Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Amnesia, Memory Loss, Medical Inaccuracies, (probably), Texting, Angst, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Confessions, Banter, Hayden Pike & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-14 Words: 10,412 Chapters: 1/1

lily smile

Summary

“Why are you so sure he’ll reject you? He was already fucking in love with you, Roz, literally all of us knew it, it was clear just from how he looked at his fucking phone—”

“That was— That was a fucking miracle, Pike. Miracles don’t happen twice.”

---

shane doesn't remember his relationship with ilya after the hit. ilya was going to break up with him anyway.

Notes

ANOTHER HOSPITAL FIC YALL CANT STOP ME
working title: amnesiac

Hayden knows Shane is a full-grown man. He knows he’s an adult, a two-hundred pound grown-ass man, but when he’s like this, laying in a hospital bed in a thin gown and a sling, eyes squinting, face bruised, he looks like a kid.

And maybe it’s because Hayden is a father of four, but he feels kind of paternal, like he need to read Shane a fucking story and lift water to his lips for him.

It’s pitiful for both of them.

He sits by Shane’s bed, watching him, listening to the doctors and nurses that come in occasionally to check his vitals and whatever else. They shine lights into Shane’s eyes, and they ask him questions, and they check his oxygen and heart rate and and and and and

and Hayden’s heart hurts.

Shane looks so small, and tired, and weak, and he’s not supposed to look like this. Hayden can’t help but be kind of really pissed with Marleau despite Shane’s mumbled protests of his anger. ‘S hockey, Hayd, I should’ve been paying better attention. He asks Shane at some point what he was distracted by, but Shane just shrugs and shakes his head.

Hayden texts Jackie, and Jackie’s parents, and he texts the Voyageurs groupchat, and he does some Googling.

How to help someone with a concussion

Recovery of broken clavicle

Pain scale for broken clavicle

Concussion scale

Concussion recovery timeline

And then some.

He talks with Shane a little, until Shane seems to be drifting off, and he falls quiet, scrolling texts and messages and a few memes that he saves to show Shane when his head is better.

Hayden is about to drift off too, head falling back against the wall behind his chair, when the door opens. He and Shane both startle, lifting their heads to look, and it should be a doctor, or a nurse, or Jackie, or JJ, or Thierault, or a million other people before it’s fucking Ilya Rozanov.

Hayden stares at him, watching as he shuts the door behind himself gently, watching as he turns and looks at Shane like he’s a live explosive. Watching as he glances at Hayden like he’s a sculpture.

“Hello,” Rozanov says, softly. “I wanted to, uhm…”

He stops, eyes flickering over Shane in his bed, and he looks weird. Weirder than usual, like he’s nervous. Hayden’s never seen him look like this. He’s usually loud and arrogant and bold. He looks now like he’s shrinking into himself.

“Are you okay?”

Shane takes a slow breath, like he’s waking up.

“Uhm. Concussion and fractured collarbone, out for the playoffs, but. You know.”

“Could have been worse,” Rozanov says quietly, nodding when Shane hums in agreement. “Marly wanted me to apologize for him. He did not mean to hurt you.”

Hayden snorts. Rozanov barely looks at him, eyes trained on Shane.

“‘S okay,” Shane says lightly, his head falling back for a moment. “We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

“Right,” Rozanov says with another nod.

He stands there, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, and he stares at Shane some more, like he’s looking for something, like he’s trying to see the damage in his brain through his skull, like he’s trying to use telepathy.

“‘S nice of you to stop by, Rozanov,” Shane says after a few moments, seemingly able to feel the weird tension even in his morphine-addled state. “I really appreciate it.”

Hayden looks up at Rozanov.

His eyes are wide, and he’s somehow looking at Shane even more intently. He’s silent as he nods, eyes fluttering like he’s blinking tears back— and actually, Hayden thinks as he watches him turn back to the door and leave quietly, not like he’s blinking tears back. He was blinking tears back. His eyes were glistening in a way Hayden’s never seen on him.

Shane sighs heavily, head falling back to his pillow.

“‘S good sportsmanship,” he says, mumbling a little, and then he’s asleep, his face relaxing, lips parting around every soft breath. Hayden lingers for a few minutes before he gets up, opening and closing the door as quietly as possible, to get some coffee. There’s no other intention, and when he sees Rozanov down the hall, sitting in a waiting room, it’s pure happenstance, which is what Hayden tells himself even as he makes his way toward him.

“What’s going on?” he asks abruptly. It startles Rozanov, who lifts his head.

Jesus.

His eyes are red, shining with unshed tears. He looks like a fucking mess.

“What is going on?” Hayden asks again, slower, softening his voice in spite of himself.

Rozanov looks away, down the hall, around the room, sniffling and rubbing his cheek roughly across his cheek. It leaves his skin reddened, and Hayden winces a little bit.

“Okay, you— you don’t have to tell me,” he says, gesturing vaguely, taking a half a step backward, somehow at a loss even though he thinks it should be easier to help a grown man than any of his children who don’t even know what feelings are. “But—”

“I have to tell you,” Rozanov says, shaking his head. “I do.”

His accent is heavier than usual, and for a brief moment, Hayden wonders if he can turn it on and off, if he softens it when he’s around other people. If it wears him out.

“Wh— Uhm. Why?”

Rozanov sniffles again, looking around the room, and then he jerks his head toward the chair next to him, gesturing. Hayden usually would be fucking annoyed by that, would want to call him a dick and roll his eyes, but now, he sits down, turned a little toward Rozanov. Their knees are almost touching.

“What’s happening?”

Rozanov takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling like he can’t quite fill his lungs.

“...You cannot tell anybody,” he says.

“Okay, sure.”

“I am fucking serious, Pike.”

“Okay,” Hayden says, nodding, lifting a hand and drawing a cross over his heart even though he doesn’t really know if he means it. “Tell me.”

Another slow exhale.

Rozanov tucks his hands in his lap, pressing them together, tight between his thighs. His shoulders are high, almost at his ears. Everything in him looks tense.

