Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Confident Hollanov, Butterfly Effect, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Not Beta Read, BAMF Hollanov, LGBTQ Themes, Canon-Typical Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Hollanov is not doing this shit a second time, Found Family, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Spoilers, BAMF Shane Hollander, BAMF Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of TTWCH

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-24 Updated: 2026-10-06 Words: 134,973 Chapters: 24/?

The Things We Can Change

Summary

This is a love letter to the all the millenials like me who played it too careful and forgot to enjoy our youth. Shane and Ilya, enjoy it for me, do good. Fuck it good, fuck it right. Life is too short to live it scared.

The arena is too loud.
That’s the first thing Shane notices; not the ice, not the lights, not the jersey on his shoulders that suddenly feels wrong in a way he can’t articulate. The sound hits him like pressure, like something physical, a wall of noise that vibrates in his chest.
He’s already bent over for the faceoff when it hits him- skates set, stick down, weight forward. His body is exactly where it’s supposed to be even if his brain is still skidding uselessly, trying to catch traction.
There’s only a split second before the puck drops.
It stretches.
He lifts his eyes.
Ilya.
Young. So fucking young. Is he dreaming? Not worn by years of hockey, travel, interviews and losses and victories that stack so high they blur together. He’s young again; sharp boned, bright eyed, unable to grow a beard to save his life. Bears black and gold instead of Centaurs red. 'If I look down am I going to be pantsless too?' He thought absently, no way this was real... right?

Notes

This prologue is purely my way of coping with our boys losing and seeing team USA do... that. Beyond that, this fic will be me working through my feelings of regret of living my youth perhaps a bit too carefully. Being roughly the same age as Ilya and Shane and also not being able to live openly as my true self until my late 20s... I feel like we may have some similar remorse and things we would like to do differently.

To my other followers waiting for the next chapter of my Naruto fic (^^") that chapter is still kicking my ass but it won't be 8 years this time, I promise.

And yes my schtick is time travel, my therapist is aware.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Shane felt numb as he looked down at his silver medal and the bitterly cute stuffed mascot in his hands. What had happened? The game had been brutal, honestly some of the most intense and passionate hockey any of them had ever played. They had played phenomenally, they’d just been… unlucky. And the other goalie had been a brick fucking wall.

Canada had outshot the USA 2 to 1 in shots on goal, and what a fucking joke. Just nothing had hit the fucking net. They all blamed themselves in some way, Ilya was fighting back tears next to him- devastated that he’d had to sit out the game with a pulled groin muscle. Baby shark on his other side had tears openly flowing.

The worst part is that it wasn’t just the Olympics, it wasn’t just silver. This had happened the last time too, in 2014, in Sochi. But it didn’t taste like... this. Foul. The last year had been… rough. It had seemed like they were going to get through it though, the country felt united in a way he hadn’t experienced before. For the first time (and how privileged it sounded in his mind now, god he had lived so far under a rock it was a bit embarrassing) he had actually paid attention to politics.

Max and Leah had been the ones to wake him up to it last summer, Max had been talking about how they were too disgusted and worried to go to the States on their normal trip to Leah’s grandparents in Florida. Apparently, they were trying to get her grandparents home as well, but they were having trouble selling their condo.

The comment had startled him, then they had been told not to go out in certain cities while they were on their away games. It had been shocking. He had been focused on inclusion in sport, but this. This was… so far beyond that.

Ilya’s hand grabbed his and startled him from his spiral, the worried look clear across his face. He realised it was time to leave the ice and Ilya pulled him along.

“Come Lyubimyy. It will be all right.”

There were reporters, and hugs, and cameras. The guy from the CBC sounded so fucking sincere he couldn't bring himself to look at him straight on and now they were heading home.

He puked in the locker room.

In the hours and days after they saw the support. Everyone from home said they did amazing and they were proud but it still tasted like ash. But they were thirty-five and neither Shane nor Ilya were sure if they'd see another Olympics. They were hoping to retire soon on a high, they had been beginning their journey into adoption or surrogacy, making plans for life after hockey.

But sometimes you all you can do is sit and imagine all of the things you would change. 

Chapter 2: Chapter 1

Chapter Summary

October 2010

The arena is too loud.

That’s the first thing Shane notices; not the ice, not the lights, not the jersey on his shoulders that suddenly feels wrong in a way he can’t articulate. The sound hits him like pressure, like something physical, a wall of noise that vibrates in his chest.

He’s already bent over for the faceoff when it hits him-  skates set, stick down, weight forward. His body is exactly where it’s supposed to be even if his brain is still skidding uselessly, trying to catch traction.

There’s only a split second before the puck drops.

It stretches.

He lifts his eyes.

Ilya.

Young. So fucking young. Is he dreaming? Not scarred by years of travel and interviews and loss and victories that stack so high they blur together. He’s young again — sharp-boned, bright-eyed, unable to grow a beard to save his life. Bears black and gold instead of Centaurs red. If I look down am I going to be pantsless too? He thought absently, no way this was real... right?

For that impossible suspended moment, the entire rink seemed to hold its breath.

For half a second, Shane thinks he’s hallucinating but Ilya's eyes show him the truth.

The recognition only born from more than a decade together. On and off the ice, together on long summer days and falling sweaty into each other, high off of victories hard won and losses utterly devastating. Together. 

Realisation snaps between them like static. Was... was this real? Ilya couldn't actually be here in this dream with him, could he?

But the recognition was there. The light glinting off the wide whites of their eyes, both trying to make sense of what the actual fuck was happening.

You too.

Ilya’s mouth twitches, like he almost says something. Shane’s grip tightens on his stick, knuckles going white in his gloves, because if he opens his mouth he’s pretty sure his voice will betray him.

The ref raises the puck.

There is no time.

The puck drops.

Instinct takes over. Shane lunges forward, muscles firing cleanly, his body remembering a version of itself that doesn’t ache in the mornings. Ilya moves like he always has — aggressive, precise, already two steps ahead of where the play should be.

They collide once, not accidentally. Shoulder to shoulder, a jolt that rattles through Shane’s chest. For a split second, Ilya’s breath ghosts warm against his ear.

“Later,” Ilya mutters, so quiet it might be imagined.

Then the game swallows them whole.

—

The final horn is a blur.

Shane showers. Answers questions on autopilot. Smiles when someone claps him on the back, because apparently that’s what rookie Shane Hollander does. His hands shake only when he’s alone again, tugging on street clothes that don’t feel like his.

He makes it to the parking lot before the world tilts again.

The car is unfamiliar but the keys fit when he hits the fob to make it honk. He hadn't seen this car since... Since he was a rookie. He gets in, shuts the door, and drives a couple blocks over so his straggling teammates don't see him freaking out in the car. 

The steering wheel is smooth under his palms. Worn in that soft way that takes at least a decade and 3 different drivers, hockey tape wrapped around the section with frayed stitching. It was fresh and not peeling in the slightest like when he handed it off to his younger cousin.... when was that?

He stares through the windshield at nothing, heart thudding. His brain keeps trying to pull up facts like a filing cabinet dumped on the floor.

Where do I live?

He needs Ilya.

He exhales sharply and fumbles for his phone.

A BlackBerry.

“Fucking seriously,” he mutters, thumb hovering uselessly as the tiny screen lights up. No familiar apps. No muscle memory. He opens the browser and tries to wait for it to load, but it was too slow for his rising panic before he remembers that there’s a calendar that might anchor him in reality. It opens: October 2010.

He needs Ilya.

Shane opens his contacts, types Ilya. Then Lily. Rozanov.

Nothing pops up.

He tries again, heart kicking harder. He knows the number. He’s known it for years.

But the digits that come to mind are for Ottawa. Wrong. It doesn’t even ring. The area code not added for years yet.

He swallows, throat tight, and scrolls through old texts instead. Everything feels thinner here, like the world hasn’t filled in yet.

Then a message catches his eye.

Aunt Lisa: Hey kiddo! What’s your mailing address now?

Shane blinks.

“Oh,” he breathes.

He taps it open, scrolls up, finds the address he apparently sent earlier that week. A rental? Temporary. Rookie season temporary.

Okay.

At least he knows where home is.

The phone vibrates in his hand.

Unknown number.

Boston area code.

Shane’s breath stutters. His eyes burn suddenly, fiercely, and he has to swallow before he answers.

“Hello?”

“Shane, lyubimyy My love .” Ilya’s voice cracked down the line, as overcome as Shane felt.

Despite the crack, Ilya’s voice is lower than he remembers it being at nineteen, like some things carried over even if the years didn’t. It hits him square in the chest.

“I —” Shane clears his throat. “I didn’t know your number. I only remember the Ottawa one.”

“I figured,” Ilya says, immediately. “I remembered yours. You’ve had it forever.”

A beat. Longer than it should be. Shane can hear breathing on the other end, uneven, like Ilya’s pacing.

“You’re real, right?” Shane asks quietly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “I’m not— this isn’t just some- some-… psychosis? Or something?”

Ilya lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts. “I think we’re real,” he says. “I checked. I pinched myself many times. It did nothing useful, but… I’m here.”

Another pause.

“I had to go to the hotel, the normal one down the street from the arena,” Ilya continues. “I left. I’m not supposed to, but I couldn’t— I needed to hear your voice. Where are you?”

Shane replies relief leaking through the cracks. “In my car a few blocks from there, I can pick you up. Go around in front of the big church. Less people.”

“Good,” Ilya says, immediate and certain. “I'll wait for you at the corner sweetheart. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Shane closes his eyes, nodding even though Ilya can’t see him. “Okay,” he manages. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Ilya responds and starts walking.

Chapter 3: Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

October 2010 II

Ilya is waiting under a streetlight when Shane pulls up, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that’s too thin for the weather. He looks small, suddenly, in a way Shane hasn’t seen in years.

Shane parks badly. Leaves the engine running.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then Ilya opens the door and gets in and they’re smashed together over the gear shift. The space between them is electric. Too close. Not close enough. But they separate in another moment to look each other in th eye, reassure themselves they are the same person.

“Okay,” Shane says, finally.

“Okay,” Ilya echoes.

The word hangs there.

Then Ilya leans forward, forehead dropping to Shane’s shoulder and Shane’s hands come up automatically, grasping and desperate as they cling to each other.

They stay like that for a few long moments to breathe and ground themselves, but they need to get somewhere they can really talk. Ilya pulls back first, scrubbing a hand over his face, eyes bright and a little unfocused.

“Okay,” he says again, like he’s testing whether the word still works. “Where to?”

Shane puts the car in gear. He knows how to get there, he’d lived in Montreal long enough to remember the area even if it’s been years at this point. They head north, past streets that grow quieter as they head further from downtown and the bridges. Up Saint-Laurent, where people spill onto the sidewalks and Shane gets a flash of his dad’s voice, half-drunk and fond, reminiscing about late nights and questionable decisions and music too loud to think over.

He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but he had liked the closeness to the mountain; somewhere to run when his legs needed burning and his head needed silence. His brain keep analyzing and remembering in a desperate attempt to not panic, he’s not sure if its working.

He turns down a narrow lane behind a row of old Plateau walk-ups and noses the car into a tight back-lot spot. Brick walls loom close on either side, tagged and layered with decades of repainting. It smells faintly of damp leaves and old stone.

“This is it,” Shane says, again unnecessarily but blinking around as the hazy memories of that first season are dredged from the muck of time.

The building is old but cared for, the kind of place that’s been standing for at least a century and probably will keep standing out of spite. The floors inside slope gently underfoot, crooked in that familiar Plateau way, like the whole structure settled into itself and decided not to bother correcting it.

Shane flips on a light. Clean. Sparse. He really hadn’t spent much time here; he had been mostly back and forth to the practice rink or the arena that first year. Head down, kept his focus on not much besides hockey and daydreaming about a certain Russian. There was a couch he vaguely remembered that came with the lease, a small kitchen with squeaky cabinets, a window that looks out onto fire escapes and laundry lines.

Ilya turns slowly, taking it in, then lets out a breath he seems to have been holding. “What the actual fuck is happening Shane?” he says finally.

Shane has no answers. His voice cracks and the levy breaks. Ilya is there, they’re both on the floor and breathing in shallow gasps. The panic is nearly all consuming. He doesn’t know what to do, Ilya obviously doesn’t either. They never had breakdowns together before, the closest had been after that dreadful Olympics after the game in their shared hotel room, finally out of view of the cameras when they’d just held each other and shook for many long minutes. But this was different, this was panic and fear on a level that neither of them had felt before.

Eventually, they came to in the bathroom, both of them having puked at different points but panic can’t stay indefinitely. Even your fight or flight can get tired and the adrenaline crashes. They sit in silence for many more moments as their minds and memories start to kick back in. They establish that they’re somehow in 2010, that was the first MLH game they’d ever played against each other.

They rinse their mouths and drag their way back to the couch and collapse side by side into the cushions.

“I don’t remember picking it,” Shane says, flat and hollow as gestures around them. The room much smaller than anywhere he really recalled living, the floors crooked and ceiling adorned with century crown moulding. “I barely remember anything from this place.” The whites of Shane’s eyes show again as he looks back at Ilya, breathing still fast but slowing finally. “I don’t know who I am here. I don’t know what I ate this morning. I don’t know what my schedule is supposed to be tomorrow.”

His hands lift, useless, then rake through his hair. “We were- we were thirty-five, Ilyusha. We had a house. A dog. A whole routine. I knew what my knees were going to complain when it rained.”

He laughs, sharp and wrong as he bent over to grab the offending body parts. “Jesus Christ, my knees.”

Ilya swallows. He looks down at his own hands like he’s checking the math. “I can’t even legally drink in USA,” he says quietly. “Nineteen, Shane. We're fucking nineteen.”

The silence gapes for a moment before Shane drags a hand down his face. “It’s 2010,” he says, like he needs to hear it out loud again. “October. I don't think Instagram even exists. Fricking Obama’s still in his first term. We had that creepy prime minister... Something Harvey? I wasn't old enough to vote for the douchebag...” He gestures vaguely toward the window. “We just played our first NHL game against each other. I remember that game happening. I remember… rewatching it more than playing in it.”

Ilya’s eyes flick up. “Me too.”

They stare at each other.

Shane’s voice drops. “The last thing I remember is—” He stops, frowns, tries again. “We were in the car. Together. Driving home from the airport. Black ice?” His throat works. “I remember feeling the tires slip…”

Ilya goes very still. Then he nods once, slowly. “Yeah. I remember the car slipping,” he says instead. “There was black ice, I think. And-” He frowns, searching. “A pothole? I remember a jolt. You trying to correct.”

A hysterical sound escapes Shane before he can stop it. “I would have tried to correct,” he says, a little breathless. “It was so fucking fast.”

For a second, the absurdity cuts through the panic-

Then it crashes back in, tightening in their throats.

“So what,” Shane says, quieter now. “We died? This is- what, a redo? A cosmic joke?”

Ilya leans closer, voice low but steady. “Who’s to say, maybe we’re in a weird shared coma…” But he shakes his head, no this felt too real. “We woke up on the ice. Same memories. Same...-” He hesitates, then places a hand on Shane’s chest lightly, over his heart to feel his heart still beating a tad too fast. “Same us.” He doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead his fingers curl slightly, catching in the fabric of Shane’s shirt like he needs proof. Shane exhales shakily and leans in without thinking, their foreheads brushing together, the contact small and electric. For a moment neither of them speaks. 

Then Shane cups the back of Ilya’s neck, thumb sliding through hair that feels so soft and familiar just as he remembered and grounding. Ilya’s breath hitches, and then they’re kissing- rough and firm with too much teeth and probably not enough breathing as they fell together onto that unremarkable couch as both sought to touch as much of each other as they could after this crazy turn in their lives. Clothes soon littered the floor as they jerked themselves to completion- Shane in Ilya’s lap, using moisturiser from the half empty tube of Aveeno on the end table as lube. Nineteen-year-old Shane had apparently not gotten that dildo yet and the apartment was distressingly bare of sex accoutrements.

By the time they finally come up for air, foreheads resting together again while their sweaty skin is cooling while stuck together from shoulder to ankle.

Shane’s breath stutters. “I don’t want to do it again,” he admits. “Not the long way. Not without you. We need to figure out how to be together again. Sooner. If this is even really real.”

Ilya brushes a thumb over Shane’s freckles, skin impossibly smooth as compared to his 35 year-old self, and peppers kisses into his hair. “We will lyubov moya. We will."

Shane nods, the panic still there but no longer spiraling quite as fast. “Okay,” he says again, clinging to the word. “Okay. We should-” He stops, grimaces. “We should tell someone. Right? Like. A doctor. Or- I don’t know.”

Ilya lets out a short, humourless laugh. “And that’s how you end up locked in a psych ward explaining you’re a time-traveling hockey player who remembers his future husband.”

Shane snorts despite himself, tension breaking just enough to breathe. “Yeah. No. That’s a terrible plan.”

He sits up more fully and thinks a little longer before standing. "Come Solnyshko, lets have shower and start sorting things out. I have a plane to catch in the morning.”

Shane blinks. “What?”

Ilya sits up more fully and runs a hand through his hair, the motion restless. “I have a flight in the morning,” he says instead, quieter now. “Back to Boston. Is in my calendar. We have another game soon, Ottawa.” His lips quirked at the irony.

Shane’s stomach drops. “Right. Yeah.”

“And if this is real, and we start pulling on threads without thinking,” Ilya continues, practical even through the exhaustion, “we could make this worse before we understand it.” He looks at Shane, eyes steady. “We need at least an idea of a plan before daylight.”

Shane exhales through his nose. “So, we’re not sleeping.”

“No,” Ilya agrees. “Not much.”

They sit there for a moment, the weight of it settling in before they head for the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, they emerge and head to the little kitchen as Shane gestures toward the coffee machine with a tired huff. “Coffee. Bad coffee. Probably whatever was on sale because rookie me doesn’t know better yet.”

Ilya chuckles and places his hands on his waist. “And we know so much better now.”

They move together then, automatic, familiar; kettle filled, mugs out, a pen found and set down beside a scrap of paper and a clunky laptop that still has a disc drive. Words get written and crossed out and rewritten. Dates. Names. Half-remembered injuries. Investments. Question marks. Long arrows pointing to many interconnected things. The planning calms their nerves more than anything else has so far.

Time blurs and the initial ghost of a plan takes place. The city outside shifts from night to something lighter, the hum changing pitch. Neither of them notices exactly when the sky begins to pale.

Shane’s face is wan as he watches a fat squirrel run up the tree outside of the window. “I have so much regret Ilyusha.” His eyes shift to Ilya’s, his husband understands and nods in agreement.

“Maybe we can do something about that, da?” Ilya has his own regrets.

Eventually, they end up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, backs against the couch, surrounded by coffee cups and paper. Exhausted but not quite as scared.

“I need to call an uber back to the hotel. My roommate has already texted asking me where the fuck I am.” Ilya groaned as his head tilted back on the cushion. “I don’t even remember this guy.”

Shane chuckled and leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder, “A taxi. We don’t have uber yet.”

A louder, more Russian groan followed, “Faaaack. Well add that to the investment list then.”

It took another ten minutes before Ilya was ready to leave and the taxi pulled up in front of the building.

“I love you, Ilyusha. So fucking much.” Shane kisses him again but then pauses, a stubborn look crossing his face. “Wait a sec. I want a picture. I’m not missing out on having pictures of us together and young this time.”

Ilya melts and takes out his -apparently new- iPhone 4. “Me too, sweetheart. Come here.”

The front camera is crap, but they take several selfies together: the final one with them kissing. He sends them all to Shane. “This is a bit risky, no?”

Shane shrugs, “I am over regretting my youth. I won’t do it again.”

Ilya kisses him again until the taxi honks and he’s whisked away.

Chapter 4: Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

November 2010

Chapter Notes

Being back in the Montreal locker room was a bit of a head fuck for Shane the next day.

His stall was in a weird place; not where he remembered it from later seasons, not where his body thought it should be. Too close to the door. Too far from the veterans. It made him feel twelve years old and ancient at the same time. Old faces were back, some he hadn’t seen in over a decade and some he knew too well from memory, but none of them really knew him yet. His stomach twisted at the recollection of his last time on the home side the locker room. The accusations and the silence would probably never leave him completely.

Worse was his best friend.

Hayden nodded at him, polite and distant, the way you nod at a teammate you haven’t quite figured out. It caught Shane off guard and made his swooping stomach swoop harder. In his head, Hayden was a constant- someone who’d seen him exhausted, hurt, stripped raw by playoff losses and bad seasons. Stuck by him through coming out and meeting Ilya as his partner and dealing with the rest of the Montreal team after the fanvids debacle (okay so he caused it but still he'd been really frickin’ sorry and he appreciated that). Hell, they had been Uncle Shane and Uncle Ilya to his kids. Right now, he was just another guy trying to make sense of their super serious new rookie centre. Shane's heart broke a little at the loss of the friendship, he'd have to make an effort to build that back to what it once had been.

Even further to that, the overall vibe was… off. Not hostile. Just cold around the edges. Shane couldn’t quite place it. Had it been like this last time?

His memories of the first half of his rookie season were a blur of stress, horniness, and an almost pathological focus on hockey. He’d barely looked up long enough to register anything else. Except Ilya, Ilya was impossible to ignore even in his own mind, even then. Being back in it now, with the benefit of hindsight and a body that hadn’t learned all its bad habits yet, felt like walking through a haunted house. The way he'd left Montreal the last time cast a pretty significant pall over everything, but time had blunted the edges. Knocking them out of the playoffs a time or two in the past five years also certainly helped.

He tugged his jersey over his head and sat for a moment longer than necessary, elbows on his knees, staring at the concrete floor. Despite the strange vibe, on the whole he felt surprisingly calm. He’d been playing in the MLH for sixteen years and the players around him seemed so young to his thirty-five year-old eyes. As he’d aged, and especially after he married Ilya, so much of the anxiety had melted away. All at once as the secret fell, more when the league couldn’t do anything to them, again after he started with the Centaurs, and then slower, gentler, as the years continued to pass. His body finally felt like his, like his soul finally fit.

His soul feeling like it fit hadn’t disappeared with their sudden displacement in time and the relief of that realisation nearly knocked the wind out of him. He knew his own power now.

He wondered how Ilya was doing in Boston.

The thought was ever repeating, they hadn’t been apart for as long as they would have to be now in five years. Ilya in a different locker room. An even older one for him than the Voyageurs' was for Shane. Probably was probably already chirping someone who didn’t know him well enough to be properly irritated yet, knowing Ilya.

And then there was the phone call.

Shane had woken up that morning to a text from his mom [Call me when you’re up :)]. The smiley should have been reassuring, but with Yuna it usually meant she was being deliberately cheerful.

He’d called her while pacing his kitchen, still damp from the shower. She’d immediately launched into questions about the game. About travel. About whether he was eating properly. About whether he’d remembered to stretch.

Then, breezy as anything: [Your dad and I are free for lunch next week if you are. He wants to hear about how everything's going.]

Shane snorted softly and said yes without hesitation though he did wonder how long this would last. They continued to treat him like a kid for a few years before they got used to his independence the last time. 

Sitting there now, the locker room noise swelling around him - he made a decision; he would try to make things go differently this time with Montreal. Maybe end just a bit better. (He's still aiming to end up with Ilya on the same team sooner rather than later though, it already felt like a hole in his chest to be without him). He would be a better teammate and captain. He had regrets from before that he didn't want to regret a second time and knowing his team better was one of them. He had fifteen years of extra experience; he would waste none of them.

Ilya’s time back in Boston was both worse than he’d expected and better.

The locker room felt older. He'd forgotten what it was like before the renovation they'd had after he'd gotten them the cup but also the other players. The team had been in sorry shape when he was drafted. The Bears’ room had run veteran-heavy and tired when he got drafted, and once again nineteen-year-old Ilya felt the weight of that immediately. So many of the front lines would retire in the next few years, leaving space for Ilya to become captain and lead their way to that cup in 2014. His stall was tucked into the stretch of the room usually reserved for rookies; even the top draft pick had to pay his dues after all.

His body, annoyingly, felt better than ever. Legs fresh. Lungs endless. Everything sharp and ready in a way he hadn’t felt in years. And this time, the feeling didn’t just stop at physical — it buzzed under his skin, an almost giddy sense of possibility he hadn’t let himself indulge in the first go-around.

And Boston still had Cliff.

Cliff was leaning against the far end of the room when Ilya finished untying his skates, grinning like he’d already clocked half of what was going on. “You’re looking pretty peaky rook,” he’d said, tone light but sharp-eyed. “Seen a ghost?”

Ilya snorted, hilarity mixing with relief washing through him. “Is nothing,” he’d shot back. “Just thought I lost my phone.”

“Uh-huh,” Cliff snorted. “Sure, Rozy.”

Ilya laughed tightly and continued with practice, intent on giving everyone hell while trying to get himself together a bit better. Overall he was feeling pretty good, maybe they could get a cup even earlier this time, if only the unsettling weight in his stomach would ease up a little.

Later, back in his apartment, the quiet still settled in. This was his old first apartment, he'd only stayed a few months before rapidly upgrading midway through his first season. He had quickly checked for any paperwork to verify if that was in progress yet or not and had found nothing, he'd have to think some more if he wanted to spend that kind of money again right away but that was a thought for another day. Ilya kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag, and immediately scowled at the music still queued on his laptop. So much of it felt unfinished now. Half the songs he loved most didn’t exist yet. No Bad Bunny, no Florence albums. No Beyoncé Lemonade. No goddamn anything from the 2010s. He huffed, flipping through tracks, settling reluctantly for something serviceable. At least he still had Britney. A smirk tugged his lips, an idea for something hilarious tickled his brain. Maybe. Before more of reality settled in. 

This chapter of his life — late-night and early morning calls from Moscow, sharp criticisms, constant vigilance — was once again fraught with stress. His father was still alive. His brother would still call, asking for money, for help, for more than Ilya was willing to give this time. It was a disaster waiting to happen all over again. But at least now, he knew it was coming and could plan accordingly. 

There was only one message waiting for him today though.

Shane: [You good, babe?]

He smiled as he typed back.

Ilya: [Yeah. Miss you, solnyshko.]

The reply came almost instantly.

Shane: [Me too.]

It helped more than it should have.

--

The first week back went by faster than Ilya expected.

He went out with his teammates twice but not as hard as he had the first time. Enough to be seen. Enough to laugh. Enough to not look like he was suddenly allergic to fun. He played the role convincingly, danced with girls that he didn’t take home this time. Was the quintessential rookie star. More than slightly arrogant. Slightly reckless.

It helped that hockey felt… easier.

His body was unreal. His lungs endless. His instincts fifteen years ahead of everyone else on the ice.

Which left him with an unsettling amount of spare time.

Ample spare time to think.

And plan.

So much planning.

His fished his phone out and shot Shane a text.

Ilya: [I am opening an offshore account.]

A response came a moment later and Ilya mourned the three-dot writing indicator was still years into the future.

Shane: [You’re WHAT?]

Ilya: [Calm down, kotik.]
Ilya: [It is legal.]
Ilya: [I am not laundering money.]

Shane: [Illegal was an option??]
Shane: [Babe??]

Ilya grinned to himself, sprawled on his couch in the tiny Boston apartment he hadn’t missed at all.

Ilya: [Diversification. Asset protection. We will not be able to do anything about Russia and I do not want anything exposed.]
Ilya: [I also started an investment course.]

There was a longer pause this time.

Shane: [A course?]
Shane: [Like… night school?]
Shane: [How do you have time for this??]

Ilya laughed and hit call before Shane could spiral further.

Shane answered on the second ring.

“How do you have free time?” Shane demanded. “We have practice, travel, media, and you’re setting up offshore accounts like a Bond villain.”

“First of all,” Ilya said smoothly, “if I were Bond villain, you would be very impressed.”

“I’m already concerned.”

Ilya shifted on the couch, stretching lazily. “Hockey is easy right now. You don’t feel it?”

There was a pause.

On the other end, Shane glanced at the pile of papers beside his old laptop and the brand-new one he’d panic-bought after realizing half the software he remembered didn’t exist yet and the beat up laptop from high school was painfully slow.

“…Yeah,” Shane admitted. “It’s easier. It’s like everyone’s moving in slow motion.”

“Exactly.” Ilya’s voice softened slightly. “So we use that time.”

“For tax evasion.”

“For building capital,” Ilya corrected. “We know which markets do well. We know which teams appreciate in value. We know what tech explodes. We know which investments fail. I remember a very… interesting documentary about bitcoin. Why would we not start now? Is easiest thing to change.”

Shane went quiet again, which meant he was thinking, not panicking.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. That’s actually… not insane.”

“I am hurt.”

“You’re always insane. This is just useful insane.”

Ilya smiled.

“I’m serious, Shane. To make the changes we want, we need money and influence. With what we know, money is the much easier half.”

A long exhale crackled through the line.

“Should I open one too?” Shane asked.

“Yes.”

“Jesus.”

“And maybe I get a dog.”

“Are dog hotels a thing yet?”

Ilya laughed again. “I will have to check.”

On the other end, Shane made a frustrated noise. “I don’t remember having this much mental space.”

“Me either,” Ilya said quietly. “We need to capitalize, yes?”

Shane agreed despite his reservations, what if they changed things so much they couldn't predict the future? But that was dumb, he admonished himself. They wanted changes.  

They chatted for another few minutes and, inevitably, the conversation stopped being about investments.

By the time they hung up, Ilya was late for the airport and Shane was going to have to ice down before warm-ups.

Some things, at least, were still consistent.

Chapter End Notes

Ngl I have two competing idea about where to take this fic, I might split it into two if the plot bunnies refuse to harmonize.

Chapter 5: Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

December 2010

Chapter Notes

Sorry y'all, the plot bunnies keep fucking and giving me more bunnies. I have about 10k more written at this point but the first All Stars won't leave me alone so I'm trying to spread things out in case I get really stuck. Also I've detailed out a financial spreadsheet for the two of them for the next 4 years because I'm that kind of anal retentive $$$$$ I know way more than I wanted to about nhl contracts now.

Ilya’s phone buzzed against his nightstand just before midnight.

He didn’t need to look at the name.

The time alone told him who it was. He had been dodging this conversation for a few days but he needed to get this over with.

Still, he let it ring once more before picking it up. "What Alexei?" He let his brother rant for a moment before finally getting to the point and he was struck all at once that he was technically older than his brother now. That was fucked.

“Twenty thousand dollars?”

“Yes, twenty thousand dollars,” Alexei snapped immediately. “I’m glad your hearing is OK.”

Ilya closed his eyes.

There it was.

Exactly the same.

The same demand. The same tone. The same ugly little performance they would do for years.

In the other life he had taken the bait instantly. They had screamed at each other time and time again, each word sharper than the last, until he wired the money anyway and sat alone in his apartment afterward feeling like he’d been scraped hollow on many such occasions. A piece of him chipped away each time.

He already knew every line that came next.

For what this time?

For fuck you.

This is the last time.

Yeah, fine.

He could practically hear it playing out.

Thirty-five years old.

And suddenly the whole thing felt unbearably childish.

On the other end of the phone something crackled. Movement. And then—

A baby crying.

The sound twisted in his gut before he could stop it.

His niece.

She had been just as small the last time he lived through this year. Fuck, that was so long ago for him now. Even that last time he had seen her, she had been about seven. She must have been almost full grown before they had been dropped back here. He'd no idea what she would have even looked like-

Alexei started talking again, already irritated by the silence.

