suggested he wasn't sorry at all. "But that smile you were wearing a second ago was too interesting to resist."

Shane felt heat rise to his cheeks. Had he been smiling that obviously? At the memory of Ilya?

The stranger was striking, slender but not delicate, with tousled hair dyed a soft pink that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. He wore a vintage blazer over a t-shirt with Japanese characters, silver rings glinting on several fingers. He looked like he belonged in an art gallery, not a business anthropology lecture.

"I'm Valentino, call me Vale, please," he said, extending a hand. "And you're Shane Hollander."

Shane tensed, waiting for the usual follow-up, questions about the NHL, about walking away, about his "breakdown." But instead, Vale just tilted his head, dark eyes observant.

"You know who I am," Shane said, cautious.

"Everyone knows who you are," Vale replied with a dismissive wave. "But that's boring. What's interesting is what had you smiling like that when you thought no one was watching." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "It wasn't anthropological theory, was it? Because if it was, I need your secret. Durkheim has never made me look that delighted."

There was something about Vale, a directness that wasn't invasive, a curiosity that felt genuine rather than prying. He knew who Shane was, but it didn't seem to be the most important thing about him.

"No, not Durkheim," Shane admitted, finding himself smiling again despite his usual caution around strangers.

Vale nodded sagely. "I suspected as much. No one looks that soft over structural functionalism." He pulled out his own notebook, much messier than Shane's, covered in doodles and sticky notes. "Well, consider me your new best friend, Shane Hollander."

"Just like that?" Shane asked, surprised.

"Just like that," Vale confirmed. "I have excellent taste in people, and you look like you could use someone who sees past the hockey thing." He gestured vaguely. "Plus, I missed the NHL entirely, too busy learning Sanskrit, so you'll have to work harder to impress me."

There was something refreshing about Vale's approach, the casual declaration of friendship, the lack of fawning over Shane's career. It was nothing like the careful distance teammates maintained, or the worshipping of fans, or even the charged electricity between him and Ilya. It was something new.

As the professor entered and the room quieted, Shane found himself relaxed in a way he hadn't expected. Last night's warmth still lingered in his body, the promise of seeing Ilya again next on Thursday a quiet thrill beneath his skin. But here was something else too, possibility unfolding beside him in the form of a pink-haired artsy student who'd decided, just like that, that Shane was worth knowing.

For the first time in years, Shane's future felt like an open road rather than a predetermined path. It felt like discovery. And Shane was eager to explore.

Chapter End Notes

I am not including the Russian translations because I speak some of it and have an automatic translator installed when I read other stories. But if you'd prefer to have the translation, I can include it for future chapters.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Happy Easter everyone!

Thank you so so much for the support and for reading this story. I am so happy people are enjoying it.

I have updated the chapter count as I wrote a couple more things in here, I am sure you will all be happy about it 😝

This chapter gets a bit deeper into the story. It was one of my favourites to write, the first scene I drafted and then built the whole story around it. I love the shape it is taking and please, do let me know your thoughts if you want to share them.

Enjoy your reading 💛

The thing about Harvard, Shane was discovering, was that nobody cared.

Not in a cruel way. In the best possible way. The student walking past him in the Yard that morning had been talking loudly on the phone about her thesis on Byzantine economic policy, and she had looked directly at Shane Hollander, former NHL rookie of the year, and her expression had conveyed clearly and without malice that he was a minor obstacle between her and wherever she was going, and then she'd walked around him and continued her phone call.

It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

He'd stood there for a moment in the thin autumn morning, his bag on his shoulder, the smell of cut grass and old brick in the air, and felt something in his chest do a slow, cautious unclenching. Like a hand that had been making a fist for years, just, opening.

First practice with the Crimsons had been at six. He'd been there at five fifteen.

This was not unusual for Shane. What was unusual was that one other player was already there, a tall defenseman running edge drills at the far end of the ice with the focused, private intensity of someone who didn't know or care whether he was being observed. Shane had stopped at the boards and watched for a moment. He recognized this. He understood people who showed up before anyone else and didn't make anything of it.

He stepped onto the ice. The defenseman looked up, nodded once, and returned to his drill. Shane nodded back and went to the opposite end.

They skated in parallel silence for twenty minutes, which was, Shane reflected, a more comfortable introduction than most he'd had in his adult life.

The defenseman's name, it turned out, was Riley Mack, a junior from Winnipeg with an economy of expression that Shane found immediately restful. During the full practice he was precise, serious, and completely unimpressed by Shane's presence in a way that had nothing hostile in it. Just indifference to reputation, interest in performance. Shane could work with that. Shane preferred that.

At one point Coach Reyes had stopped the drill and said, without particular ceremony, "Hollander, you see the gap left of the crease before anyone else does. Talk us through it. Out loud, while we run it again."

Shane had blinked. In the NHL, you didn't explain. You performed and the performance spoke or it didn't. "The winger's weight is on his outside edge so he can't close left in time, so—"

"Slower. I want everyone to hear this."

So he'd talked through it, haltingly at first and then with more confidence as the words found the shape of what he already knew in his body, and his new teammates had listened with the focused attention of people who actually wanted to understand, not just execute. It was strange. Strange and oddly wonderful, like being handed a language he hadn't known he was already fluent in.

Riley, skating past him afterward, said: "Good eye." Two words, no elaboration, already moving on.

Shane decided he liked Riley very much.

Shane watched the late-morning light spill across the worn leather sofas of Winthrop common room, casting amber highlights on Vale's sketchbook. Almost two weeks into Harvard, and already the rigid edges of his old routine had begun to soften. No early morning ice time, no tape to review, no media to dodge. Just this: quiet conversation, textbooks splayed open, and the strange weightlessness of having nowhere particular to be until their ten o'clock class.

The friendship with Vale had made considerably less logical sense, which was perhaps why it had happened so fast.

"You're staring at the light again," Vale said without looking up from his sketch. His pencil moved in quick, confident strokes, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration. Today his hair was a soft blue-black, no trace of the electric pink from last week's freshers stress.

Shane blinked. "It's different here. The light."

"Different from NHL arenas? I'd hope so." Vale's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Those fluorescents are an affront to human dignity."

"I meant different from Montreal," Shane said, but he smiled anyway. Vale had this way of teasing that never felt like mockery. It was new.

They gathered their books at five minutes to ten, Vale sliding his sketchbook into a battered messenger bag covered in pins and patches that Shane couldn't identify but assumed were bands or art movements or obscure philosophical jokes. Shane's own backpack was new, sleek, methodically organized. No team logos, no sponsor branding. Another small freedom.

Organizational Behavior filled quickly, students streaming into the lecture hall with travel mugs and laptops. Professor Chen began precisely on time, which Shane appreciated. Vale slid into the seat beside him with thirty seconds to spare, offering a coffee Shane hadn't seen him purchase.

"Macchiato," Vale whispered. "Double shot. You look like you need it."

Shane didn't, actually. He'd slept better than he had in years, his body gradually adjusting to the absence of constant physical punishment. But he accepted the coffee with a nod, something warm uncurling in his chest that had nothing to do with caffeine.

Vale took meticulous notes, his handwriting a controlled chaos of loops and angles. Shane's were precise, almost military in their organization. Sometimes they'd compare after class, Vale circling connections Shane had missed, Shane highlighting structure Vale had skimmed over. They complemented each other's thinking in ways that felt oddly efficient.

After class, they claimed their usual carrel on Widener's fourth floor, a small wooden sanctuary overlooking the lawn. Vale spread his notes across the surface with artistic abandon while Shane arranged his own in careful stacks.

"You know what I don't understand about you?" Vale asked, tapping his pen against his bottom lip.

Shane tensed slightly, then relaxed when he realized Vale's tone was light. "What?"

"How someone who grew up with nutritionists can have such terrible taste in food." Vale's smile widened. "The dining hall has five vegan options today, and you're going to choose—"

"Chicken. Yes." Shane smiled. "It's protein."

Vale rolled his eyes dramatically. "It's boring is what it is. You're in college now, babe. Live la vida loca."

"Says the guy who eats the same almond croissant every morning."

"That's different. That's ritual." Vale leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Besides, Emilio at the café gives me the ones with extra frangipane. He thinks I'm interested."

Shane laughed quietly. "Are you?"

"Desperately." Vale winked.

They finished their study session around three, Vale insisting they needed caffeine before tackling their economics problem set. The walk across the Yard was brisk, leaves crunching underfoot, the air carrying the first hint of coming winter. Shane breathed it in, still marveling at how ordinary it felt to be just another student crossing campus, no one looking twice at him. Okay, maybe some were double-taking him, but so far, everyone has been incredibly respectful.

Grays' was crowded but not chaotic, the hum of conversation and espresso machines creating a backdrop that Shane found oddly soothing. They claimed a small table by the window, Vale ordering for both of them, chai lattes and almond biscotti, because apparently Shane needed to "expand his palate."

"Try it," Vale urged, pushing the biscotti toward him. "It won't kill you."

Shane took a bite, surprised by the subtle sweetness. "It's good."

"Of course it's good. I have excellent taste." Vale opened his sketchbook, revealing a half-finished drawing of what looked like a river scene. "Unlike you and your relationship with music, which is frankly disturbing."

Shane felt his face warm. "I listen to music."

"Name three bands you like."

"I... there's that one that has that song about fake plastic trees."

Vale clutched his chest in mock horror. "You're killing me. Literally killing me. How can someone who moves like you on ice have no rhythm in his soul?"

The comparison to hockey was so casual, so lacking in awe or judgment, that Shane found himself relaxing further. Vale never treated him like Hollander, the prodigy. Or Holzy, the rookie. Just Shane, the guy who apparently had terrible taste in everything.

It struck him suddenly, how different this was from his friendships with other hockey players. With Hayden, there was always an edge of competition, even off-ice. A constant awareness of stats and standings, of who was having a good season, of what the media was saying. With Ilya... well, that had never been friendship at all, had it? Too much heat, too much history, too much of everything to ever be simple.

Vale was curious about everything, not the performed curiosity of someone building a social brand, but the genuine, slightly relentless kind that followed a thought wherever it went and expected you to keep up.

He asked Shane questions that nobody else had asked, not because they were unusual questions but because they were direct ones. What do you actually like about hockey, not the winning, the actual playing of it. What made you leave. What are you afraid of about being here. He asked these things without making them feel like an interview, which was a skill Shane recognized as rare and didn't quite know how to account for.

In return, Vale talked about anthropology the way Shane talked about hockey systems, with the particular animation of someone who had found the thing that organized how they saw the world and was still slightly amazed that it existed.

He talked about his family with the kind of clear-eyed affection that didn't require the listener to pretend the complications weren't there. He talked about being queer in the specific vocabulary of someone for whom it was simply a fact, unremarkable and non-negotiable, and Shane had found himself listening to that particular kind of ease and thinking, quietly, what that must be like.

He was funny. Genuinely, unexpectedly funny, with a timing that came from actually listening rather than waiting. He was also, Shane noted, one of the few people he'd met who seemed to understand that silence between people could be comfortable rather than a problem requiring immediate solution.

And this, Vale sketching absently while reciting obscure poetry he thought Shane should know, Shane pretending to be annoyed while secretly filing away the recommendations, this felt uncomplicated. Vale wanted nothing from him except his company.

"You're thinking too hard," Vale said, reaching across to tap Shane's furrowed brow. "I can hear the gears grinding."

Shane smiled, genuine and unguarded. "Just... appreciating the moment."

"Good. You should." Vale turned his sketchbook, revealing more of the river scene. "I'm thinking about this for my next canvas. The Charles at dusk, but with all these fractured reflections. Like memory, you know? How it's never quite intact."

Shane studied the drawing, seeing how Vale had captured the water's surface in fragmented lines that somehow still flowed together. It was beautiful in its contradiction.

"I like it," he said simply.

Vale's smile widened. "High praise from a man who thinks beige is a food group."

They stayed until closing, Vale's gentle ribbing and Shane's quiet comebacks filling the space between them with something warm and easy. Walking back to their apartments since afternoon had faded into evening, Shane felt a certainty settle in his bones.

This, the quiet library corners, the coffee shop debates, the freedom to be ordinary, this was why he'd left the NHL. Not because he couldn't handle the pressure or the spotlight, but because he'd never had the chance to discover who he might be without them. And for the first time since making that decision, surrounded by falling leaves instead of arena crowds, he was absolutely sure he'd made the right choice.

The Charles River gleamed like polished obsidian under the Wednesday evening sky, reflecting fragmented stars and the distant glow of Boston proper. Shane pulled his collar higher against the autumn chill, watching his breath cloud and dissipate as Vale walked beside him, gesturing animatedly about some obscure anthropological theory Shane was only half-following. The brick promenade stretched before them, nearly empty save for a few dedicated joggers and a crew team loading their shell onto a rack for the night. It felt good to finally be outside, away from the library's hushed intensity, just two friends walking without purpose or pressure.

"You're not listening to me," Vale said, nudging Shane's shoulder with his own. "I just said anthropology is basically gossip for ancient relatives, and you didn't even smile."

Shane blinked. "Sorry. I was…"

"Watching the river, I know." Vale smiled, no real annoyance in his expression. "You do that a lot. Get lost in your head, or the world around you."

Shane hadn't realized Vale had noticed that about him. He wondered what else his new friend had observed during their short acquaintance. Hayden had once told him it took three months to learn that Shane hated coriander, and that was only because they'd been roommates on the road.

"It's quiet here," Shane offered. "I like it."

Vale nodded, seeming to understand Shane wasn't just talking about the river. They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, their footsteps creating a steady rhythm on the brick path. Overhead, bare branches formed a latticework against the dark sky, and somewhere in the distance, a coach's voice carried across the park, calling instructions to lingering runners.

"So," Vale said suddenly, his breath visible in the cold air, "serious question."

Shane tensed slightly, then relaxed when Vale's expression remained light. "Okay."

"How does someone go through life without a relationship to music? It's been bothering me since our conversation in the library." Vale's tone was genuinely curious, not mocking. "Not even one guilty pleasure track? No embarrassing shower song? No anthem you played before games?"

Shane felt his cheeks warm despite the chill. "It's not that I don't like music," he said carefully. "I just... don't seek it out. If it's playing, fine. If not, also fine."

Vale stopped walking and stared at him, mouth slightly open. "That's even worse! That's like saying you're indifferent to breathing."

Shane shrugged, embarrassed now. Music had always been something that happened around him, not to him. In locker rooms, it was background noise. At home, his parents controlled the stereo. On the team bus, he wore headphones playing white noise just to avoid conversations he didn't know how to have.

"I mean, I recognize songs," he offered lamely. "I just don't... feel about them the way other people seem to."

Vale shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. "This is a tragedy we're fixing immediately."

They had reached the street where Shane’s building was. Vale led them head, pulling out his phone with theatrical determination. Shane followed and watched as Vale scrolled through his music library with the intensity of someone disarming a bomb.

"Okay," Vale said finally. "Everyone has at least one song that matters. Even you, Hollander. Think. Was there ever a song that made you feel something? Anything?"

Shane was about to repeat his denial when a memory surfaced: his father's old truck, windows down, driving through Ontario summer heat to an exhibition game. The radio crackling through a song his dad knew every word to, singing off-key but unashamed. Shane, eleven years old, pretending not to know it but mouthing along anyway.

"Tiny Dancer," he said quietly. "Elton John."

Vale's eyebrows shot up. "Well, well. The alien has taste after all." His fingers moved over the screen, and seconds later, the opening piano notes filled the space between them.

Shane felt something twist in his chest, not painful, just unexpected. The melody unlocked the memory more fully: his father's large hand tapping the steering wheel, the smell of equipment bags and coffee, the nervous anticipation of the game ahead dissolving into the simple pleasure of his dad's rare, unguarded joy.

Vale was watching him closely. "You know this," he said, not a question.

Shane nodded. As the first verse began, Vale started singing along, his voice surprisingly earnest despite being completely off-key. He gestured for Shane to join, eyes bright with challenge and encouragement.

For a moment, Shane hesitated, that familiar clamp of self-consciousness tightening around his throat. But Vale wasn't a teammate judging his focus, or a reporter waiting for a misstep. He was just a friend, hair catching blue highlights from the nearby lamppost, offering Shane a chance to be something other than careful.

So Shane sang. Quietly at first, then with growing confidence as Vale's volume increased to compensate for his lack of talent. Their voices echoed slightly against the water, terrible and wonderful all at once. Shane stumbled over lyrics he didn't quite remember, while Vale improvised wildly when he clearly had no idea what the actual words were.

By the chorus, they were both laughing too hard to maintain any pretense of melody. Vale clutched Shane’s biceps for support, gasping between fits of laughter, while Shane felt something inside him unravel, some knot of tension he'd been carrying so long he'd forgotten it was there.

"That," Vale wheezed, pointing at Shane's face, "is what music is supposed to do. Make you forget to be perfect."

The song continued playing, and as the final chorus approached, Vale held out his hand with exaggerated formality. "May I have this dance, Monsieur Hollander?"

Shane stared at the offered hand. He'd spent his entire life avoiding situations like this, moments of spontaneity, of potential awkwardness, of being seen doing something he wasn't expertly trained for. But Vale's eyes held no judgment, only friendly invitation.

"I don't dance," Shane said automatically.

"Nobody does, until they do." Vale wiggled his fingers. "Come on. No one's watching but the river and the stars."

Something about the absurdity of it, two grown men on an empty pathway, terrible singing filling the air, made Shane reach out and take Vale's hand. With a triumphant grin, Vale pulled him into an improvised spin, guiding Shane's arm up and twirling him under it like they were in some old musical.

Shane felt his body pivot, awkward but willing, under the glow of the apartments lobby. The world blurred slightly, just for a moment, and then Vale's hand was steady at his waist, stabilizing him as he completed the turn. They both dissolved into laughter again, Shane's deeper and more surprised, Vale's bright and satisfied.

"See?" Vale said. " You are dancing, and the world didn't end."

And it hadn't. Instead, Shane felt light, almost weightless. For years, every movement of his body had been calculated, trained, evaluated. Every gesture on ice and off meant to convey strength, precision, masculinity. But this, this stupid, joyful moment, had nothing to do with any of that. It was just motion for the sake of itself. Freedom without purpose.

Shane couldn't remember the last time he'd moved his body just to feel good, not including sex. Maybe never.

As the song faded, they remained standing close together, Vale's hand still light on his waist, both of them breathless from laughter. Shane looked at his friend, at the genuine pleasure in Vale's eyes, the way he took up space without apology and felt a surge of gratitude so intense it almost hurt.

"Thank you," Shane said quietly.

Vale's smile softened. "For what? Exposing your terrible singing voice?"

"For…" Shane gestured vaguely, unable to articulate exactly what he meant. For not treating me like I'm a weirdo or famous. For seeing me as more than what I can do. For making this feel safe.

But Vale seemed to understand anyway. He squeezed Shane's arm gently, then released him. "Anytime, Hollander. Now, it’s time for you to go home before you turn into a pumpkin."

The applause cut through their words like a spotlight through fog. Three sharp claps, deliberate and slow. Shane froze mid-smile, his body recognizing the sound before his mind processed who it belonged to. Vale tilted his head, confused, then wary as they both turned toward the source.

There, framed in the recessed doorway, stood Ilya Rozanov, backlit by the warm glow of the lobby, his silhouette unmistakable even in shadow.

Shane's breath caught. Time seemed to stutter, then compress. Ilya stepped forward into the streetlight, and the details rushed in: the charcoal blazer tailored perfectly to his shoulders, crisp white shirt open at the collar, dark trousers that made his legs look endless. His curls were wilder than usual, as if he'd been running his hands through them. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, but his mouth curved into that familiar half-smile that always hit Shane like a physical force.

"Wow, that was some performance," Ilya said, voice low and rich with amusement. His accent was thicker than usual, the way it got when he was tired or emotional. "Very entertaining."

Shane couldn't speak. His heart hammered against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears. Ilya was supposed to be in Montreal. Ilya was supposed to arrive tomorrow. Ilya was supposed to give him time to prepare, to armor himself against the pull that was already tugging at his core.

But Ilya was here now, moving down the few steps with a slight limp, post-game soreness, Shane's mind supplied automatically, and walking toward them with calculated grace.

Vale shifted beside him, straightening to his full height. "Ilya Rozanov," he said, surprise evident in his voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"

For a fleeting second, Shane thought the words had come from his own mouth. But it was Vale who had spoken, Vale who was looking at Ilya with a mixture of recognition and wariness.

Ilya's gaze, which had been fixed on Shane with laser intensity, slid to Vale. His expression cooled several degrees.

"I live here," Ilya replied flatly, his accent heavier. "Who are you?"

The dismissive tone sent a jolt through Shane, pulling him out of his shock. He stepped forward slightly, not quite between them but enough to draw Ilya's attention back.

"He's my friend, Vale, " Shane paused, the word 'friend' suddenly feeling important to say clearly. "Vale, this is Ilya Rozanov. What are you doing in Boston?"

Ilya's eyes snapped back to Shane's, incredulity and exasperation flashing across his features. He raised his arms slightly in surrender. "Do you have concussion, Hollander? I live in Boston."

"I mean tonight," Shane clarified, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "I thought your flight was tomorrow."

Something in Ilya's expression softened at Shane's flustered response. "Yes, I took early flight alone. Team will be here tomorrow." He shrugged, a casual movement that somehow conveyed both nonchalance and purpose. "I don't want to spend birthday day on airplane."

"Tomorrow is your birthday?" Shane asked, mind racing to process this information. They'd had plans to meet tomorrow, casual plans, the kind that could be dismissed as two former rivals grabbing dinner if anyone noticed them together. Not tonight. Tonight was unplanned, unscheduled, dangerous.

Ilya just nodded, but his eyes swept over Shane from head to toe, a slow, deliberate assessment that left heat in its wake. His smile shifted into something softer, more private. Shane recognized that look. It was the same one Ilya had given him across hotel lobbies, across rinks during warm-ups, across crowded event rooms when no one was watching. Ilya wanted him, and he wasn't bothering to hide it.

Shane drew a quick breath, his body responding before his mind could catch up. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with all the things they never said in public.

Beside him, Vale cleared his throat gently. Shane had almost forgotten he was there, a realization that sent a flush of guilt through him.

"Shane, dear, I'm beat and still have to cycle twenty minutes home," Vale said, reaching out for a brief hug. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Shane returned the embrace automatically, his mind still half-focused on Ilya's presence. "Sure, V. Ride safe."

Vale pulled back, gave Shane's arm a gentle squeeze, then turned to Ilya with a surprisingly knowing look. He offered a casual wave and a smile that held just a hint of a smirk. "Nice meeting you, Rozanov."

Ilya nodded and watched Vale's departure with narrowed eyes, tracking his movement as he retrieved his bicycle from the nearby rack and began wheeling it toward the street. Only when Vale disappeared around the corner did Ilya's attention return fully to Shane.

They were alone now, standing with the glow of the lobby illuminating their features. The river murmured quietly behind them, and somewhere in the distance, a clock tower chimed the hour. Shane was acutely aware of how close Ilya stood, close enough that he could see the stubble darkening his jaw, could smell the faint traces of his cologne mixed with airplane air.

"Why are you here?" Shane asked again, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Ilya stepped even closer, eliminating the remaining distance between them. He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed Shane's ear. "It's my birthday soon, Hollander," he whispered, his breath warm against Shane's skin. "I came for my gift."

The words sent a jolt of heat straight through Shane's body, settling low in his abdomen. He felt himself respond immediately, his breath quickening, blood rushing south so fast it made him dizzy.

Ilya pulled back just enough to meet Shane's eyes, his own dark with intent. "Do you have a gift for me, Shane?"

Shane's control, the careful restraint that dictated his every move on and off the ice, snapped. He surged forward, closing the last inch between them and pressing his mouth to Ilya's with desperate intensity. Ilya responded instantly, one hand moving to Shane's waist and pulling him closer, a low moan escaping into the kiss.

Shane's fingers threaded through Ilya's curls, exactly as soft as he remembered, and he used his grip to angle the kiss deeper. Ilya tasted like mint, almost as if he brushed his teeth recently, and somewhere there, a note of mustard and coke still lingered. His stubble rough against Shane's skin, the combination was intoxicating, making Shane forget they were outside, forget they were still in the middle of the street, forget everything except the feel of Ilya's body against his.

Reality crashed back when a group of people rounded the corner, their voices carrying across the quiet street. Shane jerked back, pushing Ilya toward the main door of his building with a sudden clarity breaking through the haze of desire.

"Nothing," he managed, his voice ragged. "No touching, until we are in my apartment."

Ilya's eyes gleamed in the low light, his smile turning smug and eager as Shane led him toward the entrance. He followed without protest, but the heat of his gaze against Shane's back was almost tangible, a promise of what waited once they were behind closed doors.

As Shane punched the elevator call button, his heart racing with anticipation, he caught a glimpse of their reflection in the polished brass of the door: Ilya standing too close, his posture relaxed but intent; Shane himself flushed and bright-eyed, looking both electric and alive.

The sight should have alarmed him, the obvious nature of what was happening, the risk they were taking. Instead, he felt a strange, wild freedom bubbling beneath his skin. The same lightness he'd found dancing with Vale, but sharper now, edged with a hunger that had nothing to do with friendship.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. As they stepped inside, Shane felt the night shift around him, transforming from something casual into something that felt dangerous, essential, and inevitable.

Shane watched the floor numbers illuminate one by one, focusing on the soft glow to avoid staring at Ilya. It didn't work. His gaze kept sliding back to the other man, to the way his curls fell across his forehead, to the shadow of stubble darkening his jaw, to the strong column of his throat visible above his open collar. Ilya looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from playing a full NHL game and then immediately boarding a cross-country flight. But beneath that fatigue burned something else, something that made his eyes gleam in the elevator's recessed lighting.

The air between them felt charged, alive with potential energy. Shane could hear his own heartbeat, the soft hum of the elevator machinery, and Ilya's measured breathing. He caught the faint scent of Ilya's cologne,something woody and expensive, mixed with the lingering notes of airplane recycled air..

Shane wondered, not for the first time, what insanity drove them to this. What magnetic pull kept bringing them together despite every logical reason to stay apart. They'd been circling each other for years, rivals on the ice, something far more complicated off it. The intensity of their connection had only increased since Shane left hockey, as if removing the professional barrier had allowed everything else to rush in, filling the space where competition had once stood.

The elevator slowed, then stopped at Shane’s floor. The doors slid open onto a hushed hallway, thick carpet muffling their footsteps as Shane led the way to his apartment. He touched the keypad to unlock the door, aware of how his fingers trembled slightly. Ilya noticed too, he noticed everything, but said nothing, just watched with that patient intensity that made Shane feel simultaneously exposed and protected.

Shane unlocked the door, stepping aside to let Ilya enter first. It was an oddly formal gesture given what they both knew was about to happen, but some habits of politeness were too deeply ingrained to break, even now.

Ilya moved past him into the apartment, his shoulder brushing Shane's chest in a touch that felt deliberate. Shane followed, closing and locking the door behind them with a soft click that sounded final, definitive. The sound marked a boundary: outside, they were Hollander and Rozanov; inside, they were something else entirely.

The apartment was dim, illuminated only by a single lamp in the living room that cast amber light across the hardwood floors. Shane had left it on that morning, a habit from years of returning to dark hotel rooms. Now it created pools of warm light and soft shadow, turning the familiar space into somewhere more intimate.

Ilya stood in the center of the room, taking in the careful organization that spoke of Shane's need for order. His gaze lingered on the sectional sofa, the coffee table with its neat stack of books, the large windows overlooking the darkened street below.

"Nice upgrade," Ilya said, shrugging off his blazer and draping it over the back of a chair. The movement was casual, almost proprietary, as if he belonged here.

Shane remained by the door, watching as Ilya loosened his collar further, exposing more of his throat. Such a simple gesture shouldn't be so mesmerizing, but Shane couldn't look away. He'd spent years watching Ilya move, across ice, through crowded rooms, in hotel corridors, always cataloging the fluid grace of him, always pretending not to notice.

Now, in the privacy of his own home, he allowed himself to stare openly. To want openly.

Ilya turned, catching Shane's gaze. Something shifted in his expression, the exhaustion giving way to something darker, more focused. In four measured strides, he closed the distance between them, pressing Shane against the door frame, one hand coming up to trace along Shane's collarbone.

"You remember our bet, yes?" Ilya asked, his voice dropping to a register that Shane felt more than heard, something that moved through the air between them and settled low in his chest.

Shane swallowed. "Yes."

The bet had been stupid. Reckless. Made in the careless language of rookies who still thought they were invincible, a wager over who would win their respective matches, the prize deliberately left vague, something understood only between them. The winner gets to choose. That had been enough. They'd both known what it meant.

Ilya had won tonight. And he hadn't wasted any time.

"I get to decide my birthday gift," Ilya said, "since I won against Montreal." His thumb found the hollow of Shane's throat, resting there with a weight that felt deliberate, possessive, almost reverent. "And since they did not fire you for going to Harvard, the bet is still valid. I decide what we do tonight."

"I didn't even play," Shane said, a breathless, helpless laugh escaping him despite everything. "I couldn't win. It would be impossible."

Ilya's shrug was the most eloquent thing Shane had ever seen, unhurried, unapologetic, radiating a kind of serene certainty that this was simply not his problem to solve. His eyes never moved from Shane's face. They hadn't since he'd walked through the door, and the constancy of that attention was doing something to Shane's breathing he couldn't quite correct.

"I want you to go crazy, Hollander," Ilya said.

The words hit him somewhere undefended.

Shane had braced for something easy, some athletic demand, some teasing use of leverage. He had not braced for that, for the naked want behind it, the way Ilya said it like a confession rather than a command. His thumb was still against Shane's throat, and Shane was suddenly aware that Ilya could feel his pulse spiking.

"I want to hear you," Ilya continued, softer now, moving closer until there was almost no space between them and Shane had to resist the urge to step back purely out of instinct, out of the old habit of protecting himself from things that wanted in. "I want you to tell me. Don't hide from me, not tonight. Tell me what you want me to do to you, and I will do it. Everything you want."

Shane understood, finally, what he was actually being asked for.