“Sha— I— I think Hollander has, uhm. Memory loss.”

Hayden blinks. His eyebrows furrow.

“Why?” he says slowly. “We haven’t had any indication that he…”

“He did not say my name right,” Rozanov says tightly, staring at the ground.

“...He said it how everyone says it—”

“Not how he says it,” Rozanov snaps, eyes finally glaring at Hayden intently. “He says it right, not like fucking Americans.”

Hayden blinks blankly at him.

“...Can you, like, start over?” he asks. “From the beginning? I’m so fucking lost.”

Rozanov lets out a rough groan, lifting his hands to his face and rubbing it harshly.

“Okay, I—”

He stops again, dropping his hands, looking up at the ceiling and blinking rapidly. Hayden’s chest tightens, because this is wrong.

“Rozanov.”

“We’re seeing each other,” Rozanov says abruptly. Hayden blinks. “We— We were seeing each other. And he says my name right, the way it is supposed to be said, but he didn’t just— just now—” He gestures down the hall vaguely. “And there is something wrong.”

Hayden blinks again, staring at him.

“You’re…”

“You need to be fucking normal about this,” Rozanov snaps, pointing at him in a way that would be funny on a different day, in another context. “I am fucking outting him, Pike, and I am only doing it because I think something is really—”

His voice breaks. He looks away, but not before Hayden can see a tear escape, before he can see the emotion falling out of him, and fuck, Hayden has the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap his arms around him, to squeeze him tight.

A puzzle piece clicks into place.

Lightbulb.

“Oh,” Hayden says softly, staring at Rozanov intently. “Lily.”

Rozanov squeezes his eyes shut. He hides his face in his hands.

“Okay,” Hayden says, nodding even though Rozanov isn’t looking at him. “Okay. Uhm.”

He lets Rozanov cry. He stares at the ground and thinks.

He’s known about Lily for a while. It’s been years. Which means it’s been years that Rozanov and Shane have been… seeing each other? Hayden isn’t going to ask for specifics at a time like this, not that he would want them anyway, but it at least would suggest that they know each other. That they’ve known each other for a while. That they know each other well.

Rozanov had stared at Shane so intently when he was in the room with him. Like he was trying to use telepathy, like Shane was going to respond in the same way, like he was expecting it. And when Shane had said his name.

Jesus.

He’d looked devastated, and terrified, and Shane hadn’t even seemed off in the way he always does when he’s looking at texts from Lily.

“Fuck, okay,” Hayden says when Rozanov’s crying turns to soft sniffling. He wishes he had a tissue to give him. “Okay. What do we do?”

Rozanov shakes his head, shrugging, wiping his cheek again.

“I don’t fucking know,” he says quietly. “You should talk to his doctor, right?”

“I mean,” Hayden says before he nods, exhaling. “...Should you talk to him? Shane, I mean?”

“No,” Rozanov says a little too quickly. “I don’t… I don’t want him to know if he doesn’t remember.”

“Why?”

Rozanov takes a breath, shuddering a little.

“I was going to break it off tonight,” he says.

Hayden recoils, grimacing, looking at him in alarm, because he’s only known about all of this for, like, three minutes, but even he knows that’s a terrible fucking idea.

“What, why?”

Rozanov wrinkles his nose at him.

“Why the fuck do you care?” he snaps, tossing a hand at him. “You fucking hate me, you should be glad he doesn’t remember fucking me.”

“Roz—” Hayden cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I don’t fucking like you, but…”

He shrugs weakly. Tosses his hands. Looks at the floor again because eye contact with this guy isn’t normal.

“I’ve seen how he looks at his phone when he’s talking to you,” he says, softening. “Lily. I’ve seen him blush. I’ve seen how he gets when he goes to see you, or when he gets back.”

Rozanov just stares at the ground. His fingers twist together, tightening until his knuckles pale.

“It was getting too serious,” he says finally. “We can’t have— We can’t have anything real. He was making me want something real.”

“You still want something real,” Hayden says, watching him.

His jaw clenches, and his lower lip trembles, and it’s heartbreaking.

“Rozanov,” he starts, but it’s empty, because he doesn’t really have anything else to say.

“You can’t tell anybody,” Rozanov interrupts, his voice firm. “We— We cannot out him, and nobody knows about him, and I— I cannot come out, Pike, if people knew about Shane and me it would destroy our careers—”

“I know,” Hayden says, nodding emphatically, pretending he hasn’t just gotten whiplash from the sound of Shane’s name in Ilya’s mouth. “I can— I can talk to him and see if you’re right, and I can see if there’s anything else he doesn’t remember, okay?”

“Okay,” Rozanov says softly.

“Okay.Uhm.”

They fall into silence, and Hayden stares at the ground, thinking, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so fucking helpless.

This wing of the hospital is quieter than Jackie expected it to be, but, honestly, it does little to comfort her. It’s a nice change of pace after the bizarrely chill chaos of a hockey-themed baby shower, but she doesn’t think anything can slow her mind down after the panicked text messages from Hayden, after seeing Shane get taken out on the television screen.

She’s walking faster than she usually does, holding Amber’s tiny body to herself as she glances up and down hallways, as she reads the letters and numbers on the walls. She’s breathing hard. Amber is awake, but she seems to be having a fine time.

Jackie only stops when she spots Hayden in a sitting room. He’s side by side with Ilya Rozanov, and they’re not trying to have a slap fight, which makes for an interesting view. It’s almost like they’re friends, except that they’re staring at the ground, and Rozanov is sniffling like he’s been crying.

“Hey,” Jackie says, catching her breath. “Where’s Shane’s room?”

They both look up at her. Rozanov doesn’t know her, obviously, but after registering her presence, Hayden turns to him like he’s excited.

“Can we tell her?”

“I don’t even—”

“She’s my wife, and she’s great at keeping secrets, and she’s the smart one,” Hayden says rapidly. “She’ll know what to do.”