“You there or what?”

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly.

“Alexei.”

“What?”

“If you want money from me,” Ilya said quietly, “you should try asking for it nicely.”

Silence.

Then a scoff.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean,” Ilya said, still calm, “that you don’t start a conversation by insulting or pissing off the person you’re asking.”

Another pause.

The baby cried again somewhere in the background.

Alexei swore under his breath.

“You sending it or not?”

Ilya leaned his hip against the counter.

He felt strangely detached from the moment, like he was watching a scene he’d already seen a hundred times.

He had spent years believing he owed these people everything. Now the feeling had burned down to something smaller. Harder. The last shred of responsibility keeping him engaged. He did remember how rough Russia had been, how much worse it would get over the coming decade and a half. 

“I’m not sending twenty thousand dollars,” he said.

“You’ve got it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Ilya stared at the dark window over the sink.

“Dad is sick, isn’t he.”

Alexei went very still.

For half a second there was no sound but the baby.

Then—

“Don’t start with that shit.”

Ilya closed his eyes.

Of course.

Alexei was still at the stage where pretending it wasn’t happening felt easier than admitting it.

“Fine,” Ilya said quietly.

He pushed away from the counter.

“I’ll send money every month.”

A sharp inhale on the other end.

“Yeah?”

“For the baby,” Ilya said. "A reasonable amount. You're a grown man Alexei,-“ Alexei began swearing at him but he continued “-you need to provide for your own family as well. But-" he waved a hand at nothing. "For my niece, I will help."

Not for you.

He didn’t bother saying that part out loud and waited for a break in the vulgar tirade.

“And Alexei?”

“What?!”

“Next time you call me,” Ilya said, his voice flat with exhaustion, “try asking like a human being.”

The line went silent again.

Ilya could practically hear his brother trying to decide whether to start a fight.

For the first time in his life, Ilya realized he didn’t care which way Alexei chose.

He ended the call before the answer came.

The room fell quiet again.

For a long moment he just stood there, staring at the phone in his hand.

God-fucking-dammit.

“We have four days over Christmas. Maybe you should just come to my parents’ house with me.”

Shane bit his lip, frowning at the calendar in front of him while Ilya’s room flickered into view on the laptop screen. On the other end of the Skype call, Ilya was half out of frame, shuffling things around.

A burst of unintelligible Russian carried across the connection, then the video froze for a heartbeat before Ilya reappeared. “I don’t think that’s a good idea yet, solnyshko,” he said. The audio stuttered again. “Is very fast.”

Shane leaned back against his pillows and sighed. “I need to see you, though. I miss you.”

Ilya hummed, thinking. “Maybe I come to Montreal. You spend Christmas Eve with your parents, then come back early. We’ll have a couple days before we go back to play. Then you’ll be in Boston on eighth.”

Shane sighed again and let his head fall back with a soft thunk. “I need to tell them I’m gay at least.”

Ilya’s chest tightened, memory flashing unhelpfully to a cottage and a summer lunch that had gone well and still felt terrifying. “Up to you, sweetheart.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “We could…”

Shane straightened. “We could…?”

“Do you remember our first All-Stars?”

Shane smiled despite himself. “I beat you in shot accuracy and you were having trouble with English during the press conference.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Of course. But your parents will be there, and we have like four days after. What if we come out to them then?”

They’d been circling this for weeks now -how to manage the rivalry the league was already hyping, how to make it loud enough to satisfy the media but narrow enough to keep it contained on the ice. There was a needle to thread, and they both knew it. Instagram had just launched, and Ilya had decided to lean into it early this time, before the trend fully took off to help with narrative and his brand. He intended to get more endorsement deals this time as well.

Shane chewed on his lip. Letting go of how things had gone before was still hard, even knowing they couldn’t survive a second run without changing something fundamental. After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

It would be easier if his parents knew. Having people in your corner always was.

They talked for a few more minutes, then Ilya bought plane tickets to Montreal and back to Boston.

“I love you, moya lyubov.”

“I love you too, Ilya.”

Two weeks later, Ilya checked in for his flight to Montreal and packed light. It was probably too early. He knew that.

He also didn’t particularly care. He’d already wasted enough time the first time around.

This time, he wanted early.

“Shane Hollander!”

He turned as a reporter called out after their most recent game against Boston. Montreal had lost, despite Shane’s best efforts.

“Ilya Rozanov now has two extra goals on you since declaring he’s hitting fifty by the end of February. How are you planning on making up that gap?”

Shane laughed for the camera. “Well, Rozanov was texting me about that, and we’ve turned it into a bit of a wager. If he beats me by the end of the year, I owe him a two-six of vodka. If I win, I get a two-four of beer.”

A different reporter chimed in, amused. “Pretty sure he can’t even legally drink in Boston.”

Shane smirked. “Guess he’ll have to come deliver in Montreal, then.”

A murmur rippled forward as the press seemed to clue in on something. One reporter leaned in immediately. “Wait- you and Ilya Rozanov text each other?”

Shane felt his blood pressure spike.

Right. He expected they would catch that but it was still nerve wracking.

In the future this sort of thing slipped out of his mouth all the time; jokes about his husband, casual mentions in interviews, stories about arguments over takeout or who forgot to take the dog out. It was easy there. Finally normal after five years of being out and playing on the same team.

Here, it was like a verbal pipe bomb.

For half a second the room felt too bright, too loud. This was his first time actively steering the narrative instead of reacting to it. The rivalry was still new enough that the press didn’t have a fixed story yet, but that also meant they were hunting for one.

Shane forced a relaxed smile. “Yeah, we started talking after that CCM shoot we did together this summer,” he said easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They put us in the same room for half a day and we figured out we actually had a lot in common.”

Pens scratched across notebooks.

“What kind of things?” another reporter asked.

“Hockey,” Shane said dryly. “Shocking, I know. Favourite players growing up, training routines, that kind of thing.” He shrugged. “Turns out when you’re both obsessed with the same sport since you were six there’s a bit of overlap.”

A few murmurs arose but there were no interjections.

“Of course,” Shane added, grinning now, “there are also some significant differences. For example, Rozanov likes pineapple on pizza.”

A few reporters laughed.

“Absolute madman,” Shane continued solemnly.

Another reporter leaned forward. “So you guys are… friends now?”

Shane shrugged easily. “We talk hockey. You’d be amazed how often that comes up.”

A couple of them chuckled, scribbling notes.

The scrum lingered a few seconds longer before someone asked about the power play and the moment passed. 

Shane kept smiling until the cameras were gone.

Then he finally exhaled.

Jesus.

That had been closer than he liked.

Steering the story was a lot easier when he’d already spent five years casually referring to Ilya as his husband in interviews.

Right now every word felt like defusing a bomb.

But the rivalry was still young. Still flexible. And the reporters wanted a story, not a scandal.

He could work with that. For the first time since waking up in 2010, Shane realized they might actually be able to pull this off.

—

Across the arena a few minutes later, Ilya was fielding his own media scrum when someone shouted from the back.

“Hollander says you like pineapple on pizza!”

Ilya froze mid-sip of water and stared at the reporter like he’d just been personally betrayed.

“Pineapple on pizza?” he repeated, scandalized.

He shook his head gravely.

“Hollander is such a liar,” Ilya said. “I said no such thing. I am being framed.”

By the time Shane got back to his apartment, his phone was already buzzing.

Ilya: [Liar.]

Shane snorted.

Shane: [Madman.]

A pause.

Then:

Ilya: [I am on my way.]

Shane didn’t bother answering.

Twenty minutes later the argument had escalated significantly.

Ilya was on his knees in Shane’s living room, looking up at him with bright, vindictive eyes.

“Next interview,” he said darkly, “I am telling them you cry during Disney movies.”

Shane huffed, fingers in his hair. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, Hollander.”

Shane laughed breathlessly and tugged lightly on the curls. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“And which movie exactly am I crying about in this scenario?”

Ilya looked thoughtful for a second.

“Frozen. When the little ice man melts.”

Shane huffed out another laugh and leaned his head back against the couch. “I don’t think that’s even out yet, asshole.”

A beat.

“God, that was a little terrifying.”

Ilya glanced up at him. “Terrifying?”

“The media scrum.” Shane dragged a hand down his face. “I wasn’t planning to say half that stuff.”

“You did well,” Ilya said easily.

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

Shane tilted his head, studying him. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was.”

Ilya shrugged slightly, unapologetic.

“You called me pineapple criminal.”

“That was strategic.”

“That was slander.”

Shane snorted. “You loved it.”

“I loved watching you panic.”

“I did not panic.”

“You absolutely panicked. But only enough I could tell.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

Ilya grinned.

“But it worked,” Shane went on, more seriously now. “Right? That’s what we wanted. Rivalry, but not… toxic.”

“Yes,” Ilya said quietly. “Press will eat it up. Competitive, but friendly. They will follow that story.”

Shane nodded slowly, some of the tension finally draining out of him.

“Good.”

He ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair again without thinking.

“Because my blood pressure spiked like crazy when they started asking how much we talk.”

Ilya hummed thoughtfully.

“You handled it.”

“I slipped up first.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for backing me up.”

Ilya rolled his eyes slightly.

“I am not letting you control entire narrative alone. You would ruin everything.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Ilya smirked.

Then he leaned back slightly, studying Shane’s face.

“You were smiling though.”

“When?”

“When you called me madman.”

Shane grinned again despite himself.

“Well… you are.”

“Mm.”

There was a quiet moment then as the adrenaline from the media circus, the travel, the game itself -all of it- finally fell away.

Shane exhaled.

“…God I missed you.”

Ilya’s expression softened.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Me too.”

Chapter End Notes

Also thanks everyone for the comments! I read all of them even if I don't respond. Also my apologies in advance, I won't be posting any linking socials. I'm from ye olden fanfic days (started in '04 on ff.net huddled on the family computer in the basement) and the fic stays separate from the person, thanks for your understanding.

Chapter 6: Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

December 2010 & January 2011

Chapter Notes

December 2010

Christmas was anything but placid.

Ilya landed in Montreal two days before Eve, snow crusted along the runway and the air so sharp it bit the inside of his lungs. Boston wasn't as cold yet. Shane met him in the park'n'fly in the same old car as last time. 'Maybe there's still time to buy him a proper car before Christmas.’ He thought to himself as he climbed in. They didn’t kiss -not there, not yet- but Ilya couldn't stop grinning at him.

Christmas Eve was for Shane’s parents. Ilya stayed behind in the Plateau apartment, feet propped on the coffee table, watching terrible holiday television and texting commentary to Shane about how offensively earnest Canadian programming was in 2010. He cooked pasta half-heartedly, turned the music up too loud, and tried not to think about how different this night had been in their other life.

Shane, meanwhile, endured turkey, questions about ice time, and his mother’s not-so-subtle attempts to evaluate whether her son was sleeping enough. David insisted on replaying a highlight from the Boston game on his phone. However, Shane found himself smiling more than he had the first time around. The weight wasn’t the same. The secret wasn’t quite choking him the same way as it did before. Maybe it was because he knew they’d be supportive, come to love Ilya just as he did, that nothing felt as dire. It was freeing, to say the least.

He left early the next morning after Christmas breakfast, to mild protest and a pointed look from Yuna that said 'You're running yourself ragged'. Snow had started falling properly by then, thick flakes catching in his hair as he hurried back to Montreal.

Ilya opened the door before he could fully turn the key.

They stood there for a second -just looking- and then Shane stepped inside, snow melting onto old hardwood as he took his boots off and set them on the mat. Ilya shut the door with his heel and pulled him close, warm hands sliding under his coat.

“Merry Christmas, moya lyubov,” Ilya murmured against his temple.

Shane huffed a laugh, breath fogging between them. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

They kissed for long moments before Shane pulled away slightly, "I have your present."

Ilya pulled back and quirked an eyebrow, "Present?"

Shane swallowed, suddenly nervous in a way that felt ridiculous considering everything they’d already survived. "Yeah. I, uh… I went out a couple weeks ago. Found a jeweller. Had something commissioned."

Ilya’s teasing expression faltered before a bashful look overtook him. "Commissioned?"

Shane reached into the drawer of the coffee table where he’d hidden it earlier and pulled out a small, matte black box. His hands were steady; steadier than they’d been the first time, when he’d fumbled and mumbled his way through his proposal after nearly losing Ilya to that bloody plane.

"We don’t have to wait," Shane said quietly. "We can do this now, for us." He opened the box.

Inside were two rings nearly identical to the ones they’d worn before. Simple. Understated. The same brushed blackened metal, the same gold with subtle detailing along the inside band. The design hadn’t technically existed yet, so Shane had found someone who could replicate it from memory. He’d been absurdly specific.

Ilya went completely still.

"I remember how it fit," Shane continued, voice softer now. "How it felt. I remember thinking I’d never get used to seeing it on your hand. I want that again. Earlier." He exhaled. "Marry me. Again. But this time without the years of fucking around and without the fear."

For a second, Ilya just stared at him.

Then his face crumpled. Just a sharp inhale and a helpless, overwhelmed sound that escaped before he could stop it. His hands came up to cover his mouth and his shoulders shook once.

"Shane," he breathed.

Shane’s chest ached. "That’s not a no, right?"

Ilya laughed wetly through his tears and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him into a kiss that was half desperation, half devotion and quite damp. "Of course not," he murmured against Shane’s mouth. "Da. Yes, yes. Always yes."

Shane let out a shaky breath and slid one of the rings free. He took Ilya’s left hand. It was younger now, smoother, no faint scar from the kitchen incident that hadn’t happened yet -and eased the band over his knuckle.

It fit perfectly.

Ilya let out another small, wrecked laugh when it settled into place. "Like glove," he whispered, staring at it. "Better than first time."

Shane brushed his thumb over the metal, swallowing hard. "I know your ring size this time."

Ilya shook his head, still crying quietly, and reached for the second ring. He slid it onto Shane’s finger with reverence, pressing a kiss to his knuckles after.

"Husband," he said softly, testing the word again like it had never left his mouth.

Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya’s. "Husband," he echoed. He let out a shaky breath. "I’ve been doing some research," he added quietly. "If we do this properly -like, legally properly- we can start the PR process sooner. And marriages aren't public record in Canada, we can keep it under the radar until we're ready. I’m going to find an immigration lawyer after Christmas, just to make sure. But I think… I think this is the fastest way to get you home."

Ilya half sobbed again, "Ya tebya lyublyu. So fucking much Shane," and kissed him even harder.

[Ilya wore it the rest of the visit; through takeout cartons and late-night planning, through snow drifting against the windows and quiet laughter on the couch. He kept glancing down at his hand like he couldn’t quite believe it was there.

But when it was time to fly back to Boston, he hesitated only once before slipping it off. He threaded it onto the thin chain he already wore beneath his shirt, pressing the cool metal briefly to his lips before tucking it away.

"Soon," he promised.

"Soon," Shane agreed.]

After the emotional re-proposal Ilya fished his present to Shane out of his bag, it also looking familiar. “I got you something as well. Again, I’m glad we still have this.” Ilya commented as Shane unwrapped the flat package. Now it was Shane’s turn to tear up at the photograph nestled in the sleek frame. Their faces grinning at each other in face off position, only six months old instead of a decade. “Ilya… It’s perfect.” He gave Ilya a kiss and set the frame to stand on one of the shelves in the living room.

They promptly collapsed into a pile together on the couch, arms and legs everywhere. They didn’t bother with anything elaborate for the rest of the day. They ordered Chinese from the place down the street because it was the only thing open, ate cross-legged on the floor with cartons between them, and talked.

About money. About contracts. About whether coming out as early as they hoped would cost them everything or save them years. About real estate investments and hockey camps and foundations that didn’t exist yet but would.

At some point, Ilya leaned back against the couch and dragged Shane with him, legs tangled, the television flickering uselessly in the background.

“This feels… lighter,” Shane admitted quietly. “And like we can do so much more.”

Ilya nodded and kissed his hair. “Because we are not waiting this time, and we know what happens if we're outted. Is no longer boogeyman.” He shifted so they were facing each other more fully, one arm still looped around Shane’s waist. “We wasted so much time pretending we did not know, scared, about what this was. We let other people decide when we were allowed to be happy.”

Shane swallowed. “We were so afraid.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s thumb traced absent patterns against Shane’s hip. “And we had reasons. Have those same reasons again. But we also let hockey be the excuse for... for everything.”

Shane let out a slow breath. “I missed things,” he admitted. “With you. Summers we could’ve spent together instead of pretending we weren’t serious. Nights we could’ve just… stayed.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to be careful like that again.”

Ilya’s expression softened. “I do not want to be brave only in secret.”

They sat with that for a moment until Shane heaved a sigh, head tilted back to glare at the ceiling.

“We played it so safe,” Shane said eventually. “We built something solid. But it took so long. We were playing good fucking hockey but we were- I was anyway... Thinking about retirement... maybe.” He huffed a quiet laugh, he hadn't said that aloud even before. “I don’t want to meet our kids when I’m north of thirty-five this time.”

Ilya’s hand stilled. “We will not,” he said firmly. “We will build earlier. Smarter. We will invest sooner. Start the foundation and make it even bigger. We will make real change, and not just for us. ”

Shane looked at him, eyes bright in the low light and nodded. “Less regret.”

“Less regret,” Ilya agreed. “Same goal. But not at the cost of us.” His arm squeezed tight around Shane, keeping him closer.

They fell asleep on the couch before midnight, plans half-formed and scattered across the coffee table, hands still linked.

(And when they woke up in the morning and nothing was stiff or sore, they may have spared a moment of thanks to the god of youth)

--

January 2011

January settled over the league quickly.

Games blurred together the way they always did during the middle stretch of the season. Flights, practices, hotels, media scrums. The rhythm was familiar enough that neither of them had to think much about it anymore.

What was strange was how much easier everything felt.

Hockey had once taken up every inch of Shane’s brain. Every shift dissected, every mistake replayed until it dug under his skin. Now it was… simple. His body moved faster than everyone else’s, his instincts years ahead of the play unfolding in front of him.

He was still working hard—he knew better than to get complacent—but the pressure that had once sat on his chest like a weight just wasn’t there anymore.

Which left a lot of room for other things.

Planning, mostly. And with how much they missed each other, the distraction was welcome. 

One of the strangest moments of the month happened in Denver.

Except Shane didn't notice it first.

Ilya did.

Boston played Colorado the week before the All-Star break, and halfway through the first period Ilya drifted toward the boards and glanced at the opposing bench.

He almost missed the play entirely.

Behind the bench stood a tall, familiar figure.

Coach Wiebe.

Except… not a coach.

Still wearing skates.

Still playing left wing for the Summits.

Ilya blinked and nearly forgot where he was supposed to be on the ice.

Later that night he texted Shane from the hotel.

Ilya: [You played Colorado yet?]

The reply came a minute later.

Shane: [Not yet. Why?]

Ilya: [You will notice something strange.]

A pause.

Shane: [Cryptic. I love it.]

Ilya gave him a moment to stew before texting again.

Ilya: [Wiebe.]

A longer pause this time.

Shane: [Oh shit.]

Ilya leaned back against the hotel headboard.

Ilya: [I forgot he was still playing.]

Shane replied a moment later.

Shane: [Right. Colorado. Final season before he retires I think.]

Coach Wiebe had been a fixture in both their lives for years. The steady, thoughtful presence behind the bench who had shaped half the league’s young stars.

Seeing him younger and still playing, still grinding through his final season felt strange in a way Ilya couldn't quite explain. 

Ilya: [Feels strange.]

It did.

Seeing pieces of the future walking around in younger bodies.

Other conversations were more practical.

One night Ilya skyped while Shane sat at his kitchen table surrounded by notes, spreadsheets, and a brand-new laptop.

“You look like accountant,” Ilya observed.

“I might need one,” Shane muttered, flipping a page. “Or five.”

Ilya hummed. “I opened the account.”

Shane froze.

“You already did?”

“Yes.”

“That was fast.”

“I had motivation.”

“You mean paranoia.”

“Diversification,” Ilya corrected amused. “Asset protection. Russia is not something I want connected to our finances if we can help it.”

Shane leaned back in his chair.

“You realize we’re more than ten years ahead of everyone on this stuff.”

“Yes.”

“And it still feels illegal, we're going to make so much money.”

Ilya laughed softly.

“We are not cheating in any way they could ever prove,” he said. “We are winning at capitalism.”

“That is the most evil villain thing you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you.”

Shane glanced at the notes beside his laptop.

“If we’re doing this,” he said slowly, “we should probably start buying property soon too.”

“Where?”

“Toronto especially. Montreal and Vancouver too. The housing market’s going to go insane in a few years.”

Ilya went quiet for a second.

Then he snorted.

“Mr. Real Estate, my Husband.”

“Shut up, you thought this was a good plan.”

“ Konechno, lyubov moya Of course, my love. .”

-

Not every call was so easy.

One evening Ilya’s phone rang while he was packing for a road trip.

He looked at the number and immediately felt his shoulders tense.

His father.

The conversation was short.

Sharp.

Mostly accusations.

Why hadn’t he sent more money.

Why was Alexei struggling.

Why did Ilya think he was better than his family now that he was famous.

Why was he abandoning Russia.

The familiar spiral of guilt and obligation.

Ilya ended the call ten minutes later and sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wall.

Then he texted Shane.

Ilya: [My father called.]

The reply came quickly.

Shane: [Bad?]

Ilya exhaled slowly.

Ilya: [Same as before.]

A pause.

Then:

Shane: [You don't have to deal with it alone this time.]

Ilya read the message twice.

The knot in his chest loosened just a little. Maybe he should find a local therapist too. He had been good at keeping himself busy so far but there's no telling when it might get... too much. 

He shook his head, threw a pair of socks in his bag and bought some extra bitcoins.

-

Between games and flights and long late-night phone calls, January slipped away.

The investments kept ticking along in the background, a waiting game that would keep ticking without their interference.

Most of the time, though, they were still just hockey players.

Practices. Games. Flights and cities and stolen moments whenever possible. The grind of the season settling into something almost comfortable.

Until the All-Star break started creeping closer.

Early February.

Nashville.

The first time around it had just been another media circus. A skills competition. A few jokes in front of reporters, the first time they were on the same team. Just them against the reporters and a touch of shoes hidden under a table.

This time it was something else entirely.

Because now they knew exactly how closely people would be watching them.

And they knew something else too.

The public only believed what it expected to see.

If two rivals laughed a little too much, leaned a little too close, traded jokes in interviews and chirps on the ice, people called it chemistry. Bromance. Competition. Good television.

No one looked too hard, because if it were real… surely they would be trying to hide it.

The trick, they had learned the first time around, was knowing exactly how far the line could stretch before anyone questioned it.

That knowledge made Nashville both easier and much more dangerous.

Because this time they weren’t just reacting to the story.

They were going to start writing it.

Chapter End Notes

I think I have until 2016 plotted out.

Chapter 7: Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

February 2011

Chapter Notes

February 2011

Several weeks later in Nashville, All-Star weekend began unfolding almost exactly as they remembered, but this time the sexual tension was edged in hilarity and excitement instead of that weird half-dread-denial-arousal of before.

The league once again leaned into Team North America versus Team Europe, hyping it like a geopolitical event instead of an exhibition. The arena buzzed with manufactured stakes. The broadcast graphics were dramatic. The fans were delighted.

The press conference started shockingly similar to how they remembered. That electric feeling of tapping their feet together seared into both of their memories like wildfire through trees. Their bursts of togetherness shine with such clarity from the years before they were really together- how could they not have figured it out for so long? The lights were so hot…

Ilya adjusted his tie as the reporter asked her questions.

“You said you'd hit 50 goals this year. You've had 28 so far, and we're in the middle of February.
You still thinking about a 50-goal campaign?”

‘Wow, these were canned questions for sure.’ He leaned into the mic.

“I have to,” he said solemnly. “Otherwise, he will never stop talking.”

Shane snorted. “You text me about it every day.”

“I am motivating you.”

“You’re harassing me.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

“Is this rivalry getting personal?” another reporter pushed.

“Only on ice,” Ilya said smoothly.

Shane nodded. “Off ice… I think we’re... well friends might be a bit of a stretch, but friend-ly anyway at this point.”

“Sure, Hollander. We’ll see if you still say that when you owe me vodka.”

The press laughed and moved on, “So, Shane, kind of the same to you. You scored 31 goals. Any chance you want to speculate as to how this season will end up for you guys?”

Shane smiled and decided to take it down a touch, “I think we’re going to do the best for our teams and motivating each other with a bit of friendly competition is a good way to accomplish that.”

“Let’s expand on that shall we? Question for Ilya first, but it'll be the same for Shane. Boston is an original six legendary team that's struggled to get to the playoffs for the past 3 seasons. How much pressure do you feel from the fans, from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory? And how much of that do you take on personally?”

‘That’s a mouthful the second time too.’ Ilya mused but decidedly answered this time around with little hesitation.

“I think pressure is good,” he said, folding his hands loosely on the table. “Boston fans care a lot about hockey. They should expect good results.”

A few pens scratched across notebooks.

“But I don’t think about restoring glory,” he continued. “That sounds like movie.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “We focus on the next game. If we play well, standings take care of themselves.”

He tipped his head slightly toward Shane.

“And if he scores fewer goals than me, that helps too.”

Laughter rolled through the room again.

The reporter nodded and turned to Shane. “Same question for you. Montreal’s in a bit of a rebuild right now. How much responsibility do you feel as the young star there?”

Shane leaned toward his microphone, looking thoughtful for a moment before answering.

“I mean, yeah, there’s pressure,” he said. “But that’s kind of the job. If you want to play in the MLH -especially somewhere like Montreal- you’re signing up for that.”

He shrugged lightly.

“My mom’s the biggest Metros fan on the planet. Like, truly obsessed about it.” A few reporters laughed. “And she wants us back in the playoffs. She wants Cups.”

He spread his hands slightly.

“And honestly? Same. I want to be in the playoffs. I want to win Cups. So I feel pretty aligned with the fans on that.”

Then he glanced sideways at Ilya.

“And for the record,” he added, “if anyone’s restoring glory, it’s me. And I’ve got a three-goal head start.”

Ilya turned toward him slowly.

“Temporary,” he said.

The room burst into laughter again.

-

Separately, they had gone straight from the airport to the press conference and now to the hotel. Neither of them had had any teammates joining but Shane's parents had accompanied him so they kept apart for now. 

By the time they finally reached the hotel it felt like the day had stretched into three. Shane's parents long since gone ahead and enjoying Nashville while Shane took care of his job commitments. 

The All-Star hotel was nothing special and Ilya remembered little of it aside from his couple hours with Shane and not being able to fuck him for the first time because of Scott fucking Hunter next door.

He snorted, what were the odds that would happen again this time? Surely the universe was more random than that.

Shane dropped into the seat next to him with sigh, tea in hand as he threw his keycard on the little table between them. 

Ilya stared at the little card for a long moment before huffing out a laugh and tossing his own key down.

"You have got to be kidding me."

"What?" Shane asked.

Ilya turned the cards around and slid them across the table.

1219.

1221.

For a second neither of them said anything. And then cracked up in laughter. "Seriously?"

Then Shane flipped the sleeve over to the little fire escape map on the back and looked closely.

"Adjoining," he said.

Ilya looked too.

Sure enough.

1219 — 1221 — connecting door.

He laughed under his breath.

"Very convenient."

"Almost suspicious," Shane corrected. "If we didn't know better."

They both knew better than to request it. Someone in the league office had probably thought it would be funny to keep the Calder race neighbours for the weekend.

Or maybe it was just coincidence.

Either way, the universe clearly had a sense of humor.

Shane leaned back in his chair.

"So what you're saying," he said slowly, "is that we are neighbours."

Ilya tilted his head.

"Technically."

Shane tapped the card again.

"And this door between us…"

"Will remain closed," Ilya said solemnly.

Shane snorted.

"Sure it will."

A moment later Scott Hunter dropped into the chair beside them. He wore the cautious expression of a man walking into a conversation he suspected might already be a problem. "Hello, Rooks."

"Ah, you just getting in?" Ilya said immediately. "Too old for press conferences, Hunter?"

He had only seen them across the ice before this so far; bright jerseys, fast skates, two rookies currently driving half the hockey media insane.

Up close they looked… disgustingly young actually.

And entirely too comfortable sitting together. Huh.

"So much for the rivalry huh? Gotta harass your elders?" Scott chirped back, not quite sure how to react yet before noticing the keys on the table. 

"Room assignments?" Scott questioned and squinted at the keys.

"…You two are next to each other. That's asking for trouble."

Shane nodded attempting to look resigned and a little irritated. He's not sure if he succeeds but answers as flatly as possible, "Adjoining."

Scott closed his eyes briefly.

"Of course they are."

He pulled his own card from his pocket.

1223.

Right next door.

He stared at the number for a long moment before sighing.

"I'm surrounded."

Shane met Ilya's eyes for half a second in a quick, incredulous look that said can you believe this is happening again?, before both of them carefully schooled their expressions.

"Guess the league wants front-row seats if the Calder race turns into a fistfight," Ilya said, grinning crookedly.

Scott pointed a finger vaguely between them, still studying the room numbers.

"Look, I don't know what the league is thinking but no shenanigans Rozanov," he said. "Your reputation precedes you."

"Tragic," Ilya said. "We will have to schedule our fistfights more carefully."

Scott blinked once, then slowly turned to Shane with a clear what is up with this guy? look.

Shane took a slow sip of his tea and lifted one shoulder. "I've known him for like five minutes," he said. "It's already exhausting."

Scott snorted.

"Longer than me," he said. "I refuse to be held responsible for him."

He grabbed his bags from the bell cart and headed toward the elevators, still shaking his head but throwing them one last look as the doors closed between them. 

The moment he was out of earshot, Shane and Ilya exchanged a look.

They had known Scott Hunter for more than a decade.

Well. The future version of him.

The one who would eventually become a regular presence at Pride events, who would quietly mentor younger players figuring themselves out, who would end up as one of their good friends.

The one who would become, eventually, part of the unofficial little network Harris would eventually jokingly call the gay Avengers.

Right now though?

He was just some guy who thought they were slightly annoying rookies.

Shane leaned back in his chair, thoughtful and a touch guilty.

"Do we try anything?" he murmured.

Ilya considered that for a moment.

"We've been so busy trying to get back to us," Shane added quietly. "Feels a little selfish now."

Ilya exhaled through his nose.

"It has been survival," he said. "We are trying not to lose each other again and we still have much left to do."

Shane nodded, but his gaze drifted toward the elevators where Scott had disappeared.

"Still," he said. "There are people we could help this time. Maybe."

Ilya followed the look, thoughtful.

"Maybe," he agreed after a moment. "But not like that. We can't walk up to him and say we know the next ten years of his life."

Shane huffed a quiet laugh.

"Yeah. That might come off a little weird."

"Give it time," Ilya said. "Let things happen naturally. When he needs friends, we will be there."

Shane nodded slowly remembering Scott asking him to join in on shots after winning rookie of the year. He had been pretty joyful so maybe he wasn't feeling the loneliness too bad yet. He had only been in the league for 3 years at this point.

And didn’t that throw him for a loop; Scott Hunter wasn’t even twenty-three yet. This was his first year off of his ELC.

"Fair." He agreed finally, but he'd still try harder to make a closer connection with the man in the future. 

