Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), No Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Missing Scene, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Humor, Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-14 Words: 8,181 Chapters: 1/1

home is just a room

Summary

Ilya has always claimed he doesn't have any pregame rituals.

Well, maybe just the one…

Notes

Happy slightly early birthday to my close personal friend Ilya Rozanov - get loved and cherished, idiot

The parking lot is cast in the long, warm shadows of a Montreal sunrise as Shane gingerly climbs back into his car. The team doctor had asked him to come in early for an evaluation, which he now suspects was because she wanted to get him in and out before everyone else started rolling in for morning practice. Because she knew, even last night, that it wasn't going to be good news. Shane had suspected the same the moment his torso had connected with the boards. Even more so later that night, when he'd taken off his gear and still felt like there was a heavy weight sitting on his chest.

The x-ray had confirmed it: his ribs aren't broken, but they are badly bruised. Which means he's now staring down the barrel of four days of strict rest before his next check up. No workouts, no weights, no hockey of any kind.

Great.

He shoots off a text to Hayden explaining the injury and cancelling their tentative plan to grab lunch after practice today, then settles back in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He should call his mom — it's barely seven on a Saturday, but he knows she'll be awake. She'd texted him several times last night, too familiar both with hockey and with Shane to believe it when he said the hit wasn't so bad. But nothing is broken, there's nothing to do except rest and wait it out. If he calls her now she'll just start to fuss over him, insist that he goes home to rest like the doctor ordered, instead of following through with the plan that's starting to take shape in his mind.

Shane swipes to the web browser on his phone, pulling up a page he has bookmarked despite practically knowing it by heart. He scrolls until he reaches the correct date, confirming what he already knows: Boston vs. Toronto, tomorrow at 2pm. Which means, having played a late game last night in Edmonton, they'll be flying in after a morning practice, and not leaving until Monday morning.

Two whole nights with Ilya would be completely unprecedented mid-season. Maybe he should get his ribs bruised more often. Maybe he should send the defenseman from Tampa a fucking fruit basket.

He shifts his car into reverse, pulling out of the player lot just as another car is pulling in. Andropov, he thinks, though he doesn't stick around to check. He has a goal in mind — get home, get packed, and get to Toronto as fast as humanly possible.

---

After some back and forth, Shane decides to drive to Toronto instead of flying. For one thing, it's too easy for him to be recognized in an airport, and he doesn't want anyone speculating as to why Shane Hollander is taking a random weekend trip to Toronto mid-season. It's also probably better for his ribs to spend the time in his comfortable car, instead of crammed into whatever last minute seat he'd be able to snag on a commercial flight. Driving also allows him to take breaks, get out of the car and complete the gentle stretches the doctor instructed him on. He's not ignoring all of her orders, just the ones about going home and spending a few days in bed. He'll do the latter part, just…not in his own bed.

He's somewhere just outside Kingston when his phone starts to ring, the display on the dashboard reading Lily.

"How are your ribs?" Ilya asks before Shane can so much as greet him.

"You sound like my mother," Shane complains, dodging the question as he takes an exit for a roadside service station.

"You also do not answer your mother's questions," Ilya chides. "I know this because she texts me to ask if you have told me anything. And I say no, Yuna, he is just as mean to me as he is to you."

"Quit gossiping to my mom about me."

"Shane!" Ilya snaps, losing patience. "Your ribs?"

"They're fine!" Shane insists, pulling his car into a parking spot around the back of the building, out of sight of other weary travelers in search of lunch or an afternoon coffee. "Not broken, barely even bruised. I'm fine."

Ilya makes a skeptical sound, knowing Shane well enough to know he's lying, but Shane changes the subject before he can dig in too much. "When do you fly out?"

"Soon," Ilya says, a rustle over the line as he checks the time. "Have to be there in an hour."

"You'd better pack, then."

"I am trying," Ilya grumbles. "You are very distracting."

"You called me, remember?"

"Is still your fault."

They lapse into silence, the only sounds the soft rustles and thumps of Ilya half-folding his clothes before tossing them into his suitcase. Shane can picture it — the jumbled mess inside the hard-shelled black case. The last time Ilya had been in Montreal, Shane had neatly folded all of his clothes for him while he was in the shower, re-organizing everything to show Ilya how much more room there actually was in his suitcase if he would just take the time to pack it properly.

Ilya had teased him about it, but the slight pink tinge to his cheeks had told Shane how he really felt. He'd also pretended to be annoyed the next day when he'd told Shane about his teammates chirping him over his neat suitcase, teasing him relentlessly about his Montreal girl who folded his socks for him, but he hadn't been able to keep the fond note out of his voice as he recounted it. Ilya would never in a million years admit it, but Shane knows he likes being taken care of. He can see it in his guarded smile when Shane cooks for him, or in his badly feigned exasperation whenever Yuna fusses over him. As much as Ilya would never cop to it, Shane will never call him on it either; the last thing he wants is for Ilya to stop allowing it.