Not just sex. Ilya had his number on that front; they'd learned each other's bodies the way they'd once learned each other's play on the ice, through careful, relentless attention. This was something else. This was Ilya asking him to say it aloud. To put language to the things that lived wordlessly inside him, to hand over the map of his own wanting.

His chest tightened with something close to panic, but different.

His whole life had been built on control. On the careful architecture of composure, the exact right thing said, the exact right emotion shown, nothing more, nothing less. He had been the captain who never cracked. The rookie who worked harder than anyone needed him to. The son who made his family proud by being precisely what was expected. He had built walls not out of cruelty but out of necessity, and they had served him so well for so long that he'd stopped noticing the loneliness inside them.

But Ilya was watching him with that expression, focused, patient, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with urgency, and Shane felt the walls register the pressure of it, the way insects register a change in weather before the storm arrives.

"Trust me," Ilya said quietly. Not a command. A question. An offering.

Shane looked at him and saw the faint tension at the corner of Ilya's jaw, the careful stillness he was holding himself in. Waiting. He had always waited, Shane realized. Had always pushed and baited and provoked right up to the line, and then stood there, completely patient, until Shane chose to cross it himself. He had never once taken anything.

The recognition of it moved through Shane like warmth after cold.

"I want…" He stopped. His eyes went to the rug, to the lamp, to the distant scatter of lights through the window, Boston at night, restless and indifferent. He brought them back to Ilya's face with something that felt like courage. "I want you to feel free to do whatever you want with me."

It wasn't quite what Ilya had asked for. They both knew it. But it was what Shane could give him right now, and something in Ilya's expression said he understood that, understood the enormous amount that small sentence had cost, the ground it had covered.

He kissed Shane then, and it was both an answer and a beginning.

Ilya's hands found him like they'd never learned to be anywhere else. At Shane's waist, then his ribs, then sliding up his back, pulling him in, and Shane went willingly, his hands gripping the fabric at Ilya's shoulders, anchoring himself to something solid while everything else began to dissolve.

They moved toward the sofa without planning it, Ilya guiding them with the same unhurried confidence he brought to everything, and when Shane's legs met the edge of the cushions he let himself be lowered, let Ilya follow him down, let the weight of him settle between Shane's thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It still amazed him sometimes, how natural it had become.

"Tell me," Ilya murmured against his throat, lips grazing the tendon there, pausing to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the pulse point Shane could feel hammering traitorously. "What you want. Be specific, Hollander."

Shane's breath came out unsteady. He stared at the ceiling and tried to locate the words in the fog that was rapidly replacing coherent thought.

"Your hands," he managed, and even that felt like exposing something raw. "On me. I want—" He stopped, swallowed. Say it. "Everywhere. I want your hands everywhere."

He felt Ilya smile against his skin.

"I can do that," Ilya said, with a satisfaction in his voice that Shane felt in his stomach.

He sat back to unbutton his shirt with the same unhurried patience he brought to everything, and Shane watched him, incapable of looking away. The lamp light caught the lines of him, the familiar terrain of scars and ink, the old story written on his body in marks Shane had learned to read. There was one just below his ribs, a raised line of scar tissue from a high stick in some Russian junior league game years ago. Shane had asked about it once, late at night in a different city. Ilya had told him the story with a kind of cheerful, careless pride, like the scar was a souvenir he was fond of.

Shane reached out now and traced it with two fingers, slowly, and felt Ilya go still.

"Your turn," Ilya said, his voice slightly rougher than it had been.

Shane lifted his arms and let him take off his jumper.

The cool air of the apartment hit his skin and then Ilya's hands followed it, warm and slightly callused, moving over him with the particular care of someone who intended to miss nothing. Every place Ilya touched felt newly significant, like his attention was a kind of consecration. Shane heard himself exhale, long and shaky.

"Beautiful," Ilya said, quietly, almost to himself, and the word, the simplicity of it, the complete absence of performance, undid something in Shane far more effectively than anything elaborate could have.

They shed the rest of their clothes with increasing urgency, pausing only when Ilya, with an expression of insufferable smugness, insisted on folding Shane's jeans before setting them on the coffee table. Shane laughed, startled into it, and Ilya's answering smile was so unguarded that Shane's chest did something complicated at the sight of it.

Then they were skin to skin, and there was no room left for thought.

Ilya explored him like he had time, like time was something he could choose to suspend. His mouth traced down Shane's chest and Shane felt every nerve ending he possessed light up in response, felt himself become nothing but sensation, nothing but want. When Ilya paused above his navel, looking up at him through long lashes, the expression on his face was one Shane had no word for, not triumph, not tenderness exactly, something between and beyond both.

"Say it," Ilya said. "Tell me what you need."

Shane's hands fisted in the cushions. His body arched toward Ilya of its own accord, shameless, and he let it. That was the thing he was slowly, carefully understanding: Ilya didn't want his performance. He wanted him.

"Your mouth," Shane said, and cleared his throat, and looked directly at Ilya. "I want your mouth on me. Please."

The please seemed to crack something open in Ilya. His eyes darkened and he moved without hesitation, taking Shane in his mouth with a deliberate, devastating thoroughness that punched every thought out of Shane's head simultaneously. Shane cried out, actually cried out, unguarded and unashamed, his head falling back, one hand finding Ilya's hair and gripping without directing, just needing the contact, needing to feel that this was real.

Ilya worked him with a focused patience that felt almost ruthless, alternating between torturous softness and an intensity that made Shane's thighs shake, always pulling back exactly at the moment Shane thought he couldn't take any more, always returning before Shane had quite recovered. It was a kind of genius, Shane thought wildly. It was infuriating and it was the best thing he'd ever felt and he was shaking with it.

"Ilya," he managed. "I can't... I need..."

Ilya lifted his head and Shane could have wept at the loss of him, except that Ilya was looking at him with an expression so intent and naked that it floored him all over again.

"What do you need?" He held Shane's gaze. "Tell me. I want to hear you."

And something broke loose in Shane, some final, stubborn latch on the door he'd kept locked for so long, and the words came out before he could moderate them, before he could shape them into something careful or controlled or managed.

"I need you inside me," he said, voice rough and unrecognizable to his own ears. "I need you to open me up and I need you to fuck me before I lose my mind."

Ilya went very still for a single, electric second.

Then: "Bedroom."

In the bedroom Ilya took his time, and it was not the unhurried patience of restraint but of intention, every careful touch transformed into its own sustained pleasure, every response Shane offered met with Ilya's complete, undivided attention. Shane heard himself become vocal in ways that would have embarrassed him an hour ago and found that he no longer had the capacity to care. He offered direction. He offered pleas. He said things that lived in the unlit rooms of his imagination and watched them become real under Ilya's hands.

When Ilya finally pressed into him, they both went still.

It was the fullness of it, Shane thought distantly. Not just the physical, though God, yes, the physical, but the sense of completion that went beyond his body, that settled into his chest and his throat and behind his eyes. Ilya above him, braced on his forearms, their faces close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of his breath. Both of them unmoving for a moment, just present, just here.

Ilya began to move, and Shane wrapped his legs around him and pulled him deeper, closer, and Ilya made a low, undone sound that Shane felt reverberate in his own chest like a second heartbeat.

They found a rhythm that was both tender and relentless. Shane's hands ran over Ilya's back, his shoulders, the nape of his neck, unable to stay still, unable to stop touching. He watched Ilya's face, the concentration in it, the pleasure, the occasional flash of something so unguarded it made Shane's breath stutter, and something accumulated in him, rose and rose.

Ilya's rhythm shifted, deepened, became something that stole the breath from Shane's lungs entirely. Shane's eyes fell closed on instinct.

"Look at me."

The words were barely above a breath, desperate and soft all at once. Shane's eyes opened.

Ilya was watching him with an expression that Shane had never seen on his face, not on the ice, not across a table in some hotel bar, not in any of the versions of Ilya he'd catalogued over the years. Wide open. Undone. Like Shane was something that had happened to him, something he hadn't planned for and couldn't bring himself to regret.

"Your eyes," Ilya said, and his voice was wrecked, barely there, barely making it out. "They turn me, Shane."

The world narrowed to that sentence.

Your eyes, they turn me.

Not the body. Not the history between them, not the years of rivalry and proximity and complicated wanting. His eyes. The thing you couldn't fake or perform, the thing that gave you away no matter how careful you were. Ilya Rozanov, who had every right and every opportunity to keep this to sex, simple and uncomplicated, was looking at him like he'd never learned how not to be honest about this particular thing.

Something fell in the center of Shane's chest.

Not painfully, the opposite of painfully. Like a window opening on the first warm day after a long winter. Like light getting in.

He pulled Ilya down and kissed him, urgent and shaking, and Ilya kissed him back with a thoroughness that felt like an answer, and when they finally broke apart they were both undone, both gasping, and Shane felt pleasure build to something unsustainable and let it, for once in his life simply let it, released the last grip of his control and gave himself entirely to the current of it.

When he came it was with Ilya's name in his mouth, and he wasn't even slightly ashamed of it, as Shane's name followed, loud and clear, from Ilya's lips.

They lay tangled together afterward, neither speaking, neither moving. The room ticked quietly around them, the distant murmur of traffic, the cooling hum of the heating system, the ordinary sounds of a night carrying on without them.

Shane felt hollowed out in the best possible way. Not empty, the opposite. Scoured clean, like something that had been weighing on him for a very long time had simply, finally, dissolved.

Ilya was warm against his side, one hand resting on Shane's chest with a weight that felt like intention rather than accident. Shane could feel the rise and fall of his breathing slowly returning to normal. He didn't want to move. He could feel Ilya not wanting to move either.

Eventually Ilya raised himself onto one elbow and looked down at Shane with an expression that edged toward wonder, like he was still working something out.

"That," he said, brushing a strand of dark hair from Shane's forehead with a carefulness that was almost shy, "was so fucking hot."

Shane laughed, a real one, loose and free, unguarded in a way that still occasionally surprised him when it came. "Happy birthday. Though it's not actually your birthday yet."

"Close enough." Ilya caught Shane's hand, turned it over, pressed a slow kiss to his palm. His lips lingered there. "And you gave me exactly what I wanted."

Shane watched him. "What was that?"

Ilya's smile changed, the performance of it dropped away and what remained was softer, more undefended than Shane had ever seen from him outside this room. "You," he said simply. A beat of quiet. "Crazy for me."

The words moved through Shane like something seismic, settling into the hollow place he'd stopped expecting to feel full. He pulled Ilya down for another kiss, slower this time, unhurried, almost reverent.

"Thank you," he whispered against Ilya's mouth, and meant every impossible layer of it, for coming, for waiting, for asking, for seeing. For the way he'd stood there patient and wanting until Shane had chosen, himself, to walk through the door he'd held open.

Ilya seemed to understand anyway. He settled back down and gathered Shane against his chest, the gesture completely natural, completely without performance, and Shane went without hesitation and tucked his head against Ilya's shoulder and felt the tight-strung wire of himself go finally, genuinely slack.

Ilya's hand began tracing slow, idle patterns on his shoulder. After a while he asked, in a different voice, lighter, curious, the voice he used when he actually wanted to know something, "How was it? Your first practice with the Crimson."

Shane was quiet for a moment. He'd expected to want to redirect this, to give the polished answer, the press-box version. But the press-box version felt very far away right now.

"Weird," he said honestly. "Good weird, mostly. But... weird."

"Weird how?"

He thought about it. About stepping onto the Harvard ice that week, a facility that was excellent but unmistakably college, with its particular smell and its particular sounds and its boards that weren't quite the same dimensions as the NHL ice his body had memorized. About the way his new teammates had been trying not to stare at him and failing at it completely.

"They know who I am," Shane said. "Or they know the version of me that won the Calder. And I could feel them, watching me to see if it was real. If I was actually going to work hard or if I was going to coast because I could." He paused. "A couple of them were clearly planning on resenting me."

Ilya made a sound of consideration that Shane had learned meant to go on.

"And I could have... performed it, I guess. Made a speech about how I was just one of them, how none of that mattered anymore." He shook his head slightly. "Instead I just skated. Really skated, like it was the third period down by one and I had to earn it. And after about twenty minutes I could feel the energy in the room change."

"Because they saw it was real."

"Because they saw it was real."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. "That is always how it is," he said finally. "People watch to see what you do when nobody is giving you anything for it. When there is no trophy, no contract. When it is just you and the ice." A beat. "You have always been someone who shows up even then. I knew this about you before I knew you had freckles."

Shane turned that over in silence, oddly moved by it. Ilya had spent years watching him across the ice, across a league, across whatever the particular geography of their situation had been at any given time. The idea that he'd been cataloguing Shane the same way Shane had been cataloguing him was something he was going to need time to sit with.

"There's this boy," Shane said. "On the team. Riley"

"Riley."

"Riley Mark, but nobody calls him that. He's a junior, plays left wing, has maybe the most natural hands I've seen since..." He stopped. "Since you, honestly." He felt Ilya's chest shake with a quiet laugh and found he didn't mind it. "He came up to me after practice. Not carefully, the way the others did, sort of circling around me. Just, walked straight up and said, so, Hollander, you want to get food, I know a place that does great breakfast sandwiches at ten at night."

"I like him already."

"He's infuriating," Shane said, with real warmth in it. "He's eighteen years old and he has absolutely no filter and he asked me within four minutes of meeting me how it felt to be quote, a grown man attending college hockey, which is an elite institution but still college hockey, and he wasn't being mean about it, he was just genuinely curious."

Ilya laughed fully at that, the sound reverberating in his chest under Shane's ear. "What did you say?"

"I said it felt like a second chance." Shane paused, surprised by how easily that had come out just now. "And he nodded like that was an acceptable and complete answer and then told me about a play he'd been working on that he wanted my opinion on. On a napkin. In the diner." Shane shook his head. "He'd drawn it on a napkin."

"Is it a good play?"

"It's a great play." He could hear the smile in his own voice. "Which I told him, and he looked like I'd handed him something, and then he tried to pretend he wasn't affected and failed completely."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. "That is good, Shane." His voice was genuine. "A friend like that. The kind who doesn't treat you like a thing that happened to hockey."

Shane absorbed that. The thing that happened to hockey, that was precisely it, he realized. That was what most people saw when they saw him now, this strange in-between creature, the NHL commodity who'd stepped off the conveyor belt. Riley had looked at him and seemed to see, bafflingly, just a person.

"Yeah," he said softly. "It is good."

The Boston night moved around them, unhurried. Somewhere outside a car alarm went off and then subsided. A group of students passed on the street below, their voices briefly vivid and then gone.

"I didn't know if it would feel like a step down," Shane admitted. "Coming to college hockey. I knew rationally it wasn't but knowing something rationally and feeling it are different things." He felt Ilya's hand pause on his shoulder and then resume its slow movement. "But on the ice it just felt like hockey. The thing itself. And I'd forgotten a little bit, in the NHL there's so much around it, so much noise, how much I love just the thing itself."

"Yes," Ilya said. The word was quiet and held in it something Shane recognized as real understanding, the kind that came from being someone who'd also spent years in the noise, also knew the way the machine could absorb the thing you'd loved first and most.

Shane tilted his head up to look at him. In the low light Ilya's face was relaxed, unguarded, the version of him that didn't exist in press conferences or arena corridors or anywhere that had an audience.

"Did you actually like it?" Shane asked. "Your birthday present."

Ilya looked down at him with an expression of theatrical offense. "Did I like it. Hollander. I flew across the country." But his eyes were warm, and Shane felt the smile before he fully saw it. "Yes. I liked it."

Shane was quiet for a moment, gathering something. Then, carefully: "Why did you want me to say it. What I wanted. Why did that, why did it matter to you."

Something moved across Ilya's face. Quick. He shifted beneath Shane, rolling them slightly, his hand finding Shane's side. "Because it is very sexy, obviously. You have very nice voice when you are not being—"

"Ilya."

"—very serious and Canadian about everything—"

"Ilya."

Ilya laughed, low and easy, and pressed a kiss to Shane's temple, deflecting with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years being charming his way out of things. Shane let him do it for a moment. Then he just looked at him, quiet, waiting, and Ilya's laugh faded into something less defended.

He said something in Russian. Not loud. A little rough, like it had been sitting under pressure for a while.

"Potomu chto ya bez uma ot tebya." A beat. "Because I am crazy for you."

His eyes held Shane's. "I wanted to see if it was, the same. For you."

The room was quiet.

Ilya, who had apparently decided he'd said the serious thing and was now entitled to retreat to safer ground, shifted his weight and adopted a more comfortable expression. "Also," he said, "I have been waiting since last year for you to stop being so..." he made a gesture with his free hand that seemed to encompass Shane's entire personality, "...contained—"

"I'm not contained..."

"Shane." Ilya looked at him with great patience. "First time I sucked your dick and swallowed, you apologized to me. Twice. While it was happening."

Shane closed his eyes. "I was being..."

"Polite?" Ilya suggested. "Yes. Very polite. Very Canadian. I am trying to do something very nice for you and you are apologizing like you have bumped into me in a hallway." He shook his head with the gravity of a man who had suffered. "I thought about this for a long time afterward. It was very confusing for me."

"I was nervous," Shane said, to the ceiling.

"I know you were nervous. This is my point. You were nervous and apologizing and also..." Ilya paused, and something shifted in his expression, less performance now, something quieter coming through it, "also you were so there. You know? Not thinking about anything else. Just... there." He said it simply. Like it was a fact he'd turned over many times and kept arriving at. "I liked that. Very much."

Shane looked at him sideways.

Ilya met the look with raised eyebrows, as if daring Shane to make something of it.

"The first time we..." Shane started.

"You grabbed my arm," Ilya said, almost immediately, like he'd been waiting for that specific topic. "Here." He touched his own forearm, just above the wrist. "The whole time. Very tight. I had a bruise."

"You did not have a bruise."

"Small bruise. Faint bruise. Bruise of the spirit, maybe." His mouth curved. "You also, after... you fell asleep for seven minutes. Exactly. I counted."

Shane stared at him. "You counted."

"I was awake. There was nothing else to do." The humor in his voice was real but there was something underneath it that wasn't quite humor, and his eyes, when Shane looked at them directly, were doing something different from his mouth. They were just steady. Honest. Watching Shane with a quality of attention that had nothing performative in it at all.

"Tonight," Ilya said, after a moment, lighter again, "you did not apologize once. This is very big improvement. I am proud of you."

"Oh, fantastic, thank you—"

"Personal growth, Shane. I am witnessing it in real time."

Shane laughed, and Ilya's whole face changed when he did, something satisfied and warm moving through it, the chirping dropping away for just a second, just long enough to be visible, before the easy grin came back and covered it.

"Was it what you wanted," Shane asked, quieter. Not quite a question, not quite not one.

Ilya considered him. The grin settled into something less performed. "You stopped hiding," he said simply. "That is what I wanted." He said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn't the most significant thing he'd said all night.

Then he tucked Shane back against his chest before Shane could look at him too long, one arm settling around him with a kind of casual finality, and Shane let himself be arranged without complaint, his cheek against Ilya's shoulder, the steady beat under his ear.

"Sleep," Ilya said, above him. "It is almost your birthday anyway."

"It's your birthday."

"Yes. And I want to sleep for a minute before I have to leave. So."

Shane closed his eyes, and Ilya's hand settled warm at his shoulder.

Outside, Boston went on. Students and insomniacs and late-shift workers moving through the ordinary miracle of the night. And in here, in the quiet of Shane Hollander's apartment, something had shifted on its axis, not loudly but with the particular permanence of things that have finally, irrevocably, found their place.

Shane had let go.

And instead of falling, here he was.

Chapter End Notes

I write and speak in British English, so please if you see some weird spelling just go past it ahaha I go crazy changing my keyboard settings each time, so that I have the -sing changed to -zing etc... I think I used jumper and trousers a couple of times but, I mean, you get my point. Anyway, thanks for reading, see ya next time ✨️

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Happy, almost, Friday! This is a long one, 8K words just because I find it hard to stop writing about these two.

Thanks for reading, for letting me know what you think about the story. I love all your reactions and conjectures.

I hope you enjoy this chapter and have a great weekend.

Shane's highlighter glided across the page, leaving a neon yellow trail beneath a particularly relevant passage on liability waivers. His kitchen table had disappeared beneath stacks of color-coded notes, three open textbooks, and his laptop displaying a spreadsheet of case precedents. Outside, December pressed its cold fingers against the windows of his apartment, but inside, wrapped in concentration and the soft glow of his desk lamp, Shane barely registered the early darkness that had settled over Boston hours ago.

Finals week loomed just ahead, the last hurdle before winter break. He'd been preparing for days, methodically working through his study guides with the same disciplined approach he'd once applied to game tapes. The sport might be different, but the mentality remained: analyze, memorize, execute. No surprises.

Shane reached for his coffee mug, frowning when he found it empty. The kitchen clock read 8:42 PM. He'd been at it for nearly five hours straight, stopping only for a quick dinner of reheated chicken and rice. Vale would have teased him mercilessly about his "beige food fixation," as he called it, but Vale wasn't here. He was probably at some gallery opening or obscure film screening, collecting experiences like others collected hockey cards.

The thought made Shane smile faintly. Four months at Harvard, and somehow he'd acquired a best friend who wore pink hair during midterms and could debate Foucault over breakfast. A friendship built on shared classes and quiet library corners, not locker room proximity or media obligations. It felt... earned, somehow. Real in a way few things in his life had been.

His phone buzzed with a text. Vale, predictably.

Shane typed back a quick affirmative to meeting for lunch the day after. Vale's friendship had introduced a flexibility to his routines that would have been unthinkable in his NHL days, yet somehow didn't trigger his usual anxiety. Another small freedom in a growing collection.

He turned his attention back to his notes on Sport and Leisure Law. The exam was his first one tomorrow, followed by Economics in the afternoon. He needed to be sharp, focused. Prepared in a way that left no room for doubt.

The months had settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal. Classes with Vale, study sessions that often dissolved into philosophical debates, occasional dinners out where no one recognized him, or if they did, they respected his privacy enough not to approach. And then there was Ilya.

Ilya, who appeared in Boston between games and practices like some recurring dream Shane couldn't quite shake. Who showed up at Shane's door with takeout and that half-smile that made Shane's chest tighten. They never discussed what they were doing, never defined the parameters. They just fell into each other whenever Ilya was back in town, hungry and desperate in a way that should have scared Shane more than it did.

The media had lost interest quickly. Two former rivals becoming friends wasn't nearly as exciting as their supposed hatred had been. Shane almost laughed at that now, at how the internet had briefly lost its mind over something as mundane as a Sunday run.

October had arrived in Boston wearing its best costume: impossible blue sky, the Charles catching the light like hammered copper, maple trees along the Esplanade doing their annual performance in amber and red. Ilya had shown up at Shane's door at nine in the morning without warning, dressed in running gear, holding two coffees.

"You look pale," Ilya said, by way of greeting.

"I was raised in Canada."

"Come run with me."

Shane had meant to spend the morning reviewing tort law. He went running.

They did six miles along the river, Ilya setting a pace that was challenging without being punishing, considerate, in that way Ilya occasionally was when he thought no one would notice. Afterwards they found a diner on Cambridge Street that Ilya had apparently been watching for weeks, a narrow place with checkered floors and a chalkboard menu and a jar of peppermints by the register.

"You need to try the clam chowder," Ilya said, already scanning the laminated menu.

"I don't really eat soup."

Ilya looked at him over the menu with an expression Shane had come to recognize: patient, faintly amused, utterly immovable. "You don't eat soup."

"It's not a food group I prioritize."

"It's Boston. The chowder is not optional. Or I have been told." He flagged the waitress. "Two chowders." He paused, considered Shane. "And whatever type of bread he wants. Wholemeal, probably."

"I was going to order the wholemeal one," Shane said.

"I know. It's very on-brand." Ilya handed the menus back without breaking eye contact with Shane. "You're very boring, Hollander."

"I'm consistent."

"Mmm." Ilya leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, that half-smile settling in. "Is that what you're calling it."

The chowder arrived thick and steaming, cream-colored, with oyster crackers on the side. Shane looked at it with the same caution he'd once reserved for opposing defensemen.

"It's not going to fight back," Ilya said.

"I know that."

"You're making threat assessment."

Shane took a spoonful. It was, objectively, very good. Briny and rich, with pieces of potato and clam, the kind of thing that tasted like it had been made by someone's grandmother and served without apology. He took another spoonful.

Ilya was watching him with open satisfaction.

"It's fine," Shane said.

"It's the best thing you've eaten in a month."

"That's not—" Shane looked down at the bowl. "That's probably accurate, actually."

Ilya laughed, a real one, not the sharp performance he used in press conferences. It loosened something in the air between them. Outside, a couple walked by the window with a dog. The diner smelled like coffee and butter and warm bread.

"You should smile more," Ilya said, apropos of nothing, tilting his head slightly.

"I smile."

"Not like that. You smiled at the soup, Hollander. It was very sweet." His voice had dropped a half-register, the way it did sometimes, not quite deliberate, not quite accidental. "You have a good smile. It's a shame you ration it so carefully."

Shane felt the warmth climb the back of his neck and made a decision, conscious and slightly terrifying: don't retreat. "You'd know," he said. "You spend enough time trying to provoke one."

Something shifted in Ilya's expression, pleased, and a little surprised, the way a cat looks when the mouse turns around.

"I have high standards," Ilya said.

"You have a pathological need for reactions."

"From you, yes." He said it lightly, easily, the way Ilya said everything that actually mattered, wrapped in enough plausible deniability that Shane could take it however he needed to. "Others don't count."

Shane looked at him across the chowder and the cracker wrappers and the afternoon light coming through the window. He opened his mouth.

"Don't overthink it," Ilya said, not unkindly.

"I wasn't."

"You were. I can see you draft a response."

Shane took a long sip of water. "Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly annoying?"

"Many times. Mostly you." He picked up his coffee. "Eat your soup."

Shane ate his soup. Ilya finished the second half of Shane's chowder without asking. Outside, the October sun laid itself across the sidewalk in long golden rectangles, and someone had taken a photograph through the window, neither of them knew it yet.

The next morning, Shane's phone was vibrating itself across the nightstand.

He fumbled for it at 7:14 AM, squinting at the screen.

Vale [7:02 AM]: so apparently you and rozanov had a cute little date in cambridge yesterday

Vale [7:03 AM]: there are photos

Vale [7:03]: you're both SMILING, shane. simultaneously. someone got a PICTURE

He sat up. Navigated, still half-asleep, to the notifications. Someone had posted to Twitter a photo taken through the diner window: Shane and Ilya in a booth, Ilya laughing, Shane caught mid-sentence with something on his face that looked, embarrassingly, like happiness. It had seventeen thousand retweets by the time Shane saw it.

The replies were operating at full internet velocity.

his smile.... i'm not okay! They look so comfortable with each other??? rivals to friends PIPELINE: the era of hollander-rozanov is upon us. I've been saying for months that they were secretly close but people told me I was PROJECTING

His phone rang with a text. Ilya.

Rozanov [7:19 AM]: have you seen it?

Hollander [7:19 AM]: I have seen it

Rozanov [7:20 AM]: are you upset?

Hollander [7:21 AM]: No. Are you?

Rozanov [7:22 AM]: I thought you would be

Hollander [7:23 AM]: Why?

Rozanov [7:23 AM]: you don't like attention. especially not this kind

Hollander [7:24 AM]: It's a picture of two people eating soup

Rozanov [7:24 AM]: you hate soup

Hollander [7:25 AM]: I don't hate soup

Rozanov [7:25 AM]: hollander

Hollander [7:25 AM]: I'm indifferent to soup

Rozanov [7:26 AM]: ...you're really not upset

Hollander [7:27 AM]: I'm more concerned about you, actually

Rozanov [7:27 AM]: about me

Hollander [7:28 AM]: You know what I mean… Russia an all that

Rozanov [7:29 AM]: yes

Rozanov [7:31 AM]: i'm fine. it's two friends having lunch

Hollander [7:32 AM]: Okay

Rozanov [7:32 AM]: okay

Rozanov [7:35 AM]: you smiled a lot for being idifferent to soup

Shane put his phone down. Lay back on the pillow. Stared at the ceiling.

Two friends having lunch. He turned that over in his mind and found that it sat without weight, without the particular dread he'd have expected a year ago. The picture existed. People had opinions about it. The world continued rotating.

He picked his phone back up.

Hollander [7:38 AM]: I'm only a bit indifferent to soup

Rozanov [7:38 AM]: don't push it

The internet's attention span proved merciful. Within forty-eight hours the photograph had been subsumed by three other hockey stories, a trade rumor, and whatever happened at a reality television reunion show. Shane filed it under things that turned out fine, a folder that had been quietly growing since September.

November brought rain. It brought it comprehensively, enthusiastically, in the manner of a city that had fully committed to the bit.

On a Tuesday morning with weather that felt genuinely personal, Shane was standing at his apartment door with his bag and his laptop and a growing sense that the universe was testing something specific about his character, when his phone lit up.

Rozanov [8:04 AM]: I'm outside

Hollander [8:05 AM]: What?

Rozanov [8:05 AM]: you have economics at 9:00 and you hate driving when you're tired. I'm outside

Hollander [8:06 AM]: I'm not tired

Rozanov [8:06 AM]: you were up until 1am reading case law

Hollander [8:06 AM]: How do you know that?

Rozanov [8:07 AM]: you texted me at 12:58 about a study case. come down

Shane looked at his phone. Then at the rain against his window, which was doing something almost theatrical, sheets of it, relentless, the kind of November rain that made the whole city look like it had been left out overnight.

He picked up his bag.

The car was the orange Mustang, which Ilya drove the way he played hockey, with complete conviction and a slight disregard for the feelings of everyone in his immediate vicinity. Shane folded himself into the passenger seat as Ilya pulled smoothly into traffic, a coffee already waiting in the cupholder on Shane's side. The right order, the right place. Of course.

"You didn't have to pick me up," Shane said.

"I was in the area."

"Doing what?"

"I was in the area," Ilya repeated, with the serene tone of someone who had decided the conversation was already over.

Shane wrapped both hands around the coffee. It was the way he took it, and he said nothing about that either, just drank it while the rain hammered the roof and made the interior feel separate from everything outside, sealed and warm and smelling of coffee and leather and something that was just, at this point, just Ilya.