Much later that night, after the welcome dinner and a couple obligatory drinks with their respective teams, the adjoining door did not, in fact, remain closed.

It started with a knock.

Three quick taps.

Ilya opened the door between the rooms to find Shane standing there in just socks and underwear, holding two miniature bottles of hotel whiskey like contraband. They were in Nashville after all.

"Peace offering," Shane said.

"For what?" Ilya asked.

"Winning the shot accuracy competition again of course," Shane said, stepping inside. Ilya just laughed and kissed him, taking the mini bottles in hand.

The rooms were identical mirror images of each other with beige carpet, heavy curtains, a television bolted to the dresser despite the relatively upscale nature of the hotel.

Shane flopped onto the bed while Ilya twisted open one of the bottles.

"We should be quiet right?" Shane broached, staring at the ceiling, "Scott is literally one wall away."

"Yes," Ilya said. "Try not to scream my name then."

Shane threw a pillow at him.

The television stayed on medium-low to provide some semblance of cover, a flicker of late-night sports highlights filling the room with soft light while neither of them paid it any real attention.

Shane stretched out across the bed instead, one arm tucked behind his head while he watched Ilya finish opening the whiskey and pour it between two glasses. 

"Fuck you're gorgeous."

Ilya hummed low in his throat, stepping closer instead of answering with a predatory look in his eyes.

Shane barely had time to sit up before Ilya caught his wrist, the movement easy as he turned without resistance toward his husband’s pull. Ilya leaned over him, one knee sinking into the mattress beside Shane’s hip as their mouths finally met, slow at first and then decidedly less so.

Shane’s fingers curled into the front of Ilya’s shirt, dragging him closer while Ilya’s free hand slid up along Shane’s side, fingers knowing exactly where Shane would arch into the touch.

The sound that escaped Shane’s throat was quiet but unmistakable, and both of them froze for half a second before dissolving into muffled laughter against each other’s mouths.

“Quiet,” Shane breathed, even as he pulled Ilya back down again.

Somewhere beyond the wall a faint thump echoed through the adjoining rooms.

They both stilled.

Ilya lifted his head slowly. Shane stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“…that might have been Hunter,” Shane whispered.

Ilya considered that for exactly one second before kissing him again, slower this time but no less intent.

Both Shane and Ilya had to work hard to keep their low groans from carrying too far.

Later, Shane tipped his head back against the pillow and huffed a quiet laugh. "If Hunter heard anything," he murmured, "he's going to watch us like hawks."

"Hmm, without Kip maybe he would be up for that threesome you've always promised me." Ilya teased. "He is still hot."

"Fuck you," Shane said, tugging him down by the back of the neck to meet his mouth in a sloppy kiss, "Let's shower and actually sleep."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You are staying? Your mom won't coming looking for you?"

Shane gave him a look that said obviously.

"She'll call first," he said walking to the bathroom, Ilya following close behind. "Probably."

-

The next day Shane once again dominated the shot accuracy competition. Six pucks. Four targets. Clean and just that little bit faster than Ilya. Scott Hunter bemoaned both of them as before.

Still so talented my Shane, Ilya thought absently as they skated onto the ice for the next exhibition, even as the conversation about Scott still lingering in the back of his mind.

Ilya skated over afterward and punched Shane in the shoulder, hard enough to look competitive and not hard enough to bruise.

“Lucky,” Ilya teased.

“Skilled,” Shane corrected.

They were friendlier this time, deliberately so. The chirps were sharp but smiling. The rivalry played up, not sharpened into something ugly. Every glance had just enough warmth behind it to make the whole thing feel theatrical instead of hostile.

They were steering it.

The game itself was chaos in the best way; speed, flash, not a lot of defense. But the moment that mattered came at centre ice for the opening faceoff.

They bent over the dot, sticks set. Cameras tight on their faces. The broadcast team already waxing poetic about rivalry and the next great era of hockey.

For a split second, everything stretched.

Ilya’s eyes flicked up.

Shane’s met his.

Ilya lifted a hand briefly to his chest, a quick tap over his heart where the ring rested on its chain.

Shane caught the gesture and answered with a wide grin and a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Both a check in and a promise.

Together.

The ref dropped the puck.

The crowd roared.

Chapter End Notes

I had to back check exactly how old Scott was and almost died. He's only 3 years older than them?! Got drafted in 2008 at 20. Scott is also a baby at the start, my god. We will be getting into more original stuff soon, the divergences are going to start adding up quickly.

Chapter 8: Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

February 2011 - The day after All Stars

Chapter Notes

In my version, All Stars was at the beginning of the break and they all have the rest of the week before having to go back to their teams for anyone keeping strict track of the timeline.

Chapter 7

Shane was sitting with his parents in a private booth at an upscale Japanese restaurant in Nashville. The shoji screens slid closed around them, the low table already set.

“Who’s joining us, Shane?” Yuna asked once they were seated. “You’ve been very tight-lipped.”

Shane grimaced and checked his phone for what had to be the thousandth time. Ilya was two minutes away. “Just a minute, Mom. You’ll see. But—” He glanced between his parents, doubt flickering. Was this really the moment? Was it too early?

He didn’t have time to reconsider. The shoji slid open, and Ilya stepped in, closing it quietly behind him.

“Hello.”

Shane’s breath went shallow as their eyes met. He lifted his hand, and Ilya took it without hesitation, letting Shane guide him down onto the cushion beside him. His smile was enough to make Shane’s chest ache.

“Hey,” Shane said.

Still holding hands, they looked across the table. Yuna and David stared back, stunned into silence.

Shane cleared his throat. “Mom. Dad. This is Ilya. We have something to tell you.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Outside the booth came the usual restaurant noise, plates clinking, low laughter, a waiter speaking Japanese somewhere nearby.

Yuna blinked.

Then she blinked again.

She looked at Shane. Then at Ilya. Then back at Shane, eyes narrowing slightly in a way Shane recognised all too well, it was the look she got when she was doing mental arithmetic very quickly.

“Well,” she said finally. “This is definitely not who I thought was going to join us.”

David let out a small, helpless laugh. “I thought you were about to tell us you’d been traded.”

Shane snorted despite himself. “That would’ve been easier.”

Yuna’s gaze snapped back to him. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would have been completely unthinkable.” She paused, then added, “Okay. Maybe after this.”

She leaned back against the wall, arms crossing loosely. “So. You’re... together?”

“Yes,” Shane said. "I'm gay. I've been figuring out how to tell you." The heat rose up his neck; apparently coming out to your parents was always stressful.

“And you,” she continued, nodding once toward Ilya, “are…?”

“Ilya,” he said promptly. “I play for Boston.”

Ilya huffed a small laugh at the look on Yuna's face before continuing, "I'm bisexual and completely in love with your son."

There it was. Strikingly like her son, Yuna looked like a half feral cat when Ilya got on his bullshit.

Shane felt his shoulders tense, even as Ilya’s hand stayed steady in his. “He’s my partner,” Shane said awkwardly, remembering at the last second he couldn't use the word 'husband' yet. “We’ve been together.” He hesitated, then added, “For a while.”

Yuna inhaled through her nose. Exhaled. “How long is ‘a while’? When did this start?”

Shane opened his mouth, then hesitated.

Ilya glanced at him, then squeezed his hand twice to encourage him. “After the draft,” he said. “We traded numbers. Started talking.” 

Then he hummed and squeezed his hand again, a touch harder, to interrupt, "Not quite for me, solnyshko." Shane frowned at him and Ilya continued before it could deepen. "More like since the moment I met you."

Shane's face was impossibly red as his tongue tied itself in his mouth as Ilya indulgently trailed a finger over his freckles before David coughed to break the moment.

Shane silently thanked him, since coherent thought had left the building.

Yuna did not react immediately.

She went very, very still.

Her eyes moved from their joined hands to Shane’s face, then back to Ilya, then to their hands again like she was reviewing game tape and trying to figure out where the play had gone wrong.

“Yes,” Ilya continued. He glanced between Shane and his parents. “So… we are serious.”

Yuna let out a slow breath through her nose.

“Shane Takeshi Hollander,” she said, using his full government name in a way that immediately set his nerves on edge, “you are nineteen years old.”

“Yes,” Shane said cautiously.

“Nineteen,” she repeated. “You have been in the MLH for approximately five minutes. Your frontal lobe is still under construction. And you are telling me you are serious about a cross-border relationship with your biggest professional rival.” Halfway through her worried tirade she seemed to realise how loud she'd gotten and quickly switched to an urgent whisper, suddenly understanding why Shane had insisted on a room and in the back. Her son definitely knew her.  

Ilya opened his mouth.

Yuna held up a single finger without looking at him. “I am not finished.”

David made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.

Yuna finally looked at Ilya. “I am not opposed… precisely,” she clarified, taking a breath. “I am processing.”

She turned back to Shane.

“So explain to me how this is not adrenaline, hormones, and two very competitive boys confusing...” She waved aggressively between them. Shane was still grateful, at thirty-five, that he did not have to hear his mother finish that sentence. “...for something bigger than it really is.”

She flattened her hands down on the table with deliberate care.

Her gaze moved between them. “Nineteen-year-olds fall in love with baristas and bartenders. Not-”

She gestured vaguely between them.

“-international rivals.”

Shane groaned. “Mom.”

“I’m serious,” she continued, not unkindly but with a tinge of bargaining. “This is your first year in the league. Everything is new. Everything is intense. You’ve just signed your first contract. You’re living alone. You’re in the most intense season of your life.”

Her eyes softened slightly, but her tone stayed firm.

“This is exactly when people get in over their heads. How can you possibly know how real it is?”

Ilya straightened slightly, expression losing some of its playfulness. He was about to answer when a waiter opened the shoji door to deliver tea and sake and get their orders. They quickly asked for a few more minutes and waited until the door slid shut and they were out of earshot again before continuing.

“Because this did not begin this season,” Ilya said quietly. “And if it did not really mean something, I wouldn't be here.” He hesitated. “Russia is... not somewhere I can be this.”

Yuna’s eyes seemed to soften as she looked at him before flicking back to Shane.

“And you’re certain?”

Shane didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

He inhaled slowly. Okay. This was more intense than he’d expected. He wasn’t used to his parents questioning his judgment because of his age anymore, which was an extremely weird problem to have. Ilya squeezed his hand and left the answer to him.

“I know what it looks like,” Shane said carefully. “I know it sounds reckless. Like we haven’t thought this through. But we have.”

Yuna didn’t blink.

“We know what this could do to our careers,” he continued. “We’ve talked about it. A lot.”

He hesitated, then added quietly,

“And I know what it could do to me.”

Yuna’s attention sharpened.

Shane rubbed the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to dance around it,” he said. “You’re worried because hockey already isn’t exactly… always welcoming.”

She said nothing.

“You’re worried because I’m already the only half-Asian guy most of these teams have ever seen.”

Her mouth tightened.

“And now I’d also be the gay one if…- when we come out.” He squeezed Ilya's hand again. “And that's not going to be any time soon, but it's also not going to be never.”

Yuna looked down at the table.

“I get why that scares you,” Shane said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Shane leaned forward slightly.

“But Mom,” he said gently, “I’ve been aware of that my whole life. You and Dad made sure of that.”

She remained quiet but David grabbed her hand now.

“I know what people say,” he continued. “I know how things get twisted. I know how fast fans can turn if they decide you’re not what they expected.”

His voice steadied.

“This isn’t me stumbling into something without thinking. If anything, I probably over-thought it.”

That finally earned the faintest huff from David.

Shane met his mother’s eyes again.

“If this was just infatuation, I’d be panicking.” He shrugged slightly before continuing, “But I’m not. I’m… steady.”

David leaned back slightly, studying him.

“Are you afraid?” David asked.

Shane blinked.

“Of what?”

“Of what this might cost you.”

Shane hesitated, “Yes,” he admitted. “A bit.”

Yuna’s jaw tightened.

“But I’m more afraid of not doing it.”

Silence.

“We are not being careless,” Ilya interjected. “We are being deliberate.” His deep voice carefully pronounced each syllable with exacting attention.

Yuna arched a brow. “Deliberate.”

“Yes.” His thumb brushed once over Shane’s knuckles. “Contracts. Travel. The press. What happens if someone finds out before we are ready. We know this is complicated. But this part?”

He glanced at Shane and interlocked their fingers.

“This part is not confusion.”

“And the rest?” Yuna asked. Ilya smiled faintly. “The rest is easy.”

Shane turned toward him.

“I love him,” Ilya said.

David looked between them. “You two don’t look… love drunk,” he said slowly.

Shane frowned. “That’s not very romantic, Dad.”

David ignored him.

“You look like you already share a private language,” he said instead. “Like the rest of us are a few pages behind in the conversation.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

Yuna blinked once, then twice- recalculating again.

“…Do you?” she asked suspiciously.

Shane groaned. “Mom.”

“We do not mean to,” Ilya said mildly. “It just happens sometimes.”

David shook his head, half amused. “That’s what I mean. New couples usually aren’t this...” He gestured between them. “Whatever this is.”

“Annoying?” Shane offered. “Extremely,” Yuna said. Ilya grinned.

She exhaled slowly and reached for her sake cup, though it was still empty. “I am going to say something you are not going to like.”

Shane braced.

“I don’t doubt that you feel this. I doubt the world will make it easy.”

“We know,” Shane said quietly.

Yuna’s eyes flicked to Ilya. “And you. Your family?”

A flicker -disdain? dread? - passed through Ilya’s expression before he smoothed it away.

“It is complicated,” he said evenly. “But I am not choosing them over him.”

David nodded once at that, acknowledging the intent.

“And you’re certain this isn’t just... I don't know, the rush of another player on your level?” Yuna pressed one last time.

Shane’s answer came without hesitation.

“If we never played on the same ice again,” Shane said, “I’d still want him.” Yuna stared at him.

“Well,” she said, almost to herself. “That is unfortunately very convincing.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Is it really so crazy?" Shane asked, his father merely looked at him wide eyed and shrugged.

“No, it's-,” Yuna said briskly and sighed again. “I just need to recalibrate.” She tapped her glass with one finger. “You’re telling me my son is gay, dating his biggest rival, and has somehow kept this secret from me for what two years?”

Shane grimaced and took a sip of water to wet his dry mouth. “By Ilya's timeline.”

David leaned forward. “Are you safe?” he asked, serious now. “Both of you.”

“Yes,” Shane said immediately.

Ilya nodded. “Yes.”

“And happy? And are you sure about this? You're both so young...” Yuna asked, softer than before.

Shane didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Yuna studied him for a long second, then sighed. “Alright. I’m going to need a minute. Possibly a drink. Preferably both.”

She reached for the sake bottle but paused before pouring.

“I am going to say this plainly,” she added, turning her gaze back to Ilya. “You seem very sincere. I believe that you think you love him.”

Shane stiffened even as Ilya relaxed.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Yuna went on. “But Shane is my son. If this burns out in six months, he’s the one who will have to keep skating past you every time you play against each other while either no one knows or the entire league speculates about it.”

Ilya nodded once, seriously. “That is fair.”

Shane blinked, surprised.

Ilya met Yuna’s eyes. “I cannot prove to you tonight that I will still be here in ten years. Twenty years. But I can promise you I will not treat him lightly.” He looked down briefly at their hands. “Not for a day.”

She nodded and poked at the call button so they could order.

“This,” she added, gesturing vaguely between the two of them, “is a lot. But it’s not bad. It’s just… new.”

“I can work with new,” Yuna continued. “What I don’t work with is unhappy.” She looked at him pointedly. “And you don’t look unhappy.”

“No,” Shane responded and a small smile finally spread across his face. “I’m not.”

David smiled then, small but genuine. “Well. That’s the important part.”

The waiter arrived. Orders were placed. Food and sake blessedly appeared and Shane poured his mother the sake she had been threatening to drink for the past twenty minutes.

Later, after plates had been half-cleared and Yuna had asked pointed questions about logistics, distance, and whether either of them planned to do something catastrophically stupid, Shane leaned back slightly, Ilya’s shoulder warm against his. They decided to shelve a more in depth conversation about career impacts for another time. Although Shane and Ilya assured his parents that they had a plan in the works, but this wasn't the time or place to get into it.

This was… so familiar Shane could almost cry with relief. He could tell there would be more brewing within his mother -he could tell their age was still on her mind, and fair enough; how often do teen romances really last?- but here was a damn good place to start. 

Ilya glanced between them thoughtfully. Shane had seen that expression precede far too many backhanded chirps over the years.

“This is good,” he said.

Shane eyed him immediately. “That tone usually means you’re about to say something insane.”

“I am simply observing,” Ilya continued. “Your parents did not throw anything. This is very promising.”

David barked a laugh.

Yuna narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you building toward, Ilya?”

Ilya considered the question with enough amusement that Shane felt a curl of dread in his stomach.

“We will not do anything reckless,” he said reassuringly.

Shane relaxed.

“But we will probably get married soon.”

Too soon.

Shane’s forehead hit the table with a firm thunk.

“Il-yaaa,” he groaned into the wood.

Yuna blinked slowly.

David started laughing outright.

Ilya tilted his head. “What? We will need witnesses, yes?”

Shane reached blindly for the sake and downed the rest of it in one swallow.

Chapter End Notes

Getting Yuna right was very hard *phew* that took so many revisions.

Chapter 9: Chapter 8

Chapter Summary

February - March 2011

Chapter Notes

A week after the All Star break, the weather decided to interfere.

Shane stared at the phone in his hand as if glaring at it might somehow change the notification.

GAME POSTPONED – SEVERE WEATHER

"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered.

Across the locker room a few of the guys were already reacting, the mix of groans and laughter echoing around the space. Montreal winters were nothing new to anyone on the roster, but apparently this storm had decided to make a point of itself. Flights grounded, roads a mess, arena logistics impossible.

Which meant the Boston game was off.

Again.

Shane dragged a hand through his hair and dropped down onto the bench in front of his stall and muttered to himself. "Shouldn't weather be more random than this?"

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Shane: [Yup, for some reason I didn’t think it would happen again.]

Ilya: [Are you implying that us fucking sooner would somehow affect the weather?]

Shane: [I guess not. Skype later?]

Ilya: [It's a date.]

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, still faintly irritated. The rivalry might have been for show now, but he had actually been looking forward to playing Boston tonight.

Looking forward to seeing Ilya.

Instead, everyone was grounded wherever they already were.

"Hey Hollander."

Shane looked up to see Hayden leaning against the end of the bench, already half out of his gear.

"Yeah?"

"Since the game's toast," Hayden said with a shrug. "You, uh, you don't want to come over to my place for dinner tonight, do you?”

Shane just stared for a moment as the words washed over him.

Hayden hesitated for a moment, then jerked his head toward the exit.

"Listen, if you don't have plans… you're welcome to come over for dinner."

Shane blinked.

"My place," Hayden continued. "Jackie said it's cool. Oh, that's my wife. She can throw on some steaks."

For a second Shane didn't answer as the flood of memory and a strange mix of relief, gratitude, and longing washed through him.

Last time around, this had been the moment too.

The storm. The cancelled Boston game. Hayden offering dinner.

Shane hadn't remembered the exact trigger until the words came out of Hayden's mouth just now, but the second they had, the memory snapped into place. This was when it had started the first time -the night their friendship really kicked off.

Which made the rush of relief that hit Shane almost embarrassing.

He had been wondering if something had gone wrong this time around, he had thought he and Hayden had been friends already by this point but things definitely blurred after over a decade of knowing someone. And circumstances even moreso.

The younger guys still looked at him like competition. The veterans weren't exactly hostile, but there was a thin layer of skepticism around the nineteen-year-old rookie suddenly leading the scoring race. That part was normal (Shane knew that now) but it still made the room feel colder than he remembered.

He'd been trying to fix that.

Smiling more. Talking more. Being… affable.

God, he hated that word.

It was working, slowly. A few of the middle-band guys had started warming up to him. Jokes during practice, occasional chirps, the kind of casual camaraderie that made a locker room feel like a team.

But Hayden-...

Hayden had stayed just a little distant.

Busy, probably. He did have two baby daughters at home.

Shane had started wondering if maybe he had misremembered something important.

Apparently not.

Some things, it seemed, just needed the same trigger and, hell yes, he was ready to jump on this like a live grenade.

"Yeah," Shane said quickly, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Yeah, that'd be great."

Hayden grinned.

"Fuck yes!” Hayden pumped the air exactly like the first time and Shane’s deja vu almost made him keel over. How many times could this happen?

“God, Jackie's gonna be so happy.” Hayden continued. “She's obsessed with being the first WAG to feed you.” He grabbed his phone. “I'm gonna text her right now, actually.”

Shane laughed.

"Fair warning," Hayden added as he stood. "You might have to hold a baby at some point."

"I think I can manage that," Shane said.

Hayden nodded, apparently satisfied, and headed toward the showers.

Shane sat there for another moment after he left, letting out a slow breath.

Then he pulled out his phone again.

Shane: [Hayden finally invited me to dinner!]

Ilya: [Oh flight gets cancelled and you immediately find another man? Right in front of our skype date?]

Shane: [I’ll try to get a picture of Jade and Ruby for you.]

Ilya: [Good.]

Ilya: [Make friends, solnyshko.]

Shane huffed out a laugh and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

Maybe things were already going better this time around.

Even if the snow had other plans.

-

Ilya, on the other hand, left the airport, got back into his car, and went to lunch with Cliff and a few others on the team before making the short drive home. He'd moved just after Christmas to a more private unit, private entry and parking. Safe for now for both him and Shane to navigate the next few years.

The snow had started properly by the time he pulled into the small covered parking space behind the building. Boston storms were not quite as frequent compared to Montreal ones, but tonight the wind had teeth. It rattled the metal gate as he punched in the code and drove through.

Ilya grabbed his bag and jogged up the short exterior steps, breath fogging in front of him. The private entrance opened into a narrow hallway that still smelled faintly of new paint. He fumbled his keys out of habit, already thinking about the Skype call later.

Then he noticed how dark it was. He usually left at least one light on when he left.

But there was no light.

The hallway beyond the door was completely dark.

Ilya frowned.

That wasn’t right either.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The apartment was silent.

Dark.

He barely had time to take two steps in-

Something moved.

A body launched at him out of the darkness.

Ilya jerked back instinctively, heart slamming into his throat.

“Jesus Christ-!”

“Surprise!”

The overhead light flicked on.

Svetlana stood in front of him, grinning like she’d just pulled off the greatest prank of her life.

She was wearing his Bears jersey.

And very little else.

Ilya stared at her, adrenaline still spiking when the memory came back and hit him all at once.

[“Svetlana,” he snapped, breath still uneven. “I thought you were back in Russia. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Being nice,” she shot back immediately. “But I already regret it.”

“Sounds like you.”

“Go fuck yourself, Ilya.”

“Sorry,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t expect you. How did you know-”

“-that your game was cancelled?” she cut in. “It was announced, asshole. You don’t deserve me. I should go.”]

She was still standing too close, too familiar, too exactly like he remembered.

And that was when the memory hit him.

This was how it had happened.

The dark apartment. The ambush. The jersey. His exact reaction, word for fucking word.

What came next.

Ilya felt something drop hard in his stomach.

In the old timeline, this ended with her on the table.

With his hands on her hips.

With him not thinking at all.

He went very still.

Because this time that was exactly what he couldn’t do.

Svetlana looked exactly the same.

Copper curls, gold hoops, his Bruins jersey hanging off her like she owned it.

Sergei Vetrov’s daughter. Hockey through and through. The only person from Russia who had ever treated him like a person instead of a bank account.

Ilya stared at her and privately mourned the moments he wouldn’t get to have with her this time but also resolved in the new direction their relationship would have to take. They wouldn’t have the slow winding down this time, it would have to shift now.

"You forgot," she said, breaking him out of his thoughts. "Didn’t you?"

Ilya dropped his bag by the door.

"No," he lied.

She snorted. "Liar. You look like you saw a ghost."

"Sveta," he said, softer than he meant to.

She smiled easy and familiar, and some of the tightness in his chest eased.

Best friend.

Occasional lover.

A little complicated, especially as the years went on, but always what he needed in the moment.

She crossed the room and hugged him hard.

"You look exhausted."

"I am a professional hockey player," he muttered.

"Yes, you haven't even played today." She pulled back, studying him. "Something is different."

She pulled him further into the house. "Come. I brought vodka."

"Of course you did," he sighed, sitting.

They looked at each other for a moment.

"So," she said. "What happened?"

Ilya blinked.

"I know you," she continued cheerfully. "And you know better than to lie to me."

Ilya rubbed his face.

"I... met someone," he admitted finally.

Svetlana’s eyebrows shot up.

"That serious, huh?"

"Yes."

She leaned back, considering him.

"Do I know them?"

Ilya hesitated.

"Probably."

"But it’s complicated," she said. "What’s wrong?"

"He plays hockey," Ilya said carefully.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh no," she said, already sounding entertained. "Who?"

"He plays for Montreal," Ilya continued, deciding to just get it over with.

She went still.

"Montreal," she repeated.

Then her eyes went wide, could it really be the worst person it could be?

"Hollander?!"

"Yes."

For a second she just stared at him.

Then she barked out a laugh.

"Oh my god," she said. "You absolute disaster."

Ilya felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.

"You are not angry," he said.

The amusement faded from her face.

"Ilya," she said slowly, "this is Shane Hollander."

"I am aware."

"Montreal," she said again. "Captain Canada. The media circus. Russia. Your family. His career. Your career."

"I know."

Her eyes searched his face and found no hesitation there.

“…You’re serious.”

“It is.”

“Serious serious?”

“Yes.”

“And he feels the same?”

Ilya’s small smile and reddened cheeks told her enough.

Svetlana sat back, but she didn’t relax, elbows still tight to her waist as she turned over the situation.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

She pushed to her feet and wandered toward the living room instead of the door, which was answer enough for now.

Ilya followed.

He waited until they sat.

Then he said, "There is one more thing."

Her gaze snapped back to him.

"What we were before," he said carefully. "That cannot continue."

Svetlana went quiet.

"Because of him," she said.

"Yes."

She looked away for a moment, jaw tight.

When she looked back, the tease was gone completely.

"Okay," she said.

Ilya blinked.

"That is it?" he asked.

"No," she said flatly. "That is me not making this harder than it already is."

He said nothing.

She exhaled through her nose.

"We were never stupid about what we were," she said. "We were lonely and convenient and sometimes drunk."

He made a face.

"Don't minimize it," he muttered. "You've always meant a great deal to me, Sveta. More than anyone until..."

Her expression softened, just slightly.

"I know," she said. "And I love you too. Just not like that."

She reached over and nudged his shoulder.

"You are still my best friend," she said. "That part does not change."

Ilya nudged back, "Good."

Svetlana squinted at him.

"Do not look so relieved yet," she said. "I am still processing the fact that you have apparently lost your mind."

Despite himself, Ilya huffed a laugh.

That made her mouth twitch.

"Tell me about him," she said at last, reaching for the vodka bottle. "Then I will decide exactly how worried I am."

Ilya smiled despite himself.

"He is very annoying," he said.

"That sounds promising."

-

Dinner with Hayden and Jackie went well. It felt easier than the first time, less stilted, less forced. Knowing them already let Shane settle into himself faster, even with the constant thread of tension under his skin, the need to not screw this up. He’d been missing his best friend. He’d been missing all of them.

The girls were so small right now. Dinner had just finished; Hayden disappearing down the hall with one for a diaper change while Jackie passed the other into Shane’s arms so she could start clearing plates.

“Wow Shane, you’re really good with babies!” she exclaimed a few moments later when they had relocated to the living room, baby now snoozing in his arms, safe and snug.

He meant to reply that this wasn’t new when he caught himself and the feelings hit him all at once. Because how could Shane explain that the only reason he was doing so well was because he had fifteen years experience with her babies.

How could he explain that he knew, instinctively, the one in his arms was Ruby -because even at eight months she was already feisty, already refusing to sleep? That if he bounced her in just the right rhythm she’d settle almost instantly; right up until she decided, at eight, that she was too old to be carried around like a baby anymore? Even if it was Uncle Shane?

That in ten years she’d switch to hockey and -of all things- end up in net, while Jade stayed with figure skating?

That in fourteen years, both of them would sit him and Ilya down, both serious and nervous, and ask how to tell their parents they liked girls?

His throat closed.

His grip tightened just a little too much.

Shane forced a breath, then another.

"Sorry-" he managed, faking a cough as he carefully handed Ruby back to Jackie. "I think uh, something in my throat."

Jackie blinked, concerned. "Oh. -are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Shane said quickly, already backing up. "Just -bathroom."

He got out before anyone could stop him.

The second the door shut behind him, the too much of it all overflowed.

Shane braced both hands on the sink, head dropping forward as he sucked in a sharp breath.

Too much.

It was too much.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get control of it, but the memories wouldn’t stop [Ruby laughing, Jade falling asleep on his shoulder, Arthur chattering away about something only half-coherent, Amber warm and squirming in Ilya’s arms]-

All of them.

And two of them weren’t even here yet.

Arthur.

Amber.

Years away.

Not born. Not laughing. Not tugging at his sleeve or bossing everyone around like she owned the place.

Shane’s chest tightened painfully.

He knew them.

He knew exactly who they would be.

And right now -they didn’t exist.

All of them older.

All of them standing there, a little nervous, a little proud, as they forcefully ensured he and Ilya were married and promised to love each other forever.

The plastic heart rings that had still had a place of honour on a shelf in their room.

His throat hitched.

"Fuck," he whispered.

His hands were shaking.

He needed-

Shane fumbled his phone out of his pocket and hit Ilya’s contact without thinking.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then-

"-Shane?" Ilya’s voice came through, sharp and immediate. "Sweetheart, Что случилось?" What happened?

Shane swallowed hard, pressing a hand over his mouth for a second before answering in Russian with the most minor thought to not wanting Jackie or Hayden to be able to understand him if they somehow overheard.

"Я в порядке," I’m okay. he said quickly. "Просто- секунду." Just- give me a second.

He broke off, breath hitching.

There was a pause on the other end while Ilya tried to figure out how to respond, Svetlana was still next to him and paying rapt attention.

"Ты не в порядке," You’re not okay. Ilya said quietly.

Shane let out a shaky breath, sliding down until he was sitting on the closed toilet lid.

" Слишком много," It’s too much. he admitted. "Я забыл… насколько это всё…" I forgot… how much this all is… He exhaled sharply. "Они такие маленькие сейчас." They’re so small right now.

Another pause.

Softer this time.

"Я знаю," I know. Ilya said.

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Я держал Руби и-" (I was holding Ruby and- He huffed out a broken laugh. "Я знаю всё, понимаешь? Как будто это уже случилось. И это…" I know everything, you know? Like it’s already happened. And it’s…

"Тяжело," It’s heavy. Ilya finished for him.

"Да."

Silence stretched for a moment as Shane slowly tried to get his emotions under control. 

"Слушай меня," Listen to me. Ilya said, voice steady now. "Ты сейчас с ними. Вот и будь с ними. Не пытайся прожить всё сразу." You’re with them right now. So just be with them. Don’t try to live through all of it at once.

Shane swallowed.

"Я знаю," I know. he said, quieter. "Я просто…" I just…

"Ты скучаешь по мне," You miss me. Ilya said simply.

Shane huffed a weak laugh. "Да."

Ilya heard a shift on the other end, the movement of fabric.

"Я с тобой," I’m with you. Ilya said. "И буду с тобой позже. Мы поговорим. По скайпу, да?" And I’ll be with you later. We’ll talk. On Skype, yeah?