"Where are you staying tonight?" Shane asks, the sound of Ilya's suitcase being zipped shut audible across the line.

"Hotel," Ilya deadpans, and Shane rolls his eyes. Foolish to think Ilya would ever, ever make anything easy.

"Which hotel?"

"Why? Apartment buildings are no longer satisfying your real estate fetish? You want to buy hotel now, too?"

Shane sighs, wondering if maybe he should just ruin the surprise now, if for no reason other than to see how quickly Ilya would change his tune. He ultimately decides against it, too keen to see the look on Ilya's face to do this over the phone. "I just want to know."

"Who cares about hotel?" Ilya asks, bewildered. "Is boring chain hotel, same as all of them."

"Humor me."

Ilya sighs, quiet taps audible over the line as he searches for the information on his phone. "Is a Hilton. Not downtown because the owners are cheap. By the airport."

"Boring."

"You asked!"

"Yeah, well, I'm boring too."

Ilya hums, a happy sound in the back of his throat. The same one he makes when he wakes up in the morning and realizes Shane is still with him, arms tightening around him as he breathes him in, that sweet sound vibrating through Shane's own chest. He closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the headrest, almost imagining he can feel his arms around him now.

"You should go before you miss the bus," Shane says, words tinged with regret and displeasure at the idea.

"I know," Ilya murmurs, though he makes no move to hang up.

They remain in silence for several long moments, each comforted by the sound of the other breathing, even from thousands of kilometers away. Phone calls have been like this for months, stretching longer and longer as the season progresses, and their stolen moments together grow increasingly rare. Neither of them ever wants to sever the connection, the two of them falling asleep over a crackling line any time they both manage to find themselves alone.

It's still not enough.

Ilya groans, bringing Shane back to reality. He reminds himself that there's no need for melancholy — he'll see Ilya in just a few hours, even if he doesn't know it yet. "I have to go."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Ah, ah," Ilya chides. "Tell me in Russian. You need to practice."

Shane laughs. "I already know that one."

"Tell me anyway."

"Ya tebya lyublyu."

"Your accent is terrible," Ilya says, overly fond.

"I know."

After several more murmured goodbyes, someone, probably Cliff Marleau, pounds on the door, shouting something indistinct, and then he really does have to go. Shane drops his phone into the cup holder, already cold in the sudden absence of Ilya. Toronto calls to him like summer, even though Ilya's not even there yet — just the promise that he will be soon is more than enough. And so Shane updates the destination on his satnav, shifts the car into gear, and drives.

---

Despite the head start, Shane barely manages to beat the team to the hotel. He had to drive all the way through downtown to get to the strip of hotels near the airport, and had somehow managed to time his arrival perfectly with the worst of rush hour traffic. Even though he knew Ilya was sitting on a plane overhead, waiting in traffic had still frayed his nerves, irritating him to no end that he was so close and still not there yet.

It's dark as he waits in the hotel parking lot, headlights off and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, just in case. He thought about booking his own room in the hotel, sending Ilya a room number like back in the old days and waiting for him to show up. But there's no plausible excuse for Shane Hollander to be in Toronto, booking a room in the same hotel as the Boston Raiders on a random night in February. He's just going to have to hope Ilya won't mind taking him in; otherwise it's going to be a pretty disappointing drive back to Montreal.

Ilya's text that they'd landed safely had come in nearly an hour ago, and Shane is starting to get antsy. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, craning his neck for any hint of the high beam headlights that would indicate that the hired coach is nearby. His phone screen lights up with a text from his mother, and he takes a moment to respond, assuring her once again that he's fine and no he absolutely does not need her to come check on him. He has no intention of telling his parents, or anyone else, about his last minute road trip — not only does he want to avoid his mother's judgmental tone as she tells him he really should be resting, he also doesn't need to make it quite so obvious the lengths he's willing to go to to get laid.

The sweep of headlights through his windshield blinds and startles him, and he sinks down in his seat instinctively. The bus pulls into the u-shaped driveway at the hotel entrance, players spilling out the moment the hydraulic door hisses open. Shane is intimately familiar with that kind of impatience, the desperate need to be free from planes, trains, and automobiles. To finally be able to stand up straight, instead of hunching to fit through low doorways and shrinking to shimmy down narrow aisles.

Ilya is the last person off the bus — the dedicated captain in him demanding that he check on all of his players before worrying about himself. Cliff Marleau, one of his alternates, has posted up just close enough to the hotel entrance to force the automatic doors to stay open against their will, repeatedly trying to shut and ending up shaking in place for a moment before yawning back open again. A tired-looking hotel concierge at his side, Cliff hands out keys and room assignments, players wandering off in pairs and small groups, already making plans for the evening.

Shane wonders if Ilya was planning to go out tonight, too. They're in Toronto, surely Marleau and some of the others will be itching to find a club — or several.