"How's your shoulder?" Shane asked.

"Better. The physio moved me to full contact Thursday."

"Good." He watched the city slide by, gray and rain-slicked, surfaces catching what little light there was. "How was last night?"

"Fine. Routine." A pause. "Cliff is carrying something in his left knee. Hasn't said anything."

"Did you say anything?"

Ilya gave him a brief sideways look that contained an entire opinion about that question.

"Right," Shane said.

They drove in the comfortable quiet that had been taking longer and longer to arrive between them and now arrived almost immediately, like something that had simply decided to move in. Shane watched Ilya's hands on the wheel, easy, a loose grip, different from when they in action on the ice. Or on his body.

"You have practice tonight," Shane said. "What time does it end?"

"Six-thirty."

"I have hockey at five It'll probably run until six-thirty, too."

Ilya nodded slowly, the way he did when he was running a calculation. "I'll pick you up after."

"You don't need to—"

"Your rink is twelve minutes from mine." He changed lanes around a delivery truck. "I'll pick you up after. It's not a big deal."

Shane looked at him for a moment, at the profile that had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated twice, that had been on the other side of faceoffs for three years of Shane's career, that now apparently knew his coffee order and his sleep schedule and the exact threshold of exhaustion at which Shane made bad decisions about driving in bad weather.

"Okay," Shane said.

Something in Ilya's posture settled, almost imperceptibly. "Okay."

They pulled up outside the economics building at 8:43. The rain had gone absolutely nowhere. Shane picked up his bag and through the blurred windshield he could see two students chatting on the steps, sharing an umbrella, watching the Mustang.

"Go learn about supply curves," Ilya said.

"Demand curves. Today's lecture is on demand."

"Ugh, even what you study is boring, Hollander." He was already half-looking at his phone, one hand resting on the wheel, completely at ease in the way that Shane had stopped finding infuriating somewhere around October. "Text me when you're done on the ice."

Shane opened the door. He turned to say something, goodbye, something light, something that matched the ordinary easiness of the morning, and Ilya leaned across without fanfare, without announcement, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Warm and simple and certain, the way Ilya did most things he'd already decided on.

"Go," Ilya said quietly.

Shane went.

He walked to the building with the rain coming down and the coffee still warm in his hand and something loosened in his chest that he suspected had been tight for considerably longer than this year. He pushed through the door. Behind him, he heard the Mustang pull away.

He went to learn about demand.

He already understood it fairly well.

The video went up that afternoon, someone at the curb, thirty-seven seconds, the whole thing caught cleanly on a phone: the Mustang, the rain, Shane climbing out, the brief lean, the kiss on the cheek, Shane crossing to the building with something in his posture that hadn't been there before. Something open.

It got two hundred thousand views in six hours.

The next morning Cliff Marlow skated up to Ilya during a water break.

"Hey." He nodded toward his own phone, tucked in his glove. "What were you doing dropping Hollander off at Harvard?"

Ilya drank his water. "We had breakfast together. It was raining. I gave him a lift, Marly. No big deal."

Cliff looked at him for a moment, working something over.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," Ilya said.

Practice resumed.

Occasionally they were photographed together, but the stories faded from hockey blogs within days. No one suspected what happened behind Shane's locked door, the ways they found each other in the dark.

Shane rubbed his eyes, forcing himself back to the present. The case study before him swam into focus: McPherson v. Northeastern Collegiate Athletic Association. Negligence. Duty of care. He highlighted another passage, scribbled a note in the margin. He needed to memorize the major precedents before morning.

Outside, December pressed its cold fingers against the windows. He reached for his empty mug and didn't move to refill it, just held it, thinking about October light through a diner window and a orange car pulling away in the rain.

Then he put the mug down and got back to work.

A sharp knock at the door cut through his concentration. Shane frowned, glancing at the time again. Too late for packages, too early for Vale to have somehow lost his way home from whatever cultural experience he was consuming tonight. He considered ignoring it, but the knock came again, more insistent this time.

With a sigh, he pushed back from the table and crossed the apartment, not bothering to check the peephole before swinging the door open.

Ilya Rozanov stood in the hallway, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, dark circles beneath his eyes but a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He wore jeans and a soft gray henley under his wool coat, his curls slightly flattened from what Shane immediately recognized as plane-sleep.

"Surprise," Ilya said, his accent thicker with fatigue.

Shane's heart executed a complicated maneuver that felt like skipping and sinking simultaneously. Ilya was supposed to be in San Francisco. The Bears had played there last night, Shane had checked the score before bed, a habit he couldn't seem to break, and weren't due back in Boston until tomorrow at the earliest.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out more breathless than Shane intended.

Ilya's smile widened, though it didn't quite erase the exhaustion evident in his face. "Team flew back early. Weather forecast for tomorrow looked bad." He shifted the bag higher on his shoulder. "I go to Russia in three days for Christmas break. Thought maybe we could see each other before."

Shane felt warmth spread through his chest even as his gaze automatically darted back to the table of study materials. The competing desires, Ilya versus responsibility, created a familiar tension, one that had defined much of his life. Want versus should.

"I have finals tomorrow," he said, not moving from the doorway. "Two of them. I need to study."

Ilya's eyes followed Shane's glance to the table, taking in the evidence of academic discipline. Something shifted in his expression, not disappointment exactly, but a careful recalibration.

"I understand," he said, straightening slightly. "I go home."

The simple acceptance made Shane's resolve waver. There was no pressure in Ilya's tone, no manipulation. Just acknowledgment of Shane's priorities, which somehow made Shane want to adjust them.

"No, it's—" Shane stopped, frustrated by his own indecision. "I need to focus tonight. I can't be... distracted."

The word hung between them, laden with months of memory: Ilya pressing him against walls, kissing him until he couldn't remember his own name, much less liability precedents or economic theories.

Ilya nodded, his expression unreadable. "Of course. Good luck with exams, Hollander. I'll see you after break."

He turned to go, and Shane felt something twist inside him, the same feeling he got watching Ilya skate away after their brief, careful conversations at NHL events. A sense of things unfinished, words unspoken.

"Wait," Shane said, the word escaping before he could analyze it properly. "I need to study, but... you don't have to go."

Ilya paused, looking back with a question in his eyes.

"You could stay," Shane continued, uncertain now but pressing forward. "Just... I really do need to study. You can't distract me."

The challenge hung in the air between them. Could Ilya Rozanov exist in Shane's orbit without pulling him off course?

Ilya turned back fully, his expression thoughtful. "No distractions," he agreed, a hint of mischief creeping into his tired eyes. "I am very good at being helpful, Hollander. You'll see."

Shane stepped aside, letting Ilya enter the apartment. As he closed the door behind them, he wondered if he'd just made the best decision or the worst one. Either way, the night had just become significantly more complicated.

Ilya dropped his duffel by the door and surveyed the academic battlefield that was Shane's kitchen table. He'd seen Shane prepare for games, the methodical stretching routines, the careful taping of sticks, the quiet focus as he visualized plays, but this was different. This was Shane in his new element: pages marked with precise annotations, highlighters arranged by color importance, notes written in handwriting so neat it looked almost typeset. Ilya ran a finger along the edge of a textbook, wondering what version of himself could fit into this precise, scholarly world.

"You need coffee?" Shane asked, already moving toward the kitchen, his voice carefully neutral.

"Yes, thank you." Ilya replied, automatic.

He watched as Shane retrieved a mug, the blue one Ilya had used during his last visit, he noticed, and filled it with the dark liquid that smelled rich and expensive. Not the instant crap from team hotels. Shane had good taste in coffee, at least.

When Shane returned to the table, he'd put on his glasses, sleek black frames that transformed his face into something softer, more contemplative.

"What?" Shane asked, catching Ilya's stare.

"Nothing," Ilya said, accepting the coffee. "Just... glasses. They look good."

A faint flush colored Shane's cheeks, and he adjusted them self-consciously before sitting down. "Thanks. So, I should get back to—"

"Show me what you study," Ilya interrupted, pulling a chair close to Shane's. "How can I help?"

Shane looked skeptical. "It's Sport and Leisure Law. You really want to help me study legal cases?"

Ilya shrugged. "I take many flights. I read many books. Some even without pictures." He tapped the textbook. "Besides, I know sport. Maybe law part is new, but context I understand."

After a moment's hesitation, Shane nodded and began explaining the case he'd been reviewing,.something about liability and university athletic programs. Ilya listened, surprised to find himself genuinely interested. Shane spoke differently when discussing academic subjects, more fluid, more confident. The careful reserve that characterized his media interviews was absent, replaced by a quiet authority that Ilya found unexpectedly attractive.

"So," Ilya said when Shane paused for breath, "if I break opponent's nose on ice, it's acceptable risk. But if I break nose in locker room after game—"

"Then it's assault and the league's duty of care extends differently," Shane finished, nodding. "Exactly. The physical boundaries of play define the scope of assumed risk."

Ilya grinned. "I will remember this next time I want to punch Kent. Will wait until we are on ice."

Shane rolled his eyes, but his mouth quirked up at one corner. "I'm pretty sure that's not the lesson here."

"No? Seems very practical to me."

That earned him an actual laugh, the sound warming something in Ilya's chest. He picked up a stack of flashcards from the table, decorated with Shane's meticulous handwriting.

"Let me test you," he said. "I ask questions, you answer."

For the next hour, Ilya worked through the cards, watching Shane transform before his eyes. Gone was the hesitant, measured public persona or even the passionate but guarded lover. This Shane was precise, articulate, commanding. He cited cases from memory, explained legal principles with clarity, drew connections between precedents that even Ilya, with his limited knowledge, could follow.

It was mesmerizing. Ilya found himself leaning closer, drawn not just to Shane's physical presence but to his mind, sharp and orderly and unexpectedly creative in its analysis. How had he never seen this side of Shane before? Had it always been there, hidden beneath hockey pads and media training?

"You're staring," Shane said, interrupting his own explanation of negligence standards.

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"About what?"

Ilya considered his answer. "About you. How you're different here." He gestured to the books, the notes. "Not different. More, maybe. More you."

Shane looked away, that familiar discomfort with direct praise flickering across his face. "It's just studying."

"No," Ilya said firmly. "It's not 'just' anything. You're good at this, Shane. Really good."

The compliment hung between them, honest and unadorned. Shane met his gaze then, something vulnerable in his expression.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

They returned to the flashcards, falling into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. Ilya asked questions, Shane answered, Ilya checked the back of the card. Occasionally Ilya would press for more detail or ask a follow-up that made Shane think differently. Hours passed this way, marked only by refilled coffee mugs and the gradual relaxation of Shane's shoulders as he became accustomed to Ilya's presence in this previously private domain.

By midnight, they had worked through most of the material. Ilya noticed the subtle signs of fatigue in Shane's posture, the slight droop of his eyelids, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, the decreasing speed of his responses.

"Enough," Ilya announced, closing the textbook with finality. "You know everything already."

Shane frowned. "I still have to review the Miller case and go over the—"

"No." Ilya placed his hand over Shane's, stilling his reach for more notes. "You need sleep. Exam is in what, seven hours? Brain needs rest to work properly."

"I just want to be sure—"

"You are sure," Ilya insisted. "I've asked you same question three different ways, and each time you give perfect answer. Trust me, Shane. You got this."

Shane hesitated, conflict visible in the tension around his mouth. Always the perfectionist, always pushing for more. Ilya understood that drive, he shared it, after all, but he also recognized when it became counterproductive.

"Fine," Shane conceded finally. "I guess you're right."

"Write this down," Ilya said, smirking. "Rare moment when Hollander admits Rozanov knows best."

Shane rolled his eyes but smiled, beginning to gather his notes into organized piles. Ilya helped, carefully marking pages with Post-its where Shane indicated. The domesticity of the moment struck him suddenly, this simple act of helping Shane prepare for tomorrow. No cameras, no competition, no performance. Just the two of them, in the quiet of a night in December, doing something that looked, from the outside, remarkably like a life.

When the table was cleared and Shane's backpack packed for morning, they stood facing each other in the kitchen's half-light. The clock on the microwave read 12:43 AM.

"Thank you," Shane said. "For helping. You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Ilya replied honestly. Then, because he couldn't help himself: "Now I should probably go, let you rest."

He didn't want to leave, the thought of his empty, cold house held no appeal, but he'd promised no distractions. Shane needed sleep before his exam, not Ilya's hands and mouth keeping him awake half the night.

Shane stepped closer, erasing the careful distance between them. "You don't have to go," he said, voice low.

He kissed Ilya before Ilya could answer. Not the way they usually kissed, not the desperate, hungry thing that was mostly about getting somewhere, but something slower. Something that wasn't going anywhere and knew it. Ilya felt the difference immediately, the way you feel a change in temperature. His hands found Shane's waist automatically, and he pulled him in, and they stayed there for a long moment in the kitchen light.

When they broke apart, Shane's eyes were dark behind his glasses, lips slightly parted, and the sight of him made something in Ilya's chest pull taut.

"Can I stay the night?" Ilya asked, hearing the roughness in his own voice. He lightened his tone deliberately, adding: "I'll wake you up with blow job. You will ace that exam for sure."

Shane laughed, the sound quiet but genuine. "That's your study strategy?"

"Very effective. Scientifically proven." Ilya stroked a thumb along Shane's jawline. "But tonight, maybe just sleep, yes? You need rest."

Something shifted in Shane's expression,.surprise, maybe, or gratitude. He nodded.

They moved through Shane's nighttime routine with an ease that was new and, Ilya suspected, significant. The bathroom was narrow, which became apparent immediately.

"You're in my way," Shane said, reaching past Ilya for his toothbrush.

"This is a very small bathroom."

"It's a perfectly normal bathroom. You're just large."

"Thank you." Ilya picked up the spare toothbrush and they stood side by side at the sink. Shane in his glasses. Ilya in a t-shirt he'd pulled from his bag. Two grown men brushing their teeth in a bathroom that was designed for one person with reasonable spatial awareness.

Shane caught Ilya's eye in the mirror and looked away immediately, which meant he'd been looking.

"What," Shane said, around his toothbrush.

"Nothing," Ilya said, also around his toothbrush.

Shane spat, rinsed, straightened. Examined his own reflection briefly with the focused neutrality he applied to most things. Ilya watched him, the ritual of it, the unselfconsciousness, Shane in his own space being simply himself, and felt something warm and inconvenient settle in his chest.

"Stop," Shane said.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are. You're doing the thing... you look at me like—" He stopped. Rinsed his glasses under the tap, dried them with the soft wipes. Put them back on.

"Like what?" Ilya asked.

Shane met his eyes in the mirror again, held it this time. "Like you're... assessing or something."

Ilya considered that. "Maybe I am."

"What are you assessing?"

Ilya turned to him, actually turned, not the mirror version, close in the small bathroom, close enough that Shane would have to make a decision about whether to step back. He didn't.

"You," Ilya said simply. "Just you."

Shane looked at him for a long moment with that expression Ilya had been slowly learning to read, the one that meant he was feeling something larger than he knew what to do with and was deciding whether to let it show. His hand came up, briefly, and pressed flat against Ilya's chest. Not pushing. Just, feeling. The warmth of it, the contact, the heartbeat underneath.

"Stop it," Shane said. His voice had changed register slightly, softened at the edges. "We're going to sleep."

"I know."

"I mean it."

"Shane." Ilya covered his hand with his own, held it there against his chest. "I know."

They had an unspoken rule, usually. Had maintained it without ever discussing it, the way they maintained most things, through mutual, silent, deniable agreement. If one of them fell asleep, the other left. Always before three. Sometimes before two. The rule existed for a reason that neither of them had examined carefully, because examining it would have required naming it, and naming it would have required having a conversation they had also silently, mutually agreed not to have.

Shane turned the lamp off. The room went dark and quiet, the city muffled behind the glass.

He got into bed. Ilya got in on the other side, the left, without either of them saying anything about it, and for a moment they lay in the dark in their respective spots, not touching, maintaining a careful, polite, completely unnecessary distance.

Then Shane moved. Just shifted toward him, closed the gap, fitted himself against Ilya's side with the certainty of someone who had decided the distance was not worth maintaining.

Ilya put his arm around him. Drew him closer.

Shane's breathing was already slowing, exhaustion claiming him quickly, as it always did once he stopped fighting it. His head was heavy against Ilya's chest, his hand curled loosely near Ilya's ribs. The weight of him was solid and warm and real in a way that made the familiar thought I should go, I'll leave at two, I'll leave at three, form and then simply dissolve, like it had never had much conviction behind it anyway.

"You're going to be great tomorrow," Ilya said, quietly, to the top of his head.

Shane made a sound of disagreement that was mostly already asleep.

"You're going to be fine," Ilya reassured. "Smartest person I know."

"You know a lot of hockey players," Shane murmured. "Low bar."

"I know many kinds of people." Ilya pressed his lips to his temple. Felt him exhale. "Still you."

Shane said nothing to that. His breathing slowed further, evened out, the particular rhythm that meant he was almost gone. His hand, still curled near Ilya's ribs, relaxed completely.

Ilya lay in the dark and listened to the city outside and the silence inside and the quiet sound of Shane sleeping, and understood, with the particular clarity that arrives in the middle of the night when there's nothing left to pretend about, that he had absolutely no intention of leaving.

He closed his eyes, surprised by how content he felt just being here, being still, with Shane Hollander breathing steadily in his arms.

The clock on the nightstand read 1:07 AM.

He stayed.

The mechanical whir cut through Shane's dreams, dragging him reluctantly toward consciousness. For a moment, he lay disoriented, his mind struggling to identify the sound, not his alarm, not his phone, something unexpected in the familiar landscape of his morning. Blender. The word surfaced just as he registered the empty space beside him, sheets cool to the touch where Ilya had been. Shane blinked at the ceiling, listening to the domestic sounds filtering from his kitchen, so at odds with his usual solitary routine.

He glanced at the clock: 7:17 AM. Still early, but not unreasonably so for an exam day. Shane pushed himself up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair before reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. The blender stopped, followed by the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, the clink of glasses being set on the counter.

Curious, Shane pulled on a jumper for the morning chill, and padded down the hallway toward the kitchen, stopping at the threshold to take in the unexpected scene.

Ilya stood at the counter, his back to Shane, pouring a vibrant green smoothie from the blender into two tall glasses. The table had been cleared of last night's study materials and was now set for breakfast, plates bearing perfectly browned toast, sliced avocado, and what looked like soft boiled eggs. A bowl of berries sat in the center like a small, colorful centerpiece.

Ilya moved with surprising confidence in Shane's kitchen, as if he'd been making breakfast here for years instead of rifling through unfamiliar cabinets for the first time. He wore only sweatpants slung low on his hips, his bare torso catching the early morning light that streamed through the window above the sink.

"You're awake," Ilya said without turning, somehow sensing Shane's presence. He glanced over his shoulder, that familiar half-smile playing on his lips. "Just in time."

Shane stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the scene's unexpected domesticity. "You made breakfast."

It wasn't a question, but Ilya answered anyway, turning to face him with smoothie glasses in hand. "Yes. Brain needs protein before exam. Body needs nutrients." He set a glass in front of Shane. "Drink. Is good for you, spinach, banana, protein powder I found in your cabinet. Very healthy."

Shane took the glass automatically, oddly touched by the gesture. "You didn't have to do this."

Ilya shrugged, a fluid movement that drew Shane's gaze to the defined muscles of his shoulders. "I know. Sit. Eat while hot."

Shane complied, settling at the table while Ilya took the seat across from him. The eggs were perfectly cooked, the yolks still soft but not runny. Shane took a bite, surprised by how hungry he felt.

"This is really good," he said, genuinely impressed. "I didn't know you could cook."

"Many hidden talents," Ilya replied, spreading avocado on his toast with precise movements. "Not just sexy body and best hockey player."

Shane laughed softly, the sound surprising even himself. Something about this moment, the early morning light, the shared meal, the easy conversation, felt surreal in its normalcy.

"Thank you," Shane said, meeting Ilya's gaze directly. "For last night. For this."

Ilya's expression softened, the cockiness giving way to something more genuine. "Is nothing. You needed rest. Now you need fuel." He tapped Shane's plate with his fork. "Eat. Make me proud with big brain today."

They finished breakfast with comfortable conversation, Ilya asking about Shane's second exam later that day, Shane explaining the difference between microeconomics and macroeconomics while Ilya nodded with exaggerated seriousness. By the time Shane needed to leave for campus, he felt rested, prepared, and strangely centered.

At the door, Ilya handed him his packed backpack and a travel mug of coffee. "Good luck, Hollander. Though you don't need it."

Shane hesitated, then leaned in for a quick kiss, tasting coffee and something distinctly Ilya on his lips. "I'll text you when I'm done. You can leave when you want, just close the door on your way out."

The campus hummed with pre-exam energy, students huddled over notes, muttering formulas and case citations to themselves. Shane found his usual seat in the lecture hall, setting out his pens and student ID with methodical precision. The familiar ritual calmed him, focusing his thoughts on the task ahead rather than the man who had made him breakfast that morning.

When the proctor distributed the blue books and exam packets, Shane felt none of the usual pre-game jitters that had once accompanied important matches. Instead, a quiet confidence settled over him as he read the first question. He knew this material. He had prepared thoroughly. And somehow, Ilya's presence, both last night as Shane studied and this morning as he fueled for the day, had reinforced rather than undermined that preparation.

The exam unfolded before him like a well-practiced play. Shane moved through the questions methodically, analyzing cases, applying precedents, constructing arguments with the same precision he'd once used to dissect opposing teams' defensive strategies. The hours passed in a focused blur.

When he finally closed his blue book and handed in his exam, Shane felt the unique satisfaction of knowing he'd performed at his best. Not the adrenaline rush of a well-executed goal, but something quieter, more sustained, the quiet pride of intellectual accomplishment.

Outside the building, Shane checked his phone. Two hours until his Economics final. Plenty of time to grab lunch and review his notes. But as he scrolled through his messages, a good luck text from his parents, a string of random gifs from Vale that somehow conveyed both encouragement and his particular brand of chaotic support, Shane found himself typing a message to Ilya instead.

Then, reconsidering, he pressed the call button instead.

Ilya answered on the second ring. "Hollander. How was exam?"

"Good," Shane said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "Really good, actually. I think I aced it."

"Of course you did. Was there doubt?"

Shane smiled, crossing the quad toward the economics building. "Listen, I have another exam in a couple hours, but after that..." He hesitated, then pushed forward. "After that, I have a hockey game. With the Crimsons. Our last one before break."

A pause on the other end. "Okay."

"Would you want to come?" The question felt bigger than it should, weighted with implications about public appearances in a place where everyone will recognize them, about Shane wanting Ilya in this part of his life too. "To watch, I mean."

Another pause, longer this time. Shane could almost see Ilya weighing the request, considering its dimensions.

"What time?" Ilya asked finally.

"Seven. At Bright-Landry."

"I'll be there."

The simple acceptance made something warm unfurl in Shane's chest. "Great. I'll leave your name at will-call."

"Will be strange," Ilya said, his voice taking on that thoughtful quality that always surprised Shane with its depth. "Watching you play without being on ice too."

"You might be disappointed," Shane warned. "College hockey isn't NHL level."

"I doubt I will be disappointed by anything you do on ice, Hollander."

The words, spoken with such casual certainty, left Shane momentarily speechless. "I should go," he said finally. "I'm grabbing lunch with Vale before the next exam."

"Go. Be brilliant. I see you tonight."

As Shane pocketed his phone and continued across campus, he felt an unfamiliar lightness in his steps. The day stretched before him with unusual clarity: one more exam, then hockey, the familiar rhythm of his skates on ice, the focus of competition, and somewhere in the stands, Ilya watching. Not as a rival, not as an opponent, but as... whatever they were becoming to each other. Something without a name yet, but increasingly difficult to deny.

Bright-Landry Hockey Center hummed with pre-game energy, a smaller but no less electric version of the arenas Ilya called home. Students streamed into the stands wearing crimson scarves and beanies, their voices creating a steady murmur that rose toward the rafters. Ilya pulled his Bears cap lower over his eyes, a futile attempt at anonymity as he followed the usher to his seat, three rows up, directly behind the Harvard bench. Close enough to see the sweat on players' faces, to hear the coaches' instructions during timeouts. Close enough to watch Shane in his element.

"You're all set, Mr. Rozanov," the usher said, gesturing to the seat with a barely contained smile. "Enjoy the game."

Ilya nodded his thanks, settling into the spot as conversations around him stuttered and resumed at higher volumes. He felt the weight of sidelong glances, the subtle shifting as people leaned to whisper to their companions. He was used to being recognized, it came with the territory, but tonight he wasn't here as Ilya Rozanov, star center for the Boston Bears. Tonight he was just... whatever he was to Shane Hollander.

The thought had barely formed when the jumbotron flickered and suddenly his own face appeared on the massive screen, accompanied by bold text announcing "BEARS STAR ILYA ROZANOV IN THE HOUSE!" The crowd's reaction was immediate, a wave of cheers and applause rolling through the stands. Ilya raised a hand in acknowledgment, managing a smile that felt stiff on his face. He hadn't expected this spotlight, bid didn't mind it.

The camera lingered for a moment before switching to the ice where the teams were beginning their warm-ups. Ilya's attention locked immediately on the familiar figure in crimson and white, number 88 gliding across the ice with that effortless grace that had made him famous. Shane moved differently with the Crimsons, more relaxed, perhaps, or simply less burdened. His shoulders didn't carry the weight of million-dollar contracts and constant media scrutiny. Here, he was just another exceptional player on a team of talented athletes.

Except he wasn't. Even in warm-ups, Shane stood out, his edges cleaner, his handling more precise, his awareness of the space around him almost preternatural. Ilya had spent years studying Shane's play, first as a rival to defeat, later as something closer to obsession. He knew the slight tells in Shane's posture that telegraphed his next move, the way his weight shifted before a shot. But knowing and stopping were different things. Shane's brilliance had always been in the execution, perfect, consistent, beautiful.

The puck dropped on the first period, and Ilya found himself leaning forward, unable to maintain his usual calculated nonchalance. The Crimsons faced Princeton tonight, a rivalry game with playoff implications despite the approaching holiday break. The pace was immediately fast, transitions clean, hits solid enough to make Ilya wince in sympathy. Not NHL level, perhaps, but impressive nonetheless.

Shane's first shift was textbook Hollander, defensively responsible, offensively opportunistic. He intercepted a sloppy cross-ice pass at Princeton's blue line, drove wide toward the boards, then feathered a perfect backhand pass to his winger cutting to the net. The shot went just wide, but the statement was made. Shane Hollander had come to play.

His first goal came midway through the period, a wrist shot from the slot that found the top corner with such precision it looked almost casual. The crowd erupted, and Ilya found himself on his feet with them, a visceral response he couldn't suppress. He watched as Shane's teammates mobbed him, slapping his helmet, shouting praise that was lost in the arena's roar. Shane's smile was visible even from a distance, bright and unguarded in a way Ilya rarely saw on the ice.

As the game progressed, Ilya found himself increasingly impressed not just with Shane, but with the overall quality of play. These weren't just college kids with dreams, they were legitimate prospects, future professionals displaying hockey IQ that rivaled some NHL teams. Ilya mentally compared them to struggling franchises like Buffalo or Arizona, deciding that on a good night, this Harvard team could at least make it interesting against the bottom-tier professional clubs.

Shane's second goal came on the power play early in the second period, a one-timer from the circle that blistered past Princeton's goalie before he could react. His third, completing the hat trick, was pure hustle, outskating a defenseman to a loose puck, fighting through a hook to maintain possession, then deking the goaltender with the patience of a surgeon before sliding the puck into the open net.

As crimson hats rained onto the ice, Ilya felt a complicated knot of emotions tighten in his chest. Pride, certainly, watching Shane excel would never get old. But also a sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy, not of Shane's success but of those who got to share the ice with him. Ilya missed it viscerally, the wordless communication between linemates, the shared triumph of a well-executed play, the knowledge that you were part of something greater than yourself. He missed playing with Shane on the ice, even though they'd never been teammates.

The third period was Shane's masterclass. He controlled the flow of play whenever he was on the ice, making subtle defensive adjustments that turned Princeton's attacks into Harvard possession, creating opportunities that his linemates sometimes converted, sometimes missed. When his fourth goal came, a shorthanded breakaway that showcased his speed and hands, Ilya wasn't even surprised. Just appreciative, the way one admires fine art or a perfect sunset.

Harvard won 6-2, with Shane factoring in on five of the six goals. As the final buzzer sounded, Ilya watched the Crimsons pour off the bench to celebrate their last victory before break, forming a pile of crimson jerseys and triumphant shouts. From his vantage point, he could see Shane at the bottom of the heap, laughing as teammates sprawled across him, his usual reserve completely abandoned in the joy of collective victory.

Ilya made his way down to ice level as the crowds began to disperse, flashing the pass Shane had left for him to the security guard who controlled access to the team areas. The excitement was palpable in the corridor, coaches discussing strategy for the new year, equipment managers gathering discarded gear, players still riding the high of victory as they headed for the locker room.

When he reached the edge of the rink, where players were still exchanging congratulations and fist bumps, a murmur spread through the Crimson ranks. Heads turned, eyes widened, whispers of "Holy shit, that's Rozanov" rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water.

A wing, Ilya recognized him as Shane's linemate Riley, approached first, hand extended, expression caught between awe and attempted coolness. "Mr. Rozanov, huge fan. That shootout goal against San Francisco was ridiculous."

Ilya shook the offered hand, smiling politely. "Call me Ilya. Good game tonight. You have good hands in tight spaces."

The compliment seemed to short-circuit the young player, who stammered his thanks before being pushed aside by teammates equally eager to meet the NHL star in their midst. Ilya signed a few jerseys, posed for quick photos, all while keeping his attention focused on the figure still talking to the coaching staff near the bench.

When Shane finally disengaged and spotted Ilya surrounded by his teammates, a brief flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something softer, almost shy. He made his way toward the impromptu gathering, his helmet off now, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

"Didn't expect you to come down here," Shane said when he reached Ilya, his voice pitched for privacy despite their public setting.