Jackie blinks, rocking Amber when she’s bothered by Jackie’s sudden stillness. Rozanov looks at her, then at the lump where Amber is hidden behind the fabric of the wrap she’s held in, and then he exhales sharply, tossing a hand in a way that Hayden takes as permission.

“C’mere,” he says, reaching over and dragging a chair so it’s between the two of them. Jackie raises an eyebrow and sits, letting her knee press to Hayden’s. She rocks back and forth, running her hand over Amber’s back. “So, uhm. Do you wanna tell her?”

Rozanov sends a glare to Hayden, but it looks tired. Jackie looks at him, inspects him, the redness around and in his eyes, the tip of his nose and cheeks. His wet eyelashes. He looks exhausted, and devastated.

“What’s going on?” Jackie asks quietly.

Rozanov looks away again, burying his head in his hands, and Hayden watches him for a moment with a soft sigh.

“Rozanov and Shane have been…”

“Oh,” Jackie says when he trails off. “Okay, yeah. So what’s wrong?”

Rozanov looks up at her, eyebrows drawn, and she purses her lips.

“Rozanov, all of my friends are hot, and Shane’s never given any of them a second glance,” she says briskly. “The only girl he’s ever been with is Rose Landry, and all they do is gossip. Come on.”

He looks down again.

“What’s the problem?” she asks again, looking at Hayden.

“He…” He huffs, glancing at Rozanov like he’s expecting, hoping, that he’ll take over. “Rozanov thinks Shane has memory loss, and he thinks he doesn’t remember their, like, relationship, but we can’t really tell anyone without outting both of them, which we can’t do, so.”

Jackie nods slowly.

“So we need to figure out if Shane does have amnesia—”

“Amnesia,” Hayden interrupts, pointing at her. “That’s the word.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, and moves on.

“And we need to figure out what else he’s missing,” she says. “If he doesn’t remember a years-long relationship, there has to be something else, right?”

Rozanov leans back into his chair, looking up at the ceiling. He’s blinking quickly, and Jackie’s heart kind of hurts.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Hayden, you go see if Shane will respond to anything about Lily. Maybe ask if he’s heard from her or something, see if he gets all shy like he usually does. I’ll be in later.”

Hayden nods, setting his hands on his knees in a very dad-like manner as he stands. He pauses to lean down and give her a chaste kiss before he disappears down the hallway.

Rozanov stares at the ceiling some more, breathing slowly.

“Rozanov,” Jackie says softly. “You there?”

“...Mhmm.”

“What makes you think he doesn’t remember you?”

He sighs slowly, blinking.

“He said my name wrong,” he says finally, his voice soft. “Rose-anov instead of Ro-zan-ov. He has not said it like that in a long time. I just…” He shakes his head, shrugging. “Something is wrong.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again.

“I would not say anything if— if it did not mean anything for his health,” he says. “Uhm. I was going to break it off tonight, but…”

He laughs dryly, his eyes dull.

“I do not have to now, do I?”

“You guys are in love, aren’t you?”

“Stop,” Rozanov says, shaking his head. “We did not… We were not there. It was casual, but it…”

“But it wasn’t,” Jackie says quietly. “Was it?”

He’s quiet, staring at the ground, and she can see it in him, the despair building up and falling out, his eyes filling with fresh tears. He shakes his head.

Jackie looks at him. Her chest aches, and Amber must feel it somehow. She fusses, squirming a little, pushing against her hands. Rozanov blinks tears out of his eyes, looking at the squirming lump under the wrap, and he smiles. It looks genuine this time, his eyes narrowing under it as he wipes his cheeks.

“She’s had a long day,” Jackie says, moving to take off the wrap, holding Amber to herself. Rozanov watches, the smile lingering.

“What are you doing in Boston?” he asks curiously, taking a breath like he’s gathering himself. “You should be in Montreal with your school bus, no?”

“Ha-ha,” Jackie says dryly, shooting him a look that makes him smile again. “The kids are with my parents. I’m in town for a baby shower. Monica, you know, Wilson’s wife. WAG friendships can suspend team alliances.”

“Oh, Monica is pregnant?” he says, his face lighting up a little. She hums affirmatively, finally freeing Amber from her cozy prison and lifting her into the air. “I did not know, that is very exciting.”

He sounds so genuine it kind of kills her.

“Yeah, we were watching the game at the baby shower,” she says lightly, lowering Amber to her lap and bouncing her. “Shane’s wipe-out put a bit of a damper on it, but.”

He nods, his lips thinning into a slight grimace, watching Amber’s legs stretch out and bend with every bounce, like she’s jumping. He looks fond.

“You wanna hold her?” Jackie asks lightly. He looks startled, pointing at himself like there’s someone else for her to be asking. “Yeah, sure.”

He takes her tentatively, his hands big enough that he’s supporting her head with his fingertips. He clicks his tongue at her, his eyes lighting up when she reaches wildly for his face, smacking his cheek.

“She is so small,” he says like he’s in awe.

“Smallest of the four,” Jackie says softly. “But the doctors all say she’s doing alright.”

“She is perfect,” Rozanov says, letting her sit on his lap, bouncing his knee and lowering his head so she can grab at him. “Hi, pretty. Yes, you, hi.”

Jackie smiles, watching fondly, leaning back in her chair and enjoying the absence of weight on her front side.

“You like kids?” she asks. He nods, sticking his tongue out at Amber.

“I have a niece,” he says lightly, bouncing Amber some more. “She is my favourite person in all of Russia.”

Jackie laughs lightly.

Her phone buzzes as she watches him make faces at the baby, his expression softening more than she’s probably ever seen. He looks tender like this, so much softer than she would ever expect him to be. He looks like a completely different person than the one she sees on the ice.

Jackie exhales slowly, anxiety swirling in her stomach. Rozanov looks past Amber’s head at her, and she gives him a tight smile.

“Nothing?” he says, settling Amber in his lap.

She shakes her head, rereading the message, taking a deep breath.

“Okay,” she says firmly, resolutely. “We’re going to figure this out. Give me your phone number, and I’ll keep you updated about it, okay?”