Shane doesn't mind that Ilya still goes clubbing with the single guys on the team — frankly, he wishes he would go out more often. It's his last year with his teammates, even if they don't know it yet, and Shane wants him to spend as much time with his friends as possible while they're all still in the same city. And, maybe selfishly, Shane likes what a few drinks and a night out does to Ilya. He probably enjoys it a little too much — the way Ilya's texts will get increasingly filthy as the night goes on. The way he's already keyed when he gets back to his room, calling Shane the moment he gets in, no matter the hour. The sound of choked moans and Russian expletives in his ear as he gets off shockingly quickly, usually just to the sound of Shane's sleep wrecked voice.

He toys with the idea of waiting, fantasizing about the idea of Ilya coming home from a club, tipsy and half-hard and desperate to dial Shane, only to find him waiting for him, naked in his bed. But it's logistically impossible — he has no way of getting a key to Ilya's room, and besides, the moment he lays eyes on his boyfriend across the dark parking lot, there's absolutely no chance of him being able to wait that long before getting his hands on him.

Unable to resist teasing him just a little, Shane pulls out his phone. I like that hat on you, he types, appreciating the way Ilya's curls spill out from underneath the black beanie. He watches as Ilya slides his phone out of his jacket pocket, his expression visibly brightening when he sees who's texted him. Beside him, Marleau rolls his eyes, clearly clocking the very obvious reaction to a text from Montreal Jane. Ilya reads the message, his brow furrowing in confusion for a moment before he looks up, a mix of surprise and hope taking over his face as he scans the parking lot.

Shane taps the call button, the line barely getting through a single ring before Ilya answers.

"Hello?" Comes Ilya's slightly breathless response. Before Shane can answer, Ilya's gaze finally locks onto his car, a giddy smile blooming across his face.

"What room are you in?"

---

Shane loiters outside of the windowless door that leads to the back staircase, waiting for Ilya to make sure the coast is clear and let him in. He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt just in case, his ballcap still covering the majority of his face. Despite his disguise, he still jumps when the door beside him opens with a groan of protest.

"Is just me," Ilya reassures him in a low tone, glancing around quickly before letting his gaze fall on Shane. Shane barely has time to appreciate Ilya's delighted expression before the other man fists a hand in his shirt, hauling him inside.

Ilya lets him go, his face split wide in a grin, then takes off running up the stairs. Shane chases after him, the two of them making far too much noise between their pounding footsteps and breathless laughter. When they reach the fourth floor, Ilya pokes his head out, checking for anyone lingering in the hallway before dragging Shane by the hand, steering him into a room a few doors down the hall. The very walls of the hotel seem to shake as Ilya slams the door behind them, quickly pressing Shane against it and kissing him soundly.

"How are you here?" Ilya asks in a murmur against Shane's lips, not bothering to wait for an answer. "You smell so good," he almost growls, lips and teeth trailing down to Shane's neck.

Shane tips his head back, giving him better access, breath catching as Ilya nips at his throat. "Fuck, I missed you," he groans.

Ilya hums in agreement, quickly popping open the top two buttons of Shane's shirt. His hands find Shane's waist, pressing him more firmly against the solid wood of the door, and Shane lets out another groan, this one significantly more pained.

Ilya backs off immediately, his hands hovering over Shane like he's not sure what to do with them. "Solnyshko! What is wrong?!"

"Nothing," Shane says quickly, making a valiant effort at ignoring the ache in his ribs and getting things back on track. He tries to pull Ilya against him again, but the other man stays frozen in place. His eyes narrow, and Shane knows the jig is up.

"Why are you here?" Ilya asks, the question coming out as more of an accusation this time.

"I'm out for a couple of practices," Shane says casually, doing his best to downplay the diagnosis, but Ilya's glare turns to steel.

"I knew you were hurt!" Ilya scolds, crossing his arms over his chest. "You are a liar!"

Shane can't fight his amused grin at Ilya's irritation, which is very much the wrong reaction, if the angry flush rising in Ilya's cheeks is any indication.

"It's not that bad," Shane says calmly. "I didn't lie. Nothing is broken, I'm just a little bruised up."

Ilya huffs, clearly disbelieving. Shane reaches for his hand, tugging it away from Ilya's chest and placing it back on his hip instead.

"I'm sorry," Shane murmurs, looking up at Ilya through his eyelashes in the way he knows full well isn't fair.

"No, you are not," Ilya grouches. "You do not feel bad one little bit."

"Forget about that," Shane says, slowly tugging down the zipper of the jacket Ilya is still wearing. "There are better things to do than yell at me right now."

Ilya's voice is low and rough as he finally allows Shane to pull him closer. "I am very good at multi-tasking."

---

"Come the fuck on, Ilya!" Shane snaps, pressing his heels into the mattress in an attempt to gain some leverage.