"Couldn't just leave after performance like that," Ilya replied, extending his hand as he would to any opponent after a game.

Shane took it, and Ilya used the connection to pull him into a hug, brief by normal standards but lingering just a beat too long for mere acquaintances. With his mouth close to Shane's ear, hidden from curious onlookers, Ilya murmured, "You are so fucking sexy on the ice, Hollander."

He felt rather than heard Shane's sharp intake of breath, felt the slight tensing of his shoulders beneath the bulky pads. When they separated, Shane's cheeks were flushed beyond what exertion would explain, his eyes slightly wider than before.

"Thanks for coming," Shane managed, the composed media-trained athlete reasserting control.

Ilya smiled, allowing his gaze to convey what his words couldn't in this crowded space. "I never say no to a hockey game."

Ilya leaned against the hood of Shane's practical Jeep, the metal cold beneath his palms due to the December chill. The parking lot had emptied quickly, players and spectators alike rushing toward weekend plans or final study sessions. His jeans and a dark jacket were an attempt to blend into the night even as occasional passersby did double-takes, their pace slowing as recognition dawned. He ignored them, his attention fixed on the arena entrance where Shane would eventually emerge, freshly showered and carrying the quiet satisfaction of victory.

The doors pushed open, spilling light onto the darkened pavement, and Shane appeared, hair still damp, duffel bag slung across his body. He wasn't alone. Vale walked beside him, gesturing animatedly as he spoke, his hair a deep midnight blue that caught the parking lot's fluorescent glow. Shane nodded at whatever Vale was saying, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the relaxed, genuine expression Ilya had come to cherish for its rarity.

Ilya straightened as they approached, noting how Shane's smile widened slightly at the sight of him. Vale, however, didn't miss a beat in his monologue.

"...and that's why I'm saying you have to come," Vale was insisting as they reached the car. "Five goals demands celebration. It's practically a law of physics."

Vale paused, acknowledging Ilya with a nod that was neither deferential nor dismissive. "Rozanov. Good to see you again. Didn't know you'd be gracing our humble collegiate ice."

"Was invited," Ilya replied simply. "Shane played. Worth seeing."

"Understatement of the century," Vale said, turning back to Shane. "Seriously, Hollander. Trey from the basketball team is hosting at his place off Putnam. The entire arts collective will be there, plus half the athletic department. No study talk allowed, just decompression before everyone scatters for break."

Shane shifted his weight, hesitation evident in his posture. "I don't know, V. I'm pretty wiped from the game, and I've got..."

"Nothing," Vale interrupted firmly. "You've got nothing except sleep and a flight home on Sunday. Your exams are done, the season's paused, and you just demonstrated complete hockey dominance. One night of actual fun won't kill you."

Shane looked to Ilya, something questioning in his gaze. Ilya found himself unexpectedly touched by the silent consultation, the implicit inclusion in Shane's decision-making.

"Bring Rozanov, right?" Vale suggested, a calculated gleam in his eye. "I'm sure he'd love to see how college girls like to party."

Ilya considered. A college house party. It wasn't his usual scene,.he preferred exclusive clubs where money bought privacy. But curiosity tugged at him. What would Shane be like in this environment, away from both hockey pressure and academic demands?

"I have never been to college house party," Ilya admitted with a shrug. "Could be fun."

Shane's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise evident. "Really? You want to go?"

"Why not?" Ilya grinned, adding, "Unless you embarrassed of bringing best hockey player to a party. "

Shane rolled his eyes, but Ilya could see the decision forming. "Fine. One hour."

Vale clapped his hands together in triumph. "Excellent. I'll text you the address. See you both there."

As Vale walked toward his bicycle chained to a nearby rack, Shane turned to Ilya with a mixture of amusement and resignation. "You don't have to come if you don't want to. Vale's just... persistent."

"I want to," Ilya said honestly. "Besides, you deserve celebration after game like that."

Shane ducked his head slightly, still uncomfortable with direct praise despite years in the spotlight. "It was just a good night."

"Was beautiful hockey," Ilya corrected, his voice softening. "Now, we go celebrate. I drive your car back to your place, you get changed and we go with taxi. Okay?”

Shane only smiled and nodded, unlocking the car and throwing his keys to Ilya.

Chapter End Notes

Only if you are curious (Do I make you curious?) I listened to this song a lot this week for another work of mine, and it fits so well for the bathroom scene, getting ready for bed. It helped me write their soft intimacy, the little details showing how close they're getting.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Hellooo! I hope some of you are still alive after Hudson's ad dropped. What a time to be alive. ✨️

I want to say a massive thank you to everyone reading, following, bookmarking and commenting this story. It's starting to be one of my favourite things to work on and I am so glad some of you feel so happy when I update. I love reading your comments.

I thought the last chapter was maybe too long, so here is 9K words more for you. I wanted to cut it in two parts, but I thought you deserve the whole thing. So take your time, enjoy and feel free to react to it 💛

The house throbbed with bass that Ilya could feel in his chest before they even reached the front door. Lights pulsed from within, casting multicolored shadows across the front lawn where clusters of students huddled with drinks and cigarettes, their breath clouding in the cold air. Shane hesitated on the sidewalk, that familiar tension returning to his shoulders. Ilya placed a hand briefly at the small of his back, not possessive, just present.

"Can still leave," he offered. "Go back to your place instead."

Shane squared his shoulders in that way he had before facing challenging opponents. "No, it's fine. Just... not really my scene. Very loud and… messy."

"Not far from mine," Ilya admitted with a small smile. "We stay together, yes?"

Inside was sensory overload, music pounding from speakers that seemed too large for the space, bodies pressed together in the hallways and living room, the sweet-sour smell of spilled beer mingling with perfume, sweat, and the faint haze of something Ilya was fairly certain wasn't legal in this state. The temperature rose several degrees from body heat alone, forcing Ilya to remove his jacket almost immediately.

The first thing that struck him was how drunk everyone already was. Not the careful buzz of professionals mindful of social media and contract clauses, but the genuine, abandoned intoxication of people with nothing to lose but a morning. Students danced with red cups held high, liquid sloshing over edges without concern. They shouted conversations over the music, laughed too loudly, moved with the loose-limbed freedom of the truly uninhibited.

The second thing was how quickly they were noticed.

"Holy shit," a voice cut through the noise, belonging to a tall student in a basketball jersey. "That's fucking Ilya Rozanov! And…wait, Hollander? From the hockey team?"

A ripple effect followed, heads turning, phones appearing, whispers spreading. Ilya was accustomed to this particular brand of attention, the mixture of awe and entitled familiarity that came with public recognition. What surprised him was the difference in how people approached them. With Ilya, there was deference, respectful distance, careful approaches, requests for photos that acknowledged they were imposing.

With Shane, there was immediate physical contact. Teammates materialized from the crowd, draping arms across his shoulders, ruffling his hair, pressing drinks into his hands. Girls kissed his cheeks with casual affection, fingers lingering on his arms as they congratulated him on the game. Guys pulled him into half-hugs, their voices loud with genuine admiration. Shane accepted it all with smiles and thanks, a faint flush rising on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the room's heat.

This was Shane's world now, Ilya realized. Not just the academics and hockey, but this, social connections built on something other than professional proximity. People who saw him as Shane, not just Hollander. The thought left Ilya feeling strangely hollow, a spectator to a life he hadn't been part of.

The guy who materialized out of the crowd first was wearing a lacrosse shirt with the sleeves cut off, which Ilya had already come to understand was a sort of universal uniform among a certain genus of American college athlete.

"Hollander," he said, with the reverence typically reserved for religious experiences. "Dude. I watched that game on my phone with like, eight percent battery because I couldn't leave to charge it. That goal in the third period,"

Shane blinked at him. "Thanks, man."

"No, like, I genuinely could not believe it. Are you… how are you so fast?"

"I, uh." Shane glanced at Ilya. Ilya gave him absolutely nothing. Shane turned back. "Years of practice?"

"That's insane, bro. That's just insane." He grabbed Shane's hand and shook it with the full-body commitment of a golden retriever. "I'm Marcus."

"Shane."

"I know," Marcus said, with great sincerity. "Get yourself a drink, man. You've earned it."

He disappeared back into the crowd. Shane looked at Ilya with an expression that was approximately fifty percent bafflement and fifty percent the specific kind of helpless pleasure of someone receiving attention they don't know what to do with.

Vale appeared through the crowd, three shots balanced precariously in his hands. "Gentlemen! Liquid courage awaits. We're celebrating Shane's academic and athletic dominance tonight."

Shane accepted the shot glass with a resigned expression that suggested this wasn't his first time being coerced into drinking by Vale. Ilya took his own glass, watching as Shane tossed back the liquor with surprising ease, his throat working as he swallowed. Something hot and possessive flared in Ilya's chest at the sight.

"Another?" Vale asked, already signaling to someone across the room.

Before Shane could answer, a new song started, something with a pulsing beat that elicited cheers from the makeshift dance floor in the cleared living room. Vale's face lit up with recognition, and he grabbed Shane's wrist.

Strings of LED lights had been strung along the ceiling, cycling slowly through violet, rose, and gold, and at the far end of the living room someone had set up a strobe rig that stuttered against the dancers like a camera shutter.

"Come on, this is the one! You too, Rozanov, let's see if those hockey reflexes translate to rhythm."

Ilya found himself pulled into the crush of bodies, keeping close to Shane as Vale led them to a spot where several of his friends had created a small circle. The dancing was nothing like the choreographed movements of the clubs Ilya frequented, no performative sexuality or practiced cool. Just pure, joyful expression, bodies moving however felt good without concern for appearance.

Around them, the party's uninhibited atmosphere became increasingly apparent. In one corner, two girls kissed deeply, hands tangled in each other's hair. Nearby, a guy sat on another's lap, their foreheads touching as they laughed about something private. Across the room, three people danced in a fluid configuration that blurred the lines between friendship and something more intimate. No one seemed to care who was watching or what labels might apply.

Ilya had been to parties in cities across North America, to exclusive events where discretion was assured and experimentation tolerated. But this felt different, not hidden or tolerated, but simply accepted as part of the spectrum of human connection. There was a freedom here that professional sports hadn't yet embraced, might never embrace.

After the second shot and another beer, Shane began to loosen visibly. His movements became more fluid, less self-conscious. He laughed more easily, the sound carrying even over the music. He leaned into conversations rather than holding himself slightly apart. When Vale pulled him into an exaggerated dance move, Shane went willingly, laughing as they exaggerated the motion together.

Ilya stayed close, declining most drink offers after his initial shot. Someone needed to remain clear-headed, and watching Shane like this, relaxed, happy, free from the weight of perfection, was intoxicating enough. When a particularly bold girl tried to pull Shane away toward her friends, Ilya smoothly intercepted, keeping a casual hand on Shane's elbow as he deflected the invitation with practiced charm. He did the same when a group of guys tried to convince Shane to join some drinking game involving ping-pong balls and increasingly dubious rules.

"My bodyguard," Shane commented during one such intervention, leaning close to Ilya's ear to be heard over the music, his breath warm and smelling faintly of tequila. "Always watching out for me."

The words sent a current through Ilya's body, both from the physical proximity and the affectionate recognition in Shane's tone. He wanted suddenly, desperately, to pull Shane against him properly, to feel the length of his body, to taste the liquor on his lips, to show everyone in this crowded room exactly why Ilya Rozanov was watching out for Shane Hollander.

But he couldn't. Not here, not publicly, not with careers and countries and complications hanging in the balance. So he simply smiled, allowing himself one small liberty, brushing a strand of hair from Shane's forehead, the touch lingering just long enough to be more than casual.

"Someone has to," he replied, his voice low. "You can get into trouble so easily, Hollander."

Shane's eyes darkened, his gaze dropping briefly to Ilya's mouth before snapping back up. The want was clear in his expression, uninhibited by alcohol and the night's freedom. For a breathless moment, Ilya thought Shane might forget all the reasons they kept this private, might close the distance between them right there amid the dancing bodies and pulsing lights.

Instead, Shane took a half-step back, his smile turning wistful. "If only," he murmured, the words barely audible above the music but clear enough for Ilya to read on his lips.

Vale reappeared then, breaking the moment as he pulled them both back into the circle of dancers where the music had shifted to something with a faster beat. Shane moved with the rhythm, his body betraying years of athletic training in the fluid grace of his movements. Ilya stayed close, always within arm's reach, feeling the invisible thread between them pull taut with each shared glance, each "accidental" brush of hands or shoulders.

As the night progressed and Shane grew increasingly relaxed amongst trange bodies, Ilya found himself cataloging each smile, each laugh, each moment of unguarded joy. This, this was what he wanted for Shane always. Not just the physical connection they shared in private, but this freedom to exist without the crushing weight of expectation.

And with startling clarity, Ilya realized he wanted to be part of that freedom, to share it behind closed doors and out it the open. He could be someone that make him laugh like this in the open, someone who belonged in every corner of Shane's life, and shared every single moment of it.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, as he watched Shane throw his head back in laughter at something Vale had said, his face flushed and happy in the party's dim light, Ilya felt something settle in his chest, assurance that hadn't been there before, a willingness to face whatever complications might come from wanting not just Shane in the privacy of their walls, but always. Always. All of him, completely.

Vale's grip on Shane's wrist was firm but friendly as he pulled him deeper into the crowd. The bass pounded through Shane's chest, matching the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his veins. Those shots Vale had pressed into his hands had transformed the room into something warmer, softer at the edges. Shane found himself smiling, really smiling, as bodies pressed around them in the makeshift dance floor. And through it all, Ilya stayed close, a constant presence at his back, his shoulders, his waist, like gravity, pulling Shane into his orbit without even trying.

"You're not bad at dancing," Vale shouted over the music, his blue hair catching the colored lights as he moved. "I should frame this moment."

Shane laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and unguarded. "Shut up," he said without heat, letting his body sway with the rhythm. The alcohol had dissolved the careful restraint he usually maintained, leaving him loose-limbed and light.

Ilya danced beside him, his movements controlled but fluid, eyes never straying far from Shane. When a girl with glitter on her cheeks reached for Ilya's arm, he smoothly redirected her with a charming smile and a few words Shane couldn't hear.A practiced, wordless pivot that communicated both not tonight and genuinely no hard feelings. She accepted this and dissolved back into the crowd. It had been happening all night. Ilya subtly but effectively creating a buffer around them, particularly around Shane.

Vale raised an eyebrow at the exchange but said nothing, just grabbed Shane's hand to spin him in an exaggerated twirl. Shane went willingly, laughing again as the room pulsed around him. When he steadied himself, he found Ilya watching him with an intensity that sent heat racing through his body despite the crowded room.

A commotion broke out near the entrance to the living room. Someone shouted, followed by shrieks and laughter. Shane turned to see a guy wielding what looked like a large neon water gun, shooting streams of liquid at the dancing crowd. People scattered, some running toward the shooter rather than away, arms outstretched as if welcoming the chaos.

"Oh shit," Vale said, grinning. "Timmy got the nerf guns out. It's about to get wet."

Before Shane could process the warning, a jet of cold water hit him directly in the chest, the shock making him gasp. Timmy, another lacrosse player, whooped victoriously and moved on to his next target. Shane looked down at himself, t-shirt now completely soaked and clinging to his torso like a second skin.

"Fuck, that's cold," he said, plucking the wet fabric away from his chest. He wasn't angry, though, the night's energy made it impossible to feel anything but amused.

Vale was already looking at him appraisingly. "That's actually a good look for you, Hollander. Very wet t-shirt contest."

Shane felt heat rise to his cheeks, especially when he caught Ilya's gaze dropping to his chest, lingering on the now-visible outline of his body beneath the soaked fabric. Something dark and hungry flashed in Ilya's eyes before he looked away, jaw tight.

"I need a new shirt," Shane said, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt despite being fully clothed.

Vale waved over their host. "Carter! Shane got soaked. He needs to borrow something dry."

Carter, a tall senior with perpetually tousled hair and an easy smile, gave Shane an appreciative once-over that made Ilya shift closer, almost imperceptibly.

"Third floor, first door on the right," Carter said, twirling a set of keys around his finger. "Help yourself to whatever. Closet's full of shirts."

Shane nodded his thanks, already moving toward the stairs. The music followed him up the first flight, but by the time he reached the second floor, it had faded to a dull thrum beneath his feet. The third floor was quiet by comparison, the hallway dimly lit and empty. Shane found the door easily and turned the handle, relieved when it opened without needing a key.

Carter's room was larger than he expected, dominated by a queen-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with a mix of textbooks and what looked like vintage vinyl records. Shane had just located the closet and pulled it open when he heard footsteps in the hallway.

The door swung open behind him. Shane turned, expecting to see Carter with forgotten instructions about which shirts were off-limits. Instead, Ilya stood in the doorway, eyes dark and intent, his chest rising and falling as if he'd run up the stairs rather than walked.

For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other. Then Ilya stepped inside, closing the door behind him with one hand while the other reached for Shane, pushing him backward until his shoulders hit the wall beside the closet.

"You have no idea," Ilya said, his voice rough, "what you look like down there."

Shane opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he might have said was lost as Ilya surged forward, pressing their lips together in a kiss that felt like drowning. Shane responded instantly, hands coming up to tangle in Ilya's hair, pulling him closer. The kiss was desperate, hungry, all teeth and tongue and shared breath. Shane felt it everywhere, a current running from his mouth to his chest to his groin, making him hard so fast it was dizzying.

Ilya's hands were at his waist, then under the wet shirt, hot palms sliding over damp skin. Shane gasped into Ilya's mouth as those fingers traced his ribs, his nipples, his abdomen, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He was vaguely aware of them moving, stumbling backward toward the bed, neither willing to break the contact of their lips, their hands, their bodies.

The backs of Shane's knees hit the mattress edge, and they tumbled down together, Ilya's weight pinning him to the soft surface. Reality flickered briefly through the haze of desire.

"Wait," Shane breathed, pulling back slightly. "We can't… this is Carter's room."

Ilya groaned, dropping his forehead to Shane's shoulder. "Is just a bed, Hollander. We’re not going to break it. Mmmh maybe."

"It's not ours," Shane insisted, even as his body arched upward, seeking more contact. "We shouldn't."

Ilya lifted his head, eyes burning into Shane's. "I cannot wait," he said, voice deep with need. "Not one more minute. Not until I'm inside you." His accent thickened with arousal, certain consonants harder, vowels deeper. "Please, Shane."

The plea undid him. Shane felt something, a want so pure and overwhelming it brought tears to the edges of his vision. He nodded once, then pulled Ilya back down into another kiss, surrendering to the inevitability of what was happening between them.

They undressed each other with urgent hands, Shane's wet shirt peeled off and discarded, followed quickly by Ilya's henley. Pants were more challenging, both of them fumbling with buttons and zippers until they managed to kick free of the fabric. When they were finally naked, skin against skin, Shane felt a moment of perfect clarity despite the alcohol in his system. This was right. This was necessary.

"We need… do you have anything?" Shane asked, breathless as Ilya's mouth traced a path down his throat.

Ilya shook his head, frustration evident in the tightness of his jaw. "Fuck, no. I didn’t think I would need. Maybe bathroom?"

Shane nodded toward the en-suite, and Ilya was off the bed immediately, returning moments later with a small bottle.

"Lube. No condoms.”

Shane bit his lip, need warring with caution. "I haven't been with anyone else lately," he admitted. "You?"

Ilya's eyes widened, something vulnerable passing across his face. "I haven't fucked anyone else since you moved to Boston."

The confession struck Shane like a physical blow. Four months. Ilya hadn't been with anyone else for four months. He laughed, slightly hysterical with the revelation, then whispered, "Same, only you. "

Ilya made a sound like he'd been punched, then surged forward, claiming Shane's mouth in a kiss that felt like possession. They moved together, hands exploring with newfound urgency, mapping each other's bodies as if discovering them for the first time. Shane sucked Ilya into his mouth, reveling in the broken sounds Ilya made above him, the taste of him, the weight on his tongue.

Then Ilya was moving him, flipping him onto his stomach, spreading his thighs with determined hands. Shane buried his face in the unfamiliar pillow as Ilya's tongue traced down his spine, lower, until he was opening Shane with his mouth, making him gasp and shake. Fingers followed, slick with lube, stretching and preparing him with careful deliberation that belied the desperation in Ilya's breathing.

"Khochu tebya," Ilya murmured against his skin. "Khochu tebya tak sil'no." I want you so much.

Shane didn't understand the words, but their meaning was clear in the abandoned way Ilya touched him, positioned him at the edge of the bed, one of Ilya's knees planted on the mattress beside him. When Ilya finally pushed inside, the stretch and burn made Shane cry out, the sound muffled by his own arm.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya gasped, his accent thick. "So good, Shane. So warm."

They found a rhythm quickly, Ilya's hips snapping forward with increasing force as Shane pushed back to meet each thrust. The room filled with the sounds of their breathing, skin on skin, occasional murmured praise or encouragement. Ilya's hands left bruises on Shane's hips, his thighs, his shoulders, marks that would linger for days, reminders of this moment.

"Moya zvezda," Ilya growled, leaning forward to bite at Shane's shoulder, the sharp pain blending with pleasure. "Moy, moy, moy."

A sudden rattle of the doorknob made them both freeze. Someone on the other side tried the handle again, then knocked.

"Hey, is anyone in there? I'm looking for the bathroom," a voice called.

Ilya's hand clamped over Shane's mouth, silencing the moan that had been building in his throat. His other arm wrapped around Shane's waist, holding him still with Ilya buried deep inside him.

"Shhh," Ilya whispered directly into Shane's ear, his breath hot and damp. "Be quiet."

The forbidden nature of it, the risk, sent electricity racing down Shane's spine. He nodded against Ilya's palm, then gasped behind it as Ilya began to move again, slower now but deeper, more deliberate. The person outside knocked once more, then wandered away, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Ilya's hand moved from Shane's mouth to his throat, not squeezing but simply holding, a gentle pressure that made Shane's pulse race even faster. The other hand reached around to stroke him in time with each thrust, bringing him to the edge with ruthless efficiency.

"Come for me," Ilya commanded, his rhythm faltering as his own climax approached. "Want to feel you come on my cock."

The words pushed Shane over. He came with a choked cry, body clenching around Ilya as pleasure crashed through him in waves.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya sounded desperate, his movements erratic, his hands everywhere on Shane's body.

“Can I come inside you?” He whispered hotly into Shane's ear, who was already nodding frantically.

lllya came moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that sounded like Shane's name and something else, something foreign and tender.

They collapsed together onto the bed, Ilya's weight a welcome anchor as Shane's mind slowly reassembled itself from scattered fragments of sensation. When Ilya finally pulled away, they both winced at the sensitivity, the sudden emptiness where they had been joined.

"You okay?" Ilya asked softly, running a gentle hand down Shane's spine.

Shane nodded, not trusting his voice. He felt wrecked in the best possible way, physically spent but emotionally... full. Complete in a way he rarely experienced.

They cleaned up quickly, efficiently, neither wanting to linger now that the urgency had passed. Shane crossed to the wardrobe and pulled it open. Carter's clothes were organized with the unconscious confidence of someone who'd never had to think about storage space, shirts sorted loosely by color, a row of hoodies, a couple of dress shirts pushed to one side like they didn’t matter.

Behind him, there was a soft movement, and then Ilya's shirt appeared over his shoulder, held out by a careful hand.

Shane turned. Ilya was holding the black t-shirt he'd retrieved from the floor, slightly wrinkled, still warm probably. He stood there holding it out to Shane with an expression that was doing its best to be neutral and not entirely succeeding.

"Take mine," Ilya said. "I'll get something from Carter."

"You don't have to—"

"Take it, Shane."

Shane took it. It was soft from washing, worn thin at the collar, and it smelled like Ilya in a way that was immediately distracting and comforting at the same time. He pulled it over his head and tried very hard not to think about this.

Ilya had already turned to the wardrobe. He flipped through two or three hangers with the decisive efficiency of someone who operated at a permanent deficit of time for nonsense, then pulled out a black t-shirt near the back. Faded logo across the chest, a band Shane didn't recognize, a skeleton rendered in that particular bleached-out way that suggested the shirt had been through approximately four hundred washes and was better for it.

Ilya held it up, considered it, put it on. It fit him in the specific way that nothing ever quite fit Ilya correctly, slightly too short in the torso, pulling across the shoulders, the skeleton logo stretched just enough to look like on purpose. Ilya looked down at himself, looked back up, apparently decided this was acceptable.

He looked at Shane.

Shane was already looking at him
.
"What?" Shane asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Ilya shook his head slightly. "Nothing. Just..." He trailed off, then smiled, a small, private curve of his lips. "You look good in my clothes," he said, simple and unhurried, the way he said things he meant.

Shane's brain performed a brief and undignified internal collapse that he kept entirely off his face.

Shane felt heat rise to his cheeks, but he didn't look away. "We should go," he said instead, nodding toward the door.

Ilya nodded, "Yes. Back to your place, maybe?"

It wasn't a question, not really. They both knew where the night was leading now that this line had been crossed.

They were halfway to the door when Shane stopped.

Ilya took another step before he registered it and turned, mildly confused. "What now?"

Shane was looking at the bed.

More specifically, Shane was looking at the sheets. At the dark fabric and the evidence, pale, recognizable, of what had happened on them.

"Hollander."

"Hold on." Shane went back to the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" Ilya watched him rummage along the top shelf, pushing aside a baseball cap and a folded blanket, until he located what he was looking for: a tightly rolled set of sheets in dark gray, the spare set that Carter, being a functional adult human, apparently kept on hand.

"We can't leave that," Shane said, nodding at the bed. He was already pulling the sheet set down. "He gave me, well you, a shirt. We can't leave… " he looked at the sheets, then back at Ilya, jaw set "that. On his bed. Ilya."

Ilya looked at the sheets. Looked at the spare set in Shane's arms. Looked back at Shane.

"If we change the sheets," he said, with careful logic, "Carter will know something happened on his bed. For sure."

Shane stared at him.

"If we leave it," Ilya continued, "he might think… in the morning, when he wakes up," he tilted his head, diplomatically "that he did that himself. In the night."

There was a silence.

"That is the worst idea you’ve ever had," Shane said.

"Oh my god, Hollander, not everybody changes their sheet after a fuck. I’m sure there is someone elses’ come on those sheets already."

"We're changing the sheets, Ilya."

"Shane…"

Shane was already stripping the bed.

Ilya stood there for approximately four seconds, watching him yank the fitted sheet off one corner with the focused energy of someone who had decided this was happening and the universe would simply have to accommodate it. Then he crossed to the other side of the bed, grabbed the opposite corner, and pulled.

They changed the sheets in the particular wordless efficiency of two people who've played enough team sports to know when an argument is over and execution has begun. Fitted sheet, top sheet, pillowcases, the works. Shane smoothed every wrinkle with the flat of his hand, tucked the corners with more care than the situation arguably warranted, and stood back to inspect the result.

Ilya balled up the old sheets. Looked around. Found the laundry hamper in the corner, shoved them in, pushed the lid down.

Shane looked at the hamper.

"He's going to do laundry and find them," Ilya said.

"That's a future problem."

"That is a future Carter problem specifically."

"Yes." Shane picked up his ruined t-shirt from the floor, the original casualty of Timmy and the nerf gun, and tucked it under his arm. He took one more look at the bed, the fresh gray sheets, the restored order of Carter's room. Something settled in his expression. "I just," he said, and stopped.

Ilya waited.

"I didn't want him to touch the sheets we used," Shane said. "For that."

The sentence sat in the dim room for a moment, plain and unadorned and more honest than Shane had probably intended it to be.

Ilya looked at him across the newly made bed. The ambient light from outside caught the angles of his face, soft and gray-silver, and there was something in his chest that was putting a lot of pressure on the inside of his sternum that he didn't have a name for and wasn't going to look for one right now.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

They descended the stairs in careful silence, Shane first with Ilya following a few steps behind. The music grew louder with each step down, pulsing against Shane's skin like a physical touch. He adjusted his borrowed t-shirt, slightly too large across the shoulders, and tried not to think about the marks hidden beneath it, the pleasant soreness already setting in across Behind him, Ilya moved with easy confidence, as if sneaking out of bedrooms at parties was something he did regularly. Maybe it was. The thought should have bothered Shane, but instead, it just made him more aware of the heat still lingering between them, undiminished by their brief separation.

At the second-floor landing, Ilya's fingers brushed against Shane's lower back, a touch so light it could have been accidental if not for the deliberate way Ilya's eyes held his when Shane glanced over his shoulder. There was something possessive in that look, something that made Shane's breath catch despite everything they'd just done upstairs.

"You okay?" Ilya asked quietly, close enough that Shane could feel the words against his ear.

Shane nodded. He was more than okay, he was floating somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline, his body humming with satisfied desire even as his mind struggled to process what had just happened between them. What was still happening.

The party had swelled in their absence, the living room now packed with sweaty bodies dancing to a heavier beat than before. Shane scanned the crowd for Vale, not wanting to leave without saying goodbye, but dreading the knowing look his friend would inevitably give them. Vale had an uncanny ability to read situations, to see through the careful facades Shane constructed.

"There," Ilya said, nodding toward the kitchen where Vale's blue hair was visible above the crowd. He stood talking animatedly with a group that included Carter and several members of the basketball team.

Shane hesitated. "Maybe we should just text him."

Ilya studied him for a moment, then nodded. "If you want."

They made their way toward the front door instead, weaving through clusters of people who were too drunk or too engrossed in their own conversations to notice them. Shane pulled out his phone and composed a quick message to Vale: Heading home. Tired. Thanks for tonight.

Vale's response came almost immediately: Both of you? ;)

Shane felt heat climb his neck. Of course Vale had noticed. He showed the screen to Ilya, who merely smirked and shrugged one shoulder.

Be safe. Talk tomorrow, Shane typed back, deliberately ignoring the implication.

The night air hit them like a physical barrier when they stepped outside, the December cold a shock after the overheated interior of the party. Shane zipped his jacket higher, huddling into its warmth. Beside him, Ilya seemed unfazed by the temperature, his breath creating small clouds in the air as he scanned the street for taxis.

"Wait here," Ilya said, stepping toward the curb and raising his hand.