"Да," Shane said, steadier now.

"Хорошо," Good. Ilya replied. "Иди обратно. Дыши. Всё нормально." Go back. Breathe. It’s okay.

Shane closed his eyes, letting that sink in.

"Okay," he echoed.

"Я тебя люблю," I love you. Ilya added, softer.

Shane’s chest tightened—but this time it didn’t hurt as much.

"Я тоже тебя люблю," I love you too. he said.

The call ended.

Shane took another moment to pull himself together, checking his reflection—eyes clear enough, breathing steady, nothing obviously off. Good enough. He rolled his shoulders once, wiped his hands on his jeans, and opened the door to head back out.

-

Back in Boston, the silence in the apartment lingered for half a second after Ilya lowered his phone.

Svetlana was staring at him.

Just… staring. With eyes and brows both halfway to the ceiling.

“Well,” she said slowly. “That was… different.”

Ilya glanced at her, setting the phone down carefully.

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You weren’t exaggerating,” she mused.

“I was not.”

A beat.

“You sounded like a person who gives a shit.”

“I've already explained this.” He grasped around, even in his own language he was struck dumb sometimes with just how much he gave a shit about Shane. It was incomparable.

Svetlana shifted, crossing her arms as she studied him more closely.

“You sounded… soft,” she added, quieter this time.

Ilya didn’t respond to that.

“And he,” she continued, more pointed now, “was speaking Russian.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Ilya didn’t hesitate.

“Two years.”

She blinked.

“Two?”

“Yes.”

“That is-” She stopped, recalibrating. “That is very good for two years.”

“He works hard,” Ilya said simply.

Svetlana let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Or he’s a freak.”

“Maybe both,” Ilya allowed.

Her gaze sharpened again.

“And you,” she said, quieter now, “said you love him.”

Ilya met her eyes.

“Yes.”

She returned to her owl impression before responding, “You don’t say that lightly.”

“No.”

“And he’s what, then?” she pressed. “This is not just you seeing someone. This is -what exactly?”

“He matters,” he said finally.

Svetlana let out a short, sharp breath.

“Ilya.”

“We are nineteen,” she said, more force behind it now. “You are in the MLH. You are Russian.” She gestured at him. “And you are saying this like it is already decided.”

“It is.”

Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again.

“…No,” she said, quieter now, almost disbelieving. “No, that’s not -people don’t...”

She cut herself off and dragged a hand through her hair.

“This is not something you just decide,” she said, voice tightening. “This is something that happens to you and then tears things apart.”

“I know.”

“And you’re just what? Letting it?”

“Yes.”

For the first time he could see the fear plainly on her face.

“For a man,” she clarified, insisting.

“Yes.”

“…Fuck,” she muttered, quieter now.

She dragged a hand through her curls, pacing once before turning back to him.

“You leave Russia for five minutes,” she said, “and you fall in love with a boy who speaks Russian like that and calls you crying from a bathroom.”

“He is not fluent... yet,” Ilya said dryly.

“Close enough to be alarming.” She countered, before continuing in a gentler tone, “…Does he make you feel like that often? Soft?”

“Yes.”

Svetlana held his gaze for a long moment and nodded once.

“…Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

Again, these boys won't shut up and stop making me cry.

Chapter 10: Chapter 9

Chapter Summary

March - April 2011

Chapter Notes

Bit of a transition chapter

By March, Shane had stopped feeling like a novelty in Montreal.

He still got stared at. He still didn’t really get chirped. He was still the nineteen-year-old rookie putting up points like he had been built in a lab. But the room had changed around him.

Guys were listening now.

Not all the time but the change was noticeable.

A winger who would have ignored him in October circled back after a drill one morning and said, “What did you see there?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“On the entry.” The guy jerked his chin toward the boards. “You pointed left.”

Shane looked back at the play in his head.

“Your defenseman cheated middle too early,” he said. “If you held it another half-second, the lane was open.”

The guy frowned, replayed it, then nodded.

“Shit. Yeah.”

That started happening more often.

A question after practice. A quick word on the bench. Somebody asking where the rebound was going to kick, or why a lane had closed, or how Shane had known a defender was about to overcommit. He always knew. He saw the game too fast not to.

And now the team was starting to trust that.

Hayden being onside helped too. Once that particular dam had broken, they slotted back into place like puzzle pieces.

He started dragging Shane into things without making a production of it; nudging him into conversations, backing him up when he pointed something out in practice, treating him like he belonged there so matter-of-factly that the rest of the room followed faster than they might have otherwise.

Shane hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that until he got it.

It helped that he was scoring like a maniac.

It also helped that he could point something out and then go do it himself five minutes later.

By then he was not just putting up points. He was dragging Montreal toward a playoff spot and everybody knew it.

He did not know how to do that quietly if he saw a better way forward.

Once he realized some of the guys actually wanted the extra help, he split his optional work more evenly. Half of it went back into the team. Extra skates. Little corrections. Showing somebody a better entry, a cleaner angle, or why a play kept dying in the same place. The other half he kept for himself and his personal goals.

The women’s-team thing caused the first real stir.

At this point women’s hockey barely got treated like a serious professional pursuit, let alone a place an MLH rookie would go looking for extra work. So when word got around that Shane Hollander had contacted the women’s team in Montreal to ask if he could skate with them on off days, the reaction was immediate.

Somewhere between holy shit and what the fuck.

Shane politely told reporters that, “Good players are good players. Fast skaters are fast skaters. I want the ice and the different perspective that the women’s team brings. It’s helping me think of different strategies.”

It caused a bit of a stir online but it quickly blew over. Shane was privately happy that his first baby step into changing hockey culture was so anticlimactic. For as excited as he was to make changes, he was also still a little terrified.

The women’s team themselves, the Montreal Stars, were a little weirded out at first and didn’t quite know what to make of him but once he showed up and made it clear he was there to learn as much as to push himself, people got over the novelty quickly enough.

Then there was figure skating. He’d had this idea a few years ago but waved it off as flight of fancy. Thinking he was both too old and too busy with Ilya and their shared life to dedicate too much time to a new style of skating.

Now though…

Joe, his figure skating friend, laughed at him the first time Shane explained what he wanted.

“I want to learn the turns,” Shane said.

“The turns,” Joe repeated.

“The edge work. The transitions. All the shit hockey thinks is decorative until somebody uses it to make a defenseman look stupid.”

That got him a long look, then a grin.

“All right,” his friend said. “Let’s see how much pain you’re willing to suffer for art.”

The answer turned out to be quite a lot.

Shane went home from those sessions soaked in sweat, legs shaking, newly aware of muscles he had apparently never used properly before. He loved it.

He loved the control of it. The precision. The feeling of learning something most hockey players were too proud or too narrow-minded to touch.

He had seen what that kind of movement could do in a game, one of the western division teams had had a former figure skater on their roster for a few seasons before they’d arrived in the past and his skating had been something else. He wanted it. He was going to be even better than the first time. He had to if they wanted to make the changes in the sport they wanted to. They needed to be untouchable.

Afterwards however, he called Ilya and spent ten straight minutes complaining in vivid detail about his thighs.

Ilya laughed so hard he had to put the phone down. But then Ilya also demanded to see those thighs in a different sort of contortion and little of intellectual value was said for the rest of the night.  

--

Boston once again created a good base for Ilya to establish himself.

He was keeping pace with Shane in the scoring race, which pleased him enormously, and he was finding quite a bit of joy putting his once again youthful body through its paces.

No body aches. No old wear and tear. No mornings where his back argued with him before his feet even hit the floor. He was young again and he felt it every shift. Although he did add yoga into his routine as he was now blessed with the knowledge that certain muscles would start giving him mobility issues in his early thirties. But don’t tell Shane.

On the ice he skated like someone who had been birthed on skates.

Fast, sharp, and flashy. Funny and mean enough to be taken seriously on the ice while still being a part of the locker room.

He chirped the older guys until they threatened to kill him, then grinned and put up three points. He hyped up the younger ones until they stopped looking petrified every time a camera got shoved in their faces. He kept the room loud, moving, and everybody just a little off balance.

Cliff called him an absolute little shit at least once a week.

Ilya accepted this as praise.

When Boston played Montreal, he enjoyed himself even more.

The rivalry still looked great from the outside: speed, goals, scrums, Shane in red and blue and Ilya in black and gold. Everybody pretending they hated each other during game time but happily chirping each other about their scoring bet in the media scrums afterwards.

Luckily, the cameras always missed the best parts.

The cameras missed Shane’s mouth twitching when Ilya got under his skin, or the looks they traded after a goal that promised considerably less professional things later.

And later, every time, was the real prize.

Sometimes before the game, if there was time and almost always after. Ilya showering fast, lying to somebody about where he was going, taking the chirps about curfew with a rolled eye and a grin because what were they going to do, bench him while he was playing like that?

As before; when they played this game, the nights were never long enough.

It wasn’t as bad as before, not yet anyway. Ilya had come quite far in therapy with Galina, and he and Shane had worked through many a pinch point in their relationship with couples therapy in the previous five years; both feeling more understood in their relationship than ever.

But being alone so much was still hard.

His apartment was better now. More private. Better chosen. Safer.

It was still empty when he came home most nights.

With the stress starting to creep back in, he had more time to think about some of the things Galina had been working on with him before. Small anchors. Better habits. Things that belonged to him and not to hockey or family or anyone else.

Music had been what he had started to delve into.

He had already been exploring it before they got sent back, looking for something that was just his. Fabian had been part of that too. Ryan Price’s boyfriend, an incredible musician, was one of the people who had really kicked the whole thing into motion for him in the old timeline. It had grown from there over the years. He just had not been nearly as interested in it at nineteen the first time around, when he was still listening to more Russian music and staying much closer to what he already knew.

So this time he leaned into it on purpose as a healthier stress outlet. He had been rediscovering old songs he had not heard in years that were now new again in this timeline. Trying to pay special attention to what actually made him feel better instead of just filling space with noise.

Another change was that he started dragging Svetlana out with the team sometimes when they were in Boston. Part of it was simple enough: he liked having her there. She fit in well, made people laugh, and gave him somebody to lean into when his teammates got too loud and somebody to glare at when she laughed at him. Part of it was more practical.

Having Svetlana on his arm often enough kept people from looking too hard at anything else now that his and Shane's rivalry wasn't quite so heated as last time. They had discussed it, and while neither of them were especially pleased about it, practicality had to win in this case. It wouldn't do them any good to be outed before they had enough influence to stop from being dropped like a hot potato from the MLH.

Having Svetlana come with him more also meant he was not always going home to an empty apartment which he appreciated more than anything.

One night, when Ilya switched tracks in the middle of a Skype call and Shane went quiet to listen for a second, he asked, “Okay, what’s with the music lately?”

Ilya smiled to himself and sank a little deeper into the couch.

“What do you mean, what’s with it?”

“You keep finding new stuff.”

“Yes. That is generally how music works.”

Shane huffed. “You know what I mean.”

Ilya let the song run for another few seconds before answering.

“I was starting to get into more of it before,” he said. “Before all of this. Galina had actually been encouraging it.”

Shane was quiet for a second. “Oh yeah?” Ilya didn't talk much about his sessions usually.

“Yes.” Ilya shifted deeper into the couch. “She kept pushing me to find things that were mine. Not hockey. Not family. Not us. Just mine.”

He made a face.

“Remember when I got really into baking for about three weeks?” he asked.

Shane laughed immediately. “You mean when you got flour on every surface in the kitchen and then blamed it on Anya?”

“She was involved,” Ilya said with dignity. “And then there was the gardening phase.”

“The one where Anya kept digging up the bulbs you planted?”

Ilya scowled. “I still maintain that they were poison and she was acting in our best interests.”

That made Shane laugh harder.

“And then there were the model cars,” Ilya added. “That was worse. Too tiny. Too exact. I nearly lost my mind.”

“You lasted, what, two weekends?”

“Less.”

“Oh, and then you got into helping me with that condo.”

Ilya snorted. “For five minutes. I liked the design part. Finishes. Layouts. Arguing about kitchens. Then I remembered you take nine years to make a decision and well… my patience was just not up to the challenge.”

“That is not true.”

“It took you three days to choose between two shades of white.”

“They were different whites.”

Shane was still smiling when Ilya went on.

“Music just stuck better,” he said. “Or maybe I was finally in the mood to listen when it did.”

“That sounds suspiciously healthy.”

“It was very annoying,” Ilya said dryly. “Which of course meant she was right. ”

That got a laugh out of Shane.

Ilya let the song run a little longer before he went on.

“My family has been getting worse again,” he said. “My father is calling more. My brother is still an asshole. But it is not catastrophic yet. It is just... consistent.”

He stared at the ceiling for a second.

“The first time I ignored it until it became a real problem,” he said. “I know that now. I know what it feels like when it starts eating at me.”

Shane did not interrupt.

So Ilya kept talking.

“Music helps,” he said. “It just gives my brain somewhere else to go, especially with you so far away.”

He gazed hungrily into Shane’s eyes for a moment before continuing,  “Besides, Galina was right. I need things that belong to me and not to everyone else.”

Shane hummed in acknowledgment and returned the intense look as he waited for Ilya to finish. He knew there was more.

Ilya let the song run a little longer.

“I have been thinking about going back,” he said at last.

“To therapy?” Shane asked.

“Yes.”

He stared up at the ceiling.

“It is different from before,” he said. “Before, it was… the fallout, I guess. This is more specific.”

“Your family still contacting you,” Shane said. 'Your father being alive,' he didn't.

Ilya exhaled. “Yes. They are back in my life in a way they were not for a long time, and I can feel it getting under my skin.”

He shifted on the couch, one hand rubbing over his chest absently.

“I do not want to deal with them the same way this time,” he said. “I do not want to ignore it until it becomes a real problem. Music is helping. It is. But I do not think it is enough on its own. Last time I waited too long. By the time I dealt with it properly, therapy was not enough on its own anymore.”

Shane kept quiet, letting him talk.

That made it easier to keep going.

“I think I need to go back,” Ilya said. “I want to handle them better this time.”

Shane knew exactly what he meant. He could hear the therapy in it too, which was weirdly comforting. Ilya stopping to think. Naming the problem. Trying to deal with it before it blew up in his face.

Shane was proud of him for that. Really fucking proud, actually. He let the silence stretch for a moment before replying, very softly, “Okay, baby. You know I want whatever will make this easier on you.”

Ilya went very still. Shane almost never called him baby. A stupidly besotted smile took over his face before he could stop it.

“I do.”

“For now,” Shane said, expression intense but open. “Unless you want more than okay.”

Ilya smiled, still soft and a little helpless around the edges.

“I will let you know.”

--

What had not changed, apparently, was how badly he wanted Shane’s parents to love him.

They had before.

God, they had before.

He had loved them back just as hard.

That was exactly why he wanted it again.

Boston was in Ottawa in April, and Shane only learned his parents had tickets because his mother mentioned it on the phone.

“Oh, and thank Ilya for the seats,” Yuna said. “That was very sweet.”

Shane sat up straighter. “The what?”

“The tickets,” she said, and Shane could hear the smile in her voice now. “He arranged them.”

There was a small pause before she added, more carefully, “That was thoughtful of him. You didn’t know?”

He hadn’t. But she sounded a little charmed despite herself.

Exactly enough to make Shane’s chest tighten.

His father was blunter when Shane spoke to him later.

“Your mother liked the seats,” he said. “And the gesture.”

A beat.

“Still keeping an eye on that one, though.”

Shane laughed before he could stop himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” There was a pause, then a dry addition. “But the kid’s got range.”

That nearly killed him.

Then he called Ilya.

“You got my parents tickets?”

Ilya was quiet for a beat.

“Maybe.”

Shane laughed. He could not help it. “Why?”

“Because I thought they might want to come and see a real hockey player.” He quipped, trying to rile him up.

“That is not an answer, you ass.” But Ilya could hear the laugh in his voice.

“I need to become favourite son again, solnyshko.” He kept on teasing, "I am at disadvantage right now."

Shane just rolled his eyes and muttered "Ass." under his breath while smiling. 

--

The night after Boston got knocked out of the playoffs, Ilya was on his couch with an open duffel bag on the floor and a pile of clothes beside him, packing badly.

Shane could tell because every few minutes Ilya would hold something up, stare at it like it had personally offended him, and then throw it into the bag without folding it.

“You are making me anxious,” Shane said.

Ilya glanced toward the laptop. “I am packing.”

“You are attacking your luggage.”

“That too.”

Shane smiled despite himself, then let the quiet sit for a beat.

Boston was done.

Montreal still had a couple more games left against Chicago, the series tied up and ugly and heading exactly where Shane remembered it going. Game seven. Then out.

He knew it.

He still had to play it.

Ilya would be in Montreal by morning.

He was coming in for the rest of the series, staying with Shane and going to the games with his parents, showing up in the family section like that was the most normal thing in the world. They'd never done this before and the thrill was electrifying.

The thought of it had been carrying Shane through the entire day.

“You okay?” he asked finally.

Ilya made a face at the duffel bag.

“Ask me again when I am no longer in Boston.”

Shane huffed a laugh.

Then Ilya sighed and sat back on the couch.

“The Russia trip is after the awards,” he said, like he had picked the thought up where he had left it earlier. “I have been thinking about that.”

Shane nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I found a therapist. Here.”

That got Shane’s full attention.

“Yeah?”

“My first session is next week. He is very modern by doing Skype therapy for me,” Ilya joked half heartedly before continuing. “I am hoping to get a few in before I go back.”

Ilya looked around, not quite able to meet Shane’s eyes. "He is... like me," he said, swallowing. "Queer. Ex-Russian. Came to America for university and never went home." For a second Shane did not say anything at all. The look on his face was so open and helplessly tender before curling into a little smile that warmth and embarrassment hit Ilya at the same time.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“It is a little different from what I was seeing Galina for before,” he said. “But the reason for this is back in my life now, and I would prefer not to handle my family badly again.”

Shane stayed quiet.

So Ilya kept going.

“Music is helping,” he said. “It is. But it is about the fact that I know what they do to me, and I would like to be better prepared for it this time.”

Shane nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“It is also extremely annoying,” Ilya added.

“Obviously.”

That earned him a brief smile.

Shane let it sit for another second, watching Ilya’s face settle back into something thoughtful and tight around the eyes.

Then he said, “Okay. Then after that, we’re doing something fun.”

Ilya blinked. “After what?”

“After Boston. After Chicago murders us in game seven. After the MLH awards. After you get back from Russia. Pick one.”

That got a real laugh out of him.

“You are very romantic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I mean it. Something for you. Not hockey. Not family. Something you actually want.”

Ilya went quiet.

Shane could practically see him resisting the offer on principle.

“That is dangerous,” Ilya said eventually.

“Why?”

“Because then I would have to answer honestly.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “That’s the point.”

A long pause followed.

“There is something,” Ilya said at last.

Shane sat up straighter. “Okay.”

“It is stupid.”

“Ilya.”

“And you will hate it.”

“Ilya.”

A soft sound came over the line, somewhere between surrender and amusement.

“A music festival,” Ilya said.

Shane blinked. “Okay.”

Ilya made a face. “A very big music festival.”

Shane’s expression shifted. “How big?”

“In Belgium,” Ilya added, like that might finally scare him off.

Shane stared at the screen. “Belgium?!?”

That got a real laugh out of Ilya.

“Tomorrowland,” he said.

Shane blinked. “What the fuck is Tomorrowland?!”

A beat. “That sounds fake.”

“Is not fake.”

Then Ilya, clearly deciding Shane was too uncultured to be left like this, launched into an explanation.

It was, according to him, one of the biggest music festivals in the world. Huge for EDM. Huge for DJs. Huge enough that even Shane, who did not particularly care about DJs as a concept, could tell from Ilya’s face that this mattered. Somewhere in the next ten minutes there was a brief history of electronic music, an increasingly impassioned defense of festival culture, and a lot of hand gestures. Ilya also informed him, with great seriousness, that this was where Avicii had dropped “Levels,” as if that alone should settle the matter forever. As if he knew what that was.

“Oh come on Shane, if you heard it you would know. I’m sure they played it at the arena during warmups many times.”

By the end of it Shane was staring at the screen with the distinct feeling that he had just been steamrolled.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Ilya was immediately suspicious. “No. You do not get to say that and then pretend you are fine with it.”

Shane looked back at the screen.

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I’m processing.”

“Because you will hate it,” Ilya said. “Three days of electronic music and drunk people in ridiculous outfits. You hate crowds. You hate chaos.”

“I don’t hate chaos.”

“You hate recreational chaos.”

Shane laughed. “That’s not a real category.”

“It should be.”

Shane smiled into the dark. “Do you want to go?”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “Yes.”

“Then we’ll go.”

“Shane-”

“No. We’ll go.”

Another pause.

“You do not have to do that just because I am having a hard time.”

“I know.”

“You will hate it.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Shane said. “But you definitely won’t, and you being happy makes me happy.”

He hesitated, then added, more wryly, “Yeah, yeah. I heard it too. Very happy wife, happy life of me. Don’t make a thing of it.”

That shut Ilya up for exactly one second.

“Wife?” he repeated. “Me? Who decided this?”

Shane groaned and dragged a hand over his face.

“Absolutely not what I meant.”

“Oh no,” Ilya said, eyes bright now. “You said it. I heard it. Very interesting development for me personally.”

Despite himself, Shane laughed.

When Ilya spoke again, his voice had gone softer under the joke.

“You are serious.”

“Yeah.”

Ilya laughed once, quietly, like he still did not quite believe him.

Shane gave him a little smile.

He could hear the hope in it anyway.

Then, because he was himself and apparently incapable of leaving a good moment alone, he added, “Also, I think you would look incredible in a ridiculous outfit.”

Ilya made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh.

“That is not helping your case.”

“Too late,” Shane said. “We’re going.”

By the time they said goodnight, Ilya had stopped abusing the duffel bag and Shane was already thinking about the next morning, about seeing him in person, about a few more games before Chicago ended it.

Underneath that was one simpler truth.

Ilya deserved to be loved out loud in any way they could get away with for now. And it was Shane’s job to make sure he felt it.

Chapter End Notes

Also thanks everyone for all the comments! I appreciate each one. And I'm loving the theories, some have been very good.

Chapter 11: Chapter 10

Chapter Summary

May 2011

Chapter Notes

Ilya was the one to open the door when Yuna and David arrived. He ushered them in with a wide smile and only a touch of awkwardness.

“Hi, sorry to startle you. Shane’s flight was delayed; he just landed.”

“Oh, that’s all right son. We know how flights are.” David clapped him on the arm as he stepped past him to enter the apartment.

Shane had also decided to upgrade in mid March to a much more private end unit in St-Henri with a garage, several trees, and easy access to the airport, the training facility, and the arena downtown.

It was a bit of an odd choice for a twenty-year-old, Yuna mused, but her son had always been ceaselessly practical.   

She set her purse down on a side table as Ilya grabbed the medium suitcase from David. “Oh, thank you for the flowers, Ilya. Irises are my favourite. Did Shane tell you?”

He had sent her flowers for Mother’s Day the day previous, and she had been rather charmed despite herself.

“Lucky guess,” he joked, “I can give you tour while we wait?”

“Oh yes, that sounds nice.”

They started in the second bedroom where Ilya placed their bag. It wasn’t renovated yet, but the bones were good as Ilya showed them around and it struck Yuna once again that Ilya didn’t feel like a nineteen, almost twenty-year-old. It was the same feeling she’d been getting from her son for the past several months and she wondered what the cause of it was.

Was it just the reality of what they’d have to fight if their relationship got out? But no, she dismissed the idea. She knew her son and it had seemed like there had a fundamental shift. It had been hard to place, with him being so busy through the season, they had seen a lot less of him than before. She’d thought it was just a part of him growing up and leaving home. But now…

Before, there had always been some timidness in him when surrounded by other people, him not quite sure how to act when off the ice. A pervasive sense of unease and reliance on her coaching. What to say, how to stand, what to expect from coaches, media, other players; these were all things she’d helped him with and assumed she’d continue to help with for many years to come as his career ramped up.

But that had pretty much all ceased after this past Christmas. Now her son seemed more sure of himself, at home in his body in a way that she had never seen in him off of the ice. She was happy of course, but also confused.

“Ilya! I’m home!”

Shane called from below, the basement door closing from the inside garage entrance, “Are my parents here ye-” He cut off abruptly as he walked into the kitchen to find them all seated at the table, drinking coffee. “Oh, you are!”

He gave his parents quick hugs where they were seated in greeting before plopping heavily next to Ilya and giving him a kiss, fondness breaking across both of their faces.

“How was your flight? The game last night looked intense.” David opened with, as Ilya stood then and began making another coffee.

“Short once we finally got in the air and yeah Barnes was annoying, but we hung in there.” He said easily and once again Yuna was struck by that change in her son.

“Surely there’s more to it than that? You’re in the playoffs! You don’t need to pretend it’s less stressful than it is.”

Shane seemed surprised then and seemed to back track, “Oh- yeah, I mean…” He was interrupted by Ilya placing the coffee in front of him along with a banana and a glass of water.

“Yes, solnyshko. Our first playoffs!” Ilya’s voice had a lilt that she wasn’t sure was derision or amusement, “And I am out before you despite having more goals! Very rude.”

Shane blushed and Yuna couldn’t help but smile at the two of them, “Well Ilya, Shane will just have to get more goals tomorrow than won’t he?”

Shane groaned and started peeling the banana, “You just had to mention that didn’t you?”

“It’s, what, a six-goal lead?” Ilya grinned, “I’m sure you will catch up.”

Shane just glared and aggressively bit the top of the banana.

Thankfully, however, that did crack open the door to easier flowing conversation as they discussed chances for the rookie of the year award for each of them. Eventually, Yuna and David decided to go for a walk around the neighbourhood leaving Shane and Ilya alone for a few minutes.

Ilya hugged Shane from behind as he put their used mugs into the dishwasher, perching his chin on his shoulder. “You are making your mother very confused and concerned.”

“Hmm?” Shane looked back at him before turning and wrapping his arms around his waist as well.

Ilya kissed his nose and expanded, “I am thinking you are acting quite a bit different to how you used to when you were young.”

Shane thought about it and sighed, “Yeah, That’s true. I used to be so anxious and scared about things.”

“Ah yes, you were very awkward despite being perfect hockey player.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Ilya chuckled, “And you almost slipped up, Mr. First Playoff season.”

At that he groaned louder, “I think I forgot for a moment, seeing you all together again, that we are really back here still. Sometimes it still doesn’t feel real despite it all.” His forehead dropped to Ilya’s collar bone, “I hate that we have to lie to them again.”

Ilya rocked them softly, “At least it’s not about us, about how much I love you.”

Shane smiled softly; no, not about that at least. “So mushy.”

-

Dinner that night brought some of the odd inklings back as Yuna watched Shane and Ilya work practically in sync to cook dinner. They moved around each other easily, trading off without discussion, reaching past each other without getting in the way, arguing over ingredients like this was an old hobby instead of a new territory for people who haven't really lived together.

Which, Yuna thought, was exactly what felt odd about it.

Yuna watched them for a while, then finally said, “How did you learn to cook like this?”

Shane looked up from the stove. “What do you mean?”

“I mean last year I watched you nearly burn Kraft Dinner.”

David laughed into his drink.

“That happened once,” Shane complained.

“It absolutely did not happen once,” Ilya said.

Yuna turned. “So you’ve seen it?”

“Unfortunately.”

Shane pointed the spoon at him. “Traitor.”

“You get weird about timing,” Ilya said. “And presentation. And salt.”

Shane snorted. “You always want to put pickled things in everything.”

“That is because pickles improve many situations.”

David looked between them. “You two have an oddly efficient system for people who don't have a lot of time to share a kitchen.”

Neither of them answered quite fast enough.

Then Ilya said, “We cook together over Skype sometimes. Same meal, different kitchens.”

“His with extra pickles,” Shane muttered, leaning into the cover story. It’s not that it wasn’t true, just that it wasn’t the reason. Thankfully, his parents didn’t question further.

The food was excellent, which annoyed Yuna a little but impressed her more. Thick chicken lentil stew, good bread, everything done on time and done well. Shane was clearly thinking ahead to tomorrow’s game even while he cooked. The meal was both delicious and full of all the nutrients an athlete would need.

However, between the meal and before cleaning up, the conversation did turn to more serious topics.

"So," David started, setting his glass down, "we didn’t really get to talk about this in Nashville. Not properly. What exactly is the plan here? Because it can’t be easy, trying to do this with that kind of distance between you, not to mention the league."

Shane and Ilya exchanged a look that contained a whole conversation.

Shane leaned back in his chair. "No," he said. "It’s not easy."

Ilya rubbed a thumb against the stem of his wine glass. "But it is worth it."

Yuna watched them both for a second. Shane looked steadier than she expected. Ilya looked like he’d thought about this a great deal already.

David nodded once but gestured for them to keep going. "That’s not really what I’m asking. I mean practically. Career-wise. Life-wise. You’re twenty. You play in different cities. Different countries. And being together... I know it's harsh to say but if this gets out right now, you're both done."

"Yes," Ilya said dryly. "We had noticed."

That got a short laugh out of David despite himself.

Shane dragged a hand through his hair, ignoring Ilya’s response. "Right now? We do what we’ve been doing. Calls. Visits when we can. Stealing weekends. Trying not to lose our minds."

"Very romantic," Ilya muttered.

"Shut up."

"Never."

Yuna ignored that. "And later?"

That was the real question, and all four of them knew it.

Shane looked down at his plate for a second, then over at Ilya. "Eventually we’d like to be on the same team."

Yuna exhaled through her nose. "That sounds almost impossible."

"Probably," Shane said. "But that’s only part of it."

That got her attention.

Shane sat back in his chair. "The real plan is that we get good enough that nobody can touch us." He shrugged once, like he wasn’t saying anything outrageous at all. "Best in the league. Maybe ever. Good enough that when we come out, the league can’t bury us without looking blatantly retributively homophobic."

Nobody said anything.

So, Shane kept going.

"Being on the same team matters because we actually want to live together," he said. "Properly. Not like this. But that’s not the whole thing. We want to force the league to bend."

Yuna stared at him.

And suddenly the women’s team, the figure skating, the change in Shane’s interviews and Ilya’s own meteoric rise made more sense. They had been building toward this for months. Not just the hockey, either. Visibility, public goodwill, making themselves valuable enough that the league would have a much harder time getting rid of them.

And the insane thing was, sitting there listening to them, she could also believe it.

Ilya picked it up from there, calmer. "The only part we can really control in the league is getting to UFA as quickly as possible. After that? Who knows. Teams change. GMs do stupid things. People get moved for reasons that make no sense at all. But we can manage our own image outside of hockey, get the fans to also work for us."

"And one of us is getting Rookie of the Year," Shane added. "That part’s happening. We will win more, get more trophies. This is just the beginning."

David huffed out a breath.

"Jesus, boys." he said.

Yuna barely heard him.

Her mind was already moving.

She had already been planning the usual things. Brand deals. Ad campaigns. Commercial work. Getting Shane’s face out there in the right way, with the right people, often enough that the public felt like they knew him.

Because if this was really what they were trying to do -if they were actually going to make themselves too big to crush- then maybe Shane did not have to do it alone.

Her eyes slid to Ilya.

Maybe she could work him in too.