"No," Ilya says flatly, stopping the already excruciatingly slow slide of his fingers at once. He keeps doing that — stopping every time Shane starts to do something he doesn't like, and Shane is furious that it's as effective as it is. He lets out a frustrated whine, letting his legs fall flat against the bed once again, knees spread wide to make room for Ilya, who lays on his stomach between them. Satisfied that Shane is cooperating, he pushes into him again with two fingers, one hand stretched across his hip to keep him from squirming too much.

"This is torture," Shane complains, but it's not very convincing, given that the evidence of his arousal is currently pooling on his stomach.

The corner of Ilya's mouth quirks up in an amused smile. "Yes, well. You are in trouble."

Shane gasps as Ilya teases his entrance with a third finger for a moment before pulling out entirely. He throws his head back into the pillows, hands fisting in the sheets, but Ilya only chuckles.

"Poor thing," he teases, slicking his fingers with more lube completely unnecessarily, yet another excuse to sit back and watch Shane squirm. "So needy."

Shane certainly can't argue with that. Not least of all because his lungs lose their breath the moment Ilya pushes into him again with three fingers. He babbles something mostly unintelligible, though the words thank you are definitely audible in there, not that he has the brain power left to feel embarrassed about it.

Some minutes or hours later, Ilya finally relents, raising himself from the mattress and trailing kisses over Shane's thigh. He crawls up his body, pausing to lick some of the precome off of Shane stomach, the filthy sight making his entire body tense.

"No," Ilya chides, pressing a gentle hand to Shane's chest to stop his back from arching. "You stay still, or I will stop."

"Fuck," Shane groans, sure that's going to be a completely impossible order to follow. "Please, Ilya!"

Ilya hushes him, gently pushing him into a better position and watching his face intently for any signs of pain or distress. "You will get what you want," Ilya assures him, the head of his cock breaching Shane so slowly he could scream in frustration. "But I am not going to hurt you."

"I don't care," Shane huffs, trying to encourage Ilya to move faster by pressing a heel into his lower back.

Ilya stops at once, raising an eyebrow as he stares down at Shane. "I do. Now stop whining, and take what I give you."

Shane has never been fucked so slowly or carefully in his life. As much as he's been teasing Shane about his impatience, a distant part of his mind is aware that Ilya really is concerned about his well-being. He's careful to keep his weight off of Shane, checking in more often than usual, and wincing each time Shane moves more than an inch, like he feels the pain of Shane's bruised ribs in his own chest. He cradles Shane like he's made of glass, and watches him just as reverently.

Shane's entire body has been on fire for what feels like hours, but his release creeps up on him so painfully slowly that he doesn't realize he's about to come until he's already tipping over the edge. Ilya holds him, one hand on his thigh, the other under his back, keeping him from thrashing too much as he spills over their stomachs. Ilya isn't far behind, pulling out and stroking himself roughly a few times, his release mixing with Shane's and making an absolute mess of both Shane's stomach and the comforter beneath him.

"You are very loud when you don't get what you want," Ilya teases, rolling onto his side and resting his cheek on a hand so he can look down at a still panting Shane beneath him.

"Shut up," he says weakly, unable to manage anything more imaginative.

"Washcloth or shower?" Ilya asks.

Shane debates for a moment, knowing he'll regret not showering later, but wanting to stay fucked out and boneless on the bed for just a little longer. "Both?"

Ilya smiles, kissing the tip of Shane's nose before hauling himself off the bed, in search of fresh towels.

---

"I'm not an invalid," Shane insists as Ilya towels his hair dry for him. He had put up a perfunctory fuss in the shower when Ilya had started washing his hair for him, but the pleasant sensation of Ilya's strong fingers massaging his scalp had been enough to shut him up for a while.

Not for too long, though.

Shane snatches the towel from Ilya's hands, snapping it against his chest with a satisfying crack, the skin underneath reddening with the impact. Ilya hisses theatrically, soothing the flushed skin with a hand.

Shane's own chest looks like someone spilled a riot of purple and blue paint across it, his skin a mottled palette of aches and pains. He had been certain he was about to get an earful about it when Ilya had first removed his shirt, but he'd saved his comments for his post-sex, mid-shower lecture about how Shane needed to take better care of himself. He'd also promised to repay the defenseman's kindness several times over when Boston plays Tampa in a few weeks, which Shane is slightly ashamed to admit he's looking forward to. The long day in the car, plus the evening filled with activities that the team doctor definitely wouldn't approve of, has started to catch up with him, the bone-deep ache in his chest getting just a little bit worse with every breath.

"Bed," Ilya orders once Shane is dry and has pulled on a pair of boxers. "You are supposed to be resting."

Shane rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a pounding knock on the door. They both jump, shrinking away from the sound instinctively, like they're scared of being caught, despite the locked door in the way.

"Roz!" Comes Cliff Marleau's voice from the hall. "You lose your fuckin' phone? We're going out! You coming or what?"