Shane watched him, taking in the strong line of his shoulders beneath his henley, the confident set of his stance. Ilya looked like he belonged anywhere he went, on the ice, at NHL events, in college parties, on Boston streets at midnight. He carried himself with an assurance that Shane had always envied, had always tried to emulate in his own carefully constructed public persona.

But there was nothing constructed about Ilya now, no performance as he flagged down a taxi and opened the door, gesturing for Shane to get in first. This was just Ilya, very real and somehow still wanting Shane after all these months, all these years of circling each other.

The taxi's interior was warm, smelling faintly of pine air freshener and the previous passenger's cologne. Shane slid across the seat, Ilya following close behind. Their thighs pressed together despite the ample space, neither willing to move away.

"Address?" the driver asked, glancing at them in the rearview mirror.

Shane gave his apartment's location, then settled back as the car pulled away from the curb. Outside the window, the streets of Cambridge glided by, lamp-lit and quiet compared to the chaos they'd left behind. He felt the weight of the evening settling over him, the dancing, the drinking, the desperate need that had driven them upstairs and into each other's arms.

"What you thinking about?" Ilya asked softly, his hand finding Shane's between them on the seat.

Shane looked down at their joined fingers, at how naturally they fit together. "Everything," he admitted. "Nothing. Just... processing."

Ilya nodded as if that made perfect sense. Perhaps it did to him. They lapsed into comfortable silence, the taxi's gentle movement and the quiet hum of the radio creating a cocoon around them. Shane felt himself relaxing by degrees, his head eventually coming to rest against Ilya's shoulder.

"Tired?" Ilya murmured, his lips brushing Shane's temple.

"Mmm," Shane acknowledged, not bothering to lift his head. "Good tired."

He felt rather than saw Ilya's smile, a small shift of muscle against his hair. They remained that way for the rest of the ride, connected by touch and shared silence, the events of the night settling into something softer between them.

When the taxi pulled up outside Shane's apartment building, reality intruded once more. Ilya would be leaving for Russia in a matter of days. They wouldn't see each other for weeks. This moment, whatever it was, had an expiration date that loomed closer with each passing hour.

Shane straightened as Ilya paid the driver, preparing himself for the goodbye that would inevitably follow. They stepped out onto the sidewalk together, the taxi pulling away behind them, leaving them alone beneath the glow of a streetlamp.

"So," Shane began, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet street.

"So," Ilya echoed, but made no move to leave. Instead, he stood looking at Shane with an expression that made Shane's breath catch in his throat. It wasn't desire, exactly, though that was certainly part of it. It was something deeper, more vulnerable. Something that looked almost like longing.

The moment stretched between them, taut with possibility. Shane had rehearsed this scene in his head dozens of times, the casual goodbyes, the promises to meet up when Ilya was free, the careful distance maintained despite what happened behind closed doors. It was the smart play, the safe one. The one that protected them both from whatever complications might arise from acknowledging that this was more than just sex, more than just blowing off steam.

But looking at Ilya now, at the open want written across his features, Shane couldn't bring himself to say the words. Instead, he reached out and took Ilya's hand, fingers intertwining with deliberate intent.

"Come upstairs," he said simply.

It wasn't a question, but Ilya answered anyway, squeezing Shane's hand as he nodded. "Yes."

They walked into the building together, still holding hands as they crossed the lobby toward the elevator. Neither spoke, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like a decision had been made, though Shane wasn't entirely sure what they'd agreed to. All he knew was that he didn't want to let go, not yet. Not tonight.

The elevator doors closed behind them, sealing them off from the outside world. Shane looked at their joined hands, then up at Ilya's face, finding his own certainty reflected back at him. Whatever happened next, they were in it together.

The apartment door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing away the outside world. Shane stood in the entry hall, keys still in hand, suddenly aware of the quiet that enveloped them. After the pounding bass of the party and the muted rumble of the taxi, the silence felt almost tangible, like a third presence in the room. He turned to face Ilya, who stood watching him with that same expression from outside, patient, open, waiting. The look anchored something in Shane's chest, some floating, uncertain thing that had been adrift for longer than he cared to admit.

They didn't speak. Words felt unnecessary, maybe even intrusive in the delicate atmosphere they'd created. Instead, Shane set his keys on the small table by the door, a deliberate sound in the stillness. His fingers moved to the zipper of his jacket, pulling it down with a whisper of metal on metal. He shrugged it off, hung it on the hook where it belonged, then reached for the hem of the borrowed t-shirt.

Ilya watched him, unmoving, his eyes tracking each gesture with quiet intensity. When Shane pulled the shirt over his head, revealing the constellation of marks Ilya had left on his skin, Ilya's breath caught audibly. But he didn't approach, didn't reach out. He seemed to understand that something different was happening now, something that required space and patience rather than the desperate hunger that had driven them earlier.

Shane's hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with steady fingers. He toed off his shoes, then stepped out of his jeans, leaving them folded on the arm of the sofa. Standing in just his boxers, he met Ilya's gaze once more, a silent question in the tilt of his head, the slight curve of his lips.

Ilya nodded, the barest movement, understanding without words. Shane turned and walked down the hallway toward the bathroom, not looking back but certain that Ilya would follow when he was ready. The hardwood floor was cool beneath his feet, grounding him in the reality of the moment. This wasn't a dream or a fantasy. This was his life, Ilya in his apartment, about to join him in his shower, their relationship evolving into something neither of them had dared to name yet.

In the bathroom, Shane turned the shower on, adjusting the temperature until steam began to rise. He removed his boxers and stepped under the spray, letting the water sluice over his body, washing away the residue of the party, spilled drinks, sweat, the lingering scent of sex. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of heat against his skin, the gentle pressure of water on his shoulders.

He didn't hear the bathroom door open, but he felt the shift in the air, the subtle change in pressure that told him Ilya had entered. When he opened his eyes, Ilya was standing just outside the shower, already undressed, watching him through the glass with an expression so tender it made Shane's chest ache.

Without a word, Shane pushed the shower door open in invitation. Ilya stepped inside, the space immediately smaller with both of them there, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. For a moment, they simply stood facing each other, water streaming over them, creating rivulets along the contours of their bodies.

Ilya moved first, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair from Shane's forehead. The gesture was so gentle, so at odds with the man the world thought they knew, that Shane felt some final reservation giving way. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Ilya's in a kiss that held none of the desperation from before. This was slow, deliberate, a conversation without words.

Ilya responded in kind, his hands coming to rest lightly on Shane's waist, holding rather than grasping. They stayed like that for long moments, trading soft kisses beneath the shower's steady flow, neither pushing for more. It was enough—the press of lips, the shared breath, the warm water creating a barrier between them and everything else.

When they finally broke apart, Shane reached for the shampoo on the shower shelf. Instead of using it on himself, he squeezed a small amount into his palm and lifted his hands to Ilya's hair. Ilya's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then softened with understanding. He ducked his head, giving Shane easier access.

Shane worked the shampoo into Ilya's curls, his fingers massaging Ilya's scalp with careful attention. It was such a simple thing, washing someone's hair, but the intimacy of it struck him with unexpected force. This was something different from sex, something that spoke of care rather than desire, of tenderness rather than passion. Ilya's eyes closed under his ministrations, a small sigh escaping his lips as Shane's fingers worked through a particularly tight spot at the base of his skull.

"Good?" Shane asked softly, the first word either of them had spoken since entering the apartment.

Ilya hummed in response, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Perfect," he murmured, eyes still closed.

Shane guided him under the spray to rinse, watching as the soap slid away, leaving Ilya's curls darker and sleeker against his head. There was something profoundly intimate about caring for someone this way, a level of trust that went beyond what they'd shared in Carter's bedroom. That had been heat and need and the thrill of forbidden connection. This was something quieter, deeper, more fragile.

When the water finally ran clear, Ilya opened his eyes, meeting Shane's gaze with an openness that made Shane's breath catch. Without speaking, Ilya reached for the body wash, but Shane shook his head gently. This wasn't about escalation or renewed desire. It was about being together, about finding their way to a deeper kind of intimacy than they'd known before.

They finished washing separately, efficient but unhurried, comfortable in the shared space and silence. When Shane finally turned off the water, the absence of its steady patter left them in a hush broken only by the soft drip from the showerhead and their own breathing.

Ilya stepped out first, reaching for one of the thick towels hanging nearby. He handed one to Shane before taking another for himself. They dried off without speaking, occasional glances communicating more than words could. The bathroom mirror had fogged over completely, turning their reflections into soft-edged ghosts of themselves.

Shane led the way to the bedroom, flicking on the bedside lamp that cast a warm glow across the space. The sheets were still rumpled from this morning when Ilya had helped him prepare for his exam, a lifetime ago, it seemed. Shane pulled them back further, an invitation as clear as if he'd spoken it aloud.

They slid under the covers together, turning to face each other in the soft light. Ilya's hair was still damp, curling wildly around his face. Shane reached out to touch one spiral, winding it around his finger before letting it spring back. Ilya caught his hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss against Shane's palm, a gesture so tender that Shane felt his throat tighten with emotion.

"I like you," Ilya whispered into the quiet, the words simple but weighted with significance. His accent wrapped around them, making them sound both foreign and achingly sincere.

Shane felt heat rush to his cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the honesty of the moment. He shifted closer, tucking his head under Ilya's chin, finding the spot where he fit perfectly against Ilya's body. "I like you too," he whispered back, the words muffled against Ilya's skin but no less true for it.

Ilya's arms tightened around him, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Shane closed his eyes, listening to the steady beat of Ilya's heart beneath his ear, letting it lull him toward sleep. Whatever tomorrow would bring, whatever complications waited for them beyond this room, could wait. For now, this was enough: the quiet admission that something important had shifted between them, transforming into something neither of them had expected but both, it seemed, had wanted for longer than they'd been willing to admit.

Winter sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, painting a narrow stripe of gold across the rumpled sheets. Shane drifted toward consciousness slowly, his body heavy with the pleasant exhaustion that followed good sex and deep sleep. He became aware of the warmth beside him first, then the steady rhythm of breath that wasn't his own. Opening his eyes, he found Ilya watching him, head propped on one hand, gaze soft with something Shane wasn't ready to name yet. Morning had transformed the sharp edges of Ilya's features into something gentler, his usual intensity muted by the quiet intimacy of waking up together.

"How long have you been awake?" Shane asked, voice rough with sleep.

Ilya's lips curved into a small smile. "Not long. Few minutes." His finger traced an idle pattern on Shane's bare shoulder, following the faint marks he'd left the night before. "You are very peaceful when you sleep. Like little kitten."

Shane felt the observation land somewhere deep in his chest, a recognition so accurate it almost hurt. He was always carrying something, attention to detail, self-awareness, the need to get things right. But sleep stripped that away, leaving only the unguarded self he rarely showed anyone.

Except now Ilya had seen it. Was seeing him, in ways Shane hadn't allowed before.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, he found himself shifting closer, drawn to the warmth of Ilya's body beneath the sheets. Their legs tangled together, familiar now after a night spent wrapped around each other. Outside, Boston continued its morning routine, distant church bells, the occasional car passing, the neighbor's dog barking at squirrels in the courtyard. But in here, time felt suspended, the world reduced to this bed, this room, this man.

"What time is your flight tomorrow?" Shane asked finally, the question breaking the peaceful silence between them.

"Early. Six in morning." Ilya's hand settled at Shane's waist, thumb stroking idly over his hipbone. "Long flight to Moscow."

Shane nodded, calculating the hours in his head. "Two weeks?"

"Sixteen days," Ilya corrected, the precision telling Shane he'd counted too. "Back on fifth of January."

The number hung between them, suddenly heavy with meaning. Sixteen days without this, without waking to Ilya's warmth, without the quiet understanding that had grown between them, without the freedom to reach out and touch whenever he wanted. Sixteen days of returning to their separate spheres, Shane to his family in Ottawa, Ilya to whatever waited for him in Russia.

"Will be strange," Ilya continued, his voice thoughtful. "Not seeing you for so long."

Shane swallowed against the unexpected tightness in his throat. "Yeah. It will be."

He kept his eyes on the ceiling, suddenly aware of his own heartbeat. Outside, a car passed. Inside, Ilya's thumb continued its idle movement against his hip, patient in the way he always was when he knew something was coming.

"Last night was…" Shane started, then stopped. Tried again. "I liked it. Last night."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes. College party was fun. Did not know you could enjoy yourself in room full of stupid Americans."

Shane laughed, the tension cracking open. "Yeah. That too." He turned his head on the pillow to look at Ilya. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" Ilya's expression was perfectly innocent. "The dancing, then. You have some moves, Hollander. Very impressive."

"Ilya."

"What." The word flat, those dark eyes giving nothing, but the corner of his mouth threatening to.

Shane held his gaze, feeling the smile break across his own face despite himself, and watched Ilya's composure slip just slightly in response, something warm surfacing beneath the deliberate blankness. They looked at each other for a long moment, the game settling into something quieter.

Then Shane dropped his voice, let it go soft.

"It felt really good," he said. "To feel you. Just you. Nothing between us.."

The teasing left Ilya's face completely. His eyes went dark, pupils blown wide, and the hand at Shane's hip stilled. He looked at Shane the way he sometimes did on the ice when the play had shifted somewhere unexpected, recalibrating, absorbing, entirely focused.

"Had you ever…" Shane started.

Ilya shook his head slowly. Didn't look away.

Shane felt that land in his sternum, spread outward. "Never?"

Another slow shake. And then Ilya closed the distance between them, his mouth hovering just at Shane's lips, breath warm, not quite kissing him yet.

"Never wanted to be that close to anyone before," he murmured, the words pressed directly against Shane's mouth. "Did not trust anyone that much."

He kissed him then. Deep and unhurried, the kind of kiss that had nowhere to be, one hand coming up to cup Shane's jaw like something he intended to keep. Shane felt himself go boneless with it, fingers curling into the sheets, the morning light warm across them both.

When they finally broke apart, Shane's heart was doing something embarrassing in his chest.

They lay in silence for a few moments longer, neither willing to break the fragile bubble of morning intimacy. Eventually, Shane's stomach grumbled audibly, making Ilya laugh.

"Come," he said, pushing back the covers. "I make breakfast again."

They padded to the kitchen together, Shane pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt, Ilya wearing only his boxers as if completely at home in Shane's space. While Ilya rummaged through the refrigerator, Shane started the coffee, the familiar ritual grounding him in the normalcy of the moment despite everything that had shifted between them.

As the coffee brewed, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma, Shane leaned against the counter watching Ilya crack eggs into a bowl. There was something surreal about the domesticity of it, Ilya Rozanov, star NHL center and international playboy, making breakfast in Shane's kitchen as if he belonged there. As if this was just another morning rather than a significant departure from everything their relationship had been before.

"I'll miss this," Shane said quietly, surprising himself with the admission.

Ilya looked up, something vulnerable flashing across his face before his expression settled into careful neutrality. "This?"

"You. In my space." Shane gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is that we're doing."

Ilya set down the whisk he'd been using, giving Shane his full attention. The moment stretched between them, heavy with potential. Shane could feel his heart pounding against his ribs, adrenaline flooding his system as if he were about to step onto the ice for a championship game.

"What do you think we are doing, Shane?" Ilya asked finally, his voice gentle but serious. No deflection, no teasing, just an honest question that deserved an honest answer.

Shane took a deep breath. "I don't know. That's... that's what I'm asking you, I guess."

Ilya nodded slowly, considering. He moved closer, until he was standing directly in front of Shane, close enough to touch but maintaining a small distance between them. His eyes, always so expressive, held nothing but openness now, no guardedness, no calculation.

"I think," he began carefully, "I am falling in love with you. No, that is not right." He shook his head, frustration briefly crossing his features at the limitation of language. "I think I already fell. Long time ago, maybe. But now I know it. Now I feel it everywhere."

The words hit Shane with physical force, stealing his breath. Ilya continued, his voice growing more certain with each word.

"I want to come back to Boston not just because my team is here. I come back because you are here. I want you to tell me about your classes, your friends, what books you read. I want to hear you talk about things that make you excited, even when I don't understand completely because they are so boring," He smiled slightly. "I want to learn how to make you happy, and be there when you are sad. I want all of it. Not just sex, not just secret moments. Everything."

He reached out, his hand gentle against Shane's cheek. "Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane. I want you. I love you. Is simple."

Shane stood frozen, overwhelmed by the confession. He had expected many things from Ilya, deflection, perhaps, or a careful negotiation of boundaries. Not this openness, this complete vulnerability. For a man who lived behind carefully constructed walls, who measured every word for potential consequences, Ilya's confession was a gift Shane wasn't sure he deserved.

But looking into Ilya's eyes, seeing the quiet certainty there, Shane felt his own walls crumbling. The truth rose in him like a tide, unstoppable and clarifying.

"I love you so much, Ilya," he whispered, the words easier to say than he'd expected. "I think I have for a while. I just didn't know what to do with it."

Relief and joy transformed Ilya's face. He closed the remaining distance between them, pulling Shane into an embrace that felt like coming home. Shane buried his face against Ilya's neck, breathing in his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

"We figure it out together, Da?" Ilya murmured against Shane's hair. "Day by day. No rush."

Shane nodded, then lifted his head to meet Ilya's gaze. "Kiss me," he said simply.

Ilya did, a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, fueled by the new understanding between them. Shane's hands slid up Ilya's bare back, feeling the play of muscle beneath warm skin. Ilya pressed him against the counter, his body firm and insistent against Shane's.

They moved together with growing urgency, the slow burn of desire building into something more demanding. Ilya's hands found their way under Shane's t-shirt, pushing it up and over his head in one fluid motion. Their lips separated only long enough for the fabric to pass between them before coming together again, hungry and certain.

"Bedroom," Shane gasped as Ilya's mouth moved to his neck, finding the sensitive spot beneath his ear that made his knees weak.

Ilya hummed agreement, but neither of them moved immediately, too caught up in the pleasure of touch and taste and closeness. When they finally did make their way back to the bedroom, it was with stumbling steps and breathless laughter, unwilling to break contact even to navigate the short distance.

This time, when they came together, it was different from the desperate coupling at the party or the many encounters that had preceded it. There was a new layer of meaning to every touch, every kiss. Ilya took his time, worshipping Shane's body with hands and mouth, whispering words in Russian that Shane couldn't understand but felt in the gentle press of fingers, the burning brush of lips.

"What are you saying?" Shane asked as Ilya moved above him, their bodies joined in the most intimate way possible. "All those Russian words?"

Ilya smiled, slowing his movements to a gentle rock that made Shane gasp. "I say you are beautiful. I say you are mine. I say I want to wake up to your face every morning." He pressed a kiss to Shane's forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "I say things I am not brave enough to say in English yet."

Shane wrapped his arms tighter around Ilya, pulling him closer, deeper. "Say them again," he urged. "I want to learn them."

As they moved together toward release, Ilya whispered the words against Shane's skin, teaching him with repetition and rhythm. "Moya lyubov. My love. Moya zvezda. My star."

When they finally came together, it was with these words between them, a new language of belonging that transcended the physical act. They lay tangled afterward, sweat cooling on their skin, hearts gradually slowing to matched beats.

"Sixteen days," Shane said eventually, his finger tracing the line of Ilya's collarbone. "It's not that long."

"No," Ilya agreed, capturing Shane's hand to press a kiss against his fingers. "And then we have time during the season."

Shane nodded, settling more comfortably against Ilya's side. Outside, snow had begun to fall, soft flakes drifting past the window to gather on the sill. In a few hours, they would need to face the world again, calls to make, bags to pack, separate journeys to prepare for. But for now, they had this: quiet understanding, shared warmth, and the certainty that what they'd found in each other was worth protecting, worth nurturing, worth returning to.

As Ilya's arms tightened around him, Shane closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of this moment, not as an ending, but as a beginning. Something to carry with him through the sixteen days apart, something to build upon when they returned to each other, changed perhaps, but fundamentally the same in all the ways that mattered.

Shane's stomach grumbled then and Ilya smiled down at him.

“Let’s go finish those eggs, moy lyubov.” softly said, standing up and pulling Shane with him.

They walked hand in hand out of the bedroom, towards the kitchen where an half-cooked breakfast still sit on the stove. They both hoped in their hearts this was one of many breakfasts to come.

Chapter End Notes

This is where originally I intended to end the story. But then I got some more ideas and was not ready to let this Shane and Ilya go, so... yeah you will see with the next updates Thanks for reading. See ya next time.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Well this update was quick. A shorter chapter, just to keep you happy while the rest of the story comes.

And yes, you are seeing correctly, the chapters count is up, one more added.

Thank you so much for the huge support received, I am really speechless (well obviously not, as I have enough words to write this) and I am so happy lots of people are connecting to this version of Shane and Ilya.

I hope you like this chapter, and have a wonderful weekend. Cannot wait to read your reactions, especially to some stuff said in this chapter. ✨️💛

Shane’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, pulling him from sleep. He fumbled for it in the darkness of his childhood bedroom, squinting at the sudden brightness of the screen. 1:17 AM. A text from Ilya, sent from seven time zones away where morning had already broken over Moscow. His heart quickened as he swiped to open it, the blue light illuminating his face in the quiet Ottawa night.

Morning from Russia. Thought of you when I saw this.

Attached was a photo of a sunrise over snow-covered rooftops, the sky painted in shades of pink and orange that reminded Shane of the blush that had spread across Ilya’s chest the last time they’d been together. Sixteen days apart. They were only on day four.

Shane typed back, his thumbs hesitating over the screen. That’s beautiful. But it’s 1 AM here, you know.

The response came almost immediately: I know. Did I wake you? Sorry not sorry.

You are the worst, Shane typed back.

Yes. But you are smiling right now.

Shane glanced around his dark bedroom as if someone might catch him....Shut up.

Ha. Knew it.

Shane smiled in the darkness, settling back against his pillows. It’s fine. Can’t sleep anyway. How’s Moscow?

Cold. Family is the same. Polina asks why I smile at phone all the time.

Something warm unfurled in Shane’s chest at the thought of Ilya smiling at their messages, sitting in some Moscow apartment with family around him, yet still thinking of Shane. He hesitated, then typed:
What do you tell her?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Shane held his breath.

That I have a friend in America who makes me happy.

Friend. The word should have disappointed him, but somehow it didn’t. There was something in the phrasing “makes me happy” that felt more significant than any label.

You make me happy too, Shane replied before he could overthink it.

He fell asleep with the phone still in his hand, waking hours later to find two more messages from Ilya, a simple heart emoji, followed by: Sleep well, Hollander. Talk tomorrow.

Days in Ottawa blurred together, family dinners, board games, quiet conversations with his parents about school and his future. Shane moved through it all with practiced ease, present yet partially elsewhere, his attention repeatedly drawn to the device in his pocket. He took to keeping his phone on silent, not wanting to explain the frequent messages or the way his expression changed whenever Ilya’s name appeared on the screen.

“Who are you texting?” his mother asked on the sixth day, eyebrow raised as Shane checked his phone for the fifth time during breakfast.

“Just a friend from Uni,” he replied, hoping the heat he felt in his face wasn’t visible.

"Must be quite a friend,” she said, a knowing edge to her voice that made Shane wonder if she suspected more.

Later that night, safely alone in his room, Shane’s phone lit up with another message.

Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.

Shane stared at the text, heart racing. This was different from their usual exchanges, deeper, more deliberate. He typed and deleted three responses before settling on something true, though not the truest thing, not yet.

Okay this is weird.
I plan everything. Like, every decision I have to make, I'll run through five or six different outcomes in my head first. Every conversation. Every possible version of how something could go.

That sounds exhausting.

It is, sometimes. Honestly, yes.

A pause. Then Ilya replied: So what were the other plans? When you came to tell me I was awesome player to watch. What were the other five outcomes?

Shane laughed quietly into his pillow. Leave it to Ilya to find that thread and pull it.

Plan A was say nothing and die a little inside.
Plan B was some generic chirp so it looked casual.
Plan C was compliment the game and immediately walk away before you could respond.

Shane.

Yeah?

You are stalling.

I had six plans. And then I saw you and I didn't use any of them.

No?

You're kind of the exception. With you it's like… if I stop to plan, I'll overthink it and then I won't do anything at all. So I just… didn't. I just walked up to you.

The three dots pulsed for a long moment.

I am glad you did.

Me too, Shane typed. Then, feeling the shift in his chest, the small courage the darkness gave him: Your turn at honesty. Tell me something you've never told me.

Another pause, longer this time. Shane watched the screen, waiting.

I think about you all the time. Not only since Toronto. All the time. Since draft day. Maybe before.

Shane's breath caught. Years. Ilya had been thinking about him for years. Before they'd ever touched, before they'd acknowledged the current that ran between them. The admission warmed Shane's chest, releasing a flood of longing he'd been carefully containing.

I wish you were here, he wrote, emboldened.

What would you do if I was?

Shane hesitated only briefly. He was too honest, he knew that about himself, too literal, too sincere to be smooth about this. So he didn't try to be.

I'd want your weight on top of me, he typed, and then kept going because stopping felt worse than continuing.

Like last time, when you had me pinned and I could feel how hard you were against me and I didn't want you to move. Ever. And I want your mouth on my neck again. I think about that more than I should.

He pressed send. His hands were trembling slightly.

The response took longer this time. Shane pictured Ilya reading the message somewhere in that Moscow apartment, maybe stepping away from his family to read it twice, and felt a thrill of satisfaction at the thought of surprising him.

Fuck, Shane. Where did you learn to text like that?

Shane giggled into the darkness. I'm a fast learner.

You kill me. But please, continue education.

Boston greeted Shane with bitter cold and an empty apartment that felt too quiet after the constant background noise of his family home. He dropped his bag by the door, surveying the familiar space now filled with memories of Ilya, Ilya making breakfast in the kitchen, Ilya studying with him at the table, Ilya pressing him against the door frame with hungry kisses.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. You home?

Just got in, Shane replied. Place feels cold.

Show me?

Shane snapped a photo of the living room, late afternoon light casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. He sent it without thinking, then received one in return, Ilya’s gear bag open on his childhood bed, a glimpse of his bare shoulder in the edge of the frame.

It became a ritual over the next few days, these visual glimpses into each other’s lives. Shane sent photos of his newly organized bookshelf, his morning coffee, the view from his favorite study spot in the library. Ilya responded with snapshots from the Russian arena ceilings, post-game meals, gyms that all looked the same except for the small details Ilya pointed out in his captions.

None of the images were particularly remarkable on their own. It was the act of sharing them that mattered, these small windows into ordinary moments, chosen specifically because the other wasn’t there to witness them firsthand.

“Can’t sleep,” said Ilya’s voice, rough with exhaustion and slightly distorted through the phone’s speakers. “Game with Russian team was shit. Coach yelled for twenty minutes after.”

Shane pressed the phone closer to his ear, eyes closed in the darkness of his bedroom. It was their first voice call since separating, Ilya having sent a text asking if he could call instead of type. It was nearly 8PM in Boston, which meant it was even later where Ilya was.

“How is that winger you told me about? Nikita?” Shane said quietly. “Still pissing you off?”

“Fuck that guy,” Ilya muttered, and Shane could picture him scowling, probably with an ice pack on some newly acquired bruise. “Not why I call though. Just... wanted to hear your voice.”

The admission, so simple and unguarded, made Shane’s chest tighten. “I’m glad you did.”

“Tell me about your day,” Ilya said, the request almost shy. “Want to think about something boring.”

So Shane did, detailing his return to campus, his conversation with Vale, the book he’d started reading. Nothing significant, just the mundane fabric of his life. But Ilya listened, asking questions, laughing softly at Shane’s dry observations, making the distance between them feel momentarily less vast.

When Ilya’s responses grew shorter, his voice heavier with approaching sleep, Shane said gently, “You should rest.”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed. “But I like this. Talking to you before sleep.”

“We can do it again tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Promise.”

After they hung up, Shane found himself scrolling back through weeks of text messages, rereading conversations, smiling at inside jokes that had developed between them. He paused on a photo Ilya had sent days earlier, not of a place or an object, but of himself, hair sleep-mussed, eyes soft in the morning light, a rare unguarded moment captured in pixels

Shane stared at it, feeling something fundamental shifting within him. This wasn’t just attraction anymore, or even the tentative love they‘d confessed before parting. This was becoming woven into the fabric of his days, essential rather than supplementary. The thought should have terrified him, Shane Hollander, who planned everything, who kept his emotions carefully contained, who never risked without calculating the odds.

Instead, he found himself typing one last message: Four more days. I’ve never wanted anything more than to see you again.

Ilya’s response came as Shane was heading to the shower: Four days. Then I never let you go again.

In the quietness of his bathroom Shane smiled, hugging his phone against his chest like the promise it contained. Whatever they were building, across time zones, through screens, despite distance,it was real. And it was his.

Vale sprawled across Shane’s sectional like he owned it, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other stretched toward the coffee table where his anthropology textbook lay abandoned. His hair, newly dyed a soft lilac that caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows, fell across his eyes as he watched Shane check his phone for what must have been the tenth time in fifteen minutes. Shane’s attempt to be subtle, a quick glance down, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he forced his attention back to his notes, was about as successful as a rookie trying to hide a penalty from the refs.

“That’s it,” Vale announced, sitting up with theatrical suddenness. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Shane looked up, his pencil poised mid-sentence over his economics problem set. “What?”

“You. Your face. The whole...” Vale gestured vaguely toward Shane’s phone. “Secret smile thing you’ve got happening. It’s distracting me from the fascinating world of post-colonial economic structures.”

Shane felt heat creep up his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Vale arched an eyebrow, his expression a perfect blend of amusement and skepticism. “So you haven‘t been checking your phone every three minutes and smiling like you’ve just scored in overtime?”

“I‘m not—“

As if on cue, Shane’s phone vibrated against the table. His eyes flickered down automatically, and he couldn’t stop the small smile that formed when he saw Ilya’s name on the screen.

“Oh my God,” Vale said, dropping his head back against the couch cushions. “You are absolutely gone for him. It’s adorable and nauseating.”

Shane considered denial for approximately two seconds before surrendering to Vale‘s uncanny perception. “Am I that obvious?”

“Babe, subtlety has never been your strong suit. You wear every emotion on your face.” Vale’s tone softened. “But this is different. This is like... watching someone discover electricity.”