Not blatantly, not yet, but juuuuuust enough. Shared appearances where it made sense. The right kind of public overlap. Get people used to seeing them together often enough that it stopped reading as strange.

Yuna looked back at Shane.

"You’ve really thought this through," she said.

Shane gave her a crooked little smile. "Yeah, I told you we had a plan."

He looked younger when he did that but still her son. Still twenty. But something steely cut through the youth she had known.

Then David huffed out a laugh into his drink.

"Well," he said, "that’s either reassuring or deeply concerning. I haven’t decided which."

"That sounds about right," Shane said.

Yuna shook her head, but she was smiling a little despite herself. "I still don’t understand how two boys this young are masterminding the MLH and talking like they’ve already been married for ten years."

Shane nearly choked on his ginger ale.

Ilya, the little shit, looked delighted.

"Oh, that is an excellent thing for you to say in front of him," he said. He took a sip of his wine and added, far too calmly, "Because yes, actually. Like I said in Nashville." Ilya looked a little abashed then but continued in a light tone, "Sorry I made it seem like joke before. We do intend to get married as soon as Shane is out of playoffs too."

Shane set his drink down completely this time. 

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, already blushing. "Could you maybe not say that like you’re announcing a weather report?"

Ilya looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Why? It is true."

Yuna stared between them. "Married? Seriously?"

"Russia," Ilya said simply, and some of the humor went out of him. "It is bad there. Worse than bad, really. If we are outed and I couldn't stay... well."

That shut the table up for a second.

David’s expression flattened in a way Shane recognized. Not angry. Just listening harder.

Ilya kept his voice even. "I wish we could be more romantic but we need to be unfortunately practical with back up plans." he shrugged even though everyone could tell this pained him, "If something goes wrong, I want legal ties so they can't take me away from him. I want decisions to be simple. I want it on paper that he is mine and I am his."

Shane’s blush deepened, but he lifted his head anyway.

"That’s not the only reason," he said because he could see that his parents were a little uneasy.

Ilya looked at him.

Shane held it but still spoke to his parents.

"I asked," he said. "He didn’t pressure me into anything. I love him." He glanced at his parents, then at Ilya.

They could have left the rest for later, when they were alone.

Shane didn’t.

"And yeah," he said, looking back at Ilya now and taking his hand, "I want to protect you if something happens. Especially if we get outed. But that’s not why I want to marry you."

The table went very still.

Shane felt himself flush harder.

Too late now.

"I want to because it’s you," he said, and this time he didn’t look away. "The rest of it just makes it more urgent."

For once, Ilya had no immediate smart answer.

He just looked at Shane for a second with something dangerously soft on his face.

Then he cleared his throat and said, much too evenly, "Well. That was very embarrassing for you."

"Oh fuck off," Shane muttered.

David laughed into his drink.

Yuna looked at both of them, then down at her plate, visibly trying to reorganize her entire understanding of the evening. These boys were going to drive her insane.

-

The next morning started far too early.

Shane woke to Ilya’s mouth on him and nearly died trying not to make a sound.

“Oh my god,” he hissed. “My parents are down the hall.”

Ilya glanced up, completely unbothered.

“It’s your birthday.”

Then he went right back to it, drawing out cutoff moans and whines for several long minutes as he drew any morning worries out through his dick.

Afterward Shane lay there with one arm over his face while Ilya sprawled across his ribs looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“You are a menace,” Shane said.

“Yes.”

“A terrible influence.”

“Yes. Happy Birthday Shane.”

Shane laughed once, weakly, and slid a hand into Ilya’s curls and drawing him up for a long slow kiss.

They basked in each others arms for another long moment before the reality of the day seeped back into their awareness as Shane’s alarm finally went off.

Game 7 was sitting between them now.

“This is probably it,” Shane said. “For Montreal.”

Ilya rested his chin on Shane’s chest. “Probably.”

He was quiet for a second. “More of this has stayed the same than I expected.”

Shane stared at the ceiling.

“Sometimes,” Ilya said, “I think maybe we’re stuck in the same... track. Like train. Maybe all our changes only matter around the edges.” He exhaled. “I don’t know. Maybe is stupid. We still don’t know how any of this happened.”

Shane knew exactly what he meant.

The standings had lined up closely enough. Not every game. Not every goal or point; their own scoring race proof enough of that. But enough that he didn’t trust the differences yet.

“No one else thinks you’re losing tonight,” Ilya added.

Shane barked out a quiet laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

Nobody did. The city, the room, his parents; everybody was walking into tonight hopeful.

Shane was walking into it with math.

Last time he’d only been one goal behind Ilya going into Game 7. He’d managed to claw his way back to a tie when the game ended and his season with it.

This time he was six down.

If Montreal died here, so did the bet. So did the tie. Maybe the Calder went with it.

That would be new. And at least proof something of moderate significance could change, he supposed. No matter how much it would sting personally, despite himself. 

He turned his head.

“You’re still very cocky for somebody who flew here to collect a prize that might not exist.”

Ilya’s mouth curved. “I believe in committing to the bit.”

“That bit is getting expensive.”

“Is worth it to watch you play.”

That did something deeply unhelpful to Shane’s insides.

He smoothed a hand once through Ilya’s hair and held him there.

“Whatever happens,” he said, quieter now, “thanks for being here.”

Ilya’s expression changed at once.

“Always.”

Shane had to get to the rink early.

Pregame routine. Meetings. Warmup. Enough time to turn himself into someone who could survive a Game 7 without chewing through his own tongue.

He left first.

A kiss to Yuna’s cheek. A shoulder clap from David. A final look at Ilya in the doorway that turned his stomach over.

Then he was gone.

-

A couple of hours later, Ilya went with Yuna and David.

The family entrance was packed. Wives, girlfriends, parents, siblings, children. Everybody dressed up and pretending not to be scared.

Then Ilya walked in beside Shane’s parents.

Heads turned.

A few too fast.

He felt the recognition hit in waves. Confusion. Curiosity. A little hostility.

Good.

Let them choke on it.

One woman he didn’t recognize blinked at him like she thought he might vanish if she stared hard enough.

“Rozanov?”

He turned. “Yes?”

Her eyes flicked to Yuna and David. “What are you doing here?”

Yuna went still beside him.

Ilya caught it and smiled.

Perfect.

“The bet is probably getting settled tonight,” he said. “Hollander told me at All-Stars that if I won, I should come to Montreal and collect my prize myself. So here I am.”

There was a beat.

Then a few startled laughs.

One woman shook her head. “That’s insane.”

“Yes,” Ilya grinned. “But also funny.”

That was enough. The mood loosened a little.

Then he spotted Jackie.

One twin in her lap. The other trying to launch herself out of her sister’s arms. She was valiantly keeping her contained in the face of such adversity. 

Jackie looked up, saw him, and blinked.

“Wait,” she said. “You’re Rozanov?”

He paused, one hand already half lifted in a wave toward the baby. “Yes?”

Jackie barked out a laugh. “Oh my god. Hayden’s been grumbling about you all season.”

That made Ilya grin.

“Excellent,” he said. “Then I have already made an impression.”

He crossed over and forgot most of the room existed because the girls were there and they were ridiculous.

The one in Jackie’s lap stared at him solemnly and grabbed for his shirt.

“Well,” Ilya said, delighted. “You have excellent taste.”

Jackie snorted. “This one’s Jade,” she said, jostling the baby in her lap gently. Then she pointed at the twin in her sister’s arms, who was still fighting gravity and restraint with impressive dedication. “And the menace is Ruby.”

Ilya looked between them with open delight even as he felt the same twinge in his heart that Shane had called him crying about a few months earlier.

“Jade,” he said solemnly, offering one finger for her to grab. “Very elegant. Very composed.” Then he turned to the other and immediately started making ridiculous faces at her until she froze, stared, and then kicked both feet in outrage or excitement. “And Ruby, obviously, is planning a hostile takeover.”

Jackie laughed. “Oh, you are dangerous.”

Ilya laughed. “They are lovely girls, they obviously get it from their mother.”

Jackie laughed and shifted Jade higher on her lap as she wobble-lunged forward to try to get more of Ilya’s shirt. “Well, congratulations. You’ve won them over in under thirty seconds.”

“As I said,” Ilya replied, smiling down at Ruby as she kicked furiously from Ashley’s arms, “excellent taste.”

That went over well enough. Babies got passed around. Jackie laughed at him. Jackie’s sister, whose name was Sophie, seemed amused despite herself. Even Yuna relaxed a little when she and David made their way over to sit with him.

A few minutes later, the arena lights dropped and everyone turned toward the ice.

-

By the time Shane got to the rink, he already felt split in half.

Half of him was routine. Tape. Stretch. Gear. Water. Warmup. Every little ritual in the right order so he didn’t have to think too hard.

The other half would not shut up.

Chicago.

Game 7.

May 10.

His birthday.

And, if the timeline held, the end of the run.

He knew how this went.

Or thought he did. It had been a bitter birthday present for him to swallow the first time, despite him being able to score one last goal to tie with Ilya.

He knew Montreal had lost here before. He knew that if they went out tonight, Ilya stayed six goals ahead of him, the bet died, the tie vanished, and maybe the Calder vanished with it.

And now Ilya was in the building. In Montreal. With his parents. In the family box. Waiting upstairs with what was supposed to be a front-row seat to Shane losing the game and then the bet.

At least officially, that was why he was here.

The Bell Centre was viciously loud. Chicago looked composed but also a little irritated, they didn't think Montreal would give them as much trouble as they had. Montreal looked both a little bedraggled and like it was about to head to war, the veterans on the team amping up the young ones while coach barked steadying orders.

He looked up, trying in vain to see if he could see his family in the crowd.

The family box was too far away to make out faces properly, but he found them on instinct. Or thought he did. His Mom’s hair. Jackie standing with a baby on her hip. A slash of dark gold beside them that had to be Ilya because nobody else in the building would sit like that, all sharp angles and ownership, like he had every right in the world to be there.

Shane looked away.

Sap.

“You good?” Hayden asked, sliding past him.

“Yeah.”

Hayden gave him a look that said bullshit, then grinned. “Happy birthday by the way. Let's see if we can get you the best birthday present, eh?”

“Fuckin' rights.”

Hayden laughed and skated off.

The puck dropped.

For most of the first period, the game felt sickeningly familiar.

Chicago controlled stretches. Montreal answered, then slipped. A pass off by inches. A lane closing too early. A rebound dying in the wrong place.

Shane played hard anyway.

What else was he supposed to do?

Knowing how it had gone once didn’t make him less competitive. It just made losing feel personal.

The score stayed tight. No score. A miserable tie grinding all the way into the third.

Then the game cracked open.

Quick one for Chicago.

Faster answer from Montreal.

The Bell Centre lost its collective mind.

And then overtime.

Shane sat on the bench for a second with his heart trying to punch out of his chest.

This hadn’t happened before.

Not like this.

The crowd was clamouring. The bench felt electric. Somewhere above all of it, Ilya was in the building, his parents were in the building, everybody who mattered was in the building, and Shane still had no clue whether the future had changed or if this was just a slower road to the same loss.

His first overtime shift went nowhere. On his second, the play opened in front of him almost immediately.

Lighting quick, he didn’t have time to think.

For one clean, impossible second, he saw it all at once. Angle. Reach. Space that just peeked out between the two hulking Chicago defensemen.

He moved.

The figure-skating work kicked in on instinct. Edge biting. Weight dropping. Body folding low and sideways into an aggressive improvised hydroblade below their reach, stick stretched out, the whole movement weird enough in hockey terms that the defender reacted a fraction too late.

Shane hooked the puck around him as he returned to vertical and snapped it to the far side.

In.

For half a second the whole building went silent inside his own skull.

Then sound hit him like a wall. Teammates slammed into him before he was even fully upright. Gloves. Bodies. Screaming. Somebody nearly took him into the boards. The bench emptied.

Montreal had won.

They were through.

The bet was still alive.

The tie was still alive.

The Calder was still alive.

And under all that noise, under the shock of it, Shane felt the future move under his feet again.

Hard.

Chapter End Notes

These chapters keep getting longer I swear.

Chapter 12: Chapter 11

Chapter Summary

June 2011

Chapter Notes

Shane dropped into the chair.

Lights. Mics. Too many faces already lined up and ready.

His legs still felt like they were full of bees. His shoulders ached. There was a pulse starting behind his eyes. He was tired as hell and, underneath that, pleasantly pleased.

They had made a real run of it.

Beat Chicago in seven. Pushed into the second round. Made Tampa work for it, even if Tampa had still been the better, more complete team in the end.

Not a disaster. Just information.

Someone was already leaning forward.

"Shane, can you sum up what this run meant for the team?"

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I mean, it means a lot. Obviously right now it sucks. You're not coming off a loss like that feeling great. But I think we gave a really good account of ourselves this spring. We pushed farther than we did in previous years just getting into the playoffs. Beat a really good Chicago team. Learned a lot about what playoff hockey looks like when everybody is keying in on every little mistake you make."

"What did Tampa show you?"

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. "That they're really good."

That got a ripple through the room, enough to ease some of the pressure.

He shrugged. "No, seriously. They're really good. We did some good things, but now we know where we need to get better."

"Do you think the team proved something this year?"

"Yeah," Shane said. "I do."

A few more questions came after that, the usual end-of-season stuff. Shane answered them, kept it light, and waited for them to get bored.

Then, because of course they did, they found the story they really wanted.

A reporter near the back called, "How aware were you of the scoring race with Rozanov?"

A few heads turned immediately.

Another voice followed right on top of it. "Five goals down at the start of the series, and then you score in all five games to catch him. Were you tracking that the whole time?"

Shane blinked once, then smiled despite himself.

Of course. The scoring race. Two rookies finishing on seventy-two goals each was apparently more interesting than Montreal getting eliminated, which, fair enough, was insane.

"I mean," Shane said, dragging the word out a little, "I wasn't unaware."

That got a laugh.

"So you were chasing him," someone said.

"I think 'chasing' is a strong word," Shane said. "That sounds desperate."

"Five straight games with a goal doesn't sound desperate?"

"No," Shane said gravely. "It sounds consistent."

That got a better laugh.

"Did you know after Game 1 you had a real shot at tying him?"

"I knew if I kept scoring and he stopped, then mathematically, yes, that was an option." He paused. "Thank you for checking my work on that."

A few of them laughed harder at that, pens still moving.

"Two rookies finishing at seventy-two goals each," one reporter said, shaking his head. "Do you have any concept of how ridiculous that is?"

Shane's smile widened a little. "Probably less than all of you do."

"What happens with the bet now?"

That opened the floodgates.

"Yeah, is it a draw?"

"Do you split it?"

"Tiebreaker?"

"Are we getting a public ruling?"

Shane rubbed his mouth, pretending to think it over. "We may have to go to arbitration."

The room broke into immediate laughter.

"League office involved?"

"Independent mediator?"

"Do you need Crowell for this?"

"God, I hope not," Shane said. "Sounds expensive."

"So how are you settling it?"

Shane let the grin sit there another second before he shook his head. "Honestly, I've got to talk to Rozanov."

"He going to be reasonable about it?"

Shane snorted. "Doubtful."

That got the biggest laugh of the scrum.

He stood up shortly after that, gave them one last practiced smile, and escaped before anybody could decide to ask him something else, fuck he was tired.

The hallway outside was cooler, quieter. Not silent this close to the dressing rooms and the media access tunnel, but enough that Shane could breathe again.

He had just reached for his phone when a familiar voice said, "Arbitration? Really?"

Shane looked up and found Ilya leaning against the wall a few feet away down a side corridor, leather jacket open, deep v-neck with his chain and ring full on display, one shoulder tipped back like he had been there long enough to get comfortable and obviously waiting for him. He looked unfairly delicious.

"Do I want to know how you got down here?"

Ilya just shrugged and Shane's mouth twitched as he took a few steps forward to clear sightlines from either end of the corridor. He decided to answer the previous question. "It played well."

"You made me sound difficult."

"You are difficult."

Ilya straightened and sauntered closer, expression bright with amusement. "I am perfectly charming. You are just upset because you like performing for me."

Shane's mouth twitched. "I scored one goal in every game of the series because I work hard."

"Mm," Ilya said, letting his gaze drag slowly over him. "And because you wanted me watching."

Shane laughed, tired enough that it came easier than usual. "You wish."

"I know," Ilya said softly.

For a second they just stood there, close enough to count as suspicious if anyone with half a brain saw them and cared to think about it. But there was nobody in the corridor right then except some staffer hauling equipment in the opposite direction, too busy to notice murmuring from halfway down the hall.

Ilya's smile softened first.

"You did well," he said quietly.

Shane responded with equal sap. “I love you watching me.”

Then Shane laughed under his breath. Montreal had made the second round. They had actually changed something, something big enough to point at.

"We actually did it."

"Mm."

Ilya stepped closer. "You did more than that. You hauled them there by your teeth. Very inspiring."

"Shh," Shane said softly, holding up a hand. There were no security cameras in this hallway.

He listened.

Noise farther down the hall. A door opening, then shutting. Distant voices. Nothing close.

No footsteps coming their way.

Shane caught Ilya by the front of his shirt and kissed him hard. He was still more than a little sweaty but Ilya didn't seem to mind.

It was quick and triumphant and not at all careful, more grin than grace, and Ilya made a startled sound into it before kissing him back just as hard.

When Shane pulled away, both of them were smiling.

"Okay," Ilya murmured. "That was worth being silenced for."

Shane's pulse was suddenly doing something stupid. "I meant what I said."

"About arbitration?"

"About talking to you first."

"Good," he responded, voice steady. "Maybe we have fun with it?"

Shane nodded once. "Okay. Good. Now get out of here before someone sees you lurking around the hallway like a stalker. Go meet my parents out back. I'll see you at home."

Ilya's mouth twitched. "Yes, sir."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

For one beat longer neither of them moved.

Then Ilya reached up and wiped a bead of sweat off of Shane's cheek then patted it, quick and fond, his eyes warm with something Shane did not have time to stand here and drown in.

Ilya smiled once, small and bright. "See you at home, kotik."

Then he was gone, disappearing down the service corridor toward the back exit.

Shane stood there for half a second like an idiot, then scrubbed a hand over his face and headed the other way back to the locker room where he knew the rest of the team was waiting.

-

A few days later, Ilya sat at the little desk in the guest room with his laptop open and his hands locked too tightly around a mug of coffee he had stopped drinking ten minutes ago.

The Skype ringtone had already gone quiet. On the screen, his new therapist adjusted his glasses and settled back in his chair.

Dr. Viktor Sokolov was in his late thirties maybe, dark-haired, clean-shaven, composed in the irritating way people sometimes were when they had spent years learning how to sit with other people's mess without flinching. He had left Russia for university in Boston and, as he'd put it in their first session, never found a compelling reason to go back. He was also, very plainly (at least to Ilya), queer. Not in any way that was overt, just in the way one recognized one's own.

It helped.

Not enough to make this pleasant, obviously. But enough.

Their first session had been all broad strokes. Background. Hockey. His relationships. Family in the vaguest terms possible. Enough for Viktor to get an idea.

This one, apparently, was where the work started.

Viktor glanced down at his notes, then back up. "Last time, you said you wanted help because there's something coming up that you think would be challenging for you to deal with."

Ilya made a face. "More or less."

"You also said you've thought about therapy before."

"Mm."

"And that you've had some low periods before, and that your family gets under your skin in ways you don't like."

"Yes."

Viktor tipped his head. "So what should we dive into first?"

Ilya stared at his own reflection in the corner of the screen for a second.

Under his skin.

That was one description.

"My family," he said at last. "Or not the whole family. My father. My brother."

Viktor waited.

It was already beginning, that thing therapists did where they waited so calmly you either had to speak or climb out a window.

"I've only really been speaking to them sporadically for the past year," Ilya said. "And with help from my boyfriend and his family... I'm starting to see more clearly just how..." Ilya paused, it was really hard to describe and he could feel his throat tightening. Eyes darting all round the screen, refusing to look at either his own face or Viktor's.

"See what exactly?" he prompted when he realised that Ilya had stalled out.

Ilya exhaled through his nose. "My father is a hard man. To me. To my mother before she died." He looked down at his coffee, seeing the way to foam clung to the sides, jaw tight. "Nothing was ever enough for him. Not when I was a child, not when I was good at hockey, not now when I am making money. There was always some new expectation, some new goal, some new way I had disappointed him by not being more impressive, more useful, more whatever he wanted that day."

Viktor nodded once. "And your brother?"

"Alexei is angry, has always been angry. He was basically set aside because he had no talent my father could show off," Ilya said. "Which did not make him kind to me. He went into law enforcement like my father wanted, not that that seemed to buy him much. So now he mostly treats me like a bank, threatens and guilts me. That is the easiest way to put it. He has never once been nice to me in my life. Not once."

He shifted in his chair.

"For a long time, I thought that was just how family worked. You endure them. You give them things. Family loyalty." he spat.

"And now?"

"Now I have to go back to Russia this summer," Ilya said. "Just for a week. I need to show my face there at the very least. I am not ready to cut myself off from my home country completely." He looked down at his tea, then back up. "But the closer it gets, the worse I feel. My boyfriend noticed before I really admitted it to myself. He could see it weighing me down. He was the one who pushed me to get help because he was worried."

Viktor's face softened with understanding. "Your partner."

"Yes. And I want to know how to handle them better when I go back," Ilya said. "How not to let them get inside my head so quickly. How to keep myself sane for one week. And maybe..." He stopped, then forced himself to finish it. "Maybe if there is anything in either of those relationships worth salvaging, I want to know that too."

"He's helped you see the pattern more clearly."

Ilya gave a small shrug. "That and being loved properly is, apparently, very educational."

That actually made Viktor smile.

"It often is."

Ilya looked away for a second, annoyed by how easily the words had come out and how true they were.

"So I have distance now," he said. "Perspective. I know how they speak to me is not normal. I know the guilt is not all mine. I know I am not fifteen anymore and trapped in that house."

"But."

Ilya let out a sharp laugh. "Yes. But."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, mug forgotten.

"In Russia I need to deal with some things. Family things. Financial things." That was close enough to the truth to stand. "And I am worried that the second I am back in front of them, everything will go right back to before. That all this distance and work and perspective will vanish the moment my father looks at me the right way, or my brother starts in on me, and suddenly I am back to how I was."

Viktor nodded slowly. "You are worried about regression."

"Yes."

"Back into what?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment, His hands gripped tight around the mug as his knee bounced wildly below the desk.

Then: "Shame, mostly. Fear."

"And the depression," he added, because if he was going to say it, he might as well say all of it. "That is the part I do not want to pretend about. I was not well for a while. Before. Up and down, but more down than I admitted. It hurt me, it hurt my boyfriend."

Viktor did not interrupt.

"I was functioning. I was playing. I was winning. I was still not well. And I do not want to get that bad again just because I let my family pull me back into the same patterns."

Viktor folded one leg over the other. "When you say 'that bad,' what does that mean to you?"

Ilya's mouth flattened. "It means oscillating between angry and sad and exhausted. Between wanting to burn down the world and taking the next step off a bridge but not, because I..." Ilya's voice choked up, "I'm afraid my boyfriend would follow me."

That, at least, Viktor seemed to take seriously in exactly the right way.

“Are you having those thoughts now?

“No.”

Viktor made a note.

"And what are the first signs, for you, that you are sliding in that direction?"

Ilya frowned. "I get mean or I go quiet. Depends who's in front of me. I stop answering messages. I shut down. Tell myself to get over it and keep my mouth shut."

"Do you isolate?"

Ilya rolled his neck and spoke. "Maybe, sometimes."

"From your partner?"

He gave a humorless little smile. "Especially him. Stupid, because he's the safest person I know. But if I feel ashamed enough, even being loved feels like too much."

Viktor was silent a beat.

Then he said, "That makes sense."

Ilya looked up sharply. "It does?"

"Yes. Shame does not only fear punishment. It fears being seen at all. Even kindly." He paused. "Particularly kindly, sometimes."

He looked away again.

"You said before," Viktor continued, "that you were free enough to see the family dynamic more clearly now. I want to be careful with the word free, because you do not sound free from its effects. You sound aware of them. Which is good. But awareness and immunity are not the same thing."

Ilya nodded. "Unfortunately."

"So let us assume you are right," Viktor said. "Let us assume going back will stir all of this up. And with Russian family dynamics, especially with fathers and sons, I do not think you should underestimate how much obligation and old hierarchy can get wrapped up in that. Then the question is not how to become a person who is untouched by it. The question is how to go in with enough support and structure that you do not disappear inside it."

Ilya hadn’t thought about it that way before. Going in prepared sounded considerably more achievable than somehow making himself immune to them.

Viktor kept going. "How long were you planning to be there?"

"Not long, a week."

"Alone?"

Ilya hesitated. "Yes."

Viktor raised his eyebrows, unsurprised and unimpressed all at once.

"It is complicated."

"I am sure it is. It is also not ideal."

Ilya looked down, picking at the seam of his jeans with one thumb. "I know."

"What supports were you planning to have in place?"

He was quiet too long.

Viktor's expression barely changed. "Ah."

"I was going to just deal with it," Ilya said dryly.

"Yes. That does seem to be one of your preferred skills."

"I am very talented."

"I'm getting that."

Against his own will, Ilya smiled but it was more like a grimace.

Viktor leaned forward slightly. "You do not need to tell me more than you want to about the specific family business. But before you go, I want us to build an actual plan. Warning signs. Check-ins. What you do if your father says X. What you do if your brother says Y. How often you speak to your partner. Whether you stay in a hotel instead of with family. Exit conditions. Not just endurance. A plan."

A hotel instead of family. Exit conditions. Check-ins. The ideas sounded ridiculously obvious once Viktor said them, which probably explained why Ilya had never considered any of them.

"You make it sound like military strategy," he said.

"Toxic families often require it."

"And the depression piece," Viktor said more gently. "I do not hear you saying you are currently where you were before. I do hear that you are afraid of being knocked back toward that state. That matters. I would like us to take that seriously before you travel, not after."

Ilya nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Okay meaning?"

He exhaled.

"Okay meaning Vegas is first." He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Then Russia. We have, what, a few weeks? A few sessions. I think we can get something useful done in that time. Enough that I go in with an actual plan instead of just pretending I'm fine. I just needed to hear that I am not being dramatic about this."

Viktor said nothing for a beat.

Ilya looked away. "Fine. Point taken."

"I accept that," Viktor said. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. "So what is the plan?"

Ilya thought about Vegas. About cameras and trophies and Shane grinning at him from three feet away like the world had finally coughed up something worth keeping. About Russia after that. About all the ways his family could still get into his head if he let them.

"I have Vegas first," he said. "A few weeks till then and then Russia a few days after. We use that. A few more sessions. We make the plan. Then I go."

Viktor gave one approving nod. "That sounds workable."

Ilya nodded once, "Okay."

Viktor glanced down at his notes. "One more thing before we stop. You said your partner helped you see how much this impending trip was affecting you. Does he know how worried you are about backsliding?"

Ilya hesitated.

"He knows enough," he said.

Viktor's face did not change.

Ilya sighed. "He knows some. Not all."

"Why not all?"

Because Shane loved him. Because Shane looked at him like he was something precious and worth protecting, and sometimes that made it harder, not easier, to admit how ugly things could still get inside his own head.

"Because I hate making him worry," Ilya said finally. "And because once you say certain things out loud, they are real and someone else can worry about them."

Viktor nodded. "Yes. That is generally how being known works."

Ilya laughed despite himself, brief and real.

"You are annoyingly insightful."

"And yet you'll be back next week."

He would.

When the call ended, the guest room went quiet all at once. Ilya stared at the blank screen for a moment, then closed the laptop and sat there with his pulse still not entirely steady.

A few more sessions.

Vegas first.

Then Russia.

That, at least, he could live with.

Five minutes later, he found Shane in the workout room, halfway through pigeon pose on a yoga mat. Shane let out a startled yelp when Ilya all but toppled into him, sending them down in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and unspent feeling. 

-

"This is Svetlana Vetrova," Ilya said, steering her neatly into Shane's parents' orbit as though this were the most natural thing in the world, "She's family."

Vegas still glittered around them in the usual overdone way, all expensive fabric and polished surfaces and too much light, but Shane barely noticed any of it for a second. He only noticed the small, satisfied tilt of Ilya's mouth, the way his tuxedo fit his frame to perfection.

This time, Shane thought, with the ring warm and hidden under his shirt, he knew where he was standing.

Svetlana took Yuna's hands in both of hers with effortless grace, smiling warmly enough to put her at ease almost immediately.

Yuna blinked once, then twice, her eyes narrowing in the quick searching way of someone yanking up an old memory at speed. "Wait," she said, leaning in a little. "Vetrov?"

Svetlana's smile sharpened with obvious recognition. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Sergei Vetrov's daughter?"

Now Yuna looked genuinely delighted. "Oh my God. I used to watch your father all the time." She pressed a hand to her chest and laughed at herself. "I mean, I hated him, obviously. He was in Boston and he was infuriatingly good. But I watched him all the time."

David chuckled at that, no doubt remembering Yuna's cursing at the television. Shane felt his own mouth fall open a little.

Svetlana, looking deeply pleased, said, "That is exactly the correct response to him, actually."

"He was impossible," Yuna said, already fully gone. "His glove side saves were on highlight reels for years. I used to complain about him in our living room like he could hear me."

Svetlana laughed. "I promise he would have been flattered."

Shane watched, half amused and half stunned, as his mother launched into a brief, earnest little geek-out over a Bears goalie she had apparently held a grudge against since childhood, and watched Svetlana take it in stride like this sort of thing happened to her all the time.

Shane caught Ilya watching the whole exchange with a smug little curl to his mouth. Wholly satisfied.

By the time the pre-ceremony media started gathering people into little clusters for interviews and carpet segments, Shane had already spent ten quiet minutes half-listening to a conversation three tables over about the draft order and thinking, with mounting interest, about how weirdly well things had gone.

Montreal's run had dropped them a few spots.

On paper, that should have annoyed him. Less lottery luck. Less control. Worse pick position.

Except he remembered who the picked the first time around, a slightly disappointing defensemen who they kept in the minors for another three seasons and ended up trading to Dallas the year after finally moving up. Meanwhile the guy just below him (also a defensemen) had had a much more successful career in Vancouver, and this time, he was coming to Montreal. This was… better?

Montreal’s playoff run had already changed their draft position, and that changed who was available. Shane suddenly wondered how many of those little divergences they could actually predict.

Prediction... Tracking... Hmm…

Shane glanced across the room and caught Ilya laughing at something Scott said, head tipped back, glass in hand, and for a second the idea clicked into place with ridiculous clarity.

If they were right often enough, if they could point to a real record instead of gut instinct and lucky guesses, that was influence. Not control, not yet, but a start. Something they could build. Something they could use later when picks and trades and player development became something they may actually had a say in. Previously, coach Wiebe had asked both him and Ilya if they had any opinions who would be a decent fit for the team or if there was anyone in particular they thought they should avoid. Maybe he could start offering his opinion subtly to Theriault. The man was still an ass, but he responded well to results. Maybe he could use that…

A little fantasy pool between the right people. A running bet. Predictions written down somewhere they could point back to. Nothing that looked serious from the outside. Exactly serious enough underneath.

He smiled to himself.

Yeah. That could work.

Several moments later Shane had been scooped up and finished one short interview by himself when a producer-looking woman in a headset pointed between him and Ilya fifteen feet over and said, "Actually, can we get both of you together for one?"