"Chert voz'mi," Ilya curses under his breath, gently pulling Shane behind him. "Fucking Marley. I tell him no over and over but he never listens."

Shane chokes back a laugh at Ilya's irritation, trying not to give away that there's someone besides Ilya in the room. Ilya scoops a pair of sweats off the floor at random, recoiling when he realizes they're Shane's, emblazoned with a large Metros logo on the thigh. Ilya hurls them at him as another round of pounding knocks comes from the door.

"Hold the fuck on, Marley!" He grouches, finally locating an acceptable pair of pants and pulling them on. He gives Shane a warning glare before pulling the bathroom door shut, leaving him hidden behind the cheap fiberboard. Curious to at least hear this play out, Shane shuffles up close to the door, listening as Ilya pulls the chain free and flips back the deadbolt lock.

"I told you I'm staying in," he says as the door creaks open part of the way. Evidently not enough to let Marleau inside, because Shane doesn't hear any footsteps. He tries to envision what sort of shape they left the room in, whether it would be immediately obvious what Ilya has been up to in the time since they arrived — or worse, who he's been up to it with. Shane's bag, which would be the biggest giveaway, is luckily still in the car. His shirt had disappeared somewhere, probably kicked under the bed or tangled up in the comforter, but it's just a plain black tee, so it shouldn't really give anything away even if someone were to find it.

"Come on, man! We're in Toronto!" Marleau argues, his tone somewhere between annoyed and incredulous at Ilya's refusal.

"I am aware," Ilya deadpans, though Marleau doesn't seem perturbed by his coldness. Their friendship is still somewhat of a mystery to Shane, given that Ilya seems exasperated with him a good eighty percent of the time, but it seems to work for them.

"Is this about your Montreal girl?" Marleau asks, and Shane's interest in the conversation redoubles, eager to hear what Ilya's friend knows, or thinks he knows, about the elusive Jane. From things Ilya has mentioned over the years, Shane knows that his friends are aware of Jane, but he's never been sure to what extent.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ilya lies unconvincingly. Shane can practically see the flush rising in his cheeks through the closed door. "There is no Montreal girl."

"Sure there isn't," Marleau scoffs. "Because you never disappear off the face of the earth whenever we play there. And you definitely don't act like even more of an asshole than usual for a week after we leave."

"That is not—"

Cliff doesn't let Ilya derail him. "I can't believe she's still putting up with you after all these years. What's it been, like a decade? Still makes you blush like nothing else, though."

"Okay!" Ilya interrupts, embarrassment audible in his voice. Shane has to bite down on his knuckle to keep himself from laughing. "Enough. Goodbye, Marley."

"Aww, c'mon man! I'm just messing with you." There's some scuffling on the other side of the door, like the two of them are shoving each other, and then a burst of bright, unguarded laughter from Ilya that makes Shane's heart clench. It's by far his favorite sound.

"You're such a pain in my ass, Marley," Ilya says, affectionate in a way that only he could pull off. "Go get laid and leave me alone."

"Love you, Rozy!" Cliff calls, his footfalls heavy in the hall as he retreats, apparently giving up on convincing Ilya to join him.

As soon as the hotel door shuts and the deadbolt slides back into place, Shane pulls open the bathroom door, leaning against the frame and raising an eyebrow at Ilya. "Should I be jealous of this Montreal girl?"

Ilya rolls his eyes, but there's still a distinct flush sitting high on his cheeks. "Hush your stupid mouth. You are as bad as him."

Shane steps forward into Ilya's waiting arms, pressing him back against the wall. "For a decade, huh?"

"Shut up, Hollander!"

---

Shane wakes up disoriented, the sound of shouts and whistling somewhere nearby startling and confusing him. He's groggy and aching, his eyelids heavy and threatening to slip closed again. His injury and the long drive took more out of him than he'd realized last night, and it takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. Brain coming back online, he's dismayed to find that Ilya is no longer in the bed beside him. He starts to sit up, feeling around on the nightstand for his phone, but the voices outside the hotel room door catch his attention as they grow closer and clearer.

"Go away, Marley," Ilya says, his irritation clearly put on, badly masking the amusement underneath.

"C'mon, Rozy! I'm your best friend!" Marleau argues. "If anyone should get to meet her, it's me!"

"Meet who?" Asks up another voice Shane isn't as familiar with. Connors, maybe?

"No one," Ilya says flatly, but Marleau talks right over him.

"Roz wouldn't come out with us last night, he skipped team breakfast, and now he's going back to his room with a bag from a fancy bakery and two coffees," Marleau says, laying out his evidence.

"Oh shit!" Says maybe-Connors. "Montreal Jane is here?"

"Or maybe I am just thirsty," Ilya says, convincing no one.