Shane looked down at his phone, Ilya’s message still unread. A mixture of embarrassment and something warmer flooded through him. “It‘s just... I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With Rozanov?” Vale sat up properly now, all traces of teasing gone from his expression. “How long has this been going on?”

Shane hesitated, mentally calculating. “Officially? Since right before break. Unofficially? Since... ” He trailed off, uncertain how to quantify the years of tension, the heated glances across rinks, the rivalry that had always been charged with something else.

“Since forever,” Vale supplied, nodding as if this confirmed a long-held theory. “I knew it. I absolutely knew it.”

“What? How?”

Vale snorted. “Please. The way you two looked at each other when he showed up at your building that night? I thought you might actually catch fire.”

Shane felt his blush deepen. “We were just—“

“Shane,” Vale interrupted gently. “It’s me. You don’t have to hide.”

Something loosened in Shane’s chest at those words, a tight knot of discretion and caution that had been there so long he’d stopped noticing its weight. He looked at Vale, at the open acceptance in his friend’s eyes, and felt the words begin to spill out.

“I’m in love with him,” he said, the admission rushing out like water through a broken dam. “Like, completely gone and in love. And it terrifies me because I don’t know what we are. We‘re something, but we haven’t put a name to it. I don’t know if I can call him my boyfriend or if that’s too simple or too complicated or…"

He stopped, realizing he was rambling in a way that felt entirely foreign. Shane Hollander didn’t ramble. He didn’t gush. He measured his words, considered their impact, delivered them with precision.

But Vale was grinning at him, delight clear in his expression. “Oh my God, look at you. Shane Hollander, completely undone by Ilya Rozanov. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“No, no, please continue,” Vale insisted, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged on the couch. “I want to hear everything. When did this turn from casual fucking to love? Was there a specific moment? Did he say it first? Is he good in bed? He looks like he’s good in bed.”

“Vale!”

“What? It’s a valid question! The man exudes sexual energy. I’m just curious if he lives up to the hype.”

Shane covered his face with his hands, equal parts mortified and somehow relieved. He’d never had this, a friend who wanted to hear about his romantic life, who saw this part of him as normal and worth celebrating rather than something to hide or downplay.

“He’s...” Shane began, then stopped, searching for words. “It’s different with him. It’s not just... I mean, it’s more than that. When I’m with him, I feel...”

“Present?” Vale offered softly.

Shane looked up, surprised by Vale’s insight. “Yeah. Exactly. Present in a way I’ve never been before. With anyone. Like every part of me is engaged, not just my body.”

Vale nodded, his expression suddenly serious. “I get that. I had something like it once, with this artist I met in Barcelona. Not the same, obviously, we only had two weeks, but I remember thinking afterward that it was the first time I’d ever felt completely locked in the moment during sex. Usually I’m half planning my next move or thinking about how I must look.”

“Yes,” Shane said, relief flooding through him at being understood. “That’s it exactly. With Ilya, I’m not thinking about anything else. I’m just... right there with him.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the afternoon light shifting across the hardwood floor as clouds passed overhead. Shane’s phone buzzed again, but this time he let it be, allowing the conversation with Vale to unfold without interruption.

“So you haven‘t defined what you are?” Vale asked eventually, his tone curious but not judgmental.

Shane shook his head. “We said we love each other before he left for Russia. But we haven’t talked about labels or... what it means for the future.”

“Are you exclusive?”

“I think so. I haven’t been with anyone else since July. And he said… “ Shane broke off, suddenly self-conscious about revealing Ilya’s private confession.

“Said what?” Vale prodded gently.

“He said he hasn’t been with anyone else since I moved to Boston.”

Vale’s eyes widened. “Five months? Ilya Rozanov has been celibate for five months except for you?”

Put that way, it did sound significant. Shane nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh honey,” Vale said, reaching out to squeeze Shane’s knee. “That man is absolutely yours. Completely. Body, heart, curls, and all.”

Shane laughed, the sound lighter than he’d expected. “Maybe. I just... I want to know what we’re doing. What to call it. What it means.”

“So ask him,” Vale said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. And maybe it was. Maybe the complexity was all in Shane’s head, years of careful evasion, of keeping his feelings contained, of measuring every word for potential consequences.

“I will,” Shane decided aloud. “Tonight. I’ll call him after his game.”

Vale grinned, reaching for his abandoned textbook. “Good. And I expect full details tomorrow.” He paused, expression turning serious. “For what it’s worth, Shane, I’m really happy for you. You deserve this. All of it.”

Something warm and solid settled in Shane’s chest at those words, the simple affirmation from a friend who saw him clearly, who knew him as more than just a hockey prodigy or an academic overachiever. Vale knew him as Shane, with all his complexities and contradictions, and still believed he deserved love.

“Thanks, V,” he said quietly. “i am glad I can talk to you about this.”

Vale nodded, then his smile turned mischievous. “Now, back to the important question you’ve been avoiding: on a scale from one to ‘I am ruined for everyone else,’ how good is Ilya Rozanov in bed?”

Shane threw a pillow at him, laughing despite the heat in his cheeks. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Vale replied, catching the pillow easily. “You love me for giving you permission to gush about your hot Russian boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Shane corrected automatically, then stopped. “Not yet, anyway.”

Vale just smiled, knowingly. “We’ll see about that.”

Shane adjusted his pillow against the headboard, the pages of his book illuminated by the warm glow of his bedside lamp. Outside, Boston had settled into the quiet rhythm of a winter night, occasional cars passing, distant sirens, the soft hum of the heating system pushing back against the cold. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but his attention kept drifting to it, anticipation humming beneath his skin. Ilya’s game would be over by now. The Bears had played New York, a game that Shane had followed via score updates rather than watching live. He’d been too restless to concentrate on the broadcast, his desire to see Ilya after being separated for the holidays was too much to handle. Ilya went straight to New York from Moscow, and Shane felt totally normal about being in the same country as Ilya again. Totally normal.

When the phone finally lit up with Ilya’s call, Shane’s heart jumped despite himself. He marked his place in the book and set it aside, taking a breath before answering.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Hollander.” Ilya’s voice was rough with fatigue but warm, the single word somehow conveying both exhaustion and pleasure. “You watch game?”

“Just the highlights,” Shane admitted. “But I saw that goal in the second period. That was incredible.”

Ilya made a dismissive noise. “Was lucky bounce. Defense fucked up, I'm just there to collect garbage.”

“That’s not how it looked to me,” Shane said, settling back against his pillows, phone pressed to his ear. “That backhand was perfect.”

“You say this because you have a weak backhand,” Ilya replied, and Shane could hear the smile in his voice. “But I accept compliment from Harvard hockey star.”

Shane laughed softly. The easy back-and-forth between them felt comfortable now, familiar in a way that still surprised him sometimes. There had been a time when conversations with Ilya had felt like skating on thin ice, never sure when the surface might crack beneath him.

“How‘s New York?” he asked.

“Cold. Boring. Hotel room looks exactly like any othet hotel room.” Ilya yawned audibly. “Better if you were here.”

“You’d still be bored,” Shane pointed out. “Just not alone.”

“Not bored with you, Shane. You are boring but I am never bored with you.”

The simple sincerity in Ilya’s voice made something warm unfurl in Shane’s chest. He closed his eyes, picturing Ilya in some generic hotel room, sprawled across a king-sized bed, phone pressed to his ear, perhaps still in his suit from the post-game interviews or maybe already changed into the soft t-shirt and sweatpants he preferred for sleeping.

“I talked to Vale today,” Shane said after a moment of comfortable silence.

“What hair color does he have now? Still trying to get that petition passed?”

Shane smiled at the description. “His hair is purple now. Lilac, actually. And yes, more or less.”

“What did you talk about?” Ilya asked, his tone casual but interested.

Shane hesitated, gathering his courage. “You, actually.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Me? What about me?”

“About us,” Shane clarified, his heart rate picking up. “I told him about us.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, surprise evident in his voice. “What you tell him exactly?”

“That we’re... you know. That it’s serious.” Shane took a breath. “That I’m in love with you.”

Ilya made a soft sound, something between a sigh and a word Shane couldn‘t quite catch. “And what did Vale say to this news?”

“He said he already knew. Or suspected, anyway. He was happy for me. For us.”

“Vale is good friend for you,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “Smart. Sees things clearly.”

“He is,” Shane agreed. “It felt good to talk about it. About us.” He paused, then added, more quietly, “I’ve never done that before. Talked to a friend about someone I’m... involved with.”

“And what did you call this ‘involved with’?” Ilya asked, his voice careful now, measured in a way that made Shane’s nerves tighten. “When you talk to Vale.”

The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Shane swallowed, remembering Vale’s advice: Just ask him.

“That’s the thing,” he said finally. “I wasn’t sure what to call it. What we are. I mean, I know how I feel about you. I know what I want. But we haven’t really... defined anything.”

Silence stretched across the line, long enough that Shane checked his phone to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. “Ilya?”

“I’m here,” Ilya said, his voice suddenly small, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I just... I thought we already decide this. Before I leave for Russia, we say we love each other. I think this means we are together. Exclusive.”

There was something in his tone, a thread of uncertainty, maybe even hurt, that made Shane’s chest ache. “We are,” he said quickly. “At least, I want us to be.”

“Then why you ask what we are?” Ilya’s voice had an edge now, tinged with what sounded almost like fear. “Did something happen while I was in Russia? Someone else?”

“What? No,” Shane said, sitting up straighter, suddenly understanding the misunderstanding. “God, no, Ilya. There’s no one else. There hasn’t been anyone else since July. You know that.”

A slow exhale on the other end of the line. “Then why question now?”

Shane closed his eyes, searching for the right words. “Because I want to be able to call you my boyfriend. I want to know that’s what we are. I want... clarity, I guess.”

Another silence, shorter this time. Then Ilya laughed, a soft, relieved sound that made the tension in Shane’s shoulders dissolve.

“Shane Hollander,” he said, his accent thickening with emotion, “of course I am your boyfriend. I thought this was obvious. I am your boyfriend, and you are mine. Only mine.”

The possessiveness in those last words sent a pleasant shiver down Shane’s spine. “I like the sound of that,” he admitted.

"Good," Ilya said firmly. "Because is true. Has been true since... I don't know when. Since a while, probably."

A beat passed. Then Ilya's voice shifted, lower, more deliberate.

"Shane. You know I fucked around a lot. This is not secret."

"I know," Shane said carefully.

"I went to their place, I fucked them, and I left. Sometimes before they even stopped shaking." A pause. "I never showered. Never stayed. I was already through the door before it was even over."

Shane didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He was thinking about their first time. The way everything had felt just right and too much and completely inevitable. He was thinking about after, when Ilya had padded into his bathroom without a worry and he'd heard the shower run. Shane had stayed there in his bed, half-convinced he'd imagined the whole thing, and then Ilya had come back. Sat on the edge of the bed. Pulled Shane against him for a few minutes that felt strange and familiar at the same time. And then when he'd finally left, he'd kissed Shane at the door. Slow. Sweet in a way that had no business being sweet. And Shane had sat there on the staircase long after the door had closed, holding himself like an idiot. An idiot in love.

Ilya's voice came through the phone, softer now. "You are thinking about it."

It wasn't a question.

"Maybe," Shane said.

"It was the first time." Ilya said. "I showered. I came back."

"Yeah."

"It was always different with you." He said it simply, like a fact he'd long since stopped arguing with. Then: "Wait." His tone changed. "July?"

Shane blinked. "What?"

"You said you haven't been with anyone since July. July, Shane." A pause. "Did you fuck someone else after Vegas?"

Shane felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck before he could stop it. Silence was apparently its own answer.

"You don't have to tell me," Ilya said quickly. "It doesn't matter. We were not, it doesn't matter."

But Shane could hear it. Underneath the careful words, the studied neutrality, the desperation to know. Ilya was terrible at pretending he didn't care about things.

Shane almost let it go.

"When I left Montreal," he started, "JJ and Hayden took me to Mexico for a week. Kind of a goodbye trip."

"Okay," Ilya said, very evenly.

"One night I was… I was really missing you. And I kept thinking that was it, you know? That I'd never get to…" He stopped. Started again. "I wasn't going to be in Montreal anymore. I wasn't going to see you at games. And I just thought, that was it, that was the last time, and I couldn't stand it." He exhaled. "So I told JJ and Hayden I was tired and I went to a bar by myself. And I met someone."

Silence.

"What happened?" Ilya asked. His voice was completely neutral, which meant nothing good.

"I went back to his place."

"And?"

Shane stared at the ceiling. "Something wasn't right."

There was a beat, brief, but loaded, and then Ilya said, very quietly: "Did he hurt you?"

"No," Shane said immediately. "No, nothing like that. He was…" He almost laughed, but it came out strange. "He was too nice, actually. In the way he moved and just, in general. And his smell was wrong. And his breath on my neck was annoying, and his voice, and his hands, everything was just…" He stopped. "I had to think about you the whole time. I couldn't stop. Because his voice was wrong and his hands were wrong and I just kept…" He swallowed. "I came thinking about you. About that time you told me you wanted to fuck me when Scott Hunter was next door. At the All-Stars game. The way you looked at me." He felt stripped bare saying it, but he kept going. "You wanted me, Ilya. I could tell."

The silence on the other end of the line was very full.

"Always," Ilya said finally. His voice was rough at the edges. "I don't remember what it is like. To live and not want you. I don't think I remember anymore."

Shane smiled into the darkness of his bedroom, a weight lifting that he hadn’t fully realized he’d been carrying. “So… Can I tell people that you’re my boyfriend?”

“You can tell whole world if you want,” Ilya said, then amended, “Well, maybe not journalists yet. But friends, yes. Family, if you want.”

“I mentioned Vale before. About him knowing,” Shane said, remembering the rest of their conversation. “He was really supportive.”

“I will send him gift,” Ilya declared. “I know a thing he would like.”

Shane laughed. “You don’t need to send him anything.”

“I do,” Ilya insisted. “He is important to you, so he is important to me now. Is how this works, boyfriends.”

The word sent a warm glow through Shane’s chest. “I like when you say that.”

“Boyfriend,” Ilya repeated, drawing out the syllables playfully. “My boyfriend, Shane Hollander. Sexy genius and sexy nerd student.”

“Says the man who carried Anna Karenina in his gear bag all through juniors,” Shane retorted, remembering the dog-eared paperback he’d once glimpsed in Ilya’s bag exiting the arena.

Ilya gasped in mock offense. “How you know this? You spying on me, Hollander?”

“Maybe I noticed things about you too,” Shane admitted. “Even back then.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled with the weight of shared history and newfound honesty.

“I should let you sleep,” Shane said eventually, noting the time on his bedside clock. “You have an early flight tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed, clearly fighting exhaustion now. “But I like talking to you. Like hearing your voice before sleep.”

“We can talk tomorrow,” Shane promised. “When you get back to Boston...”

“When I get back to Boston tomorrow,” Ilya continued, his voice dropping lower, “I show you exactly what good boyfriends do for each other after long separation.”

Heat bloomed in Shane’s cheeks. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“One more day,” Ilya murmured, echoing their earlier countdown. “Then I’m all yours.”

“You already are,” Shane said quietly. “Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, moy boyfriend,” Ilya replied, the Russian endearment flowing naturally into English in a way that felt perfectly them, a bridge between worlds, languages, identities.

After they hung up, Shane set his phone aside and switched off the lamp, settling into the darkness with a smile he couldn’t have suppressed if he’d tried. Boyfriend. Such a simple word for something that felt so monumental. But it was theirs now, claimed and confirmed, a foundation for whatever came next.

One more day, he thought as sleep began to claim him. Less than 24 hours until Ilya returned to Boston, until they could begin this new chapter properly, together. Shane drifted off with that thought warming him from within, more certain than he’d ever been that whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them as a unit. Together. As boyfriends.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Hellooo!!

What can I say more than thank you, more than you are all amazing and I am having so much fun here?? 🥹

Seriously, thanks to all of you reading and commenting. You are giving me so much energy to write. I had some rough couple of months back and this has improved my days in a way I did not think possible.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, the boys are back in the same city after the break!!

Just TW a slur is used by the end of the chapter.

Enjoy your reading ✨️💛

Shane’s fingers hovered over his phone screen, a message half-composed as Vale nudged him forward through the stream of fans flowing toward the arena entrance. The cold wind bit at his cheeks, but the nervousness fluttering in his stomach generated enough heat to make his palms sweat inside his gloves. Thirty minutes until puck drop. Thirty minutes until Ilya would glide onto the ice, unaware that Shane was here, about to watch him play in person for the first time since he left the NHL.

“Are you going to send that text or just stare at it until you wear a hole in your screen?” Vale asked, his lilac hair peeking out from beneath a black beanie. He bumped Shane’s shoulder, grinning. “He’ll be excited, you know.”

“I know.” Shane wasn‘t so sure. Pre-game routines were sacred, focus paramount. Texting Ilya now might throw him off, might be an unwelcome distraction. Or maybe, and this thought warmed him from within, maybe it would give Ilya something extra to play for tonight.

He finished typing: Ever think about inviting me to watch one of your games sometime? Casual. Almost offhand. As if he weren’t already standing outside the arena, tickets burning in his pocket.

The response came faster than he expected. Ilya must have been checking his phone one last time before final preparations.

Of course. Will get you proper tickets next time. Best seats. Not like regular people.

Shane smiled, feeling Vale peering over his shoulder. “He has no idea,” Vale whispered, delighted mischief in his voice.

Might be sooner than you think.Vale and I are actually outside the arena right now. Surprise?

Shane typed back, heart racing.

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, then reappeared. Shane could almost see Ilya’s face, the widening eyes, the surprised laugh, maybe even that rare, unguarded smile that appeared only in private moments.

WHAT?? You are here now?? For real?

The excitement was palpable even through text. Shane‘s chest tightened with a sudden rush of affection.

Section 114, row M. Not the best seats, but we‘ll be watching. Couldn't wait for after the game to see you.

Will look for you. Now I HAVE to play good. Have to score for my boyfriend.

The word still gave Shane that swooping sensation in his stomach, as if he‘d missed a step going downstairs. My boyfriend. So simple, so impossible, so theirs.

“Come on,” Vale said, tugging him toward the entrance. “I‘m freezing my ass off out here.”

Inside, the arena vibrated with pre-game energy, a mix of anticipation, beer, and bodies radiating heat. Shane had been in countless NHL arenas, but always as a player, insulated from the fan experience by the tunnel, the locker room, the structured routine of preparation. Now he was part of the crowd, anonymous in his dark coat and Harvard scarf, just another face among thousands.

Only he wasn’t, not really. His face had been on posters, trading cards, highlight reels. And as they settled into their seats, decent but not spectacular, Shane wondered how long his anonymity would last.

Not long, as it turned out.

They’d barely gotten comfortable, Vale chattering about the Bears‘ defensive pairings and how they matched up against Miami’s forwards, when the massive jumbotron flashed to life. The camera panned across the crowd, searching for interesting faces to display between warm-ups and opening ceremonies.

Shane saw himself on the screen a split second before the announcer’s voice boomed: “Ladies and gentlemen, look who’s in the house tonight! Former Montreal Voyageur and current Harvard Crimson, Shane Hollander!”

The reaction was immediate and predictable. Boos cascaded down from every section, the instinctive response to a rival team’s star player. Shane laughed, genuinely amused by the absurdity of it all. He was a spectator tonight, not an opponent, but tribal loyalties ran deep in hockey.

Vale, however, had other ideas.

“Watch this,” he murmured to Shane, then stood dramatically, shrugging off his heavy coat to reveal the bright yellow and black of a Bears jersey, not just any jersey, but Rozanov’s number 81.

Shane’s laughter doubled, genuine and unrestrained. The camera zoomed in tighter, capturing both his amusement and Vale’s theatrical reveal. The crowd’s response transformed in real time, boos melting into cheers and applause as they registered Vale’s attire. A chant began in their section and spread outward like ripples in a pond: “Ro-za-nov! Ro-za-nov!”

On the ice, players were still circling in warm-up patterns. But there, Shane spotted him immediately, impossible to miss even from this distance, Ilya looked up at the screen, recognition dawning as he saw Shane and Vale displayed for the entire arena. His smile was immediate, reported on the screen bright enough to be visible to everyone, a flash of white teeth and unguarded joy that made Shane’s heart stutter.

“Holy shit,” Vale said, dropping back into his seat. “He looks at you like you hung the fucking stars, Hollander.”

Shane couldn’t respond. His throat had closed around a sudden swell of emotion, gratitude, affection, the staggering realization that this was real, that Ilya was his, that they had somehow found their way to each other despite everything.

The game itself was a masterclass. Ilya played as if possessed, his usual fluid grace elevated to something transcendent. Every shift, he dominated the ice, setting up plays, creating chances, backchecking with furious dedication.

“He’s showing off for you,” Vale observed during the second period, eyes tracking Ilya’s movements. “I‘ve watched Bears games before. He‘s never played this beautifully.”

Shane nodded, not trusting his voice. He understood hockey in his bones, knew the difference between a player‘s ordinary excellence and those rare nights when everything aligned, when the game slowed down and possibilities opened up like flowers toward the sun. Ilya was having one of those nights.

The third goal, when it came, was inevitable as gravity. A Miami defenseman misplayed the puck at the blue line, and Ilya pounced, stealing it with a quick flick of his stick before accelerating toward the net. The goalie never had a chance. Ilya’s shot found the top corner with surgical precision, the red light flashing as the arena erupted in celebration.

And then, instead of the usual team huddle, Ilya skated toward center ice. He looked up, directly, Shane was certain, at their section, and pressed a gloved hand to his lips before extending it outward, a blown kiss that seemed aimed straight at Shane’s chest.

The crowd roared, interpreting it as playful taunting of Shane, the former rival in attendance. But Shane knew better. His heart seemed to stop, then restart with painful intensity. In that moment, surrounded by thousands, Ilya had sent him a private message, a declaration that required no translation.

“Well,” Vale said, nudging him with an elbow, “I guess we know who’s getting lucky tonight.”

Shane laughed, the sound slightly strangled, his eyes never leaving Ilya’s retreating form as he finally joined his teammates’ celebration. “Shut up,” he said without heat.

But Vale wasn’t wrong. The kiss may have looked like chirping to everyone else in the arena, but Shane recognized it for what it was: Ilya Rozanov, keeping a promise from a text sent twenty minutes before the game, scoring for his boyfriend, and making sure Shane knew exactly who the goal belonged to.

The security guard, all shoulders and serious eyes beneath a Bears cap, met them outside their section at the end of the match. He walked them through the heavy door that separated public spaces from players-only territory. Shane felt Vale’s excitement beside him, almost vibrating with contained energy, but his own anticipation ran deeper, quieter. This was Ilya’s domain, the backstage world where he existed as something more than a performance for fans. Shane had spent years in spaces like this, but never as someone’s guest. Never as someone’s boyfriend.

“Marlow arranged for you,” the guard explained, leading them down a corridor lined with team photos and trophy cases. “Said to bring you straight back.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, noting how different this felt from the Voyageurs’ facility, warmer somehow, less institutional despite the similar layout. The sounds of post-game activity grew louder with each step: equipment being packed away, voices raised in victory’s easy camaraderie, the percussive rhythm of tape being ripped from shin pads and sticks.

The corridor opened into a larger area where players mingled with staff, some still in partial gear, others already showered and changed. Shane spotted Ilya immediately, backed against the far wall, surrounded by reporters with mics and recorders thrust forward. Despite the press scrum, Ilya’s eyes found Shane’s within seconds, a quick flash of recognition and pleasure before he returned his attention to the question being asked.

“Holy shit,” Vale whispered, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “I’m literally standing in the Bears’ den right now.”

Shane laughed, feeling a strange confidence bloom inside him. This was familiar territory, even if his role was different. He knew this world, knew its rituals and rules, and somehow, having Vale beside him, someone who belonged entirely to his new life, made it easier to bridge the gap between his past and present.

“Come on,” he said, placing a guiding hand on Vale‘s shoulder. “I’ll introduce you to the people I know.”

He spotted a familiar face first, one of Ilya‘s linemates, a winger with a missing front tooth and an easy smile. “Hollander!” the player called out, extending a hand. “Killer game against Princeton before break. Five points, right?”

“Four goals, one assist,” Shane confirmed, shaking the offered hand before turning slightly. “This is Vale, my friend from Harvard. Vale, this is—“

“The Man with the Iron Hands, Curtis Jones,” Vale finished, naming the player’s well-earned nickname rather than his actual name. “That backhand sauce pass against Detroit last year? Chef‘s kiss.”

Jones laughed, delighted. “I like him,” he told Shane, then gestured to a group of teammates near the equipment room. “Let's meet the other boys. They’ve been dying to ask how Rozanov managed to befriend his arch-nemesis.”

Shane found himself at the center of a growing circle, fielding questions about Harvard, his classes, his return to the Crimson’s lineup. Where he might once have offered careful, measured responses, the media-trained minimalism that had been his default for years, he now found himself answering with unexpected ease and humor.

"Smartest people I've ever met in my life," he said. "Completely humiliating. One of my classmates is seventeen and already has a patent. I'm twenty-one and my biggest achievement this year was finally understanding what my own contract actually says," he explained to a rookie defenseman who’d asked about his classes. “I’m hoping to graduate before my agent realizes I can now change it, too.”

The laughter that followed surprised him, not because it was unwarranted, but because he hadn’t been trying for it. This new version of himself, the one that had emerged at Harvard, that had evolved alongside his relationship with Ilya, spoke more freely, inhabited his body more comfortably.

Cliff Marlow appeared at the edge of the group, beer already in hand despite the formal jacket he still wore. “So this is where the party started,” he said, nodding at Shane with something that looked like approval. “Glad you could make it, Hollander. Thought Roz was gonna cry if he had to wait until tomorrow to see you.”

Shane felt heat rise in his cheeks but didn’t drop his gaze. “Thanks for bringing us here. I have to be honest, I kinda missed the buzz behind the scenes.”

“I bet,” Cliff replied with a knowing lift of his eyebrows. “So, Harvard, huh? Always pictured you more as the ‘straight to management‘ type. What made you go academic instead?”

The question might once have felt like a trap, probing for weaknesses in his decisions. Now, Shane just shrugged, comfortable with the truth. “Needed to figure out what else I could do aside from hockey,” he said. “Turns out I’m pretty good at other things too.”

“Like keeping up with that one over there” Cliff said, turning his attention to Ilya who had a stern expression on his face while talking to the press. He was probably into a recall about power play strategies with his defensemen.

“I honestly feel it's the other way around,” Shane confessed, watching his boyfriend gesticulate wildly to emphasize some point about zone entries.

More teammates joined the conversation, drawn by Shane‘s unexpected charm, this wasn’t the reserved Shane Hollander they’d seen in post-game interviews or encountered across the faceoff dot. This Shane laughed easily, listened intently, offered sharp observations about their recent games that revealed both his hockey intelligence and his attention to the Bears‘ season specifically. To Ilya’s team specifically.

From across the room, Shane could feel Ilya watching. The press had thinned, but Ilya remained against the wall, answering one last question while his eyes tracked Shane’s animated conversation with his teammates. There was something possessive in that gaze, something proud and heated that made Shane’s skin tingle even from a distance.

When Ilya finally broke free, he crossed the space with determined strides, not bothering with subtlety. Before Shane could even turn fully to greet him, strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him into a tight embrace. Warm lips pressed against his cheek, lingering just a second too long to be strictly platonic.

“You're here,” Ilya murmured, his voice low against Shane’s ear. “Best surprise.”

Shane leaned back into the embrace, just for a moment, before Ilya released him and turned toward Vale, offering a half-hug and a wide smile.

“I see you liked my gift,” Ilya said, gesturing to the Rozanov jersey Vale still wore.

Shane blinked, surprised. “You sent him that?”

“Of course,” Ilya confirmed, looking pleased with himself. “I told you I was gonna give him something he liked.”

Vale straightened the jersey with theatrical dignity. “I think it’s a weird reverse psychology thing,” he announced to the now-silent group of players who watched this exchange with varying degrees of confusion and interest. “He thinks I might be too attached to Shane, so he sent me his jersey to distract me. Instead of pissing on his pole and marking the territory, he’s kissing the ass of the enemy.”

A beat of silence followed this assessment. Cliff snorted into his beer. Shane felt his face flame.

“Don’t worry,” Ilya replied smoothly, his hand settling on Shane’s shoulder, “if there’s any ass-kissing involved, Shane is the one getting it.” He punctuated this with a wink so exaggerated it could almost, almost, pass as locker room humor rather than… well, the truth.

The Bears erupted in laughter, a mixture of confusion for the double meaning and appreciation for the bravado, if not the full context. Shane caught Cliff looking between them with narrowed eyes, something like understanding dawning in his expression.

“We‘re heading to The Grand to celebrate,” Cliff said after the laughter died down. “You two should join. Unless Harvard has you on a strict curfew these days, Hollander?”

Vale shook his head before Shane could answer. “Early seminar tomorrow. I need at least four hours of sleep to properly dismantle capitalism.”

All eyes turned to Shane, who found himself looking at Ilya instead, a silent question passing between them. Ilya’s eyes darkened slightly in response, a nearly imperceptible nod confirming what Shane already knew, they’d go, but only after some time alone.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Shane said, still looking at Ilya. “But I need to change first. Not really club attire.” He gestured to his casual clothes.

“I’ll drive Hollander,” Ilya added smoothly. “Need to change too, not going to a club in sweatpants or a suit, are we?”

The practicality of the arrangement was so obvious that no one questioned it, though Shane caught the knowing twitch of Vale’s lips as they made their goodbyes. His friend’s parting whisper “Text me if you’re still alive tomorrow” confirmed that Vale understood exactly what would happen before any club was reached.

The city lights slid past the windows as Ilya navigated out of the arena's parking structure, and Shane let out a long breath, the noise and heat of the locker room falling away behind them.

"Sixteen days," Shane said.

"Sixteen," Ilya confirmed, eyes on the road. "I counted each one."