“You don’t—”

“You love him, Ilya,” she interrupts. It shuts him up, and he stares at her. She can see a wall building around him. “Let me tell you he’s okay.”

He looks at Amber like she can do something about the situation, and then he cedes, nodding, trading Amber for Jackie’s phone to type his number in.

“Thank you,” Jackie says briskly when she takes the phone back, adding Roz as his contact name. “Now. You should go home and get some rest. And I’ll text you later. Okay?”

“...Okay.”

She lifts Amber’s hand to make her wave at Rozanov as he stands, and it makes him smile one last time before he goes.

She waits another minute before she goes to join Hayden.

She can hear Shane talking before she reaches the room, and it eases something in her.

“Hey,” she says lightly, pushing the door open and letting it close behind her. God, Shane is a mess. His face is bruised from his visor— it’s a miracle his nose wasn’t broken from it— and he’s in a sling and a hospital gown, his lower half hidden under sterile white blankets. He looks tired. He looks kind of drunk.

“Hi,” he says brightly, excitedly, his face lighting up in a boyish smile before it drops, his eyes finding Amber. He blinks, his lips parting. “...That’s a baby.”

“It is,” Jackie says. “Well spotted.”

Another blank blink.

“You had the baby.”

“I did,” Jackie says slowly, looking at Hayden. He’s staring at Shane intently, waiting.

“When did you have the baby?”

Hayden’s eyes snap to Jackie’s, and something that feels somehow simultaneously like dread and relief claws at Jackie’s bones. She exhales, nodding at him.

Well that was easier than expected.

“She’s three and a half months old,” she says. “You don’t remember? You visited us in the hospital. You brought me flowers.”

He shakes his head slowly, watching Amber like she’s going to spring herself at him. You’d think he doesn’t know what a baby is.

“I don’t remember,” he says. His voice is small. Scared.

“Okay,” Hayden says, reaching out to run his hand over Shane’s back. “Okay. We’ll talk to a doctor, yeah?”

Shane nods, watching as Jackie swaps arms, holding Amber so she’s facing Shane.

“She’s so…”

Jackie smiles, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, next to Shane’s legs.

“Isn’t she a cutie?”

“Yeah, she…” He stares at her in awe, reaching out and tickling his fingertip against her chest. She grabs his hand and draws it to her mouth immediately. “Oh, okay.”

“You wanna hold her?” Jackie asks.

He looks up at her, eyes wide and glassy, but she doesn’t wait for an answer, shifting closer to put her in his lap as Hayden guides Shane’s arm to wrap around her. He lets it happen, watching like he’s awestruck.

“Wow,” he whispers, watching her, tilting his head. “She’s so beautiful.”

They’re quiet, and Shane’s lips are pursed like he’s trying not to cry, like he’s suppressing it. Amber makes soft noises, gnawing at Shane’s thumb. It makes him laugh.

“Jack,” Hayden whispers. She looks at him. His eyes are wide, bright, and he’s holding his phone up, pointing it at Shane subtly. “Tell him.”

Oh.

Oh!

She grins, turning back to Shane, who’s cooing at Amber softly.

“Shane,” she says softly. He looks up at her. “That’s your goddaughter.”

He blinks.

His expression falls, and he stares at Jackie, eyes flickering back and forth between hers, and he turns to Hayden like he’s expecting him to laugh. Hayden is smiling.

Shane looks back at Jackie. His eyes glisten. His chin quivers.

He looks back down at Amber, who seems to be settling into her new home in the crook of Shane’s arm, lazily chewing on his thumb, and Jackie watches as he squeezes his eyes shut, dropping his head. His shoulders shake.

Amber seems to be unbothered by his tears, looking up at him and finally releasing his hand only to bury her tiny fingers in his hair and pulling in a manner familiar to Jackie.

“Ow.”

Hayden and Jackie let out simultaneous laughs, and Hayden drops the phone to attempt to detach Amber’s vice grip.

He sits at the counter in his kitchen.

It’s quiet, almost silent except the faint white noise of the heating and the intentionally steady sound of his breathing as he scrolls through messages and messages and messages. He knows he has time to do this— Shane isn’t going to be allowed to have access to his phone for at least a few days, but he wants to get it over with sooner rather than later.

The messages feel stupid now. One-sided.

He presses his knees up into the underside of the counter until it hurts a little, eyes lingering on some messages as he draws his cigarette to his mouth.

It had taken him a while to get comfortable saying stuff like that, even in texts. That one had caught Ilya so off-guard he choked, like it was any more obscene than the things he says out loud.

He scrolls some more, and then some more, and he finishes the cigarette only to light up another before the smoke has even dissipated. He only stopped smoking so Shane wouldn’t have to suffer through the smell and taste of it. There’s no point in quitting now. (Shane would argue that there are several reasons to quit, but he won’t have the chance to scold Ilya, will he?)

He scrolls some more. He smokes some more. He destroys himself, crumbles to pieces on the hardwood floor of his kitchen.

Until he gets to the very beginning of it— he still remembers sending that text, remembers how carefully he’d typed, unused to the English keyboard.

He stares at it. He thinks he regrets it. The letters blur in his eyes as they unfocus, and he sets his phone down on the counter in front of himself to look at the ceiling, blinking tears back. He lifts the cigarette to his lips and takes a long, slow drag, swallowing the smoke down.

And then, when his breathing has settled, he looks back at his phone. He touches the first text. And he presses delete.

It takes a long while. It takes seven years. It takes another cigarette and a half.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Ilya resists the urge to text him some more, to ask how his day is, and how his head feels and how everything else is. He wants to ask what else he’s forgotten— he knows about little Amber and his teammate’s marriage, but there has to be more, right?

He doesn’t ask, but Shane tells him anyway.

Ilya has always been a self-destructive son of a bitch.

He started smoking young, and he started fucking young, and he started drinkinh young, and all of it was just because he could. Just because he wanted to. Just because he didn’t care about the consequences.

So of course he keeps responding to Shane’s texts.