The reporter waiting for them looked delighted by the possibility.

Which, fair.

Two rookies. Seventy-two goals each. Same room, same interview, same nomination. A bet hanging between them like hockey flavoured mistletoe.

There was no universe in which the media was going to leave that alone.

They stepped into place shoulder to shoulder, close enough to register as competitive rather than suspicious. Shane could feel the heat of Ilya beside him through the sleeve of his jacket.

"All right," the reporter said, smiling the smile of someone who knew he had been handed exactly the segment he wanted. "I have to ask the question everyone wants answered. Seventy-two goals each. Both rookies. And now the bet ends in a tie. What are we doing here?"

"We're exploring options," Shane said gravely.

Ilya gave him a look. "You are exploring options. I am already the clear winner."

The reporter laughed. "Clear winner?"

"Of course," Ilya said. "He was chasing me the entire time."

"I caught you."

"At the very end, like someone grabbing the subway doors just before they close. You almost lost fingers."

Shane turned toward the reporter. "This is what I mean. Completely impossible to negotiate with."

"You were the one talking about arbitration after Game 5," the reporter said.

"Still on the table," Shane said.

"That is because you are afraid of losing outright," Ilya said.

Shane made a face at him. "You don't even know what the terms are yet."

"Then offer some."

The reporter's grin widened. "Wait, are we negotiating this live?"

They looked at each other.

A beat.

Then Shane smirked and said, "Maybe."

"Fine," Ilya said, folding his arms. "New wager, up the stakes. We are in Vegas, yes?"

"I’m listening."

"Whoever wins the Calder gets shake things up a little next season."

Shane narrowed his eyes. "That's too vague. You'd abuse that immediately."

"Obviously."

The reporter laughed outright. "So… what does that mean, specifically?"

Shane pretended to think about it. In truth, this part had already been approved, quietly, with just enough plausible deniability built in that both organizations could act surprised for fun later.

He said, "How about: Winner gets to pick the other guy's goal song next season."

Shane made a face immediately. "Wait, no. Entire season is too much."

Ilya turned to look at him, eyebrow raised. "You are the one who suggested it."

"Yes, and now I'm correcting myself."

The reporter was grinning so hard now he looked a little pained. "Wait, hold on. We're really doing this?"

Ilya ignored the reporter and gestured for Shane to continue.

Shane folded his arms. "Preseason only."

"Cowardly," Ilya said at once. "That is barely even a punishment."

"Fine. Until Christmas."

"Still weak."

"New Year."

Ilya tipped his head. "One more week? Pathetic Hollander."

The reporter actually laughed out loud at that.

Shane tried a different tack, "All games against your team."

"No," Ilya said. "Home games against each other's team only. I am not letting the rest of the league in on our nonsense."

The reporter laughed. "That is where you draw the line?"

"I have standards," Ilya said.

Shane looked like he was thinking it through. "Okay. Fine. Home games against each other's team only. And until New Year."

Ilya clicked his tongue. "Hmm, still too short."

"It is not too short."

"It is January. Season has barely become interesting."

The reporter looked between them. "So, what's the cutoff?"

Shane narrowed his eyes. "Mid-January."

Ilya looked personally offended. "What are you, a tax deadline?"

Shane laughed despite himself. "End of January."

Ilya considered him for one beat, then said, "All-Star break. February."

Shane hesitated.

That made Ilya smile.

"Come on," he said. "If you are going to lose, at least do it properly."

Shane gave him a long look, then sighed like he was being dragged into something against his better judgment. "Home games only. Against each other's team. Until the All-Star break."

Ilya gave one small nod. "Acceptable." He stuck his hand out and Shane took it.

The reporter stared at them for one beat, delighted. "Are you serious?"

"Entirely," Shane said.

"Your teams are going to let you do that?"

Shane smiled with his mouth closed, the exact expression that said nothing useful and looked good doing it. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

"Do either of you already know what you'd pick?"

"Yes," both of them said at once.

That got another laugh.

"Would it be terrible?" the reporter asked.

"For him?" Shane said. "Absolutely."

Ilya's smile turned foxlike. "I was planning something humiliating but artistically sound."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It means I have taste and you don't."

The reporter was nearly vibrating with satisfaction by the time the segment wrapped. They had exactly what they wanted: rivalry, comedy, and enough theatrical antagonism to keep the story breathing right up until the award itself.

As soon as they were waved off, Shane and Ilya stepped apart by reflex.

Only once they were walking again, shoulder to shoulder through the crush of event staff and nominees and cameras, did Ilya murmur, just for him, "You know they're going to give it to you."

Shane kept his eyes ahead, but he could feel his own mouth trying to turn up. "You sound delighted."

"I am disgusted."

"Liar."

Ilya shrugged. "A little proud. But mostly disgusted."

"Good," Shane said. "Stay mean about it when you have to listen to your terrible song choice lose fair and square."

"There is nothing fair about your face."

Shane laughed under his breath. "That didn't even make sense."

"It made perfect sense to me."

-

Inside the ballroom, everything settled into what was both their first and maybe fifteenth MLH awards? After a while they tended to lose track. They had both missed at least one or two over the years.

As usual, the MLH only told nominees they were up for something and left the rest for the show. In their past lives, this was first intriguing but then became less so as their trophy rooms slowly filled over the years. But now, once again, their rooms were rather bare. And, being rookies, the Calder was the prize between them.

Two rookie forwards. Seventy-two goals each. Their stupid bet now apparently international content. There was no other reason for both of them to be here, and if Shane was being honest, he had started to think he was probably taking it again.

Not with certainty. He was not that much of an asshole.

But enough that when they got to the rookie category and the presenters started in on the season either of them could have had, Shane felt himself go warm and still in his seat.

Then they called Ilya's name.

For one blank second neither of them moved.

Ilya turned his head. Shane looked back at him from one table over. Both of them wore the exact same expression of startled disbelief.

Then Shane was the first clapping anyway, because of course he was.

Ilya looked almost offended by his own victory for half a second, that familiar split second where surprise cracked through the polish before he got himself back under control and stood. Shane clapped his arm as he passed. At the next table, Svetlana had one hand over her mouth, laughing in open delight. Ilya glanced between them, still looking faintly unconvinced this was happening at all, before he headed for the stage.

He looked beautiful up there. Infuriatingly so.

Composed. Sharp. Dry enough in his short speech (that he made up on the spot) to get a laugh without making it look like he was trying. Shane barely heard half of it because he was too busy grinning like an idiot and thinking, well, all right then. Of course it would be the man who had gone into the playoffs one goal ahead and somehow stayed there where it counted. More changes.

When Ilya came back to his seat, he leaned in and said, very low, "I did not expect you to enjoy your humiliation this much."

Shane laughed under his breath, still a little stunned. "You look unbearable already."

"I am."

He was also radiant.

Which made Shane want to rip his clothes off right here and lick him but willed himself to calm down.

By the time the presenters were done the next little bit, Shane had mostly settled into being proud of Ilya, surprised on his own behalf, and privately resigned to whatever musical war crime was about to be inflicted on him next season.

So when the Hart category came up later and his face appeared amongst the nominees, it took him a second to even process what he was seeing.

He sat bolt upright.

His mom grabbed his arm and shook it a little. No rookie had won the Hart trophy since Gretzky in 1980. Even she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Shane looked from the screen to the stage and back again, his pulse starting to kick hard for an entirely different reason.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Then they called his name.

For one blank second he honestly thought he had heard wrong.

Then the room came back all at once. Applause. Somebody at another table starting to cheer. Yuna with both hands over her mouth. David with his arm slung around her and squeezing hard, pride etched into his face. Ilya looking at him with outward shock but also pride bubbling behind his eyes that only Shane could see.

Shane lurched to his feet.

The walk to the stage felt wrong for the first few steps, like his body had stood up before his brain caught up. Last time, winning the Calder had landed right. He had wanted it, worked for it, and when it came, it had felt sharp and satisfying. This was different. This was the shock of realizing he had lost one thing and somehow been handed something bigger. The season and the spring after it seemed to hit him all at once, the sheer absurdity of it, the fact that every change they made, however small, was starting to stick. Things were moving. Things were changing.

When he got back, Ilya was already leaning over the gulf between their tables, grin sharp and impossible.

"Mr. MVP winner," he murmured. "Very impressive."

Shane sat down with the trophy and adrenaline still buzzing through him. "You stole my rookie award."

Ilya's smile widened. "And yet you recovered beautifully."

Shane turned his head and smiled without showing teeth. "Shh. Cameras."

About an hour later, the room finally loosened enough for people to drift. David and Yuna had been claimed by some sponsors , while Svetlana was making her way toward Boston's coach with the kind of expression that suggested trouble for somebody. Shane and Ilya let a little space open up between them and wandered off in different directions.

Scott found Shane first while he was still half getting pulled in six directions by congratulations, handlers, and one elderly former player who seemed determined to tell him about every Hart ballot he'd ever filled out.

"Hollander," Scott called, catching his sleeve as he passed. "We're rounding up the rookies."

Shane turned, still a little dazzled from the Hart and the Calder and the whole deranged night of it. Scott was already scanning the room over his shoulder.

"Where's your boy, Rozanov?"

The first time, that had hit like a slap.

This time Shane barely even blinked. "Saving his coach from Svetlana, probably. He'll be back."

Scott barked out a laugh. "Of course he is."

He jerked his chin toward the bar. Eric Bennett was already there with Carter Vaughan, both of them looking the particular combination of amused and doomed that came from being told by Scott Hunter that a tradition was happening whether they liked it or not.

"Come on," Scott said. "Before someone important stops me."

By the time they got to the bar, Ilya had reappeared after all, bright-eyed and smug and looking just composed enough to be suspicious. Scott clocked him immediately and pointed.

"There he is. Good. I was not doing rookie shots without both of you."

Ilya looked between the gathered glasses and Scott's expression and sighed with theatrical resignation. "This better be the good vodka."

"What do you take me for?" Scott derided.

That got a snort out of Shane and, to Scott's obvious satisfaction, a grin out of Ilya too.

The first time around, Ilya had vanished almost the second the ceremony ended. No party. No drinks. Just brooding on the roof until Shane found him by accident.

This time he was here.

Scott lined them up at the bar like he was setting a drill. Shane, Ilya, Eric Bennett, Carter Vaughan, and the couple of younger guys from various teams he had managed to wrangle into the orbit of the thing.

"All right," Scott said, sliding the glasses into place. "To rookies being idiots, and hopefully to some of you getting less embarrassing next year."

"Unlikely," Ilya said.

"Deeply," Shane added.

Eric laughed. Carter rolled his eyes. Scott looked pleased with himself.

Ilya lifted his glass. "To rookies being insufferable."

Shane snorted and raised his own. "To surviving it."

Scott looked between them and nodded once. "There we go. That I can work with."

They drank.

Then, almost in unison, they set the glasses down upside down against the bar.

The liquor burned. People shouted. Somebody clapped Shane on the back hard enough to nearly shove him into Ilya.

It, as it turned out, was not good vodka.

Ilya swallowed, went very still for one offended second, then turned to Scott with a look of pure contempt.

" Плеснул нам стеклоочиститель, дед You poured us windshield fluid, old man ," he muttered.

Shane laughed before he could stop himself.

Not a polite huff. An actual laugh, sharp and immediate, the kind that escaped before he remembered himself.

Scott's eyes flicked to him at once.

That was the first thing, really. Not the joke itself. Not even Ilya's face. Just the fact that Shane had understood him quickly enough to laugh like that.

But Eric and Carter were already leaning over the bar trying to get the bartender's attention for another round, too busy arguing over whose turn it was to notice anything, and Scott only raised an eyebrow.

Ilya, catching it, looked blandly back at him and added in English, "Your standards are very low."

Scott laughed and clapped him on the arm again. "It's a rookie tradition, princess. Suffer through it."

Somehow, they stayed. Another round appeared, somebody dragged them into another conversation, the music got louder, and eventually they were both pleasantly buzzed on their nineteen-year-old tolerance. By the time they slipped away, they’d actually had fun. But now they just wanted each other to themselves.

The roof door shut behind them with a heavy metal thud.

The air outside was cooler than the ballroom, touched by desert night and the faint dusty smell of sun-baked stone finally giving up the day's heat. Vegas spread out beneath them in all directions, bright and vulgar.

For one second they just stood there, breathing.

Then Ilya grabbed the front of Shane's jacket and kissed him, hot and immediate, all teeth and breath and the sharp edge of held-back things finally getting loose. Shane made a helpless sound into it and pushed Ilya back against the wall beside the door, one hand at his waist, the other climbing to the side of his neck.

"You won," Ilya said against his mouth.

Shane kissed him again, slower this time, and felt Ilya smile into it.

"So did you," Shane murmured.

He felt the laugh move through Ilya before he heard it.

"I can't believe that just happened," Ilya said softly, mouth brushing Shane's when he spoke.

Shane laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Me neither."

Ilya kissed him again, dirtier this time, open-mouthed and slow, like he had all the patience in the world to ruin him properly later. Shane's grip tightened at his waist. He pressed a thigh between Ilya's legs just to feel the sharp little hitch that pulled out of him.

"Fuck," Ilya breathed.

Shane smiled against his mouth, then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slid his spare room card into Ilya's hand.

"Half an hour," he murmured.

Ilya glanced down at it, then back up, pupils blown wide and wicked. "Bossy."

"You like it."

"Always."

Shane kissed him one last time, hot and quick and filthy with promise, then stepped back before either of them could do something truly stupid on a hotel roof.

Below them the city kept blazing, oblivious.

Shane gave him one last look, then turned for the door before he could do something even stupider than kissing him on a hotel roof.

Half an hour.

Ilya could manage that.

Probably.

Chapter End Notes

And we're finally done Episode 1!

Chapter 13: Chapter 12

Chapter Summary

July 2011 - Russia

Chapter Notes

Like Ilya, I never want to come back here again. Alas.

Ilya hated Sheremetyevo on sight.

It was irrational, probably. Sheremetyevo had not done anything to him personally beyond existing in the wrong place at the wrong time, all harsh light and long corridors and that stale, over-conditioned airport smell that lodged itself in the back of the throat. But the second he stepped off the plane and into the familiar rhythm of Russian around him, something old and unpleasant tightened low in his spine.

A week.

That was all.

A week to show his face. A week to deal with the practical mess that had to be dealt with. A week to endure his father and Alexei without letting them drag him all the way back into being someone smaller.

He could do a week.

By the time he got through the airport and into the waiting car, he had already checked his phone twice. Nothing new from Shane, which was sensible because Shane knew he was landing and would be either asleep or pretending to be asleep while actually waiting for the confirmation message.

Ilya sent one anyway.

Ilya: [Landed. Still alive. Deeply offended to be here.]

The reply came before the car had even merged into traffic.

Shane: [Proud of you. Try not to commit a felony before dinner.]

Ilya looked out at the grey blur of the road and let the smallest, traitorous smile tug at his mouth.

Ilya: [No promises.]

He put the phone away and watched Moscow roll past in fragments he knew too well. Too much concrete. Too much memory lodged where it did not belong. The city looked the same, which he supposed was the problem. It had the nerve to look ordinary.

Grigori still lived in the apartment Ilya had grown up in.

It was one of those large old Moscow apartments that had once signaled rank and still did, if you knew what to look for. High ceilings. Heavy doors. Good floors under expensive rugs. Too much dark wood and pride.

Ilya shouldered his bag and went up, jaw already tight.

His father opened the door himself.

For the first time in nearly ten years, Ilya was looking into the face of his father.

In his mind, Grigori had stayed larger than life. Angry. Imposing. Threatening. Always ready with a reprimand or some other cutting remark. For him. For his mother.

Alexei had not been spared either, not at first. But then Ilya had grown and he had shown talent. Real talent. Hockey talent. And all at once the family axis had shifted.

Alexei had been pushed to the side, not because Grigori had begun loving Ilya more, but because he had become more useful. More gifted. More worth molding. Alexei, with no exceptional talent and no real shine to him, had curdled into an afterthought and never forgiven Ilya for it. Not for being better in their father's eyes. Not for being the one their mother had clung to most fiercely at the end. Alexei had never forgiven him for any of it, and he never would.

Ilya's mind snapped back to the present just as Grigori finished his opening tirade, or perhaps restarted it. No doubt something demeaning. He was a terrible son. He did not support his family properly. He had finally deigned to show his face. Then, with a faint hitch, Grigori circled back to the delay again as if he had not already opened with it.

And, abruptly, it hit him how small the man looked. Still cruel, still blustering, but diminished.

He still had the old blustering intensity. The hard lines. The certainty that he ought to fill a room by force of will alone. But at thirty-six mentally, looking at a man in his early seventies was not the same as being fifteen and trapped under him. All Ilya could see, layered over the body in front of him, was the slow decay from the first timeline. The weakening. The withering. The future collapse already haunting the present.

The fear he had spent weeks preparing for did not vanish exactly, but it did thin, becoming less tangible upon contact.

He had built this man up again in his own head, with a little help from memory and dread and had prepared accordingly with several expensive therapy sessions. And now here Grigori stood, still cruel, still upright, still trying to cut him down on sight, but smaller than the monster Ilya had carried across an ocean of time.

"You took long enough," Grigori said.

No hello. No embrace. Not even surprise.

Just the familiar assessment, cool and immediate, as though Ilya were a delayed shipment that had finally arrived.

Behind him, the apartment opened up in expensive, careful silence. The whole place smelled faintly of coffee, leather, and whatever discreetly expensive perfume his wife favored.

That would be Polina, then.

She appeared in the hall a second later, elegant and striking and young enough beside Grigori that the contrast was almost aggressive. Early thirties, maybe. Perfect skin, glossy dark hair, and the kind of poise that suggested she had learned very early how to survive rooms like this by mastering them. Her smile when she looked at Ilya was polite, unsurprised, and not especially warm.

Then, just for a second, something else crossed her face.

A flash of interest. Appraisal. Want.

Ilya felt his whole body recoil before he could stop it.

Gross.

Had that been there the first time too?

It must have. He just had not noticed. Or had not wanted to. For how alert he had always had to be in his father's household, he had not once paid more than a shred of attention to Polina.

"Ilya," she said. "You made it."

"Evidentally."

That earned him the faintest flicker of amusement before it was gone.

"Your room is ready," she said. "You remember the way."

He did. Of course he did. He avoided his step mother and went to put down his bag. The room had changed over the years, furniture replaced, walls repainted, traces of his mother long since scrubbed into something more tasteful and less alive, but he remembered the way.

He stepped inside.

He was staying here for a reason. Viktor had suggested a hotel, neutral ground, somewhere he could leave at the end of the day and keep whatever boundaries this week allowed. Ilya had thought about it. Then decided against it. If he was going to do this, he wanted the house. The study. The chance to go through drawers and cabinets and all the quiet places Grigori still thought belonged only to him.

Alexei had his own place across the city with his wife and daughter, which meant Grigori's apartment still held whatever papers, records, and old debris Ilya had come to sift through.

And it meant access.

Late nights. Locked cabinets. Drawers no one thought to hide because they could not imagine him as a threat under this roof. And that was useful.

-

Dinner that first night was apparently non-negotiable.

Alexei and his family would be there. Grigori wanted everyone in one room. The phrase landed like a warning.

By seven, the apartment had filled with the particular strain of family noise that felt less like welcome than occupation.

Alexei arrived with his wife and daughter ten minutes late and acted as though this were a gift to the room. His wife, Marina, was pretty in a strained, over-managed way and looked like she had learned to survive by smoothing over other people's moods before they turned sharp. Their daughter, Natasha, was barely a year old and currently asleep against Marina's shoulder, all soft cheeks and heavy lashes and complete obliviousness to the room she had been carried into.

Alexei kissed Polina on both cheeks, clapped Grigori on the shoulder, and nodded at Ilya like they were business associates forced into the same lounge instead of brothers.

"Well," he said. "There he is. He finally rememebers he's Russian."

Ilya took a sip of vodka and let it burn.

"Sit down," Grigori said from the head of the table.

So they did.

The table was set beautifully. Of course it was. Polina had taste, or at least standards. Crystal glasses. Heavy silverware. Real linen. A roast done properly, potatoes glazed in butter, beet salad, black bread, pickled mushrooms, all of it arranged with the kind of quiet precision that made the meal feel less intimate and more ceremonial.

For the first ten minutes, conversation stayed on safe terrain.

Travel. Weather. Hockey, with Grigori managing to make even that sound faintly suspect, as though playing in North America were somehow a vulgar offense. Alexei's work. Marina's mother. Natasha, who slept through most of it with the serene indifference of the very young. Twice, Grigori lost the thread of what he was saying long enough that Polina had to slide the conversation back into place for him.

Then Grigori began.

Not loudly. He never needed to be loud.

"Alexei at least stayed where he belongs," he said, cutting into his meat. "There is something to be said for a son who understands duty."

There it was.

Placed down with as much fanfare as a side dish.

Alexei went still in that sour, intent way of his, taking it in.

Ilya kept his face blank.

"Mm," he said. "And here I thought you enjoyed all my foreign money."

Polina's fork paused very briefly over her plate.

Marina looked down.

Grigori did not smile. "Money is useful. Character is rarer."

Alexei looked at him across the table, expression flattening further but said nothing.

Ilya took another sip of vodka, simply observing the reactions of the people around the table. It was tense, but what used to be hooks and needles of fear and obligation and fucking mountain of guilt didn't seem so penetrating.

He felt detached as though in a dream yet the dinner continued.

Grigori set down his knife a moment later, oblivious to the tension rolling off his eldest. "You are gifted," he said, with the grudging precision of a man acknowledging something obvious and resenting the need to do so. "That has always been true."

Across the table, Alexei went very still.

"But talent is not the same as discipline," Grigori continued. "And money is not the same as loyalty. You run to North America, make a spectacle of yourself, play games for foreigners, and expect that to mean more than service to your country."

Ilya could see the other half of it, the possessiveness underneath it. Grigori valued what Ilya had become and resented that he had become it somewhere else.

Alexei leaned back in his chair with the expression of someone watching an old wound get picked open.

"I stayed." he said contemptuously and like he wanted to bite the words back immediately.

Grigori's gaze flicked to him, dismissive for only a second, but long enough.

Long enough that Alexei saw it too.

Ilya almost pitied him.

Almost. He decided to pick now, what could he shake loose here?

"Stayed and did what?" Ilya asked. "Exactly what he was told?"

A brief silence followed.

Natasha stirred in Marina's arms.

Marina went very still.

Grigori's attention snapped back to him. "At least your brother understands that a man owes something to where he comes from."

"Is that what he understands?" Ilya asked.

His own voice surprised him a little. It came out level. Curious, even.

Ten years ago, a line like that would have hooked straight into him. Now Ilya mostly felt tired. He knew this conversation. He knew every part they expected him to play in it.

Alexei's voice came out flat and cutting. "You think you don't owe Russia?"

Ilya looked at him.

Twenty-four. Still all raw edges and thwarted ambition and that same ugly little hunger to be chosen over him for once. It was almost embarrassing, how familiar it all felt. No mystery left in it. No surprise. Just repetition.

"No," Ilya said. "I think you've both been having the same conversation for years."

Grigori's jaw tightened. "Do not speak to me like that at my table."

"Then don't set us out on it like game pieces," Ilya said.

Even that did not come out hot. Just tired.

That seemed to unsettle Grigori more than anger would have. He knew how to deal with apology or defiance. Ilya being tired of the whole thing gave him less to work with.

Alexei leaned forward slightly. "You still think you're better than everyone in this room."

Ilya considered him for a second.

"No," he said. "I think I'm tired of this conversation."

Silence.

Natasha stirred in Marina's arms while Marina went still, her eyes looking back and forth at the three men under her eyelashes, assessing.

Polina's eyes flicked between them openly, attentive now. She'd never seen either one of them speak back like that before.

Grigori gave a short, disgusted exhale and reached for his glass. "One son serves badly," he said. "The other got lucky young and has been confusing attention for character ever since."

That was maybe the closest Grigori would ever come to honesty.

Grigori threw his napkin onto his plate and shoved back from the table, plates and silverware jangling.

The sound cut through the room cleanly.

Dinner was over.

Polina was on her feet immediately, gathering plates before anyone had even fully moved, as if she had been waiting for the signal all along.

Marina shifted Natasha higher against her shoulder and stood more carefully. Alexei stayed seated for a second longer, jaw tight, then rose too.

Ilya sat still just long enough to watch the choreography of it. The abrupt end. The obedience. The way the whole room still bent around Grigori's moods like trained circus animals.

Then he got up and left the table without a word.

-

He paced his room for half an hour before deciding to do something about his restless energy and went for a run. There did not seem to be much else to do with the static under his skin and he needed to exhaust himself in order to deal with the jetlag.

Moscow at night was cold enough to feel clean. The air burned in his throat. The pavement came up hard under his shoes. He took the first route that presented itself and then another after that, letting the city blur around him until the apartment and the table and Grigori's voice receded into something smaller and duller.

It helped at least a little bit. By the time he slowed, sweat cooling down his spine, he was back inside himself instead of sitting three feet outside it and watching.

He called Shane from the sidewalk before he went back in.

Shane picked up on the second ring, sounding warm and distracted in a way that made Ilya picture him smiling before he even spoke.

"Hey."

"Hi."

The silence extended before Shane asked, "You okay?"

"Better," Ilya said, which was true enough. "Where are you?"

"Hayden's. We went for a run earlier and now Jackie's got food out, so I think I'm being held hostage here until at least dinner."

That pulled the corner of Ilya's mouth up.

"How terrible for you."

"I know. I'm suffering heroically."

Ilya leaned against the cold side of the building and shut his eyes for a second. He did not tell Shane everything. Not yet. Just enough. Dinner. The same old garbage in slightly older voices. The strange flatness of it all.

Shane listened without interrupting.

"You sound steadier," he said finally.

"I went running."

"That'll do it."

"Mm."

A small silence opened between them, easy and familiar even with an ocean in the middle of it.

"I've got lunch with Svetlana tomorrow," Ilya said.

"Good."

"I'm avoiding them."

"Excellent," Shane said. "Strong tactical choice."

That earned him a quiet laugh.

When they hung up, Ilya went back inside, showered, and slept badly but enough.

The next morning, he stayed out of the apartment as long as he could.

Lunch with Svetlana stretched pleasantly on purpose.

They ended up at a café far enough from the apartment that Ilya could pretend he had crossed some meaningful border getting there. Svetlana ordered for both of them without asking, which was one of the few habits of hers he had never found irritating.

"You look like shit," she said, stirring sugar into her coffee.

"Thank you."

"I mean it affectionately."

"That does not help."

She leaned back, studying him over the rim of her cup. "Has it been awful?"

Ilya considered lying and abandoned it immediately. "Less than I had expected," he said. "Still ugly. Just..." He waved a hand, dismissing the rest.

That seemed to satisfy her. Or at least not surprise her.

"Good," she said.

He looked at her. "Good?"

"Not good-good. But useful. Better to see the thing clearly than keep feeding it in your head."

That sounded suspiciously like something Viktor would say, she always was smarter than him.

Svetlana's mouth twitched. Then, because she had clearly waited long enough and was beginning to enjoy herself, she set down her cup and said, "I got in."

Ilya blinked. "What?"

"Boston University," she said, and now the delight was impossible to miss. "Transfer accepted. Business and statistics."

For one second he only stared at her.

Then he laughed.

A real one.

"You did?"

"I did."

"Holy shit."

She smiled, sharper now, pleased with herself in the exact way she had earned. "I put in the transfer request months ago. My father called someone at the university to lean on the right people, which I normally would find humiliating, except that in this case it worked, so I have chosen to call it strategic family utility."

"Sergei Vetrov, former Boston hot-shot and current government ornament, finally useful," Ilya said.

"Minister," Svetlana corrected dryly. "Try to keep up."

That got another laugh out of him.

"You are awful."

"And moving to Boston."

Relief hit him so fast it was almost embarrassing. Boston would be easier with her there, and maybe a little more like his life belonged to him.

And, selfishly, because it felt like one more proof that things were shifting.

The last time, she had visited Boston often enough. Regularly enough that he'd started to expect her on certain weeks, in certain moods, with certain stories already half told before she took off her coat. But she had finished her studies in Moscow before. She had never made the jump to actually move there.

So what had changed?

Him, probably.

Maybe his choices had changed hers too. He had told her the truth immediately this time, and Moscow no longer had quite the same hold on either of them.

Whatever the reason, he was not about to question his luck too hard.

"You planned this without telling me," he said.

"I didn't want to get your hopes up," she corrected. "Now it worked. So I'm telling you."

He shook his head, still smiling despite himself.

Then, because the question had already started needling at him, he said, "What changed?"

Svetlana looked at him before looking down and swirling the dregs of her coffee around the cup before replying.

"After you told me about him, meeting him," she said more quietly, "I think something in me finally understood that you're probably not coming back. Not really." She gave a small shrug that did nothing to hide the feeling underneath it. "And I found staying here, waiting for you, unacceptable."

That knocked the breath out of him a little.

"You're my best friend Ilyushka."

For once, he had nothing clever to say so he just grabbed her hand for a moment, squeezing to let her know he felt the same. How the hell had he gotten so lucky?

By the time the plates were cleared and coffee drained, he felt steadier than he had when he walked in, enough that dragging out the meal started to feel less like survival and more like pleasure. He still took a second lap around the block before he finally let himself go back. By the time he walked in, Polina had already disappeared somewhere with a shopping bag, and Grigori was in his study.

Good.

Ilya spent the next hour in there with him, going over papers, signatures, and numbers in the dry, grinding way those conversations always seemed to go. Nothing dramatic. Nothing new. Just Grigori correcting, dismissing, and redirecting until Ilya could feel the old fatigue settling behind his eyes. Twice his father asked about the same account as if they had not already finished with it. The second time, when Ilya pointed to the note in Grigori's own handwriting, his father only frowned and moved on.

Eventually his father left to take his afternoon nap and Polina returned.

He would have to wait until night. Fine. He could call Shane, get a weights session in, sit through dinner, then come back and see what the room gave up. 

That night, long after Grigori had gone to bed and Polina had vanished into her side of the apartment with a silk robe and a face cream regimen that probably cost more than Alexei's monthly rent, Ilya let himself back into the study.

He did not need to pick the lock. That would have been almost exciting.

The code to the safe was the same one it had always been. His father's birthday rearranged into something Grigori probably believed looked less obvious and more tactical. Once upon a time Ilya would have called that laziness. Now, after watching him forget his own notes an hour at a time, it read a little differently. Ilya had learned it in the first timeline only after his father died, too late to use it for anything that mattered. The knowledge sat in his hands now like a small, vicious gift.

The study smelled exactly the way he remembered. Tobacco, dust, old paper, and his father's aftershave soaked so deeply into the room it had become part of the wood.

He moved quietly. Desk first. Locked cabinet second. Then the built-in closet tucked behind the shelves, the one guests would never notice and children had always been told not to touch.

Most of what he found was predictable. Service records. Financial folders. Insurance documents. Property paperwork. A locked case with medals Grigori liked being asked about and hated being contradicted on. More evidence of a life arranged around status, control, and appearances.

Then, on the closet's top shelf behind two shoe boxes and a winter blanket sealed in plastic, he found a canvas banker box taped shut on one side.

No label.

That was what made him pause.