Shane turned to look at him, the familiar profile, the curl that had escaped at his temple, the way his jaw was still tight from the game. He looked tired. He looked good. He looked like something Shane had been hungry for in a way that had made the past two weeks feel slightly off-kilter, like a song playing in the wrong key.

"You were incredible tonight," Shane said. "That goal, Ilya, you said you'd score for me and you actually —"

"I told you," Ilya said, and Shane could hear the smile before he saw it. "I promised. I don't break promises."

"You tipped it in off your skate."

"A goal is a goal, Hollander."

"It absolutely counts," Shane said. "I'm just saying. You told me you'd score and then you did it by accident."

"On purpose," Ilya said serenely. "I meant to do with skate. Very advanced technique. Harvard wouldn't understand."

Shane laughed, and it felt easy, felt good, felt like something unknotting in his chest. "How are you? Actually?"

Ilya glanced at him briefly. "Better now."

"Yeah?"

"Much better." He said it simply, no performance in it. "I was… Russia was okay. But I kept thinking." He paused. "Is hard to explain."

"Try, take your time," Shane said.

Ilya drummed his fingers once on the steering wheel. "I kept thinking, I am here, in my country, with my family. But something was still wrong. Like when you have a song stuck in your head and you cannot remember the words at all. Missing a piece." He glanced over again. "You were the missing piece. This is embarrassing to say, but you asked."

Shane looked back out the window so Ilya wouldn't see his expression. "Not embarrassing."

"Little embarrassing."

"Do you want to just go home?" Shane asked. "We don't have to go out. You just played, your flight was delayed, you flew back right before the game."

"No, we can go," Ilya said.

"You sure?"

"I win all the time," Ilya said, with no particular modesty. "I don't need to go dancing to feel good about it. But it seems you want to go, and the boys want you to be there. So we go. Is easy."

"You're very generous."

"I know."

"That was sarcastic."

"I know," Ilya repeated, and Shane could hear the grin now, wide and real, and God, he had missed that too. Missed being the person who got to hear it up close.

They talked the rest of the way, about the game, about a terrible call in the second period that Ilya was still quietly furious about, about something Marlow had said in the locker room that had made the whole bench lose it during warmups. The fifteen minutes went fast in the way time only does when you're not watching it.

Then the streetlights changed and Shane recognized the neighbourhood, the wide quiet streets, the dark trees. Almost there.

Shane stared straight ahead. His heart was doing something embarrassing. He made himself say it.

"If we were already home," Shane said, "what would you do to me first?"

A beat.

"Take your jacket off," Ilya said. "Slowly. I have been thinking about your shoulders since you walked into that locker room."

Shane glanced at him. "My shoulders."

"You have very good shoulders, Shane. This has always been a problem for me." He said it like a personal grievance. "Then your shirt. And I would look at you for a while. Just look. I have not seen you in sixteen days. I want to look."

Shane swallowed.

"And then," Ilya continued, his tone unhurried, almost conversational, which was somehow worse, "I would put my mouth on your neck. Not kissing. Just, my mouth there. My teeth, a little. Until you make that sound."

"What sound."

Ilya glanced at him sideways. "You know what sound."

Shane's face was very warm. "And then?"

"And then I would take my time," Ilya said. "I have been wanting you for sixteen days. I am not rushing." He paused. "I would get on my knees."

The streetlight overhead turned amber.

"And I would take you apart," Ilya said quietly, "until you are holding onto my hair and you have forgotten every word you know in English and French. And then when you think it is over, " he let that sit for a second, “I start again."

Shane was looking very fixedly at the road ahead. "That's…"

"Yes?"

"That's… fucking hot."

"I will make you come three times. Under one hour." He said it like it was a logistics problem he had already solved. "Is not so much if you think about it correctly."

"That's insane."

"That is skill," Ilya said simply.

Shane pressed the back of his hand briefly against his mouth. Composed himself. The streetlights kept passing overhead.

"Okay," he said, after a moment.

"Okay," Ilya agreed pleasantly. "You? What do you want to do to me?"

"I want to bury my nose in your curls and just, smell you. That's the first thing."

"Very sexy," Ilya said gravely. "I am touched."

"Shut up, I'm being sincere."

"No, please, continue. You want to sniff me like dog. Go on."

"I will get out of this car right now."

"We are moving at seventy kilometres per hour."

"Worth it," Shane said, and Ilya laughed, a laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and the sound of it altered Shane's ability to think straight.

He watched Ilya's grip tighten slightly on the wheel as he continued. "I've been thinking about your hair since you left. That's not normal, I know that. But I would just…" he exhaled slowly, "Pull you down to me and keep you there. And I want your mouth to be rough. I don't want you to be careful with me."

"I won't be," Ilya said. Low. Simple.

"Good." Shane kept his eyes forward. "I want your hands everywhere first. I want to feel like you're trying to memorize me. And then I want your mouth to follow. All of it. Take your time, you said, I want that. I want you to take so long that I'm actually losing my mind before you even…" He stopped. Restarted. "I want to be desperate. I want to be embarrassingly desperate. And then I want to beg you and I want you to make me wait anyway, just a little, just enough, and then when you finally —"

"Shane."

"— when you finally fuck me," Shane finished, "I want it deep and I want it slow at first. So slow I can feel every single —"

"Shane." Ilya's voice had gone very rough around the edges.

"You asked," Shane said.

"I know I asked." A pause. The driveway was right there. "I deeply regret asking."

"No you don't."

When they finally pulled into Ilya's driveway, the engine had barely stopped before Ilya was turning to him, one hand cupping the back of Shane's neck, drawing him forward until their foreheads touched.

"Inside," Ilya murmured, the single word vibrating with intent. "Now."

The walk to the front door was a study in suspended desire, Ilya’s hand at the small of Shane’s back, Shane’s fingers brushing against Ilya’s as keys were retrieved, both of them leaning slightly into each other’s space, magnets held just shy of contact. The darkness of the January night wrapped around them, providing a momentary shield from the world beyond their shared gravity.

And then they were inside, door closing behind them with a soft click that seemed to sever whatever thread had been holding them back.

Ilya moved first, backing Shane against the nearest wall with careful force, hands framing his face, body pressing close. “Missed you so fucking much,” he breathed, the words ghosting across Shane’s lips a second before they were sealed beneath his own.

The kiss was electric, both familiar and new. Shane’s hands clutched at Ilya’s shoulders, fingers digging into muscle through the fabric of his suit jacket, body arching forward instinctively. Weeks of texts and calls and wanting crystallized into this moment, this mouth, these hands, this man who somehow made home feel like a person rather than a place.

“Bed,” Shane gasped when they broke for air, but Ilya shook his head, already working at Shane’s belt buckle.

“Can’t wait,” he said, voice rough with need. “Need you now, moy lyubov. Right here.”

They collided again, mouths hungry, hands urgent. Clothing became an obstacle to be conquered, Ilya’s tie discarded, Shane’s jumper pulled over his head, belts unbuckled and pants shoved down just enough. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t choreographed. It was desperation given physical form, the need to reconnect overwhelming any thought of patience or finesse. This was sixteen days collapsing into a single point, desire overriding every good intention they'd had on the drive over.

Ilya’s mouth traced a burning path along Shane’s jaw, down his throat, across his collarbone. Each press of lips, each brush of tongue felt like reclamation, like Ilya was marking his territory not with possession but with pleasure. Shane’s head fell back against the wall, a soft sound escaping him when Ilya’s teeth scraped gently against his pulse point.

“Been thinking about this,” Ilya murmured against his skin. “Every night. Thinking about your taste, your sounds.” He dropped to his knees in one fluid motion, looking up at Shane with eyes dark and intent. “Thinking about making you come apart for me.”

"I thought you were going to take your time," Shane managed breathlessly. "I thought you were going to… what happened to slow?"

"Slow is for later," Ilya said, with complete authority, and pressed his mouth to the inside of Shane's hip.

“God, look at you,” Ilya said, his accent thicker with arousal. “So hard for me already. So wet.” He leaned forward, breath hot against the thin fabric of Shane’s underwear. “Tell me what you want, Shane.”

“Suck me,” Shane managed, the words barely audible. “Please, Ilya.”

A slow smile spread across Ilya’s face, satisfaction and desire in equal measure. “Since you ask so nicely,” he said, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s briefs and pulling them down in one swift motion.

Shane's fingers found their way into Ilya's curls, and there it was, finally, exactly what he'd said in the car, the thing he'd been thinking about since the break, and he exhaled in a rush. "God. Your hair."

Ilya looked up at him. "I know," he said, insufferably, and then took him in without further preamble.

The first touch of Ilya’s mouth was almost too much, wet heat enveloping him without preamble, tongue flat against the underside, hands steady on his hips. Shane’s fingers into Ilya’s hair weren’t guiding, just connecting, needing the tactile reminder that this was real, that distance had been conquered, that they were together in the most intimate way possible.

Ilya took him deep, establishing a rhythm that made him desperate, he knew Shane’s body now, knew when to press forward, when to retreat, how to use his tongue to maximum effect. Shane watched, transfixed, as Ilya pleasured him with singular focus, those eyes still locked on his face, cataloging each reaction, each stuttered breath, each barely suppressed moan.

Shane’s breath caught as Ilya’s hands slid up his thighs, thumbs tracing the crease where leg met hip. The position should have made Ilya seem vulnerable, but there was nothing submissive in his posture, he knelt like a man devoted but commanding, entirely in control of the worship he offered.

Without breaking rhythm, Ilya’s right hand moved from Shane’s hip to his own pants, freeing himself with efficient movements. The sight of Ilya stroking himself while his mouth worked Shane’s cock sent a surge of heat through Shane’s veins, the physical manifestation of how much they wanted and needed each other.

“Fuck, that’s…“ Shane broke off, words failing as Ilya hollowed his cheeks, creating suction that made his vision blur at the edges. “I’m not going to last if you keep…“

Ilya hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks up Shane’s spine. He pulled off just long enough to say, “Don’t want you to last. Want to feel you come. Want to swallow you.”

Then he was taking Shane deep again, right hand working his own erection with increasing speed, left hand curving around to grip Shane’s ass, urging him forward into the wet heat of his mouth. The dual sensation of being consumed while watching Ilya chase his own pleasure pushed Shane toward the edge, pleasure building at the base of his spine, his thighs tensing with the effort of holding back.

“Ilya,” he gasped, a warning and a plea wrapped into one word. “I’m going to… that was so fast, I can't…"

Ilya’s only response was to take him deeper, relaxing his throat to accommodate Shane fully, hand still working between his own legs with determined strokes. The sight, Ilya on his knees, eyes watering slightly from effort, expression a mixture of concentration and his desire, pushed Shane over the edge. He came with a choked cry, fingers tightening in Ilya’s hair as pleasure crashed through him.

Ilya followed him seconds later, his own body tensed, a low groan escaping him as he found his release, still watching Shane through it all, connected even in their separate pleasures.

They remained frozen, Shane against the wall, breathing hard, Ilya still on his knees, one hand on Shane‘s hip, the other braced against the floor.

Then Shane slid down the wall.

Not gracefully. His back dragged against it and he just, descended, legs folding, until he was sitting on Ilya's entryway floor, Ilya still between his knees, and they looked at each other, and Ilya's hair was a complete disaster, and Shane could feel that his own face was doing something unhinged, and Ilya started laughing first, shoulders shaking, and then Shane was laughing too, helplessly, head tipping back against the wall.

"That was… " Shane started.

"Yes, yes" Ilya agreed.

"We were in the car for fifteen minutes talking about how we were going to —"

"I know."

"You said three times," Shane said. "Under an hour. You had a whole plan —"

"The plan is still happening," Ilya said, with great dignity, from the floor. "This was just the appetizer."

Shane pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth, still laughing, chest warm and loose in a way it hadn't been in sixteen days. Ilya reached up and tucked a strand of hair back from Shane's forehead, and the tenderness of it, so casual, so easy, sitting here on the floor in a half-undressed heap, made something in Shane's chest go quiet and full at the same time.

"I missed you," Shane said, when the laughter had settled.

"I know." Ilya's hand stayed at his temple, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "I missed you too. Very much." He paused. "Is embarrassing how much."

"It's not embarrassing."

"Very embarrassing."

"Ilya."

"It is fine," Ilya said. "I accept it." He looked at Shane for a moment, something open and unhurried in his expression. "I feel better now."

"Yeah," Shane said. "Me too."

They stayed on the floor a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Neither of them moved to get up.

"Okay," Ilya said eventually. "Now we shower. We get dressed and go to the club to celebrate victory and be like every other hockey player."

"Hockey players don't do what we just did. To each other."

"They are all missing out," Ilya said simply, and rose to his feet, extending a hand down to Shane.

Shane took it.

"Okay, let's get ready," he said, letting himself be pulled up. "They'll be waiting for us."

Ilya nodded, pressing one kiss to Shane’s temple before releasing him. “Yes. I'll find you something to wear.” His smile turned sly, a flash of teeth in the half-light of the entryway. “Though I like you better without clothes.”

Shane laughed, the sound easy and unrestrained, and followed Ilya deeper into the house. Whatever the rest of the night held, whatever club awaited, whatever teammates they’d join, the most important reunion had already happened, skin to skin in the quiet sanctuary of Ilya’s home.

The Grand pulsed with energy and expensive liquor, the Bears having commandeered the VIP section with the casual entitlement of hometown heroes. Ilya leaned against the railing overlooking the dance floor, nursing a beer he didn’t really want, his attention fixed not on the celebrations around him but on Shane. Shane, who stood in a circle of Ilya’s teammates, gesturing animatedly as he recounted some story that had the entire group roaring with laughter. Shane, who had always been beautiful but seemed somehow transformed tonight, confident, magnetic, comfortable in a way Ilya had rarely seen him in public spaces.

The club’s lighting caught in Shane’s dark hair, now styled with whatever product Ilya had handed him after their shower. He wore a simple black button-down from Ilya’s closet, slightly too broad in the shoulders but tucked neatly into his own jeans. Nothing special, nothing that would draw particular attention. Yet Ilya couldn’t look away.

This was a different Shane from the carefully composed hockey star who gave bland interviews, or even the focused student Ilya had watched study into the night. This Shane moved with loose-limbed ease, laughed without restraint, commanded attention without seeming to try. Ilya’s teammates, men who had heard him curse Hollander’s name on the ice for years, clustered around him like moths to flame.

"So it's the last class before finals, linear algebra, brutal, everyone's exhausted. The guy next to me turns and goes, 'I heard there's an idiot hockey player taking this class. Honestly if he made it this far, we're all going to be fine.'" Shane's mouth curved. "Didn't realise. Stuck his hand out and said 'I'm Kyle, by the way.' So I shook it. Said 'Shane Hollander.' Watched his whole face just…" he snapped his fingers.

The group erupted. Someone grabbed his arm.

"What did you say to him?"

Shane shrugged, the smirk still there. "I told him I was going to share my notes but it seems like he doesn't need the help of a stupid hockey player."

The defenders and wingers surrounding him dissolved into laughter, one of them actually slapping his knee. Ilya felt his chest expand with something like pride. This was his boyfriend, making his teammates laugh, fitting seamlessly into his life. Harvard hadn’t diminished Shane’s hockey knowledge or instincts, he still talked face-off strategy with their center and defensive alignments with the D-men, but it had given him something else, something that made him shine in a different way.

“You’re staring.” Cliff Marlow appeared at Ilya’s side, two fresh beers in hand, offering one as he settled against the railing. “Actually, scratch that. You’re straight up blushing Roz.”

Ilya accepted the beer but didn’t bother denying the accusation. “He almost seems part of the team,” he said instead, nodding toward Shane and the teammates still hanging on his every word.

“He‘s different than I expected,” Cliff admitted, taking a long pull from his bottle. “Media makes him seem like he’s got a hockey stick up his ass, but he’s actually funny. Smart too.”

“Very smart,” Ilya agreed, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “Not just hockey smart. Sees things others miss.”

Cliff studied him for a long moment, gaze steady and assessing. “You want to tell me what’s really going on with you two? You are not exactly subtle, Roz.”

Ilya considered his options. Cliff wasn’t just a teammate; he was a friend, one of the few people Ilya trusted implicitly both on and off the ice. Still, habits of caution ran deep.

“We are together,” he said finally, keeping his voice low despite the pounding music that made eavesdropping nearly impossible. “Have been since... a while now.”

“Together?” Cliff clarified, eyebrows raised. “Like, boyfriends?”

“Yes.” The single word felt both dangerous and freeing. “I love him, Marly. Have for long time.”

Cliff’s expression softened, surprise giving way to understanding. “Well, shit. That explains why you’ve been turning down all those girls when we go out.” He clapped a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “For what it’s worth, he looks at you the same way. When he thinks no one’s watching.”

The observation sent warmth spreading through Ilya’s chest. He opened his mouth to respond when movement across the VIP section caught his eye, Shane, excusing himself from the group, heading toward the bar with an empty glass in hand.

“He needs drink,” Ilya said, already straightening. “I will…“

“Go,” Cliff said, waving him off with a knowing smile. “Your boy’s waiting.”

But before Ilya could reach Shane, another figure intercepted him at the bar, a man in an expensive suit, leaning too close as he spoke. At first, Shane’s body language was open, friendly, the polite response to what appeared to be casual conversation. Ilya paused, not wanting to hover unnecessarily. Shane was perfectly capable of handling himself in social situations.

Then he saw Shane‘s posture change, subtle but unmistakable to anyone who knew him well. His shoulders tensed, his smile became fixed rather than genuine, his weight shifted slightly backward as if creating distance. Something in Ilya’s chest tightened in response, a primitive reaction to Shane’s discomfort.

He was moving before he made the conscious decision to intervene, cutting through the crowded club with single-minded purpose. Marlow appeared at his elbow, brow furrowed.

“Everything okay?” he asked, following Ilya’s gaze to where Shane stood, now visibly uncomfortable as the suited man leaned closer, saying something that made Shane’s expression harden.

“Will be,” Ilya replied, not slowing his stride. “I handle.”

As he approached, he caught fragments of conversation, the man speaking in rapid French, Shane responding in the same language but with clipped tones that carried tension even if Ilya couldn’t understand the words. Shane’s fingers were white where they gripped his empty glass, his jaw set in a way Ilya recognized from countless faceoffs across the dot.

Without hesitation, Ilya slid an arm around Shane's waist, pulling him gently but firmly against his side. Shane relaxed into the touch immediately, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he registered who had joined them.

"What are we talking about?" Ilya asked, his voice pleasant but carrying an edge beneath the smile.

The stranger, handsome in the generic way of men who spent too much on haircuts and not enough on personality, assessed Ilya with a dismissive glance. "I was just trying to convince your friend here to follow me home," he said, switching to accented English. "Not that you would be interested, Rozanov."

"Shane has very good taste," Ilya said pleasantly. "So, no. Probably not you."

Shane's mouth twitched despite himself. "Ilya, it's fine."

"Of course," Ilya agreed, not moving his arm. "I am just here for the company."

The stranger's jaw tightened. He turned back to Shane and said something in rapid Québécois French, his voice dropping low, meant only for Shane.

Ilya caught none of it. He watched Shane's face instead, saw the flicker of something cross it, not fear, not quite, but close enough to make Ilya's hand tighten at his waist.

Shane replied in English, his voice even and deliberate. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm celebrating with my friends."

The stranger smiled, thin and unimpressed. He glanced between them, something calculating moving behind his eyes. Then, in English, he looked directly at Ilya and said, "I didn't know you were a fifi, Rozanov."

Shane's sharp intake of breath was audible even over the music.

Ilya went very still.

He opened his mouth.

But Shane got there first.

The change in him was immediate and absolute. The easy warmth drained from his face, replaced by something cold and flat and dangerous, an expression Ilya had seen across faceoff dots but never directed at a civilian. When Shane spoke, his voice had dropped a full register, quiet enough that it didn't carry, hard enough that it didn't need to.

"Câlisse," he said, in French that came from somewhere older and sharper than the polished Harvard version of himself. "Tu vas t'en aller avant que je te casse le nez. Ou tu restes, et lui te casse la mâchoire. Ton choix."

The stranger stared at him.

Shane held his gaze without blinking.

The man hesitated, perhaps finally registering the genuine threat beneath Shane’s controlled exterior. He opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it, shrugging with forced nonchalance before disappearing into the crowd.

The music filled the silence he left behind.

Ilya looked at Shane. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing." Shane turned, already moving. "Let's go."

"Shane."

"Ilya."

"What did you say."

Shane stopped. He exhaled slowly through his nose, looked at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Ilya. The hard expression had dissolved into something tired and fond and done with the entire evening.

"I told him to leave before I broke his nose," he said. "Or stay, and you'd break his jaw." A beat. "His choice."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Something warm moved through his chest, unhurried and certain.

“How about we get out of here, moy lyubov?” Ilya asked, the endearment falling from his lips naturally, without calculation.

Shane’s eyes softened at the Russian words, the last of the tension leaving his body. He nodded, not bothering to look back at the abandoned drinks or the celebration continuing around them.

“Yes,” he said simply, leaning into Ilya’s side. “Let’s go home.”

Home. The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Not the Bears’ arena, not Shane’s apartment, not even Ilya’s house specifically. Home was this, the space they created together, wherever they happened to be.

Ilya caught Cliff’s eye across the room, receiving a knowing nod of understanding in return. No explanations needed, no excuses required. Tomorrow there might be questions, friendly teasing, perhaps even serious conversations about discretion and careers. But tonight belonged to them alone.

They moved through the club like a single unit, Ilya’s hand never leaving the small of Shane’s back, Shane pressed close against his side. The music and lights and celebration faded behind them as they stepped into the January night, breaths clouding in the cold air, the world narrowing to just the two of them, Shane and Ilya, moving forward together into the winter darkness.

Chapter End Notes

I cannot believe only one chapter is left. We are almost at the end guys... getting a wee bit emotional here 💛

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Here we are people. Last chapter 🥹

I am a bit emotional, and scared as I don't want to disappoint anybody with the ending.

I want to thank everyone following this story and anyone coming to read it at its completion.

Thanks for the support. I will leave a couple more words at the end but for now, enjoy your reading ✨️💛

Ilya’s phone buzzed for the fifth time in three minutes, the screen lighting up with new messages that made him snort softly. Beside him, Shane sat propped against the headboard, brow furrowed in concentration as he read through his paper one final time, the blue glow of his laptop casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face. Ilya watched him for a moment, the slight purse of his lips when he found a phrase he didn’t like, the unconscious way his fingers tapped against the keyboard without actually pressing down, thinking. Morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and Shane’s bare shoulders. This, waking up together, Shane working while Ilya dozed or checked his phone, had become their ritual, unplanned but perfect.

Another buzz. Ilya glanced down.

Marlow: link to TMZ article LOOK WHO’S GETTING DINNER WITH THE ARTSY CROWD

Peters: anyone else think rozanov looks WHIPPED in these photos??

Santini: the black and white filter really brings out how absolutely gone our russian is for hollander

“What are you smiling at?” Shane asked without looking up, fingers still moving across the keyboard, deleting and rewriting what looked like the same sentence for the third time.

“Nothing. Group chat being stupid.” Ilya angled the phone so Shane couldn’t see the screen, but his thumb scrolled back up to the photos that had sent his teammates into a frenzy.

The pictures weren’t even particularly revealing, just the four of them leaving that new place downtown. Ilya walking slightly too close to Shane, Vale gesturing animatedly about something, and Jax listening with that serene half-smile that seemed to be their default expression. But something about the composition, maybe the way Ilya’s body was angled toward Shane, or how his hand hovered near the small of Shane’s back, had been enough to trigger speculation. And merciless teasing from the six Bears players who knew the truth.

Jones: rozanov’s literally hovering like hollander might float away if he doesn’t stay within 2 feet

Marlow: remember when he used to call him “fucking hollander” after games? now look at his face. i’m gonna be sick

“Your friends are very loud this morning,” Shane observed, still focused on his screen. “Must be important.”

Ilya set the phone down, rolling onto his side to face Shane properly. “Not important. Just...photos from dinner the other night. With Vale and Jax.”

That got Shane’s attention. He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “What kind of photos?”

“TMZ. Nothing bad.” Ilya reached up to brush a strand of hair from Shane’s forehead, letting his fingers linger against his skin. “Just us leaving restaurant. Looking very friendly.”

Shane set his laptop aside with careful precision, the movement deliberate in a way that revealed his concern despite the casual expression he maintained. “Show me?”

Ilya handed over his phone. Shane scrolled through the article, his face giving nothing away until he reached the photos, when the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“They make it sound like a double date,” he said, reading aloud. “’Former rivals Rozanov and Hollander spotted with Harvard’s artistic elite, is this a friendship or something more?’” He shook his head, scrolling further. “And they’ve identified Vale as ‘Aurelio Valentino Mercier, heir to the Mercier Mining fortune.’”

Ilya sat up straighter. “Wait, Vale is rich? Like, rich rich?”

Shane looked genuinely surprised by the question. “You didn’t know? His father runs one of the largest mining operations in Canada. Vale could probably buy the Bears if he wanted to.”

“But he lives in tiny apartment. Wears second-hand clothes. Rides a bicycle in winter.”

Shane shrugged, handing back the phone. “Vale lives for the people, not the money they can give him. He thinks his father’s business is morally bankrupt, actually. That’s why he studies anthropology, to understand the damage resource extraction does to indigenous communities.”

Ilya absorbed this, adding another layer to his understanding of Shane’s friend. He liked Vale more for it, somehow. “What about Jax? TMZ call them ‘a new mysterious companion.’”

“Jax would love that,” Shane said, smiling. “They’re going to find the whole thing hilarious.”

Ilya nodded, thinking of Jax with their shock of white hair dipped in blue at the ends, those startlingly clear eyes that seemed to see straight through pretense, and the quiet way they had of cutting through tension with a single perfectly timed observation. Jax dressed like they’d stepped out of some underground Berlin club, all avant-garde silhouettes and unexpected textures, but spoke with such gentle thoughtfulness that it was impossible not to feel calm in their presence. They’d been a recent addition to Vale’s orbit, and by extension, to Shane’s. Ilya had been surprised by how quickly he’d warmed to them.

“So,” Ilya said, setting the phone aside. “You finish paper?”

Shane nodded, closing his laptop. “Just submitted it. One less thing to worry about before break.”

And there it was, the topic they’d been circling for days. Spring break loomed a week away, and with it, decisions about how to spend their time apart. The Bears’ schedule was unforgiving; Ilya would be in Boston for most of the break, with a brief road trip to New York. Shane’s parents expected him in Ottawa as they did not see each other since Christmas holidays.

“Your parents still want you home whole break?” Ilya asked, already knowing the answer but hoping it might have changed.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “Two weeks. It’s not that long, but...”

He didn’t need to finish. Two weeks felt like an eternity after they’d grown accustomed to falling asleep together most nights, to the easy rhythm they’d established between Shane‘s apartment and Ilya’s house. Even their separation over winter break had been difficult, and that was before they’d put a name to what they were building together.

Ilya considered for a moment, an idea forming. “What if your parents come here instead?”

Shane blinked, clearly surprised. “Here? To Boston?”

“Why not? They come to your apartment for a week, see where you study, where you play hockey. Better than you missing two weeks of...” Ilya gestured between them, suddenly self-conscious about articulating exactly what Shane would be missing.

“That‘s...” Shane paused, considering. “That could work, actually. They’ve been wanting to see the apartment anyway.” Then his brow furrowed. “But my place only has one bedroom. They’d have to take it, and I’d be on the couch.”

Ilya shifted closer, voice dropping slightly. “Or you could stay here. We already sleep at each other’s places most nights anyway.”

The implication hung between them. If Shane stayed with Ilya while his parents visited, there would be no more pretense. No more careful vagueness about their relationship. Shane would need to tell his parents exactly who he was staying with, and why.

“You want me to introduce you to my parents,” Shane said slowly. Not a question, but a realization.

“Yes,” Ilya said simply. “I would like to meet them. Properly. As your boyfriend.”

Shane’s expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his features. “You’re not nervous about that?”

“Of course I am,” Ilya admitted. “But also excited. They are part of you. Important to you. So they are important to me too.”

Shane was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching Ilya’s face. Then a small smile spread across his lips, and he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Ilya’s mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “I‘ll call them today. See if they can come next week instead of me going there.”

Ilya felt something warm and certain settle in his chest. “They will like me,” he declared with more confidence than he actually felt. “I am very charming.”

Shane laughed, the sound warm and open. “You are,” he agreed. “When you want to be.”

Ilya pulled him closer, suddenly overwhelmed by the simple fact of Shane in his bed, in his life, willing to bring their worlds together in this new way. “I want to be,” he said quietly. “For them. For you.”

Shane’s eyes darkened slightly, the way they always did when Ilya said something unexpectedly sincere. “I‘ll tell them tonight,” he promised. “That I’m staying with my boyfriend while they visit.”

My boyfriend. Two simple words that still sent a thrill through Ilya every time Shane said them. He pressed his forehead against Shane‘s, drinking in the moment before their day properly began, before Shane headed to class and Ilya to practice, before they stepped out of this quiet space where being together was as natural as breathing.

“Your boyfriend is a very lucky man,” he murmured, just to see Shane’s smile bloom again.

And he was. Lucky beyond any measure he could have imagined when Shane Hollander had first walked into his life, rival turned obsession turned love. Now soon to be the bridge between Ilya and a whole new world, family, belonging, roots.

Shane watched his mother examine the row of books on his shelf, her fingers tracing the spines with the same careful attention she’d given his hockey trophies when he was ten. His father stood by the window, hands in pockets, looking out at the slice of Boston visible from Shane’s apartment, red brick buildings, bare trees waiting for spring, students hurrying between classes with heads ducked against the March wind. The apartment felt different with his parents in it, as if the space had expanded to accommodate not just who Shane was now, but who he had been to them for twenty years.

“You’ve actually read all of these?” his mother asked, pulling out a well-worn Russian copy of Anna Karenina, Ilya’s copy, actually, left behind during one of his overnight stays.

“Most of them,” Shane admitted. “That one’s not technically mine.”

“Borrowed from the library?” his father asked, turning from the window to join the conversation.

Shane hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. “From a friend.”