They’re stupid things. Occasional debriefs of his day, of practices with his stupid teammates (so stupid), complaints about his loving, tender parents asking how his head is feeling. A video of a pigeon hopping across a sidewalk. A mirror selfie with colourful, sparkling hairclips covering his head and what appears to be pink lipstick smears across his cheeks and eyelids. This one in particular throws Ilya off for at least an hour. He stares at it and clutches his chest like some damsel in distress, and he reads and rereads the accompanying explanation.

And it’s the fucking worst, because Shane doesn’t even know who Ilya is, but Ilya thinks they’re friends, even with their weird, unexplained history. Even though Ilya is still in love with him.

They banter, and they tease, and a few times, Ilya fully laughs out loud while looking at his phone. It’s ridiculous. He hates it.

He tells himself that he’ll stop responding. That he’ll let Shane’s texts go unanswered, unread, until Shane stops trying at all, until Shane forgets Ilya completely. Until Lily doesn’t mean anything to him.

It doesn’t work.

Lily is a huge asshole, but Shane can’t help but feel oddly fond about it. He hasn’t confirmed that he’s a hockey player, but Shane has his suspicions, especially after Lily says things like Have fun at practice with your mediocre team and Is your left wing losing his vision or something. He knows a lot about hockey, enough to keep up with Shane when he goes on his tangents (which don’t even seem to bother Lily), enough to give him feedback, suggestions. Shane supposes it makes sense. Of course he could only ever form an attachment this intense, this important, important enough to somehow withstand amnesia, with someone who likes hockey.

Every time his phone buzzes, he gets excited. Text messages have a quick buzzbuzz–buzzbuzz notification— and every time the cadence is different, the longer vibrations that indicate a call or the short solitary ones that are coming from anything else, he finds that he’s disappointed.

Disappointed usually because he hates phone calls, but also because it’s not a text from Lily. And he thinks maybe it’s kind of absurd that he feels like this, that he gets excited about texts from someone he doesn’t know, that he feels this attachment to whoever the fuck this is.

Boston and Montreal play one another, and Shane doesn’t even spare Ilya a second glance, even during the handshake lineup.

It’s exhilarating, the brief moment that they spend close together, their hands clasped for just a second. Ilya could swear time slows for it, just a momentary mercy from God for Ilya to savour it. He can hear Shane still breathing hard, and when they’re so close, he can see his freckles. They’re not as vibrant this far into the season.

He doesn’t get a text from Shane about meeting up, nothing containing a room number or a time, and he’s been doing his best to not flirt with him, but this proves more difficult than it should be. It’s his natural state, apparently, being sweet with Shane Hollander.

And maybe he’s grieving a little in a weird way, this bizarre loss, so he opts not to go out with his team after they return to their hotel. They poke and ponder, asking question after question— Do you have food poisoning? You didn’t get injured during the game, did you? Are you that bummed about losing? O-o-oh, you got someone coming over, huh, Rozanov? — but he remains mum, rolling his eyes and taking their light-hearted jabs and jostles until he’s left to the quiet of his hotel room.

He lays on his bed with his legs hanging off of it, the small of his back arching uncomfortably until he kicks his shoes off and lifts his feet to sit on the edge of the mattress. His arms spread out to his sides, and he stares at the ceiling. He thinks he feels lonely, in spite of how not lonely he is. He has friends— Hell, Marleau even offered to stay behind and hang out with him before Ilya insisted he go have fun. He could be there with them tonight, could be getting wasted and having a good time with his beloved teammates, and he could be hooking up with someone, or multiple someones. He’s allowed to do that. But somehow even thinking about it feels like cheating, and something about it feels gross. None of them, none of the potential hookups, the gorgeous women and the gorgeous men that would keep their lips sealed if Ilya told them to— none of them are Shane.

He’s only disturbed from his vaguely self-destructive zoned-out spiral when his phone vibrates, and he ignores how quickly he fishes it out of his pocket to check the screen. He raises an eyebrow as more messages come through.

Of course Pike doesn’t realise how hard that hits. He’s not Ilya’s dad— he’s only, like, two years older than him or something— and he’s not like Ilya’s dad. He’s nicer, even if he’s a fucking dumbass.

So Ilya sends him his hotel address, and his room number, and he’s filled with dread instead of excitement. He lays on the bed until there’s a knock on the door, and he pushes himself up tiredly, the ache of heartbreak and the leftover soreness from the game bone-deep.

Pike walks in comfortably, like this isn’t the strangest thing in the world, and Ilya tosses a hand, gesturing vaguely at Pike’s back before he shuts the door and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at Pike as he looks around like he’s in Ilya’s living room instead of a hotel room.

“Okay?” Ilya says, raising his eyebrows at Pike.

Pike takes a breath, looking at Ilya almost intently, like he’s trying to read his mind, or use telepathy.

“You’ve been texting with Shane.”

Ilya blinks, something in his stomach shifting like he’s actually in trouble, like he’s embarrassed. Like he’s going to get detention or like he’s going to be grounded. He can’t imagine how Pike’s own kids feel when they get in trouble.

“I— How did you know that?”

“He’s been smiling at his phone when he’s texting.”

Ilya makes a face.

“What if his mother is funny?”

“It’s his Lily smile.”

Oh.

“I’m not—” Pike waves a hand, looking exasperated for a moment. “I’m not trying to, like, scold you or something, I just…”

He sighs heavily, looking at Ilya, eyes imploring. He looks disappointed.

“What are you doing, man?”

“I am not trying to— to lead him on,” Ilya says quietly. “I just…”

“Look,” Pike says, moving to lean against the dresser. “You’re a grown man, right?”

“...Yeah?”

“So I can’t tell you what to do.” He stops, mouth twisting. “But.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Pike ignores it.

“This can’t be healthy,” Pike continues. “For either of you.”

“Pike—”

“You’re in love with him,” Pike says bluntly. Ilya blinks. His chest aches.

He nods.