"Then let us come in," Marleau challenges, and Shane's stomach drops. He's suddenly very aware of his nakedness, and of his surroundings, which are damning in and of themselves. The other bed in the room, half un-made and strewn with rumpled blankets. His shoes, very clearly men's sneakers, lined up next to the door. His backpack on the desk, which Ilya had evidently retrieved for him from his car sometime after he'd fallen asleep, emblazoned with a bright blue Metros logo. Even if he managed to hide himself back in the bathroom in time, it wouldn't take a genius to put two and two together.

"Enough!" Ilya says, the first note of genuine irritation bleeding through in his voice. "Do not wake my Jane or you will do bag skates after game until you puke. She needs her sleep. I kept her up very late last night."

Laughter and wolf-whistles echo from the hallway, and Shane rolls his eyes. In reality, Ilya had tucked his Jane into bed before ten, all his insistence that he was just fine falling on completely deaf ears. Although, Shane supposes he had rather proved Ilya's point by falling asleep within minutes, his upper body curled over Ilya's stomach as he sat against the headboard, watching some action movie with the volume low, his fingers carding softly through Shane's hair.

By the time the keycard beeps in the door, the voices have retreated somewhere further down the hall, and Shane is a little less worried that someone will try to rush the door for a peek at Rozanov's ever mysterious girlfriend. Ilya still slips in carefully, quickly closing and bolting the door behind him. His eyebrows are pinched in annoyance, but his displeasure melts away the moment he turns and sees Shane watching him, his irritable frown replaced with a fond smirk.

"You are causing me so much trouble this morning," Ilya teases, pulling a coffee from the cardboard carrier and offering it to Shane. Shane accepts it gratefully, along with a quick peck on the lips, only wincing slightly when he remembers he hasn't yet brushed his teeth.

"That's me," Shane says, pushing the pillows up against the headboard and pulling back the blankets, making room for Ilya to join him again. "Nothing but trouble."

Ilya hums in agreement, setting a bag of pastries on the bed between them.

"Very healthy breakfast," Shane observes dryly, but Ilya waves him off.

"Donuts are good for bruised ribs."

Shane makes a skeptical noise and Ilya rolls his eyes, fishing around in the bag and eventually producing a yogurt parfait and a spoon. A metal one he got from who knows where, because he knows Shane hates the ever-present little bumps on the plastic ones. One of a hundred tiny adjustments he's made, details he's noticed, without Shane ever having to say a word.

It used to make him itch, something hot and uncomfortable under his skin when he thought too hard about how well Ilya knew him. The way he could read Shane like a book. It was something so completely foreign to him, something he hadn't known what to do with. Something he had felt the overwhelming need to apologize for at every turn — sorry for the quiet spells and the rigid routines and the stubborn lack of overhead lighting. Sorry for the inconvenience that is Shane Hollander.

But Ilya has never seen him that way. Maybe he teases Shane a little about his fussiness, but it's always light. Affectionate. Adoring, even. He's never made Shane feel the way his parents used to, the way they sometimes still do — like they're trying to diffuse a bomb. Like they still fear a meltdown at 27, the same way they had when he was a toddler. He doesn't hold it against them — he knows they've always loved him, have always done the best that they could, but Ilya is… different.

He doesn't tiptoe around Shane's quirks, isn't relieved to have gotten things just right, like it's necessary for survival. When Ilya gets something right, he's just…pleased. Not in a smug, self-satisfied way — although maybe there's a tinge of that sometimes, too. But no, it's more like making Shane just the slightest bit happier, just a little more comfortable in his own skin, is a reward in and of itself.

Shane's not sure anyone has ever been loved quite like Ilya loves him.

They finish their breakfast, Ilya gamely eating his flaky pastry off the edge of the bed, keeping the crumbs to the floor where Shane can at least pretend not to think about them.

"When do you have to leave for the rink?"

Ilya checks the ancient-looking alarm clock on the nightstand, squinting to read the dimmed numbers. "Couple of hours."

"I wish I could come to the game," Shane says, the words coming out a little sadder than he'd intended. Maybe because the thought has been sitting inside him, weighing heavy on his mind for months, maybe years. Louder and heavier every time he watches Ilya's games on tv, or checks the live score updates on his phone during the intermissions of his own games. He wants to be there, without a camera and some thousands of kilometers between them, able to put everything else out of his mind and enjoy watching the beautiful way Ilya plays.

"I know," Ilya says, bumping his ankle against Shane's under the blankets. "But you will be here after. Next best thing."

"I could wear a disguise," Shane teases, shifting around until he finds a comfortable position, one that allows him to lay his head against Ilya's shoulder without setting his ribs on fire.

Ilya laughs. "Like what, your glasses?"

"Maybe."

"Not allowed," Ilya says, tracing patterns over Shane's back with gentle fingertips. "You would be a terrible distraction."

---

Hockey players are somewhat famous for being a superstitious bunch. The playoff beards. The order in which socks and other gear are put on. The dozens of different brands of stick tape the equipment supply staff keep on hand, just in case. Pre-game rituals are considered more sacred than prayer, never to be disturbed or interrupted upon penalty of death.