Grigori labeled everything important.

Ilya set it down on the floor and peeled the tape back slowly.

Inside was a mess of old domestic leftovers. Photo envelopes. Two cassette cases. A packet of letters tied with string. And beneath them, heavier and stranger, a stack of tapes.

He stared.

VHS tapes. A few full-sized, one smaller camcorder cassette in a cracked plastic case, all of them old enough that the labels had yellowed a bit at the edges.

One had a date in thick black marker: 21/04/2002.

Another said Новый год 2000 (New Year 2000).

A third, in a handwriting that was not his father's, said Мама + мальчики 1995 (Mama + boys 1995 ).

His breath caught.

His mother's things.

Or at least things she had touched. Recorded. Named. Hidden.

For a second he did not move at all.

Then he shut the box again.

No.

Not here.

He was not sitting on the floor of Grigori Rozanov's study with the whole apartment asleep around him, watching ghosts on an old tape player like a fucking idiot waiting to be caught.

He would take them home.

Home-home.

To Montreal. To Shane. Somewhere he could break properly if he had to.

He found an old canvas bag, wrapped the tapes in a blanket from the closet, and packed them away without watching a second of them.

The next day, the box stayed tucked in the bottom of his suitcase under two sweaters and a pair of jeans. He went through the motions of the day around it.

A lawyer's office he had chosen carefully, nowhere near the family and nowhere Grigori's name would open doors before Ilya wanted it to. The trust for Natasha. Provisions for Grigori's care if it came to that. Quiet groundwork, laid in case he decided not to come back after all. A discreet meeting after that to sever ties with his agent and start the process of finding a new one, preferably someone American this time. More account cleanup after.

That night at dinner, his father did not say one kind thing to him.

Not one.

He did, however, critique the way Ilya had reorganized the office papers, suggest that American hockey had made him soft, and imply that any son worth having would spend more time at home during the summer instead of running around North America disgracing himself with god knew what.

The last part was not explicit. It never was. His father did not know. But there had always been a way he said things about weakness, about men, about shame, that left a film over everything after.

-

The next two days passed much the same.

Breakfast. Workouts. Grigori correcting him in that same clipped voice. Alexei circling money within minutes of every conversation. Nothing that truly got under his skin like before but the constancy was beginning to grate.

By the fifth day, Moscow reflected his worsening mood.

The sky pressed low and grey.  He had been avoiding his mother's grave.

That, more than anything else.

He had not seen it since he was twelve. In the first timeline he had been too raw to go back, too full of grief and fury and everything that came after. But he was here now, and he was leaving soon, and he refused to give up the chance to see it at least once this time.

So on the fifth afternoon he went.

The cemetery looked smaller.

Smaller than in his memory. Smaller than his grief. It took him longer than it should have to find it. The paths wound over and around with little sense of order. For one stupid, disorienting minute he thought he might be in the wrong place entirely. Twenty-four years was a long time to carry a map in your head and expect the ground to match it.

When he finally found her, the paths were narrower. The trees less imposing. The stone itself plainer than the monument he'd carried around in his head for years. He stood in front of it with his collar buttoned to his throat and his hands shoved into his pockets and felt stupidly unprepared all over again.

Her name was still there.

Somehow that was worse than the date, the cold, or the city around him. Irina Rozanova. Fixed. Quiet. Undeniable.

Everything else he had built up in his head had shrunk on contact. His father. Alexei. The apartment. The whole ugly mess of the week.

This did not.

The grave was typical Russian Orthodox in the plain, practical way so many of them were. A white stone cross set behind the headstone. Her name and dates cut into granite. A small oval photograph fixed to the front, faded a little by weather and time. Someone had left a candle glass there once, long since gone cloudy. The little metal fence around the plot leaned slightly to one side.

It was maintained enough that the groundskeeper probably passed over it now and then with a professional sense of duty, but not by family hands. Not by anyone who stopped to straighten things properly or clear away what the season left behind.

Dead leaves had gathered against the stone. A thin film of dirt dulled the lower edge of the engraving. One corner of the plot had gone untidy with grass and old stems.

Ilya stood there for a second with the flowers in one hand and felt his eyes sting before he had even bent down.

"Jesus," he muttered.

He crouched and set the flowers carefully aside, then started cleaning it up with his bare hands.

Leaves first. Then the dead stems. Then the dirt rubbed off the stone with his sleeve and the heel of his palm when that stopped working well enough. He straightened the little candle glass. Pressed the grass back where it belonged. Wiped at the photograph more gently than anything else.

By the time he was done, there were tears in his eyes and dirt on his fingers and a raw ache climbing up his throat.

Then he put the flowers down in front of her stone and stepped back.

The whole trip finally caught up with him. The pressure he’d been outrunning for days climbed hard into his chest and throat.

He thought about her in that apartment. About Grigori's voice cutting through the walls. About Alexei learning from it. About being small and frightened and trying to be useful enough to make things safer. About the tapes now buried in his suitcase and the possibility of her voice still existing somewhere inside them.

His throat closed.

He stood there for another minute, maybe two, trying and failing to get ahead of it before finally sinking to his knees in the grass.

Then he took out his phone and called Shane.

He had not meant to cry but it was mostly inevitable.

That was the tough part. He had meant to call, yes. He had meant to hear a voice that did not make every muscle in his body clench. He had meant, perhaps, to say that this was worse than he remembered or exactly as bad as he remembered or some other line that sounded controlled and adult and not like him falling apart in a cemetery under a low July sky.

Instead Shane answered on the second ring with surprised, "Hey," and Ilya made one broken sound and then could not stop.

There was a beat.

Shane’s voice changed immediately, focused and gentle.

"Hey, hey baby. I'm here."

Ilya pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes and tried to get enough air in to speak. It did not work. He was crying hard now, ugly and furious and ashamed of it in real time.

"I'm sorry," Ilya managed finally, and even to his own ears he sounded wrecked.

"Don't," Shane said at once. "Don't do that part."

Ilya laughed and sobbed at the same time, which felt about right.

On the other end of the line there was the sound of a chair being scraped back, footsteps. Shane murmuring something too muffled to catch. Then quiet.

"Talk to me," Shane said.

Ilya sat on ground, grass stained knees up, phone pressed to his ear like that could make any real difference.

"I went to see my mother," he said, voice shredded raw. "I finally went."

Shane was quiet for a second.

"Okay," Shane said, lower now. More focused. "I'm here."

Ilya pressed the heel of his hand harder against his eyes.

"I should have gone before," he said. "I should have gone years ago."

"Hey."

"I couldn't do it then and now I can and it's-" He broke off hard enough to hurt. "The grave is in terrible shape, Shane. Not ruined. Just... no one touches it. No one really looks after it. Someone clears enough that it stays standing and that's all."

Shane exhaled, shaky and mad for him all at once.

In Montreal, he was at his parents' house for the weekend, halfway through a late breakfast gone lazy at the table when the call had come through. He had taken one look at the screen, mumbled something to Yuna and David about needing a second, and answered it as he sped through the kitchen. Now he stood in his bedroom with one hand braced against the wall, heart thudding too hard for a call he had known was coming in one form or another.

"You cleaned it up?" he asked softly.

A wet, miserable little laugh broke out of Ilya. "Of course I cleaned it up."

Shane closed his eyes.

"Yeah," he said. "Of course, I know you did."

That only made it worse.

"She was there," Ilya said, and now the words were coming in a rush, rough and uneven. "Her name was there and the photo was still there and I kept thinking about her in that apartment with him and with Alexei learning from him and I-" He dragged in a breath that shook. "I don't even feel the same way around them now. That's the worst part. They're exhausting. They're pathetic. My father is just an old man with a bad temper and Alexei feels like a vicious child. But seeing her there..."

He broke again.

Shane waited him through it.

"It brought it back," Ilya said finally. "Not even for me. For her. I remembered what it was like when I was little. I remembered her trying to smooth him down, trying to make the room safe before he came all the way in angry. I remembered how tired she looked. And the whole time I've been here I've mostly been irritated, but standing there-" He swallowed. "It broke my heart for her all over again."

Shane exhaled slowly.

Shane swallowed hard. "Oh, baby," he said softly. "Yeah. I'm so sorry."

Ilya made a wrecked little sound that was almost a laugh.

"Me too."

"Stay with me," Shane said softly.

That actually got a small, wet huff out of him.

"There he is," Shane said softly.

For a while Shane just kept him talking: about the grave, the flowers, whether he’d eaten, whether he could get somewhere warm. Whether he wanted Shane to stay on the phone until he got back to the apartment, or longer.

Then, when Ilya had gone quiet again and his breathing had turned thin and ragged in a different way, Shane said, "Can I sing to you?"

Ilya shut his eyes.

"God," he said thickly. "That is mortifying."

"Yes or no, Rozanov."

The challenge threaded something warm and ridiculous straight through the misery.

Ilya tipped his head back against the wall and gave up. "Yes."

Shane was quiet for just long enough that Ilya knew he was smiling.

Then he started to sing.

Softly, a little rough from sleep, but steady.

♪ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know dear how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away♪

Ilya made a sound that might have been another laugh and might have been the start of crying all over again.

Shane kept going, voice low and gentle and absurdly tender.

♪ The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamt I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
I was the one wrapped tight in yours ♪

By the end of it, Ilya was crying again anyway, but quieter now.

"There you go," Shane murmured when he finished. "That's my man."

Ilya scrubbed at his face, wrecked and affectionate and half in love with him all over again in the most humiliating possible way.

"I hate you," he whispered.

"Liar."

"Yes."

On the other side of the house, a floorboard creaked.

In Montreal, Yuna had heard the singing from halfway down the hall and stopped dead.

She had gotten up for another cup of coffee and instead found herself standing in the dim hallway just beyond the spill of sunlight from under Shane's door, listening to her son sing in a voice she had never heard him use.

She knew Shane could sing. She had almost never heard him choose to, especially for someone else.

Certainly not like this.

She stood there, one hand still on the wall, and listened to the naked tenderness of it. The quiet certainty. The way every note seemed less performed than given.

Listening to him now, Yuna understood the scale of it in a way she hadn’t before.

He loved that boy.

Completely.

Behind her, the floor shifted once more and David came to a stop at her shoulder.

Neither of them spoke for a second.

Then, very quietly, David said, "Yeah, you see it too now."

Yuna pressed her fingers to her mouth.

"I've never heard him sound like that," she whispered.

David looked toward the closed door. His expression was gentler than she had seen it in a long time.

"I have," he said. "Just not with words."

She leaned back into him for a second, both of them listening while Shane murmured something too soft to make out and the low cadence of his voice carried on through the door.

-

The next day, Moscow looked no better, but Ilya was steadier.

He was leaving for the airport first thing in the morning. One more night in the apartment. One more dinner. One more sleep in the room that had stopped feeling like his years ago. Finally.

Late that afternoon, he shut himself in the building gym to lift before he packed.

The room was blessedly empty if overheated, all polished mirrors, middling machines, neatly racked weights, and the same stale rubber smell every apartment gym in the world seemed to share. He had almost finished by the time the door opened behind him.

He did not have to turn around to know who it was.

Alexei let the door swing shut and stayed there for a second, arms folded, expression already set in that flat, ugly way of his.

"You really are leaving," he said.

Ilya racked the weight and sat up, forearms on his knees while his pulse settled. "That was always the plan."

"Convenient."

Ilya reached for his towel and wiped the back of his neck. "Was there a point to this?"

Alexei's face tightened. "You come back in here acting like a visitor, sign a few things, throw some money around, and then disappear again."

Ilya said nothing.

Alexei stepped farther into the room.

"You think that fixes it?" he said. "You think that covers everything?"

"No," Ilya said. "I think it handles what it handles."

That seemed to irritate Alexei more than if he'd snapped back.

"Right," he said. "Very clean. Very sneaky. Whatever you've been doing behind everyone's back with that fancy secret lawyer."

Ilya looked at him properly then.

So Alexei knew something. Probably not much, but enough to make him suspicious.

"I set up a trust for Natasha," he said. "And I set aside money for our father's care when things get worse. Which they will. That isn't throwing money around. That's planning ahead because no one else here seems interested in doing it."

Alexei went still.

Good.

"You have no right," he said.

"I have every right."

The silence after that was sharp enough to draw blood.

Alexei's voice dropped. "You think because you have money, you get to decide everything."

"No," Ilya said. "I think I get to decide what I do with my money. And one of us needs to be responsible."

That made Alexei's mouth twist.

"Responsible," he repeated. "That's what you call it."

He took another step closer.

"Do you have any idea what things cost now?" he said. "Do you have any idea what it takes just to keep things upright?"

Ilya said nothing. He didn't need to bring up the bad investments, or the cocaine. Alexei would say what he would say without his input.

Alexei laughed once through his nose, but there was no humor in it.

"Of course you don't. You come in for a week, act disgusted by all of us, and then leave."

Still Ilya said nothing.

He just watched him.

Alexei's voice roughened.

"We are your family. He's our father. Natasha is my daughter. You don't get to wave a few legal documents around and walk away like you've done your part."

That, finally, earned him a response.

"I didn't set up the trust so you would be grateful," Ilya said. His voice stayed level. "I set it up because Natasha needs to be protected from your chaos."

Alexei went white around the mouth.

"And I set aside enough for his care because there is something wrong with him," Ilya continued. "You know it. He's not just 'getting old'. You just don't want to say it out loud because then it becomes real and somebody has to deal with it."

Alexei stared at him, breathing hard.

Ilya kept going.

"So yes. I made arrangements. Quietly. Because one day he is going to need more than rage and pride and Polina will be useless. And Natasha deserves better than being left in the middle when that happens."

For a second Alexei looked less angry than cornered.

Something flickered there. Panic, maybe. Or doubt. Or some fresh stupidity he had not yet managed to hide properly.

He opened his mouth like he meant to say more, something uglier and more specific, then stopped himself.

Ilya saw it and dismissed it almost as quickly.

Whatever mess Alexei had made, it would be money again. It was always money.

"There it is," Alexei said instead, reaching for the safer hatred. "That's what you really think of us, fucking rich faggot."

Ilya stood then, slow and unhurried, towel still in one hand. Up close, Alexei seemed younger than twenty-four even if his face already looked worn by his own bad choices. Bitter in a way that had started calcifying.

It was almost impossible to believe this was the same person who had once loomed so large in his childhood.

Ilya looked at him for a second, then rolled his eyes a little.

Alexei caught it and lurched forward all at once.

The swing was clumsy.

Stupid.

Ilya caught his wrist on instinct before it got anywhere near his face, twisted, and shoved him off hard enough to send him stumbling back into the bench.

Alexei hit it with a grunt, more shocked than hurt.

Ilya barely felt his own pulse change.

"Don't," he said.

Alexei glared at him, breathing hard, one hand braced on the bench, humiliated now on top of everything else.

Ilya slung the towel over his shoulder.

"I'm done with you," he said.

Alexei's expression went blank for a second, like Ilya had reached somewhere he had no answer for.

Then he sneered to cover it. "You'll come back. You always do."

Ilya stepped past him toward the door.

"Watch me," he said.

This time, when he walked out, Alexei did not follow.

-

The next morning after bidding his father and Polina a chilly goodbye, he left with the videos in his bag and texted Shane from the airport.

Ilya: [Alive. Leaving with my sanity mostly intact. Also possibly stole something from my father, so that's exciting.]

Shane answered almost immediately.

Shane: [Define stole.]

Ilya looked down at the bag by his feet.

Ilya: [Research.]

The reply took longer that time.

Shane: [I can't wait to see you. I love you.]

By the time he landed at Pierre Elliott Trudeau airport, exhaustion had hollowed him out so thoroughly he felt almost dizzy.

Shane was waiting for him at the top of the airport parkade in a Voyageurs baseball cap and a t-shirt, leaning against the car with all the brittle stillness of a man trying not to pace a groove into the concrete.

The second he saw him, his whole face changed.

Ilya had thought he might hold it together until they got home.

He did not.

The parkade was mostly empty at this level, just a scatter of cars and the wash of bright afternoon light shining from open air above. Private enough.

That was all either of them needed.

Shane met him halfway, one hand already reaching for the back of his neck, the other hard around his ribs, pulling him in close enough that the air traffic and car honking dropped away for one impossible second.

"Hey," Shane said into his hair.

Ilya breathed him in. Soap. Laundry detergent. Home.

"Hi," he managed.

Shane kissed his temple, then leaned back just far enough to look at him properly, eyes scanning his face in that infuriatingly tender way of his.

"You okay?"

Ilya considered lying. Briefly.

"No," he said. "But I will be."

Shane nodded once like that was the correct answer, took his bag without argument, and opened the passenger door.

Chapter End Notes

Ugh, I hated this chapter. I needed it done and over with.
I may post a companion piece with the altered lyrics to "You are my Sunshine", the original is very sad and I made new ones to sing to my wife when she is sad to cheer her up and that's what Shane starts singing here.

Chapter 14: Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

July 2011

Chapter Notes

Wow, thanks for the support everyone! My fic broke containment? Hope you like this one too, it was strangely harder to write than the last one to be honest. Also a quick note about Shane: I've written his reaction to Tomorrowland pretty close to my own induction to music festivals as his and mine autistic traits seem very closely aligned. For real, I've never seen my own experience so well captured in a character before so I'm using myself as a guide since I'm now older than he is by the end of the Long Game + therapy and just generally giving less of a fuck as you get older. Hope you all like it!

They spent Ilya's first night back in Montreal then three days at Shane's parents' cabin before they got married. David had pressed the keys into Shane's hand the morning he left to pick Ilya up from the airport with a wink. "Take your time, son."

They'd taken the time for the precious commodity it was and spent it blessedly alone with absolutely no outside demands whatsoever.

The cabin sat far enough out that the only sounds were of the nature surrounding them. Pine, lake water, old wood warmed by sun through the window. It had been strange passing the turnoff where their own cottage should have been. Apparently, Shane was trying to buy it two years early but the deal hadn’t gone through yet. Ilya was unsurprised to learn Shane had been busy while he was away.

Entering the cottage, it comforted Ilya that this place was still mostly the same. Fewer pictures. Different linens. Older appliances. But that was about it for differences. The baby pictures of Shane still scattered around the place soothed his raw heart.

They slept. They sat outside with coffee. They chopped an enormous amount of wood for Shane's parents. They went for walks without needing to decide anything important. Ilya had a session with Viktor one morning from the back bedroom, the laptop balanced on a quilted chair while Shane stayed out on the deck and gave him privacy. Afterwards, when Shane asked how it had gone, Ilya only said, "He was very pleased I didn't murder Alexei, less pleased I didn't get a hotel," which Shane took to mean helpful.

Later that afternoon, the tapes came up.

Ilya had brought them out to the kitchen table as though they held live explosives, setting them down gingerly between the sugar bowl and Shane's coffee mug.

Shane looked from the labels to Ilya's face. "Do you want to watch them?"

Ilya was quiet, contemplating.

"I think my parents still have a VCR somewhere," Shane added. "Either here or maybe in the basement in Ottawa. I can dig it up for you."

That earned him a small smile. His Shane was so helpful.

He looked down at the labels again.

April 21, 2002.

He couldn't remember what was so important about that date. He would have been what, ten? Almost eleven?

Новый год 2000 (New Year 2000).

Мама + мальчики 1995 (Mama + boys 1995).

The other two were more descriptive and for a second he could feel the pull of it. Curiosity. Dread. The sharp temptation to just get it over with. But he felt like that would be a bad idea.

"I talked to Viktor about them," he said at last. "He thinks one at a time is sensible. Doesn't want to overload me." Ilya pulled an unimpressed face indicating that he reluctantly agreed.

Shane leaned one shoulder against the counter and waited.

"And?"

Ilya looked out the window toward the lake and sighed. "And I think am not ready yet."

He could have left it there, but Shane deserved better than that.

"I don't want to add more things right now," he said. "Russia was enough. The grave was enough. I want to get married. I want Belgium. I want the rest of the summer to be for us before I start digging through the past again."

Shane nodded once.

"Okay," he said.

Ilya glanced back at him. "You would really go dig a VCR out of your parents' basement for me, though?"

"Obviously."

That got a real smile out of him.

"Oke," Ilya said. "Then we'll deal with them later. One at a time. Viktor's orders."

"Very sensible."

"Disgusting quality in a therapist, really."

Shane came up behind him then and wrapped his arms around him and put his chin on Ilya's shoulder.

"We'll watch them when you're ready," he said.

Ilya leaned back into his chest and hummed an acknowledgement. That was enough.

-

By the time they drove back in for the wedding, Russia had finally come mostly unstuck from him.

In its place was something bright and almost ridiculous.

He and Shane were going to be married again.

Finally.

Shane kept catching his eye in the car and grinning like he could not help it. Ilya was not doing much better. Every time he remembered where they were actually going, something giddy and disbelieving went fluttery inside his chest.

The officiant's office was on the second floor of a narrow building in Ottawa that housed a dentist on the main level and some kind of tax practice above that. It was quiet, forgettable, and perfect.

The office was a bland thing that seemed to have changed little since the nineties where a middle-aged woman with calm eyes and the steady air of someone who had spent her life learning how to mind her own business stood.

That had been the important part.

David had found her through a recommendation three steps removed, somebody who had quietly officiated for people who needed things handled discreetly for reasons nobody had any right to pry into. The first conversation had apparently included an extremely direct explanation that privacy mattered. She had not blinked.

Now she was standing by the small table where the licence sat ready, her hands folded loosely in front of her, giving them all the gift of not making the room feel any stranger than it already did.

When Ilya stepped fully into the room half a step behind Shane, Yuna crossed to him first and put a hand on his arm with a soft but firm grip.

"You look better," she said quietly.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That is a generous assessment."

"It is also true."

For a moment she only looked at him. There was something steadier in it now. Less uncertainty. More decision and it warmed Ilya that she now looked at him so close to how she used to. Again.

"Thank you for letting him share, Shane told us enough," she said softly. "Not everything. Just enough."

Ilya went still as Shane began fiddling with his tie next to him.

Yuna squeezed his arm once. "You matter to him," she said. "So you matter to us too."

Before he could answer, David stepped over too, less fluid about it, but no less deliberate.

"And," he said, clearing his throat, "from what little I gather, anyone who made your life harder than it had to be doesn't deserve you."

Ilya blinked back sudden moisture. Dammit, these Hollanders were trying to kill him.

David gave the smallest shrug. "I thought that covered a reasonable amount without prying."

"It does," he croaked weakly.

"Good."

David nodded once, as if they had just settled a piece of paperwork.

Yuna's fingers softened on his sleeve before she let him go. "We're glad you're here," she said.

Ilya looked at both of them for a second longer. Then he said, carefully, because he meant it, "Thank you."

Yuna smiled at him once, quick and soft, before stepping back and turning to the small crisis of Shane's tie.

"Mom," Shane said with the tiniest whine, because he had already adjusted it twice.

"I know," she said, not looking up. "Hold still. The least you can do is let me fuss over this one thing."

Letting her do her thing, he watched as his father crossed the room to double-check the paperwork for what had to be at least the fourth time, and Ilya had drifted over to look at it with him, one hand now curled around the ring box while David pointed something out on the page with solemn bureaucratic intensity.

Even from across the room, Shane could see the tension running through Ilya's shoulders, the fine edge of contained energy under all that apparent calm.

Yuna straightened the knot one final time, then let her hands fall.

When Shane really looked at her, her expression crumpled a little at the edges and his throat tightened.

"Mom," he said softly.

She pressed her lips together and blinked fast once. "I'm happy for you," she said immediately.

Shane's chest hurt.

"I know."

"I am," she said again, and now her voice had that unmistakable wobble to it. "I just hoped..."

She stopped, shook her head, tried again.

"I hoped for better than hiding," she said, and then with a brief, helpless little laugh, "and for you to be just a little older."

Shane huffed a soft laugh.

The grief in it was plain and honest: grief for the secrecy of it all, tangled up with the parental conviction that twenty was still far too young if it was your own child standing there.

He reached for her automatically.

She took both his hands in hers and squeezed hard.

"I understand," she said. "I do. I know why."

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Ilya, then back to Shane.

"And I would rather have this than see you wait and wait and wait for some perfect moment that never comes or something forces your hand."

Shane squeezed and nodded, throat a touch too tight to respond verbally yet.

Yuna let out a shaky breath and gave him a watery little smile. "I just wish the world were kinder for you."

Shane swallowed. "Me too."

Then, because he could not fix the world, but he could offer her something, he added, "When we come out, we can have a party. A real one. Invite everybody."

Her eyes searched his face.

"Okay," she said softly.

From across the room, David cleared his throat with suspicious force. "Paperwork is in order," he announced, which was either terrible timing or perfect timing depending on how much he was trying to save everybody from crying.

The officiant, kind enough not to comment on any of it, simply said, "Whenever you're ready."

Yuna took a moment to set up a camcorder from a convenient shelf [“You'll want this when you're older!”] so she would have her hands free before waving everyone into place.

Just the four of them and an officiant discreet enough to enable them to secure one more piece of their future.

The officiant spoke simply. She asked the questions she had to ask. Her tone was warm without being intimate, respectful without pretending she knew them.

Shane barely heard half of it.

What he did hear was the sound of his own pulse, the faint rustle when Ilya shifted closer, the hitch in Yuna's breathing when the word marriage was spoken aloud as fact rather than wish.

When it came time for vows, they kept to the standard words, simple and clean and legally binding.

For the second time there were no speeches or performance. They'd already told each other the most important things. No one else needed to hear them.

Then, at the very end, when the officiant had finished and the room had gone still around them, Ilya looked at him and said softly, in Russian, "В третий раз и в каждой жизни, я выберу тебя, Холландер.For a third time, and in every lifetime, I choose you, Hollander

Shane's breath caught as flashes of their first two weddings (tiny Pike children and more friends than they could have anticipated) and their one awful fight (“I already chose you, Hollander.”) went through his mind. And he choked for a moment before getting his mouth under control.

But he also chose him back when given the opportunity and he would again, forever. Shane answered, “В каждой жизни, я тоже выбираю тебя. Всегда.In every lifetime, I choose you too. Always. ”

The rings slid on with only the slightest tremor in Shane's hand. When the officiant pronounced them married, the room went very still for one strange, suspended second, as if none of them had quite expected the words to sound so enormous in such a small space.

Then Ilya kissed him.

It was brief. Careful. But carried enough weight to send a sharp, bright crack through Shane's chest.

Married.

Holy shit.

Yuna did cry then, wiping under both eyes while laughing softly at herself for it. David hugged Shane first and then, to Shane's mild surprise and Ilya's obvious one, pulled Ilya into a hug just as firm.

"Take care of each other," he said roughly.

Ilya, for once, answered with no smart comment at all.

"We will," he said.

They went out for a late lunch after the ceremony because Yuna flatly refused to let them disappear without eating something first.

It was a small place with white tablecloths and good bread and the kind of staff who knew how to leave people alone. Shane barely remembered what he ordered. He kept catching sight of the ring and having to start over from whatever was being said.

Yuna, who had cried already and therefore seemed to feel fully entitled to pivot into business, brought up the ad campaign idea halfway through the main course.

"Not immediately," she said, pointing a piece of bread at both of them as if they were a pair of misbehaving puppies she meant to bring to heel. "Obviously not immediately. But later. August, maybe, when you get back. Something together. Rivals. Athletic. High-contrast. Fast. The two of you in different gear, different colors, different energy, but clearly enjoying yourselves. Competitive enough that people want to pick a side, not so sharp that anyone starts believing you actually hate each other."

David snorted into his water.

Yuna ignored him.

"Something edgy," she went on. "And not fake-aggressive either. No staged shoving, no grim macho nonsense. I want tension, speed, and the feeling that both of you are having a very good time trying to beat the other one. That whole bet thing you did at the awards was inspired. I want to capture that."

Ilya, to Shane's mild consternation, looked genuinely interested. "You already have concepts."

"Of course I do."

Shane raised his eyebrows. "You've been sitting on this for a while, mom. I admire the restraint."

"Correct," Yuna said while ignoring the ribbing. "And if I do this right, everyone who sees it will immediately pick a side and then argue about it for free."

Shane pointed at her with his fork. "Make sure it's a friendly rivalry? If people think we hate each other… let's just steer clear of that, okay?"

Yuna's expression softened a fraction. "Friendly," she agreed. "Competitive, not hostile. I know the difference."

That seemed to settle something in him.

They were receptive but by the time coffee came both of them had started glancing toward the windows like men waiting to be let out on bail.

It did not escape Yuna.

She sighed, long-suffering and fond. "Go," she said. "Before I have to watch you vibrate through dessert."

David waved them off with less ceremony. "Drive safe."

They mostly did.

The whole ride back to Montreal felt charged in a way that had nothing to do with the highway. Shane drove one-handed for half of it because Ilya kept reaching over to touch him like he needed the contact just to confirm this was actually happening. A knee. A wrist. The back of his neck into his hair in a way that sent shivers right to his groin when Ilya tugged.

By the time they got inside the house, they were both a mess of want.

The door had barely shut before Ilya was on him.

Shane hit the wall hard enough to rattle the frame hanging beside the coat hooks and laughed into Ilya's mouth as hands went everywhere at once, too urgent to choose as they mapped over every plane of skin. Ring against jaw. Teeth at his lower lip. The hot, dizzy shock of finally being alone with this, with him, with his husband lodged behind Shane's ribs.

"Fuck," Shane breathed when Ilya dragged his mouth down the side of his throat.

"Mm," Ilya said against his skin, sounding wrecked already. "Yes."

That got a helpless sound out of Shane that only made Ilya grin against him before biting lightly at the place where neck met shoulder.

They made it to the bedroom by some combination of momentum and muscle memory. Halfway there Shane kicked off one sock and lost the other somewhere near the couch. Ilya's shirt hit the floor in the hall. Somebody's ring caught briefly in a belt loop and they both laughed, hot and breathless and too far horny to care.

Then Ilya got both hands on him properly as he hauled Shane up just enough to get him off balance, laughing, and then threw him onto the bed hard enough to bounce the mattress before following him down with his full weight and a look in his eyes that made Shane’s stomach drop straight to his knees.

“There you are,” Ilya murmured, and kissed him like he’d been starving for days.

Ilya knelt between Shane's thighs and kissed the inside of his left wrist, then turned it and kissed the ring finger too, smiling when Shane shivered.

"Still insane," Shane said, voice already going rough.

"Yes," Ilya said. "And yet you keep marrying me."

Shane's ribs held butterflies even after all these years.

"Come here," he said.

Ilya did.

After that there was no real finesse to it except heat and want and the bright undercurrent of joy moving through all of it. Shane on his back with Ilya over him, both of them laughing once when the headboard smacked the wall hard enough to make them freeze and then immediately deciding not to care. Shane on his knees afterward, mouth on Ilya until his thighs shook. Ilya pulling him up by the waist and kissing him stupid in the aftermath, both of them sweating through the sheets and touching like the act itself had not yet sunk in.

Married. Again. A full decade earlier than last time.

The word kept flashing through Shane's head at random, each time with the force of a body check. And then another thought. Another milestone that hadn't really crossed his mind before but was suddenly there, half buried in the haze of wibbly timeline math. They were thirty-six technically, by memory. They had first gotten together at eighteen, both two and eighteen years ago somehow.

"We've now been in each other's lives for longer than we haven't been," Shane croaked out as he tried not to think about the mess of the sheets below him. There were clean ones ready to go in the closet.