“You can’t keep this up,” Pike says, gesturing vaguely. “What’s your plan? To just text him for the next thirty years and pretend you aren’t fucking head over heels? You can’t have a relationship like that, man.”

“I don’t have a plan,” Ilya snaps, expression crumbling into furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips. “I am not trying to have a relationship with him, I just…”

“Look,” Pike says again, his voice softening. “The way I see it, you got three options.”

Ilya looks away with a huff, gesturing for him to continue when he waits.

“You keep this up, just— just texting him and talking to him and pretending it’s nothing more than that, and he figures you out eventually. You know he will, Rozanov, you have a kinda specific way of talking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Two, you tell him who you are and see what happens,” Pike continues, but Ilya is already shaking his head. “Or you just stop.”

His voice hushes, and he whispers.

“Just stop. Leave it alone.”

It, he says, like everything Ilya has ever felt for Shane can be summed up into one little word. Like everything is just something. Like his love isn’t bigger than the sky itself.

“I tried,” Ilya says, horrified by the weakness of his own voice. “I can’t stop, I just—”

“Roz, why don’t you just tell him?” Pike says, exasperated. “I don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t fucking get it,” Ilya says forcefully, gesturing angrily. “Is not that simple, Pike, I can’t just tell him—”

He stops, his voice choking off in his throat, his eyes suddenly stinging. Pike waits for him, looking at him intently as he gathers himself, sniffling, rubbing his cheek roughly, turning his face away.

“I cannot tell him,” Ilya says finally, voice steady. “Because he will not want me, and I will lose him all over again.”

“Rozanov,” Pike says quietly.

“I know he will,” Ilya says, ignoring him. “But if I hear him say it, if I hear him tell me he does not want me, it will break my fucking heart, Pike, I can’t…”

“Why are you so sure he’ll reject you?” Pike says like it’s ridiculous. “He was already fucking in love with you, Roz, literally all of us knew it, it was clear just from how he looked at his fucking phone—”

“That was—” Ilya lets out a frustrated groan, finally standing and rubbing his face roughly as he turns away. “That was a fucking miracle, Pike. Miracles don’t happen twice.”

“Jesus,” Pike scoffs, shaking his head. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

Ilya turns and glares at him, but he doesn’t give Ilya a chance to say anything.

“Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean everyone else does,” Pike says bluntly, gesticulating like he’s angry, like this is a fight. “And just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean Shane is going to.”

“Pike—” Ilya tries, but his voice is weak.

“He fell in love with you,” Pike insists, coming closer until he’s touching his finger to Ilya’s chest, poking him pointedly. “He’s still in love with you, even if he doesn’t know it, okay? That’s not, like, some fluke, man.”

“Fluke,” Ilya repeats blankly. “What the fuck is fluke?”

“Wh— It’s, like, uhm…”

He looks away, eyebrows furrowing.

“Why are you using words you do not know?”

“Shut up, man, I’m saying it was real,” he says firmly. “It wasn’t a fucking miracle, Roz, that’s not how love works.”

Roz looks away, his throat tightening.

“He fell in love with you because he likes you,” Pike continues, like he can’t see it. “Not because you tricked him, or— or because you got lucky, okay, he fucking loves you, Ilya, that doesn’t just go away.”

He doesn’t say Ilya’s name right, but Ilya finds that he doesn’t even care.

“He doesn’t even remember any of it,” he says softly. Pike throws his hands.

“Yeah, he didn’t remember my daughter either,” he says. “He didn’t remember that his grandma died, or that his teammate got married— he was at the wedding, by the fucking way— and he didn’t remember that his uncle moved to a different country.”

They’re close now, close enough that Ilya can see a light scatter of freckles on his nose. He kind of hopes the kids got that from him, and then he kind of misses his own dad, which is insane, because his dad was a bag of shit that didn’t leave anything to miss. Maybe Ilya just mourns having a dad— having one at all, but also the potential of having a good one. The Pike kids are lucky, he thinks.

“He forgot important things,” Pike says, oblivious to it. “You’re important.”

He blurs in Ilya’s eyes as they sting.

“He loves you,” Pike says softly, insistently, reaching to jostle him a little, almost teasing, fond. “Just let him.”

This is a bizarre day for Ilya, for many reasons, but right now the primary reason is that the last person to see him cry was Svetlana, and it was at least five years ago. And now Hayden fucking Pike is looking him in the eye as he bursts into tears, and it’s fine.

Ilya doesn’t really know what his problem is, but he’s suddenly drowning in it, in whatever it is that’s held him in such a vice grip for so long, and he’s falling apart into Hayden Pike’s arms. He misses his mom, and he misses his Shane, and he doesn’t know what it feels like to not hurt.

It’s mid-June the first time Lily sends Shane a photo. It catches him off-guard, makes his heart-rate skyrocket in the few seconds it takes for him to hear his phone vibrate and read the notification and the accompanying text.

Makes me think of you.

Oh.

He stops. Sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the photo some more. His stomach twists, caught somewhere between butterflies and despair.

He spends too long staring at it, at the rays of the sun, at the way they part around the dark side of the cloud, and he wants to ask about it, wants to ask why it makes Lily think of him, what exactly the morning sun has to do with him.

He doesn’t ask.

Shane doesn’t know what’s changed, what could have possibly changed Lily’s mind on a random Tuesday morning in the off-season, but he isn’t going to waste any time, won’t give Lily the chance to change his mind.

He calls him.

It rings, and then it rings again, and then once more, and Shane is just starting to think that he wasn’t fast enough, that Lily’s already changed his mind, that he’s never going to hear from Lily again, when the ringing stops.

There’s a soft breath that tugs at something in Shane, some kind of soft recognition.

“Lily?” he whispers.

Silence.

And then a hushed, smooth, accented, “Hello, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes open and stare absently at his rug, and a shiver drips from the crown of his head down his spine, and his chest clenches tightly. He’s trembling suddenly, his fingers tightening around his phone.

“...Ilya.”

Ilya agrees to go to Montreal so they can talk in person. It’s only a little nerve wracking.