Shane has never been that particular brand of fussy, though. The stick tape he prefers is his favorite because of the way the texture feels on his palm, not because he's afraid he would be cursed to never score another goal should he use the wrong one. And the mere idea of not washing his undershirt throughout the playoffs quite literally makes him nauseous.

The benefit of hockey being so deeply devoted to its quirks and routines is that it makes an effective cover. No, Shane isn't odd for eating the same food on game days or always having to fold his clothes just so. He's not neurotic for always putting his gear away in a specific order, everything always in its proper place. He's focused. Driven. Committed to making his game the best it can be, by any means necessary.

The topic of pre-game rituals had come up last year, during the playoffs, when Shane was laid up on his parents couch, and Ilya was texting him far too often considering Boston was neck-deep in a run for the Cup. Shane had asked him one morning before a game what order he put his socks on in, and Ilya had called him immediately, affronted that Shane thought he needed such gimmicks to beat Scott fucking Hunter, of all people.

Nearly a year later, and Shane knows better now. If you were to ask Ilya, he would claim he's immune to superstitions; which is true, to an extent. But he still likes things a certain way, an order to his game days that put him in the right frame of mind. A curated playlist he puts on, blaring loud from the speakers of his phone, instead of through his usual earbuds. A long shower at home or the hotel to relax his muscles and, Shane suspects, when he isn't around, to jerk off. A quick but methodical unpacking and repacking of his gear bag, like he needs to touch everything to make sure it's still there.

It's in the middle of this, Ilya sitting cross-legged on the floor, his bag unzipped across his lap, when the music coming from the tinny speakers of his phone abruptly cuts off, replaced by one of the annoying, generic iPhone ringtones. Ilya glances up at Shane before he reaches for it, his expression a little hard to read. The corners of his mouth are quirked up into a pleased grin, but there's a flicker of something hesitant in his eyes, like he's unsure of how Shane will react. If Shane didn't know better, he'd think that was the beginnings of an embarrassed flush starting to climb up his bare chest…

Maybe that means it's Svetlana calling.

Shane isn't jealous, per se… Or maybe he is, but not because of any history between them. He's jealous that she gets to be so close to Ilya. That she can, and often does, drop in for dinner or a drink on a whim, when any time Shane gets to spend with Ilya is meticulously planned out weeks in advance, the days carefully ticked off in his mind, the stolen hours always over much too soon. He's done his best to explain this to Ilya, who seemed to accept his explanation with only the usual amount of teasing he gets for anything he says in his presence.

So, not Svetlana, then.

Shane raises an eyebrow at Ilya, the two of them listening to the phone continue to ring. He's starting to wonder if Ilya is just going to let it ring through to voicemail when he finally breaks eye contact, hastily tapping at the screen to take the call just before it rings out. His crooked smile is back as he puts the phone to his ear, and Shane's mouth drops open as he greets the person on the other end of the line.

"Hi, Yuna."

After a few moments of confused static filling his ears, Shane realizes he's just staring at Ilya with his mouth agape. He makes a conscious effort to close it, his teeth snapping together a little harder than strictly necessary as he tries to shake off his surprise.

"I saw that, too," Ilya replies to something his mother said and, though his brain has spun off in about a million different directions since the phone first started to ring, Shane can't help but wonder if she's telling him about the defenseman who's a healthy scratch for tonight, and how that's going to change Toronto's lineup and their chances for tonight, with more logic and accuracy than any sports commentator or Vegas oddsmaker. Shane knows because he's familiar with this phone call — he gets it himself before every game, an important part of his own pre-game routine.

And not just his, apparently.

It's about this time that Shane realizes he's probably intruding. Ilya hasn't said anything to him, or alerted his mom to the fact that he's also in the room. He just sits a few feet away, cross-legged on the floor and smiling up at Shane, seemingly unbothered by the intense way he's being watched. But still, it feels like a private conversation, one that Shane shouldn't be privy to without explicit permission.

Just as Shane has made up his mind, intent on slipping into the bathroom, closing the door and maybe turning on the water to drown out as much of their conversation as possible, Ilya stops him in his tracks. Before he can stand, Ilya gently grasps his calf, a clear instruction to stay right where he is.

Shane obeys, watching a content little smile light Ilya's face as he listens to whatever his mom is telling him, all the while tracing his thumb back and forth over the bump of Shane's ankle bone, making the hairs on his leg stand up, goosebumps rising on his skin.

The conversation continues for a few more minutes, Ilya eventually releasing Shane's ankle in favor of sitting beside him on the bed. He seems happy to let Yuna carry most of the conversation, occasionally jumping in with his own opinions or questions for her. And Shane definitely isn't vibrating out of his skin the entire time, desperate to ask Ilya a million questions of his own, or maybe to just hug him close to his chest and not let him go for the foreseeable future.