His mother nodded, sliding the book back into place before moving to examine the small collection of polaroid photos on his fridge. Mainly trees, buildings and the river at different times of day. There was one of Ilya. You could only see from his smile to his chest, where he was holding a single white lily in his hands. If you didn't know it, it would have been hard to realize it was him. Yuna's fingers hovered over one of Shane with Vale and Riley at the ice rink, their expressions caught mid-laugh about something forgotten now.

“You seem happy here,” she said, turning to face him fully. “Different than in Montreal.”

Shane felt something loosen in his chest at the observation. His mother had always been perceptive, noticing shifts in his mood long before he’d been able to articulate them himself. “I am,” he said simply. “It’s... easier here.”

His father crossed to the small kitchen, opening the refrigerator as if checking on a child’s eating habits. “Well-stocked,” he observed with approval. “Better than your apartment in Montreal. Remember that, Yuna? Nothing but powder shakes and those pre-packed protein meals.”

“And now he cooks,” his mother said with obvious pride. “The salmon before was excellent, Shane.”

Shane smiled, accepting the compliment with a small nod. They just had their first lunch together since his parents arrived, a carefully prepared meal in his apartment that had helped him ease any initial nervousness. Now, four hours into their visit, the conversation flowed more naturally, familiar patterns reasserting themselves even in this new context.

“I was thinking we could explore Cambridge tomorrow,” his father suggested, closing the refrigerator. “Your mother wants to see Harvard Yard, all those historic buildings.”

“Sounds good,” Shane agreed. Then, before he could second-guess himself: “I’ll have to meet you there, though. I won’t be staying here while you visit.”

The statement landed between them, simple but charged with meaning. His mother’s head tilted slightly, curiosity rather than concern in her expression. “Oh? Where will you be staying?”

Shane took a breath. He’d rehearsed this moment in his head a dozen times since arranging his parents’ visit, imagining various reactions, preparing responses to questions or concerns. Now, facing them directly, all those imagined scenarios fell away, leaving only the truth.

“With my boyfriend,” he said, the words emerging clearer and steadier than he’d expected. “He lives about ten minutes from here.”

For a moment, no one moved. Shane could see the information registering, not just that he had a boyfriend, but that he was saying it directly, openly, without qualification or apology. Then his mother stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug that seemed to contain years of unspoken understanding.

“Oh, Shane,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Thank you for telling us.”

His father joined them, one strong hand gripping Shane’s shoulder. “We’ve been hoping you’d find someone who makes you happy,” he said, voice gruff with emotion. “Boyfriend, girlfriend, doesn’t matter to us.”

Shane hugged them back, throat tight with unexpected relief. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying, how afraid he’d been of disappointing them somehow. “You’re not surprised?”

His mother pulled back, smiling through eyes that glistened slightly. “We’re your parents, Shane. We know you pretty well.”

“Not that you ever said anything,” his father added with a short laugh. “Always so private, even as a kid.”

The air in the room felt lighter suddenly, as if a window had been opened to let in fresh spring air. Shane found himself smiling, the knot of anxiety in his chest unraveling into something warmer.

“He‘s cooking dinner for us tonight,” Shane said, feeling oddly shy now. “At his place. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

“We’d love that,” his mother said immediately. “What time should we be there?”

They settled into planning mode, seven o’clock dinner, don't bring a gift. The normalcy of it washed over him. This was just another dinner, another introduction. His parents asking the same questions they might about any partner, how long they’d been together, what he did for work.

“You can use my car to get around if you need,” Shane offered as they finalized plans. “I can use one of his ones if I need to go anywhere.”

His father raised an eyebrow at this. “One of? How many does he have?”

Shane hesitated again, suddenly aware that he’d revealed more than intended. “A few, he is into that stuff... sport cars and motorbikes, you know,” he said vaguely.

His mother gave him a knowing look. “Is he one of those trust fund boys from your classes?”

Shane nearly choked on nothing. The image of Ilya as one of Vale’s artsy, trust-fund friends was so absurd he had to bite back a laugh. “Not exactly, he has a good job,” he managed. “You’ll see tonight.”

Hours later, standing outside Ilya’s front door with his parents behind him, Shane felt a flutter of nervousness return. He’d deliberately avoided mentioning Ilya’s name, letting his parents form their own assumptions about who he might be dating. Now, as he rang the doorbell, he wondered if the surprise would be too much.

“Nice neighborhood,” his father commented, looking around at the well-maintained houses on the quiet street.

“Very nice,” his mother agreed, her tone suggesting she was mentally calculating property values and what that might mean about Shane’s mysterious boyfriend.

Shane could almost see the picture they were forming, someone from Harvard’s social elite, perhaps. Someone with old money and refined taste. Someone academic, safely ensconced in the world of privilege that Vale navigated so effortlessly while rejecting its values.

The door swung open.

Ilya stood framed in the entrance, tall and solid, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, his hair still slightly damp from a recent shower. For a moment, no one spoke. Shane watched his parents‘ expressions transform from polite anticipation to absolute shock, recognition dawning in real time.

“Ilya Rozanov?” his father finally managed, the name emerging as a question despite its obvious answer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya said, extending his hand with a warm smile. “So nice to finally meet you.” Then, his eyes shifting to Shane with a mischievous glint: “You didn’t tell them it was me?”

Shane felt heat rise in his cheeks, half embarrassment, half amusement at being caught out. “They were going to find out anyway,” he replied playfully, a small laugh escaping him. “So I made the universe do the work.”

His mother recovered first, taking Ilya’s outstretched hand. “Well,” she said, voice steadier than her expression, “the universe has certainly done something interesting here.”

Ilya laughed, the sound rich and genuine as he stepped back to usher them inside. “Come in, please. Dinner is almost ready.”

As Shane followed his still-stunned parents into Ilya’s home, he caught Ilya’s eye over his mother’s shoulder. Ilya winked, a quick flash of shared understanding that made warmth spread through Shane’s chest. However this evening unfolded, they were in it together.

The rosemary roast chicken had turned out perfectly, its skin crisp and golden, the meat falling off the bone. Shane watched Ilya refill his mother’s wine glass with easy grace, the earlier awkwardness having dissolved somewhere between appetizers and main course. His father was leaning forward, listening intently as Ilya explained the difference between North American and Russian hockey development systems, his initial shock at discovering his son’s boyfriend’s identity having transformed into genuine interest. The dining room glowed with soft light from candles Ilya had placed on the table, a detail that had made Shane‘s heart twist with unexpected tenderness when he first saw them.

“So you were playing professionally by sixteen?” his mother asked, impressed despite her limited Russian hockey knowledge.

“In men’s league, yes,” Ilya confirmed, his accent warming his words. “Is different in Russia. Less protection, more pressure. You become man quickly or you wash out.”

Shane’s father nodded, considering this. “Must have been difficult, at that age.”

Something flickered across Ilya’s face, brief but unmistakable to Shane, who had learned to read these micro-expressions like another language. “Was difficult,” Ilya acknowledged, setting down his wine glass. “But necessary. We lost mother by then. Hockey was way to help family.”

The mention of Ilya’s mother shifted something in the room’s atmosphere. Shane felt himself leaning forward slightly, drawn by the rare mention of a topic Ilya typically approached with careful reserve.

“I’m sorry,” Shane’s mother said gently. “I think I read something about how you lost her when you were young.”

Ilya’s eyes darted briefly to Shane, surprise and something softer passing between the two of them.

“Yes,” Ilya said finally. “I was twelve when she died. Suicide.” He paused, taking a measured breath. “She was strongest person I ever knew. Fought very hard, but...”

He trailed off, and Shane resisted the urge to reach for his hand across the table. This was the most he’d heard Ilya speak about his mother in one sitting, and it was happening here, with his parents, in this carefully created space between their separate lives.

“And you have a stepmother?” his father asked after a respectful moment.

“Polina, yes.” Ilya’s smile returned, though it carried different weight now. “She married my father two years after mother died. She is... kind woman. Tries very hard with me and my brother, though we are not making it easy.” He laughed softly. “Especially me. I was angry teenager when she arrived.”

“And your father?” Shane’s mother pressed gently, clearly sensing this was territory rarely discussed. “Are you close?”

Shane tensed slightly, knowing this was even more complicated terrain. But Ilya just shrugged, his honesty continuing without defensiveness.

“Not close, no. My father is...” Ilya’s eyes found Shane’s, as if drawing strength from the connection. “He lives in past glory. Was famous policeman in Soviet time, very hard man. Does not understand why I choose America, why I don‘t come home more. He thinks NHL makes me soft.” Another small laugh, this one edged with something sharper. “My brother follows him like shadow. They are same kind of men.”

Shane felt a pang in his chest, hearing Ilya articulate this distance so plainly. It was there in the infrequent calls home, the tightness around Ilya’s eyes when he mentioned his father, the way he sometimes seemed more alone than solitary.

“Well,” Shane’s mother said, reaching across the table to briefly touch Ilya’s hand, “we’re very glad America, and the NHL, brought you here. To us.”

The simple acceptance in her words broke the moment’s heaviness. Ilya’s smile brightened, genuine gratitude replacing the shadows in his expression. “Me too, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna, please,” she insisted. “And this is David. If you’re dating our son, we should be on a first-name basis.”

“Speaking of Shane,” his father said, turning with a gleam in his eye that Shane recognized with immediate alarm, “did he ever tell you about the time he got locked in the equipment shed at his first hockey camp?”

“Dad,” Shane protested weakly, but Ilya was already leaning forward with visible delight.

“No, he did not,” Ilya replied, grinning. “Please tell this story immediately.”

Shane watched, torn between embarrassment and pleasure, as his father recounted the tale of eight-year-old Shane accidentally locking himself in the equipment shed for three hours because he’d been too focused on organizing the sticks by height to notice everyone leaving. His mother joined in, adding details about how they’d found him categorizing pucks by weight and condition when they finally unlocked the door.

“He’s always been like this,” she concluded fondly. “So careful with details, with doing things exactly right.”

“Still is,” Ilya confirmed, his eyes finding Shane’s across the table, warm with affection. “Makes him excellent student. Excellent hockey player.”

“Excellent boyfriend?” Shane’s father asked with surprising directness, though his tone remained light.

Ilya didn’t hesitate. “The best. Better than I deserve, probably.”

The honesty in his voice made Shane’s chest tighten. There was something about hearing Ilya speak about him this way, not to him directly, but to the people who had known him longest, that felt like a different kind of intimacy.

“Actually,” his mother said, setting down her fork, “we‘ve been wondering how this happened. You two being together.” She gestured between them.

Shane felt heat rise to his face. He hadn’t been deliberately withholding the story, it was just that explaining how he and Ilya had gone from bitter rivals to occasional hookups to something real seemed complicated, messy in ways he wasn’t sure his parents needed to understand.

But Ilya just smiled, the expression softening his features. “Is complicated story,” he admitted. “We start as rivals, yes? On ice, always competing. But then...” He paused, looking at Shane with such openness that Shane felt exposed, seen, cherished all at once. “Then Shane leaves Montreal, comes to Boston. We meet again by accident. Start talking. Start understanding each other better.”

It was both more and less than the full story, but it contained the essence of truth. The chance encounters that weren’t entirely chance. The conversations that ran deeper than either expected. The gradual shift from wary distance to something neither had been prepared for.

“I think I always see something in Shane that other people miss,” Ilya continued, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Not just great hockey player or smart student. Something...” He searched for the word, settling on: “Something true at his center that matches something in me.”

Shane couldn’t look away from Ilya’s face, the sincerity there both terrifying and exhilarating. This wasn’t the public face Ilya showed to media or even teammates. This was the private Ilya, the one who whispered in Russian against Shane’s skin in the darkness, who laughed without restraint at Shane’s dry observations, who looked at him sometimes with a wonder that made Shane feel both powerful and humbled.

“And now?” his father prompted gently.

Ilya’s gaze never left Shane’s face. “Now I want to spend rest of my life with your son,” he said simply. “If he wants me.”

The words hung in the air, charged with meaning. Not a question, not quite a promise, but something in between, a declaration of intent, of hope. Shane felt something shift in his chest, as if his heart had expanded beyond its usual boundaries.

His mother’s hand found his beneath the table, squeezing gently. When Shane finally tore his gaze from Ilya’s to look at her, he saw not surprise but quiet understanding in her eyes, as if she recognized the rarity and value of what was happening between them.

“Well,” she said softly, “I think we’ll need another bottle of wine to celebrate that.”

The moment broke into gentle laughter, but something remained, a new awareness, a threshold crossed. Shane caught Ilya’s eye across the candles and dishes, the flame reflecting in those hazel depths, and knew with sudden clarity that whatever came next, they would face it together.

The front door closed with a soft click, leaving behind a silence that felt different from their usual solitude. Shane stood in the entryway for a moment, listening to his car pull away from the curb, feeling the lingering echo of the evening settle around him like a physical presence. Behind him, Ilya moved in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with precision, a task he normally approached with casual efficiency, but tonight performed with an almost ceremonial attention to detail. Something had shifted during dinner, some invisible threshold crossed when Ilya had spoken those words across the candlelit table: “I want to spend the rest of my life with your son.”

Shane drifted into the living room, where the fire still crackled in the hearth, sending shadows dancing across the walls. He sank onto the couch, watching the flames, letting the warmth seep into his skin. A moment later, he felt Ilya’s presence behind him, then strong hands settling on his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently against the knots of tension he hadn‘t realized he was carrying.

“Your parents are good people,” Ilya said softly, leaning down to press his lips against the top of Shane’s head. “I see now where you get your kindness.”

Shane reached up, covering one of Ilya’s hands with his own. “They liked you,” he said. “A lot.”

“Of course they did,” Ilya replied, the familiar arrogance in his tone softened by the gentle way he moved around the couch to sit beside Shane. “I am very likeable.”

Shane laughed, the sound releasing some of the evening’s emotional weight. He turned to face Ilya fully, taking in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way the firelight caught in his eyes, turning them to liquid amber. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For tonight. For everything you said.”

Ilya’s expression grew serious, his hand coming up to cup Shane’s cheek. “Was all true,” he said simply.

The kiss here was inevitable, as natural as breathing, as necessary as sleep. Shane leaned into it, feeling Ilya’s hand slide from his cheek to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair with careful possession. Their bodies knew this dance now, the way to fit together, the pace that built heat without rushing toward conclusion. There was no hurry tonight, no practice to wake for, no classes to attend. Just the fire’s glow, the quiet house, and the hours stretching before them like an invitation.

“Khochu tebya,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s mouth, the Russian words flowing like dark honey. “Want you so much, moy krasivyy.”

“Khochu tebya tozhe,” Shane replied carefully, the syllables still awkward on his tongue despite months of practice.

He felt Ilya’s smile against his lips, the pleased surprise that always followed Shane’s attempts at Russian. Then Ilya was shifting them, pressing Shane back against the couch cushions, his weight a welcome anchor as their kisses deepened, grew hungrier.

Clothes fell away slowly, each new expanse of skin greeted with heated touches, appreciative murmurs. Shane lost himself in the familiar geography of Ilya‘s body, the hard plane of his chest, the ridge of scar tissue along his left shoulder from an old wound, the sensitive spot just below his ribs that made him shiver when touched. By the time Ilya’s fingers pressed inside him, slick and sure, Shane was trembling with need, his body arching up in wordless invitation.

“Ty takoy krasivyy,” Ilya breathed, watching Shane’s face as he worked him open. “So beautiful like this. Open for me. Only for me.”

“Dlya tebya,” Shane agreed, the words falling from his lips without thought or restraint. Here, in the firelit dark, with Ilya’s hands on him, inside him, there was no room for anything but truth.

When Ilya finally pushed into him, the stretch and fullness made Shane gasp, his head falling back against the cushions. Ilya moved with deliberate slowness, each thrust deep and measured, as if he were trying to imprint himself on Shane’s body, to leave a mark that would remain even when they were apart.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured, the word like a prayer, his accent thickening with desire. “Moy.”

They moved together, finding a rhythm that built pleasure in steady waves. Ilya’s hands gripped Shane’s hips, angling him to take each thrust deeper, hitting that spot inside that made sparks shoot up Shane’s spine. Words fell between them, in English, Russian, fragments of both, as the intensity built, pushing them toward the edge together.

“Smotri na menya,” Ilya commanded, voice deep. Look at me.

Shane’s eyes met Ilya’s, holding that gaze as Ilya pushed impossibly deeper, his expression so filled with devotion that Shane felt stripped bare by it. When release finally claimed him, it was with Ilya’s name on his lips, his body clenching around Ilya as pleasure crashed through him in relentless waves.

Ilya followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he drove in one final time, holding there as he emptied himself inside Shane with a groan that sounded like surrender. For long moments, they remained locked together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin as the fire crackled beside them.

When Ilya finally withdrew, Shane felt the loss acutely. But instead of collapsing beside him, Ilya shifted lower, his gaze fixed between Shane’s legs where his own release was slowly dripping out of his hole. With deliberate intent, he ran a finger through the wetness, then pushed it back inside Shane’s sensitive entrance.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, adding another finger, watching Shane’s face as he gasped at the renewed stimulation. “Me inside you. Part of you.”

Shane shuddered, oversensitive but unwilling to pull away from Ilya’s touch. There was something so trusting about this, Ilya marking him from the inside, pushing his own come back into Shane’s body as if trying to keep them connected even after the act itself was finished. Their eyes locked as Ilya continued his gentle exploration, his fingers pressing deeper, finding that spot again, making Shane whimper with overstimulation.

“Did you mean it?” Shane asked suddenly, the question emerging unbidden from some deep, vulnerable place inside him. “What you said at dinner, about wanting to spend your life with me.”

Ilya‘s fingers stilled, but didn’t withdraw. His expression softened, the intensity giving way to something more tender, more certain. “Yes,” he said simply. “Meant every word.”

“Even the ‘rest of your life’ part?”

Ilya’s lips curved into a small smile. “Especially that part.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Shane’s inner thigh, his fingers still buried inside him. “I would marry you tomorrow, Shane Hollander. Or never marry at all. Paper, ceremony, these things don’t matter to me. What matters is that we are together because we want to be. There are no locks on our doors.”

The words settled over Shane like a blanket, warm and heavy, soothing. Ilya’s fingers slipped free, and he moved back up Shane‘s body, gathering him close with a gentleness that belied his earlier possessiveness.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” Shane said after a moment, his head resting on Ilya’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Something I’ve been afraid to say out loud.”

Ilya’s hand stroked down his spine, a silent encouragement to continue.

“I think I want to come out,” Shane said finally. “Publicly.”

Ilya’s hand paused briefly before resuming its gentle path along Shane’s back. “Yes?”

“I like my life now. I like being at Harvard, playing for the Crimsons. I like being with you.” Shane took a deep breath. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“But?” Ilya prompted, sensing the hesitation beneath Shane’s words.

“But I’m scared.” The admission cost him, pride giving way to honesty. “Montreal won’t take it well. My contract is still with them, technically. I’m on extended leave, not retired. If I come out, they might drop me. And then...”

“And then you worry no other team will pick you up,” Ilya finished for him.

Shane nodded against Ilya’s chest. “I know it shouldn’t matter. But hockey is still,“

“Part of who you are,” Ilya said firmly. “Is not wrong to worry about this. But Shane,“ He tilted Shane’s chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. “You are best player I ever face on ice. Teams would be stupid to pass on you because of who you love. And when you graduate? With Harvard education? You become even more valuable.”

There was such certainty in his voice that Shane almost believed him. Almost.

“What about you?” he asked. “Russia isn’t exactly safe about these things.”

Ilya’s expression hardened slightly. “Russia has nothing for me now,” he said. “My mother gone. Father and Andrei...” He shook his head. “I apply for American citizenship soon. My visa is fine. My team knows already, the ones who matter.”

“The group chat,” Shane said, remembering the messages he’d glimpsed on Ilya’s phone that morning. “They’re supportive?”

“Very,” Ilya confirmed. “Marlow, Peters, Jones, Santini, they know. They will protect us.”

Shane absorbed this, the knowledge that Ilya had already built a safety net around them, had already considered the practicalities of what coming out might mean.

“So,” Ilya said after a moment, his voice gentle but firm. “We do this together. When you ready.”

Together. The word hung between them, heavy with promise and possibility. Shane turned it over in his mind, imagining what it might mean, press conferences, joint interviews, stepping into the light after years of careful shadows.

“Together,” he echoed softly, letting himself believe, if only for this moment, that they could rewrite the rules, reshape the world to make space for what they’d built between them.

The fire popped beside them, a log shifting, sending a shower of sparks upward. Ilya pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and Shane felt the last of his tension drain away.

The TD Garden vibrated with anticipation, twenty thousand bodies generating a wall of sound that Shane felt in his chest like a second heartbeat. Beside him, Vale clutched an overpriced beer in one hand while gesturing wildly with the other, explaining something about the symbolic resonance of ice as contested territory to an amused Jax. Their white-blue hair caught the arena lights, making them look almost ethereal next to Vale’s more grounded presence. Shane barely registered their conversation, his attention fixed on the empty ice where, in minutes, the final battle between Boston and Montreal would unfold. His fingers absently traced the “81” emblazoned across his chest, Ilya’s number, Ilya’s name stretched across his shoulders for everyone to see. A declaration, though not everyone understood its full significance. Not yet.

“You realize you’re basically sitting in enemy territory wearing that,” Jax observed, their voice calm and gentle despite the observation. “Half the Montreal team still thinks of you as theirs.”

“Let them,” Shane replied, surprising himself with the easy confidence in his voice. “I don't belong to them anymore. Not since coach said I need to separate my 'life' preferences from my duties of I want to go back.”

Vale raised an eyebrow, clinking his plastic cup against Jax’s in a silent toast. “And that's how you keep those bastards in line," he murmured, eyes sparkling with pride for his friend.

Their seats were prime, three rows up from the glass, in the section typically reserved for players’ families and partners. Cliff Marlow’s wife had waved to Shane when they arrived, her smile warm and knowing. A few of the other Bears’ girlfriends had given him curious glances, their expressions shifting from confusion to dawning realization as they noted his jersey. Shane had nodded politely, refusing to hide or explain, a strange exhilaration building under his skin with each passing minute.

The decision had been made weeks ago, after that night by the fire, but finalized only yesterday, a quiet conversation over breakfast, both of them clear-eyed about what they were choosing. After Montreal made it clear they wanted Shane to stay quiet about his sexuality. If Boston won tonight, they would do it. Step into the light together, consequences be damned. No more hiding.

The arena darkened suddenly, spotlights sweeping across the ice as the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, introducing the Voyageurs first. Shane watched his former teammates skate out, their familiar blue jerseys a reminder of the life he’d left behind, the carefully controlled narrative, the constant vigilance, the parts of himself kept perpetually in shadow.

Then the Bears emerged, black and yellow streaming onto the ice amid deafening cheers. Shane’s eyes found Ilya immediately, drawn to his fluid stride, the confident set of his shoulders as he circled during warmups. Even now, even here, Ilya commanded attention, not through dramatics or showboating, but through the sheer magnetic force of his presence.

“Oh shit, look up,” Vale nudged him, pointing toward the massive jumbotron overhead.

Shane’s gaze lifted just in time to see himself projected on the enormous screen, his face frozen in an expression of startled recognition, yellow 81 clearly visible across his chest. The crowd noise shifted, a confused murmur rippling through the arena as people processed the image. Former Montreal star Shane Hollander wearing current Boston star Ilya Rozanov’s jersey at the cup final between their teams.

The camera lingered, then panned slightly to include Vale and Jax beside him. Vale, never one to waste a moment in the spotlight, raised his beer in salute, his grin impossibly wide. Jax offered a more subdued peace sign, their calm presence a counterpoint to Vale’s exuberance.

Down on the ice, Shane caught Ilya noticing the screen, the momentary hitch in his skating before he continued his warmup lap. Even from this distance, Shane could read the mixture of surprise and fierce pleasure in the set of Ilya’s shoulders. They hadn‘t discussed Shane wearing his jersey tonight. It had been a last-minute decision, a preliminary statement before the more definitive one they’d planned.

The game itself was electric from the first drop of the puck. Montreal came out aggressive, clearly determined to snatch the cup from Boston on their home ice. The Voyageurs scored first, a beautiful snipe from the slot that had the visiting fans erupting in celebration. Shane found himself in the strange position of feeling nothing at his former team’s success, his allegiance having shifted so completely that he actually felt disappointed as the red light flashed.

Then Ilya took over.

It started with a seemingly simple play, a defensive zone faceoff that Ilya won cleanly, pushing the puck forward before accelerating through the neutral zone with that powerful stride Shane had studied for years. The Montreal defense backed off, respecting his speed too much, giving him room to survey his options. The pass came like lightning, tape to tape to Marlow on the wing, who buried it to tie the game.

One assist.

The second period brought Ilya’s first goal, a power play one-timer from the circle that Shane had seen him practice hundreds of times, the puck finding the top corner with such precision it seemed to defy physics. Shane was on his feet before the red light flashed, yelling Ilya’s name, all pretense of neutrality abandoned.

“Holy shit,” Vale shouted over the crowd noise. “I’ve never seen you like this at a game!”

Shane couldn’t explain that this was how he’d always wanted to be, uninhibited, passionate, free to express the pure appreciation for Ilya's brilliance without calculating every reaction for public consumption. Instead, he just grinned, a wild, unfamiliar joy coursing through him.

The second goal came five minutes later, Ilya intercepting a sloppy breakout pass, deking the goaltender with insulting ease before sliding the puck home. This time when he celebrated, his eyes found Shane in the stands, a brief moment of connection that felt like a current passing between them despite the distance.

“He’s showing off for you,” Jax observed quietly, their perceptive gaze missing nothing. “It’s romantic, actually.”

The hat trick goal, when it came in the third period, was pure determination. Montreal had tied the game again, and tension filled the arena as the minutes ticked down. Ilya won a board battle through sheer force of will, emerging with the puck before dancing through two defenders and firing a shot that appeared to actually curve around the goaltender’s outstretched glove.

The Garden exploded. Hats rained onto the ice, a black and yellow shower of celebration. Shane remained standing, clapping until his palms hurt, watching Ilya being mobbed by teammates, his face transformed by pure joy. Vale threw an arm around Shane’s shoulders, squeezing tightly.

“This is it, isn’t it?” he asked, voice pitched low beneath the chaos. “Tonight’s the night.”

Shane nodded, a strange calm settling over him despite the adrenaline pumping through his system. “If they win,” he confirmed.

They won. The final horn sounded with Boston up 4-2, securing their first Stanley Cup in over a decade. The ice became a sea of black and yellow as players poured over the boards, gear discarded in celebration, teammates piling onto each other in unrestrained elation.

Shane watched it all from his seat, waiting. Vale and Jax remained beside him, silent witnesses to what would come next. The celebration began to organize itself, the Cup brought onto the ice, the commissioner approaching with the trophy that Ilya, as captain, would be the first to lift.

But before any of that, Ilya broke away from his teammates. Still in his gear, sweat-soaked and flushed with victory, he skated directly to where Shane sat. The crowd noise shifted, curious murmurs rising as people noticed the Bears’ captain approaching the stands instead of the waiting officials.

Shane moved without conscious decision, making his way to the edge of the glass where a small gate separated fans from ice. Security hesitated, then recognized him, pulling the gate open without question. He stepped through just as Ilya reached him, their eyes locked, everything else falling away.

“You wore my jersey,” Ilya said, his voice rough with emotion and exertion, pulling Shane into a tight hug.

“You won the Cup,” Shane replied, a smile breaking across his face.

They stood there for a heartbeat, suspended between their private world and the public arena, twenty thousand witnesses holding their collective breath. Then Ilya’s hands were framing Shane’s face, pulling him into a kiss that felt the start and end of an era. Shane’s arms wrapped around Ilya’s waist, heedless of the bulky pads, the sweat, the watching eyes. This kiss was a statement, a declaration, a promise fulfilled.

The arena split in its reaction, half falling into shocked silence, the other half, predominantly Boston fans, erupting into wild cheers that seemed to shake the very foundation of the building. The noise was so overwhelming that Ilya felt Shane wince slightly, breaking the kiss to cover one ear with his shoulder, though his smile never faltered.

“We are loud,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s lips, moving his hands to cover and protect Shane’s ears.

“Worth it,” Shane answered, pressing their foreheads together as camera flashes exploded around them like stars.

In this strange pocket of calm amid the storm, with Ilya’s body close to his and the weight of secrecy finally lifted from his shoulders, Shane felt a certainty settle into his bones. They had done it, stepped into the light together, exactly as promised. Whatever came next, media frenzy, contract negotiations, public scrutiny, they would face it standing side by side, no longer rivals but partners, no longer hidden but gloriously, defiantly visible to a world that would now have to make space for them, exactly as they were.

Ilya kissed him once more, quick and fierce, before whispering against his ear: “We are not going anywhere, Shane. You and I, together, is what matters.”

And with those words, and with the roar of the crowd surrounding them like a physical force, with Vale and Jax applauding from the stands and Ilya’s teammates watching with varying degrees of surprise and support, Shane knew there was no going back from this.

They had chosen each other. Publicly, completely. Whatever came next would come for both of them.

Ilya’s forehead rested against his, their breaths still uneven, smiles still there, stubborn and real despite everything.

And in that moment, with twenty thousand people watching and the world shifting under his feet, Shane understood what Ilya had meant that one night, while they were having sex.

Your eyes, they turn me.

Not away. Not back.

Always toward you.

Finally, they had both been turning to each other long enough to arrive here.

Chapter End Notes

So that's it.

I hope you enjoyed my first fic for this fandom. I genuinely had lots of fun writing this one. I know Scott and Kip have their big moment in the Canon universe, and that Shane and Ilya are quiter, more reserved compared to them... but I felt my Shane and Ilya deserved a loud moment. A moment where everyone in their lives could see how present they can be together. As a couple. It only made sense to me to end it like this.

I will probably come back to this in the future, with some snippets of their life together, but the main story ends here.

Really, thank you so much for the support. With the amount of fics getting published daily, I thought nobody would read this 🥹

Feel free to reach out to me on Tumblr here, if you have questions, if you have requests or simply for connecting and talking about fics and these two. I want to get to know more people that love Shane and Ilya.

Till the next one, wish you all a great week ✨️💛