It’s quiet as he walks into Shane’s apartment and takes off his cap, his head ducked like he’s trying to shrink into himself, avoiding Shane’s eyes. Shane watches him toe his shoes off and leave them by the door.

He’s awestruck.

This is his Lily.

Meandering through his apartment like he’s been here before— which, Shane realizes as he follows him, he has— in a rain-speckled hoodie, his hands tucked into the front pocket.

He sits on the sofa in the living room. Shane sits next to him with a respectable distance between them, and they glance at each other.

It’s awkward. So awkward, in fact, that they both let out stifled laughs.

“So,” Shane says.

“So,” Ilya repeats.

Shane turns toward him a little, tucking his hands into his lap to stop himself from reaching for him.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks lightly.

“Yes,” Ilya says, nodding.

“I was hoping it was you.”

Ilya blinks. Turns to him.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “I kind of have a huge crush on you.”

Another blank blink. And then Ilya is looking away, across the room with a suppressed smile. His cheeks turn a little pink. Shane ignores the swell of pride in his chest at getting a reaction.

“Will you tell me about us?” Shane asks, shifting to face him completely, crossing his legs and leaning against the back of the sofa. “Jog my memory?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but it looks fond.

He turns to lean against the armrest, lifting a leg up onto the sofa between them. Shane can’t help but watch the fabric of his shorts shift over his skin, gaping to expose the soft, pale skin of his thighs.

“We, uhm,” Ilya starts. “We hooked up our rookie year, after the commercial shoot. And then we just… saw each other. Every few months or so, whenever we were in same city and had time.”

“What did we do?”

Ilya looks at him, suppressing a smile, his eyes cutting up through his lashes in a way that makes Shane’s stomach do a somersault.

“We made out,” he says lightly, like it’s nothing at all, like it’s easy. “A lot. You liked that.”

“Mhmm.”

“We sucked each other’s dicks,” he says. “You liked that too.”

“...Mhmm.”

“I fucked you,” Ilya says finally, eyes trained on Shane’s face as it flushes with warmth. “You liked that a lot.”

Shane finally looks away, teeth catching his lip as he tries to hide his grin, but it doesn’t work. Ilya laughs softly.

“Why didn’t you wanna tell me it was you?” Shane asks.

Ilya looks away now, rubbing his cheek like he’s embarrassed, hesitating.

“I, uhm.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, his mouth twisting thoughtfully, his fingers fidgeting under the fabric of his hoodie. His leg bounces up and down anxiously. Shane wants to touch him somehow.

“I was going to break it off,” Ilya says finally. “Us. That night. But then you… I did not have to.”

Shane nods slowly, drawing his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs.

“Why?”

And Ilya suddenly looks heartbroken, looks sad in a way Shane fucking hates. He wants to make it stop, wants to make it better, but he doesn’t move, arms tightening around his legs as Ilya looks at him.

“I realized I am in love with you,” Ilya says quietly. “It was too much for me.”

“...Is it still too much?” Shane asks.

Ilya is quiet, his eyes flickering across Shane’s face, and then he nods a little bit.

“Yes,” he whispers. “But also not enough. I don’t know what to do with it.”

He falls quiet again, but he looks thoughtful, and Shane waits, looking at him. He’s gazing. He knows he is, but he can’t stop.

God, he’s so fucking beautiful. He looks tired, more tired than Shane’s ever seen him, even after intense games. This is a different kind of tired, he thinks. Less physical exhaustion and more just exhaustion. And even through it, he’s gorgeous. Curls a little frizzy from the rain, eyes blue and downcast. Sad. Nervous.

“If we…” He hesitates again, tongue sliding over his lower lip. “If we will try again— if you want to,” he adds, glancing up at him. Shane nods almost desperately. Yes, of course he wants to try again. Ilya exhales, nodding back at him. “If we will try again, you should that I, uhm…”

He pauses, sniffling, and he scoffs a little bit, shaking his head at himself.

“I have never talked about this to anybody,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” Shane says softly. His stomach aches.

“I do,” Ilya says. “If we are going to… to do this.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers. He waits.

Ilya’s hands emerge from his pocket, and he covers his face for a moment, rubbing his cheeks harshly in a way that makes Shane want to catch his hands. He lets a leg stretch out without really noticing, without telling it to, and his foot rests on Ilya’s leg. Ilya lets him. He shifts a little closer.

“My mother,” Ilya starts slowly, speaking to his own tangled fingers, “committed suicide when I was a child.”

Shane blinks. He presses his foot against Ilya’s leg harder, and Ilya exhales shakily, nodding, reaching for it. His hands are warm as they close around his foot, squeezing like he’s going to massage it.

“I am like her sometimes,” Ilya continues, eyes watching his own hands. Shane’s stomach aches. He feels kind of nauseated. “Not— Not always. But sometimes I get very sad. Uhm. I get very tired, but not— not normal tired.”

Shane nods, shifting his foot. Ilya squeezes, his thumbs pressing into his sole.

“I do not expect you to fix me,” Ilya says quietly. “I just… You should know that I am a mess.”

“I can’t fix you,” Shane whispers. “‘S not how that works.”

Ilya nods, his eyes closing.

“But I…” He trails off, shifting a little closer and reaching across his own legs to catch one of Ilya’s hands. It feels like something miraculous, Ilya’s hand on his, his fingers warm and strong and callused and gentle between Shane’s. “I wanna help. However I can.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment, and then he’s smiling so softly it almost kills Shane.

“You do help,” he says softly. His hand squeezes Shane’s foot.

Shane aches.

His eyes scan Ilya’s face. His eyes look darker than Shane thought they were, but maybe it’s just dim in the room they’re in. Maybe it changes day to day. Maybe Shane will get to find out what they look like in the sunlight.

“You are staring, Hollander,” Ilya says softly.

“Can you blame me?” Shane says before he pauses, pulling at Ilya’s hand so he can relax against the back of the sofa again, their fingers tangled. It feels nice. “You called me Shane when you were texting me.”