After much longer than Shane usually allows for his own pre-game phone calls with his mom, the conversation finally starts to wind down. Ilya's phone is pressed to his opposite ear, so Shane can't make out anything she's saying, but from what he can hear of her tone, and the traces of pink coloring his cheeks, he can guess Ilya's being effusively complimented within an inch of his life.

"Okay, I will," Ilya says, eyes trained on his lap where he's picking at a loose thread that's escaped the outer seam of his shorts. "Bye, Yuna. Love you, too."

Shane looks at him expectantly as he hangs up and lets his phone drop onto the comforter. Nonchalant, Ilya leans back against the mountain of pillows piled against the headboard, meant to keep Shane comfortable while he spends the day confined to the bed. Some small voice in the back of Shane's mind chooses that moment to point out that this is definitely way more pillows than one would normally get in a hotel room, and his heart beats harder against his battered ribs for a moment as he pictures Ilya trekking down to the front desk after he fell asleep last night to ask for more pillows.

And still, Ilya says nothing. He just blinks back at Shane, his features fixed in a neutral expression, but there's the spark of a challenge in his eye.

Shane caves first. "Are you really going to make me ask?"

"Ask what?" Ilya replies easily, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth

Shane sighs loudly. "Was that my mother?"

"Do you think I know more than one Yuna?" Ilya asks, tone dripping innocence.

"You're so annoying," Shane gripes, pinching the exposed skin of Ilya's thigh.

Ilya laughs, catching Shane's hand before he can pull it away, lacing their fingers together. "Yes, I was talking to your Mama."

Silence stretches for several long seconds, and Shane is starting to wonder if that's the only explanation he's going to get, but finally, Ilya continues.

"She calls me before every game," he explains. "Is very important pre-game ritual where she tells me I am the best and that I'm going to win." There's a teasing drawl to his voice, like he's giving Shane the go ahead to laugh.

Except, Shane sort of feels like crying.

Because he's overheard snippets of calls from Ilya's own family, back when they were still on speaking terms. He remembers Ilya telling him once about his father calling to berate him after Russia lost to Canada in their second prospect cup. He remembers the tension in Ilya's every muscle when he saw him in Sochi.

Now, Ilya appears casual, as if they're discussing something as inconsequential as the weather or Detroit's defensive line, but his eyes give him away. They move around the room, not quite managing to settle on anything. His right hand holds Shane's left just a little too tight, thumb trailing restlessly back and forth over the curve of his knuckle.

Shane doesn't laugh, doesn't joke or tease him on the matter, because those phone calls mean something to Ilya, even if he can't say as much. And, if he stops to actually let himself consider it, they kind of mean everything to Shane.

But Ilya is tugging at his earlobe in the way he does when he's trying to hide how uncomfortable he is, and he has to leave soon for the game. It's not the time to talk about it, so Shane just tucks it away in a particularly warm corner of his heart for safe-keeping.

"Did she tell you that Marchenko is a scratch for tonight?"

"Of course," Ilya snorts, dropping his hand to the back of Shane's neck and ruffling the hair at his nape. "Yuna is the only person who knows as much about hockey as you and Sveta. Between the three of you I don't even need to read my own scouting reports. You are like…what is word? Hockey psychics?"

Shane laughs, extracting Ilya's hand from his hair and allowing himself to be dragged closer to his side as consolation. "Because I pay attention to the news reports. Unlike you, apparently, since you need us to do your work for you."

Ilya rolls his eyes. "If you were not so horribly broken, you would pay for this slander."

Shane scoffs, biting back a pleased grin as he issues a challenge. "Your bus will be here in half an hour."

There's a visible spark in Ilya's eye as he raises an eyebrow at Shane. "What, you think that is not enough time?"

"Sure took you long enough last night."

"You will regret that, Hollander."

---

In the end, Ilya is only about ten minutes late for the bus. Most of which was due to him fussing over Shane before he left, ensuring no less than a dozen times that he did indeed have enough pillows to sit up comfortably, and that there were water and snacks within his reach.

Left alone in the hotel, Shane thinks about calling his mom to update her about his — extremely minor, despite Ilya's hysterics — injury, but decides against it. He'll tell her once he's given the all clear to go back on the ice, otherwise she'll just worry for nothing. With little else to do, Shane flips on ESPN, counting down the minutes until pre-game finally starts, then watches greedily for any glimpse of Ilya until the teams return to their locker rooms ahead of puck-drop.

Immediately annoyed by the Toronto announcers, who seem to think they have a hope of beating the Raiders, Shane mutes the broadcast, reaching for his phone instead. He starts typing out a message to Ilya, wishing him luck he definitely doesn't need, before something Ilya said earlier gives him pause. He deletes what he's typed so far, tapping out a new message instead and hitting send.

This close to game time he's sure he won't get a response until at least the first period break, but the three dots appear right away. Almost as if Ilya has been waiting for this all morning…