“I was allowed to,” Ilya says.

“You’re allowed to now.”

Ilya stares at him, quiet.

“...Shane,” he whispers.

Shane’s face flushes with warmth, and he suppresses a smile until he can’t, because Ilya is looking at him like he’s fond, like he loves him, and Shane can’t help but grin at him, beaming brightly.

“You are so beautiful,” Ilya whispers. Shane flushes warmer. He looks away, down at their hands. “Shane.”

“Will you kiss me?” Shane asks abruptly. Ilya squeezes his foot.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” Shane says, nodding. “Jesus. Yes.”

Ilya looks at him for another moment, and then he shifts, letting go of Shane’s foot and moving closer. Shane’s eyes fall to his mouth, his eyes widening, but Ilya doesn’t kiss him yet. He puts a hand to Shane’s chest and presses gently, pushing him so he falls onto his back. Shane’s legs fall open, and his lips part in awe as Ilya hovers above him, his curls falling around his face.

They’re close, bodies pressed, and it settles something in Shane. His hands find Ilya’s shoulders, holding him loosely, weakly. Ilya tilts his head at him.

“You will tell me to stop if you want me to, yes?” he asks softly. Shane nods even though he can’t imagine ever wanting him to stop. “I know it is first time for you.”

“Kiss me,” Shane breathes. “Please. I want it.”

Ilya exhales softly.

“Maybe it’ll bring something back,” Shane says, lips quirking into a smile when Ilya scoffs. “Like a fairy tale.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“‘S worth a try, right?”

Ilya’s smile falters.

He nods, his eyes flickering over Shane’s face, one of his arms giving out slowly so he’s even closer, lower, his chest on Shane’s, their hearts separated by flesh and skin and fabric. Shane might be glowing.

“Yeah,” Ilya breathes. “Worth a try.”

He doesn’t know if Shane realises he’s talking about more than a kiss.

It doesn’t matter.

He kisses Shane softly, slowly, as tenderly as humanly possible, and Shane lets him. It’s quiet, their lips pressing before separating with a slick sound that makes Ilya shiver, like he hasn’t heard all the filthy noises Shane’s body makes.

Shane nods when Ilya looks at him even though his eyes are closed, and Ilya lets out a weak laugh, leaning back down to kiss him again. Shane’s hands tighten on Ilya’s shoulders and then slide up to his neck, finally finding their place. Their lips slide, and their heads tilt, and Ilya lets himself relax completely on top of Shane, the weight of his body pressing Shane into the sofa. Shane lets out a soft groan. It buries under Ilya’s skin.

“Is okay?” he whispers when they part, lips brushing Shane’s.

Shane nods, a hand sliding to the back of Ilya’s neck and tugging.

“‘S not working yet, try again.”

Ilya laughs, giggles, against Shane’s mouth, and he can feel it spread into a grin against his own lips, and then, mid-kiss, he’s crying.

Shane feels it, and he forces Ilya away to look at him, but Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, ducking his head to hide. Shane doesn’t let him, whispering something that Ilya can’t quite hear before he’s pushing Ilya back. Ilya doesn’t even dread it, doesn’t regret it, doesn’t fear it, because this is Shane. His sweet Jane.

Shane climbs onto him, limbs wrapping around him like he can’t allow there to be any space at all between them, and Ilya lets him, hugging him tightly, burying his face in Shane’s neck.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he chokes. “I missed you so fucking much—”

“I know,” Shane whispers. His voice is strained. “I know, baby, I missed you too. I knew something was missing, I fucking knew it—”

Ilya might be dreaming. This might not be real at all, might be a figment of his imagination. If it is, he thinks, he’ll savour it for as long as he can.

An arm wraps around Shane’s hips, holding him tightly as the other slides up his spine, and Shane’s arms wrap around his neck, enveloping him in a tight embrace until his vision is dark, hidden in shadows.

Ilya cries. Shane lets him.

He presses slow kisses up and down Ilya’s neck after moving his arm to give himself space to, lingering at the same spots he always used to— just under Ilya’s earlobe, along the tendon of his neck, right above his collarbone— and it makes Ilya laugh a little. He supposes Hayden was right. They’re still the same.

Shane cradles his face. He thumbs across his cheeks, wiping away the tears as they fall even though it proves to be useless. They won’t stop.

And then he wipes them away with kisses, his lips pressing to Ilya’s skin over and over and over again, and Ilya is sobbing, clinging to Shane, clutching at him in a way that feels fucking deranged, like he’s losing his fucking mind, and Shane lets him. He kisses him, and he cradles him, and he whispers I fucking love you into his ear between soft kisses that make Ilya shiver.

When he finally stops crying, he stays for a moment, hidden in Shane’s neck before Shane makes him move, pushing him back enough to look at his face like he’s inspecting him, like he’s looking for visible signs of pain. Ilya kisses him desperately, his eyes squeezing shut, his eyebrows furrowing, and Shane groans into it, his hands holding Ilya’s jaw. They’re so warm.

They’re rocking back and forth. It lulls Ilya to sleep, his head falling to Shane’s strong shoulder. He hums when Shane whispers his name, too tired and lovesick to do anything else. Shane lets him, straddling his hips and humming back at him, fingers dragging through his curls slowly, soothingly.

Just like he used to.

Shane is drifting off, his breathing slow and steady and fucking beatiful, and Ilya is awake. He watches him, and then he pulls his phone out.

Ilya grins, looking at Shane, at the way he’s buried himself into his mattress like he would have burrowed if it were possible, at the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie, creases shifting with every breath Shane takes. Ilya snaps a photo and sends it to Hayden.

He reaches for Shane’s head as it sends, fingers running through his hair gently. Shane hums, shifting closer.

He clicks his phone off and tosses it aside before Hayden can respond, and then he moves to wrap his arm around Shane and pull him closer. Shane lets him, pliant and easy in his sated exhaustion, and Ilya kisses the back of his neck, sighing and relaxing against him, closing his eyes and letting sleep take him again. It’s the off-season. They have catching up to do.