Ilya, meanwhile, was struck dumb by those words. "I've loved you longer than I haven't."

Shane turned his head on the pillow and found Ilya already looking at him, all the sharpness gone out of his face, leaving him soft and impossibly young.

"Yeah," Shane said softly. "Yeah."

Ilya came back to him slowly this time with a careful slide of his hand up Shane's stomach, warm palm flattening there as if to feel the breath moving in and out of him. Then higher, over his ribs, to the center of his chest. He leaned down and kissed Shane once, gently enough that it almost hurt worse than all the rougher kisses had.

Shane made a small keening sound into his mouth and reached up without thinking, fingers slipping into the damp hair at the back of Ilya's neck.

"Come here," he murmured again, even though there was no space left between them.

Ilya smiled against his mouth.

"I am here," he said. Then kissed him again. And again. Slow, unhurried kisses that started soft and finished firm. Shane felt them everywhere. In his throat. In his hands. Low in his body where the first heat had never really gone away, only softened into something deeper.

Ilya shifted, settling half over him, and Shane opened for him on instinct, thighs sliding around Ilya's hips as their bodies found each other with practiced ease. The contact pulled a breath out of them both.

The earlier urgency had burned off. Ilya seemed mostly intent on getting as close to him as physically possible. An attempt to climb inside each others skin and stay there.

Ilya drew his thumb over Shane's lower lip, then bent to kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the underside of his chin. He kissed his throat with the same slow attention he'd given the ring on Shane's hand.

"You say things like that," Ilya murmured against his skin, voice low and wrecked, "and then expect me to behave."

Shane laughed, breathless. "You were never going to behave."

"True."

But even said like that, he stayed gentle.

His hand slid down Shane's side, slow enough to make Shane squirm into it, then back up again, tracing the lines he has known by heart for years. Shane could feel himself going open and loose under that touch, every nerve newly awake, every inch of him wanting.

When Ilya finally kissed his way back to Shane's mouth, Shane caught his face between both hands and held him there for a second, forehead nearly touching his.

"I love you," he said, because that was the only real thing he could say in this moment.

Ilya shut his eyes.

Then he pressed one more kiss to Shane's mouth and moved down his body with a kind of helpless devotion that made Shane's pulse jump hard all over again.

This time they took their time; the slow building slide of skin on skin, mouths and hands and the soft, wrecked sounds they only ever let each other hear.  Shane found himself arching into Ilya's hands, into his mouth, into the weight of him when he came back up and fitted their bodies together properly.

The pleasure built gradually this time. Shane held on to Ilya's shoulders and let him set the pace, let him keep it tender even when both of them started shaking apart.

"That's it," Ilya whispered, kissing the corner of Shane's eye when he lost the ability to do anything but gasp. "There you are. I've got you."

By the time it tipped over, Shane was half gone with it, breathing Ilya's name, tears leaking from his eyes. Ilya followed a second later with his forehead pressed against Shane's collarbone, one hand clasped tight around Shane's and the other spread over his hip as if keeping him anchored through it all mattered as much as anything else in the room.

Afterward, neither of them moved for a while.

Ilya just stayed draped over him, heavy and warm and trembling a little, his face turned into the hollow of Shane's throat. Shane stroked a hand slowly up and down his back until the shivers eased.

"Hi," Shane whispered eventually.

That earned him a sleepy, disbelieving laugh against his skin.

"Hi," Ilya whispered back.

Shane thought that might be the end of it.

It was not.

Apparently being wrung out and adored only made them worse.

Ilya lifted his head just enough to look at him, eyes dark and soft and still dazed around the edges. Shane could feel the moment his husband had the exact same terrible idea he was having.

"No," Shane said weakly, which in their shared language had never meant no at all.

Ilya smiled, small and wrecked. "Liar."

Then he kissed him again.

This time it started tenderly, almost sleepy. Just the warm slide of Ilya's mouth over his, patient until Shane opened for him with a sound that changed the temperature of the room anyway.

Ilya made a noise low in his throat and rolled them carefully, easing Shane onto his side, already slightly bruised, and slotted in from behind. Shane's hand drifted over the arm around his waist, reached back to the line of his waist, touching him with the same helpless wonder every time as though the years had never fully managed to make this ordinary.

"You all right?" Ilya murmured, his chin nuzzling behind Shane’s ear.

The question by itself nearly undid him.

"Yeah," Shane whispered. "Yeah. Come here."

So Ilya did.

He kissed the corner of Shane's mouth, then his cheek, then the corner of his eye where the earlier tears had dried. He kissed under his jaw slowly enough to make Shane shiver, paused to press his mouth right over Shane's pulse, then kept going lower with a kind of reverent focus that left Shane breathing harder with every inch.

There was still desire in it, of course there was. They had never been anything but all-in with each other in bed.

The third climb was softer than the others and somehow more intense for it. They moved together lazily at first, as if neither of them believed they had the energy and were discovering in real time that they absolutely did. Their twenty-year-old bodies evidently good for something more than just hockey. Pleasure gathered in layers, quieter but no less consuming. Shane could feel every breath Ilya took, every tremor that ran through him, every tiny break in composure.

He wrapped his arms around Ilya and held on, not wanting distance, not wanting air, not wanting anything but this impossible closeness that still somehow never felt like enough.

"I love you," he said again, voice frayed raw.

Ilya answered by kissing him until the words dissolved.

When release finally came, they shook through it together, foreheads close, breath shared between them, every broken sound swallowed by the other’s mouth.

After that, moving became genuinely impossible.

They lay tangled in the wreck of the bed, damp and boneless and far too warm, and when Shane started laughing for no reason other than happiness, Ilya laughed too until it trailed off into something smaller and softer.

"We are disgusting," Shane mumbled.

"True," Ilya said.

A beat.

"My husband," he added, like he still couldn't believe saying it got to be real.

Shane turned his face into the pillow and made a strangled, delighted sound.

"You can't just keep saying that," he said.

"I can. I won."

That got a weak shove to his shoulder and another kiss, lazy this time, almost too tired to count as one.

By the time the room finally settled around them for good, they were both smiling too helplessly to hide it.

At some point much later they ended up tangled sideways across the bed, still half naked, the room cooling around them. Showers had and sheets changed. 

Ilya lay with his cheek against Shane's chest and one hand spread over his stomach, breathing evening out by degrees.

Shane stared up at the ceiling, wrung out and a little wrecked and so happy it felt faintly unreal.

"Hello, husband," he said into the quiet.

Ilya laughed without lifting his head. "Again?"

"Yes."

"All right. Hello, husband."

-

The next week was a haze of getting ready for the festival. Shane had thrown a not inconsiderable amount of energy into researching musical festivals in an attempt to familiarize himself and calm the anxious buzz under his skin about being in the middle of so many people with so many things happening around them.

He built packing lists.

Then he built better packing lists.

Electrolytes. Protein bars. Sunscreen. Rain ponchos. Extra socks. Painkillers. Bandages. More hand sanitizer and wet wipes than Ilya thought any two people could reasonably need. Shane had apparently decided that if he could not control the scale of Tomorrowland, he could at least control their odds of surviving it comfortably.

He had also spent hours reading festival guides, old blog posts, Reddit threads, and message boards full of people saying things like pace yourself, wear shoes you can stand in for fourteen hours, and yes, this absolutely counts as cardio. He had approached the whole thing with the same determined seriousness he usually reserved for game prep and taxes, which meant he was now walking around the apartment muttering about hydration and caloric expenditure like an unusually sexy camp counselor.

"Apparently these things are basically marathons," he informed Ilya one afternoon while shoving packets of electrolyte powder into a side pocket of his bag. "So we need calories. Real calories. Not just whatever terrible decision you were planning to live on."

Ilya, sprawled on the bed in nothing but shorts and a grin, watched this with naked delight. "You mean we won’t just be eating French fries and Gatorade?"

Shane gave him a look over his shoulder. "I'm serious."

"I know," Ilya said, still smiling. "It is adorable."

That earned him a huff and a thrown sock.

Ilya knew exactly what Shane was doing. Planning ahead was one of the skills Shane had picked up in therapy in their first life, along with finally having words for his anxiety and autistic traits. He was using it now: figuring out what might be hard, finding exits before he needed them, and refusing to let anxiety make the decision for him. It also meant Ilya got his festival.

Because Shane would do almost anything if he thought it might help build them a better life this time.

He was fairly sure that between their still-relative anonymity outside hockey and the not yet pervasive use of smartphones, they could really just be two more faces in the crowd. Especially in Belgium. And if he could prepare enough, pace himself enough, think it through enough, then maybe Ilya would get his reward for surviving Russia and Shane might even manage to enjoy himself too.

Which was how, to Ilya's enduring fascination, his husband had turned into a total rave mom. 

-

Belgium began with an airport, a train, and Shane slipping into French almost immediately.

Ilya had not actually expected that part to delight him as much as it did.

"Excusez-moi," Shane said to the woman at the ticket counter, easy as breathing. "On va à Boom pour le festival?"

She answered with a bright smile instead of directions, said something admiring about his accent, and then launched into the actual explanation a beat later.

That made Shane smile before answering her in the same quick, fluent French, relaxed enough now that he realised Belgian French was easy to understand.

A few minutes later they were moving again with tickets in hand.

Ilya, beside him, was having the time of his life.

"Do not start," Shane said without looking at him.

"I said nothing."

"Your face said plenty."

"My face loves you."

That got him a sideways look and, eventually, a reluctant smile.

By the time they reached their hotel and dumped their bags, the Tomorrowland portion of the trip had finally started to feel real.

They were intentionally trying to stay on Montreal time.

That had been Shane's idea after a truly unreasonable amount of research. If they stayed up late enough for the headliners anyway, he had argued, then leaning into the time difference instead of fighting it might cut the jet lag and keep them from crashing before the sets Ilya actually cared about.

So the next day unfolded strangely and on purpose. Slow wake-up. Late breakfast. A lazy stretch of afternoon that kept them on pace for a long night.

By the time the bedroom finally exploded into festival prep, it was already late afternoon.

Clothes first, because apparently half of Ilya's private reward for surviving Russia had involved online shopping with a degree of extravagance Shane found both impressive and slightly threatening. He might genuinely go blind if he stared at the pastel cheetah-print short shorts for too long. Would they really even cover his husband's ass? Then sunglasses. Then a small pile of things laid out on the bed with military precision in the middle of the chaos.

Shane stood in the middle of it all in boxer briefs and a t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower and eyed the spread.

"Should I be worried?"

"Always," Ilya said, digging through a pouch. "But not specifically about this."

He held up two tiny cases.

"What are those?"

"Concert earplugs."

Shane stared. "You got me earplugs?"

"I got us earplugs," Ilya corrected. "I also value my hearing."

Shane took one of the cases from him and turned it over in his fingers.

"Okay," Shane said carefully. "That's... actually great."

"Yes, I know. I'm very thoughtful."

"Shocking."

Ilya snorted and started sorting through the rest of the pile. "I'm serious. This is going to be a lot."

Shane sat down on the edge of the bed and unzipped the bag they’d be bringing. "Quick check," he said. "Electrolytes, sunscreen, ponchos, charger, extra socks, and enough food to keep us from making stupid decisions on an empty stomach."

Ilya paused and looked over at him.

"You are incredible," he said, sounding delighted.

"You say that like I'm wrong."

"No," Ilya said. "I'm saying you've turned this into logistics."

Shane shoved another packet into the side pocket and gave him a pointed look. "Apparently these things are endurance events. So we eat properly, we hydrate, and you are not trying to survive on alcohol and one terrible waffle."

Ilya, sprawled on the bed in nothing but shorts and a grin, watched this with naked delight. "So cute."

"Be nice to me."

"No. This is too good."

Shane sighed and continued packing their bag.

They left the hotel in the late afternoon, already mentally aiming for a night that would run well past midnight. Ilya wanted them there for Swedish House Mafia at eleven, which left hours to wander first. They were almost late for the shuttle because Shane got distracted halfway through Ilya explaining set timing and stage layout by the sight of Ilya standing in the mirror wearing sunglasses indoors and absolutely nothing else of practical use.

That was a separate problem.

The first day hit Shane all at once.

The moment they stepped through the gates and the full scale opened in front of him, something in his body stalled for half a beat.

Sound hit first, then color, then movement all at once. Bass so deep it stopped feeling like music and turned into pressure under his ribs. Flags overhead. Glitter everywhere. Heat rising off the crowd in waves, thousands of people moving to one pulse that seemed to take over the whole grounds.

"Whoa," Shane said.

Ilya, beside him, heard the slight thinness under it immediately.

He did not make a thing of it.

He just reached out, touched the inside of Shane's wrist once, and said, "Earplugs first."

Shane nodded.

That helped immensely.

The difference was immediate and almost shockingly effective. The sharp chatter and overwhelming loudness dropped away first, leaving space where there had only been pressure a second ago. Suddenly there was room inside his own head again, enough to separate the layers and let the noise break back down into parts instead of one giant thing coming at him.

Music. People. Wind. Distant voices. The thud of bass under all of it.

"Better?" Ilya asked.

Shane rolled his shoulders once and let his eyes keep moving.

"Yeah," he said after a second. "Still a lot. But yeah so much better."

"Good. We do not go into the middle yet."

So they wandered.

The first day became less about any one set and more about learning the shape of the place. A hill. A side path. A quieter pocket near food stands. Which routes clogged fastest. Which corners stayed breezier. Which stages made Shane stop and pay attention, even when he could not yet have explained why.

Ilya introduced him to styles the same way he might have introduced him to players, quick and opinionated.

"Too hard," he'd say at one stage, tugging Shane away by two fingers through a belt loop. Or, "This is fun if you're drunk enough." Or, with sudden seriousness, "Listen to the build on this one."

Shane, once the first shock wore off, found that he liked being taught. Liked the structure of it. Liked the way Ilya seemed to know where the crowds were and how to lead him through them without shoving.

They drank. They split food out of paper trays and used many of the wet wipes Ilya had been complaining about when he got sauce all over his fingers. They made up names when people asked where they were from.

"No, I'm Canadian," Ilya informed one laughing Dutch guy who had mistaken him for Scandinavian. "Can't you tell by the accent?"

This caused much hilarity as his accent was still unmistakably Russian to anyone with functioning ears, but it made Shane laugh hard enough that he had to lean on a barricade as he tried to keep silent.

Later, when a pair of German girls asked how old they were and then stared in scandalized disbelief at the answer, Shane deadpanned, "Thirty-six, I swear. The secret is staying active and always wearing sunscreen. Moisturizer too."

Ilya nearly folded in half.

By the time Swedish House Mafia finally took the stage at eleven, Shane was tired, tipsy, acclimated, and curious instead of braced.

And then the set hit.

Not just loud. Not just big. Huge in a way that felt engineered to lift the entire crowd half an inch off the ground.

Ilya grabbed his wrist and shouted something useless into his ear, grinning so hard it bordered on feral, and Shane laughed because he had no idea what he'd said and suddenly did not care.

The sound rolled through them like thunder.

Lights. Smoke. The whole crowd surging at once with that strange, collective anticipation for the drop. Shane felt it land in his sternum and then everywhere else as everyone’s arms around them flew into the air, pumping to the rhythm as one.

He turned, half laughing, half stunned and leaned into Ilya's ear.

"Okay," he shouted. "I think I can see why you like it."

Ilya's face lit up with pure vindicated delight.

That alone would have made the trip worth it.

When they finally got back to the hotel in the small hours of the morning, Shane was exhausted in a way that felt earned rather than frayed.

The second day started even later.

They slept. They drank water in bed and laughed about nothing. Ordered a disgraceful amount of room service. Shane moaned that Apple Watch hadn't been invented yet and his fitbit was quite shit by comparison. How was he supposed to track his energy expenditure in these conditions?

Outside, Belgium baked itself golden in the summer heat while they recovered and got ready for the night to come.

Avicii was on at seven.

This, Shane gradually understood, was the real target.

The first day had been orientation. This was the one Ilya had built the whole trip around.

So they went back in brighter and looser, with less dread in Shane's body and more anticipation instead. The grounds felt different the second time through now that he knew what to expect. Familiar enough that he could spend less energy sensing and more energy existing.

They were drinking by the time Avicii's set started, just enough for the alcohol to soften the remaining hard edges without blurring anything important. The light was still high and honey-gold over the grounds, the whole place bright as a fever dream. Someone had pressed a flower crown into Ilya's hands ten minutes earlier and then, dissatisfied with his lack of initiative, simply put it on his head instead. Now it sat crooked in his hair over the glitter stars someone else had stuck around his eyes.

Shane had not recovered.

He was still less recovered a few minutes later when another girl, smiling like this was the most obvious thing in the world, patted his arm, asked to borrow him for a second, and then carefully pressed a dusting of sparkles along the freckles across his cheeks and nose.

"There," she said, delighted with herself. "Much better."

Ilya looked at him and made a helpless, wrecked little sound like he'd just been shot.

And maybe it was the summer sun, or the buzz in his bloodstream, or the joy on Ilya's face, but for the first blessed time Shane felt like he understood that he was capable of feeling things he had never quite been able to reach before. Not just happiness. Not just safety. Something bigger and brighter and utterly inescapable.

Then music broke over them and the crowd roared.

Ilya turned toward the stage with that same fierce, impossible happiness all over his face, flower crown slightly askew, glitter stars flashing when he moved, and Shane was gone for it.

Gone.

He had never seen him look more free.

And standing there in the middle of thousands, shoulder to shoulder with strangers back up the hill surrounding the mainstage and sun and sound and a body humming pleasantly with alcohol, Shane realized with something close to wonder that he had never felt more connected in a crowd than he did right then.

Held by it. Everyone present in witnessing this single thing together with no phones anywhere in sight. 

The joy was inescapable.

The energy moved through everything. The stage. The music. The people around them. The way Ilya laughed and grabbed his hand and dragged him deeper without even looking back because for once Shane did not need coaxing.

He went willingly.

He went grinning.

He went with his whole chest open.

"Holy fuck," he said at one point, because there was nothing else left that did not sound stupid.

Ilya turned, smiling so hard it hurt to look at him.

"What?"

Shane only shook his head and pulled him in by the waist and kissed him. There in the middle of the throng of people with little care for who could see. Because for the first time in his life that kind of calculation seemed small and far away and irrelevant to the fact of how happy he was.

When he pulled back, Ilya simply stared.

Shane touched the flower crown, straightening it for no reason except that he could.

"I would come back here with you every year," he said, and meant it. "Just to see you like this."

Ilya beamed at him both brighter and softer than he had thought possible.

Then he laughed and kissed him again, quick and hot and bright as the whole goddamn day.

They rode that energy for the rest of the night.

Stage to stage. Drink to drink. Laughter coming easier every hour. Shane kept expecting the old self-consciousness to reassert itself and it just... didn't. Or not enough to matter. Every time he looked at Ilya he felt the same stupid rush all over again. The same impossible gratitude. The same certainty that this, whatever this bright reckless thing was, counted as being alive in a way he had been missing for years without fully knowing it.

By the time they got back to the hotel on the second night, both of them were damp with sweat, half drunk, filthy with glitter, and too happy to look directly at.

The room was dark except for the bathroom light flooding out across the carpet. Their clothes lay in a trail from the door to the bed, festival dirt and sweat and haste making the whole thing look faintly disreputable.

Shane lay on his back with one arm over his face while Ilya towel-dried his hair in the bathroom doorway.

Neither of them had the energy for sex.

That, more than anything, told Shane how thoroughly the day had wrung them out.

Still, the air between them felt bright. Charged in a slower, deeper way.

Ilya climbed into bed, still damp at the temples, and immediately stole half the blanket with the efficiency of long practice.

Shane did not even protest.

For a minute they just lay there in the dark, breathing in sync more by accident than design.

Then Ilya said, very quietly, "Thank you for today."

Shane turned his head on the pillow.

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

He was quiet for another second.

"For all of it," he said.

Shane reached across the sheets until he found his hand.

"Anytime."

Ilya squeezed once.

He was quiet for a long moment after that, loose and warm under the blankets, still humming faintly with the last of the music.

Then he said, almost to himself, "I think I want to learn how to do that."

Shane turned his head. "Do what?"

"That." Ilya made a vague motion with his free hand, like he could somehow indicate the whole of the festival, the lights, the music, the strangers made soft and bright by it. "Make people feel like that. I want to try. It brings so much... light to them. To me. To us."

Shane looked at him for a second.

There was no humour in Ilya's face. No joke waiting underneath it. Just that same dazed, earnest wonder he'd been wearing on and off since Avicii.

And because Shane knew him, he understood what a thing it was for Ilya to say out loud.

Not I liked it. Not that was fun. Not even I want to go back.

I want to make something.

I want to give something.

Shane lifted Ilya's hand and kissed his knuckles in the dark. “Then I can’t wait to hear it.”

Ilya smiled and brushed another piece of glitter from Shane’s face softly, “Okay.”

Then, because his eyes were drooping and consciousness wasn’t going to last, he murmured, "Go to sleep, husband."

Ilya made a soft, sleepy sound in reply. "Bossy."

"Yep."

A beat.

"Good night," Ilya said.

Shane smiled into the pillow.

"Good night."

Chapter End Notes

I'm now realising that that sex scene kinda just kept going o.O whoops. Anyway, this was pretty much how my wife finally convinced me to go with her to a music festival, the earplugs are magic for sensory overwhelm (for me anyway) and now one of my life goals is to go to Tomorrowland. Since I can't go back to 2011, I wanted the boys to experience it for me. <3

Next Chapter Preview: "ROZANOV YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

Chapter 15: Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

August - October 2011

Chapter Notes

Thanks everyone for the comments! They're giving me life, I read each one and appreciate them even if I don't respond all the time.

Without further ado, I've been waiting to write the hockey scene since before I began the fic. Enjoy!

The first week of August disappeared in a haze of lazy dog days before Yuna’s endorsement calendar finally kicked in.

Ilya had not, the first time around, spent much time thinking about endorsements beyond showing up where he was told and cashing the cheque afterward for the few deals his Russian agent had gotten for him before moving to Canada. Yuna had mostly left him alone then. She’d assumed he either managed his own deals or didn’t care enough to bother, and honestly, at the time, she had been mostly right. Back then she’d also had Irina Foundation work to occupy her, and Ilya had been more interested in spending as much time with Shane as possible than in building anything else around himself.

This time they had an agenda.

So apparently did Yuna.

She’d put together a genuinely remarkable schedule, one that kept him and Shane in the same city whenever possible, even when they were technically there for separate campaigns. Toronto, Montreal, New York, then back again, all of it threaded together by flights, skates, garment bags, cameras, and the particular sort of exhaustion that came from trying to look effortless while being managed within an inch of your life.

If anyone found it odd that Ilya Rozanov was suddenly being guided through endorsement strategy by Shane Hollander’s mother, nobody said so to his face.

Which was wise.

There were worse ways to spend August than getting bounced between ad shoots with your husband while both of you were in absurdly good shape and trying not to look too pleased every time the other one walked into a room.

The first real sign that the summer had tipped into something new came in the Toronto airport, when a travelling middle school soccer team kept glancing over from the next gate with the increasingly obvious intensity of children trying not to be obvious.

Ilya noticed them before Shane did.

Mostly because Shane was reading something on his phone with the kind of severe concentration that could only mean legal contracts. Hmm maybe the papers for the cottage land hand come in.

Before he could ask, one of the girls finally got shoved forward by her teammates with all the grim dignity of a sacrificial offering.

"Sorry," she blurted as soon as she got close enough. "Are you Shane Hollander?"

Shane looked up, a little startled.

Then the girl glanced at Ilya and startled all over again. "And Ilya Rozanov?"

That was more fun.

The poor child then explained, in one breath, that they were in Toronto for a soccer tournament, that some of them also played hockey in the winter, and that her big sister was trying to make the Montreal Stars someday, so she thought it was cool that Shane spent time around the team and they watched him play all the time because her sister thought he was really cute! But shhhh don't tell her she said that.

Before Shane could answer, one of her friends called over from the seats that her sister was already good enough, actually, and the only real problem was people still being stupid about girls’ hockey.

That got a laugh out of Shane, quick and surprised enough that Ilya almost missed what mattered more.

Recognition itself wasn’t strange to him, but this was the first time it had happened without a team, hospital, or sponsor arranging the moment. Just a nervous kid at an airport gate blurting out something sincere because she cared. Younger, weirder, more earnest. Kids connecting them to hockey before they’d had time to become the legends they would be before.

And, more importantly, it meant the visibility was working.

Once the ice broke, two more girls edged over. Then one asked for a picture. Then another offered up a hat to sign after arguing with herself about it for a full thirty seconds first.

It was a small shift, but noticeable. More eyes lingering. More people doubling back for a second look.

It tracked with everything else. Better rookie seasons than anyone had expected. More media. More ads. More reasons for people to know their faces outside a rink. Which also meant they needed to be more careful. More deliberate. More in control of what story people were being sold.

The advert tour rolled on. Shane had Rolex. Ilya had a sports drink. Then there was a charity sportswear ad in Toronto where they ended up at the same dinner afterward, trying not to let on that they were playing footsie under the table.

And now New York.

For the semi-historical co-ad, the culmination of Yuna’s absurdly efficient August schedule.

Adidas and Reebok had decided that if the league wanted rivalries, they might as well cooperate and monetize them properly. Yuna Hollander only took most of the credit for selling the idea.

The set had been divided cleanly down the middle, Adidas in black and silver, Reebok in white and deep blue. It was a little ridiculous, but it worked. Not enemies, not exactly. Just a rivalry polished up until it was easy to market.

Friends off the ice. Fiercely competitive on it. That was clearly what they were going for.

The commercial leaned into the competition. They started with stills, then moved to drills on a training floor dressed up to look sleek and expensive enough for the cameras.

They ran sprints.

They did footwork drills side by side.

Medicine ball slams. Battle ropes. Box jumps. One-on-one stickhandling challenges through a line of cameras and lights while some director kept shouting for more intensity and less laughter like he didn’t understand that asking them not to laugh at each other was a losing battle.

By the third take they were both sweating profusely.

That was the problem, or one of them.

Shane bent over with his hands braced on his knees while someone rushed in to blot his face, chest still heaving from the last sprint. His shirt clung damply across his shoulders and chest, and his hair had started to curl at the temples in a way that made Ilya want to commit several small crimes.

Ilya looked away before he said something stupid.

"You’re staring," Shane said when they reset at the start line again.

Ilya smiled without looking at him. "And yet you sound pleased about it."

"I’m not."

"Mm. Very convincing."

Shane rolled his shoulders loose. "You’re the one having a moment."

That made Ilya glance down at himself. His younger body's hormones sometimes still surprised him despite his best efforts but couldn't see anything damning.

Shane grimaced but there was enough heat in his face that Ilya realised he was talking about the effect Ilya was having on him.

"I am suffering too, you know," Ilya said.

That pulled Shane’s eyes sideways despite himself.

Excellent.

The director counted them in and they took off again.

It got worse from there.

Push-up holds, face to face.

Resistance bands.

A staged race to a wall where they both had to slap the branded logo at the top and glare at each other in a way that highlighted their upper body strength.

Somebody, at some point, had the brilliant idea to put them on mats for a core workout segment that ended with both of them half-propped on one elbow, flushed and damp and breathing hard while the camera moved slow between them. All glistening abs and heaving chests.

It had to be the most homoerotic ad in history, who the fuck greenlit this?

Ilya lay there looking at Shane and thought, not for the first time, that this entire concept had to have been designed by someone who had a sweaty man fetish.

Shane’s pupils were blown wide enough that Ilya knew, with enormous private satisfaction, that he was not suffering alone.

Then the camera cut, the moment broke, and a stylist darted in to fix Shane’s hair while another handed Ilya a towel.

The whole thing was torture.

He was having a fantastic time.

By the time they got to the interview setup, they’d both showered, changed, and had enough time apart to regain a fragile grip on themselves.

The backdrop was cleaner than the training set, the branding less aggressive. Two stools. Two microphones. Water bottles lined up neatly on a low table. Yuna stood off to one side in a sharp blazer and immaculate calm, talking to a producer with the exact expression that meant she was getting her way while making them think it had been their idea all along.

Ilya increasingly impressed every time he saw her do that.

The first part of the interview stayed where it was supposed to.

Rivalry.

Respect.

How much did they push each other just by existing in the same league.

Whether there was something uniquely energizing about playing against someone your own age who understood exactly what it meant to come in young and immediately have expectations piled on your shoulders.

That part, at least, was easy.

"He makes games harder," Shane said, which got a laugh from the interviewer until he kept going. "In a good way. You know where he is all the time. You have to. If you don’t, he’ll make you pay for it."

Ilya tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Same for him. He is very annoying to play against because he is good at too many things. It is rude, actually."

"That sounds like a compliment."

"It is. Don’t tell him."

"You just did."

"No, this is interview It doesn’t count."

That got another laugh.

The interviewer smiled at both of them over her cue cards. "So you’d say there’s genuine athletic respect there?"

"Of course," Shane said.

Ilya shrugged. "He is uniquely tolerable."

"That’s huge from Rozanov," the interviewer said.

"I know," Shane said solemnly. "I’m honoured."

Ilya kicked lightly at the leg of Shane’s stool and Shane had to bite the inside of his cheek not to grin too visibly.

The questions stayed good for a while after that. Review from last season. Where they think their games were headed. What they looked forward to for the next season. Whether Montreal-Boston felt different from other matchups. What parts of each other’s game they’d steal if they could. Shane said Ilya’s hands. Ilya said Shane’s shot. Then amended it to say no, actually, his discipline, which was such transparent bullshit the whole room laughed again.

Then the interviewer’s grin sharpened.

"Okay," she said. "I have to ask. After June, everyone wants to know if there’s another bet this season."

Of course this was what stuck.

Not the campaigns. Not the rivalry packaging. One stupid exchange at the awards and suddenly half the sports media in North America thought they were making side deals every time they crossed paths.

"We do not currently," Ilya said.

Shane turned to look at him. "That’s a suspicious way to phrase that."

"It is also true."

The interviewer perked up immediately. "So there could be one?"

"No," Shane said.

"Maybe," Ilya said at the same time.

"Jesus Christ," Shane muttered.

The room laughed.

Yuna, off to the side, pinched the bridge of her nose but also visibly fighting a smile.

"What would the bet even be?" the interviewer asked.

"Goals," Ilya said instantly.

"That’s tired," Shane said.

Ilya looked offended. "How is that tired?"

"Because we’ve both already done quite a bit on our own," Shane said. "If we were doing it, which we’re not, it should be points. See how much we can drive the whole team, not just ourselves."

Ilya stared at him. "Points?"

"Yes. Goals and assists."

"Cowardly."

"Balanced."

"Cowardly and balanced can both be true."

The interviewer was openly laughing now. "So if there were a bet, which there—"

"There isn’t," Shane said.

"—it would maybe be overall points?"

"He wants to hide behind assists," Ilya said.

"Assists count," Shane said. "That’s the point."

"My rules reward greatness."

"Your rules reward being selfish."

Ilya put a hand over his chest. "You wound me."

The interviewer turned, delighted, to Shane. "So what is it, then? Mutual respect until the puck drops?"

Shane glanced at Ilya, still sitting there in expensive sneakers and controlled chaos, and let himself smile this time.

"Something like that," he said.

That, apparently, was perfect.

The interview wrapped soon after. A few more photos, a few closing thank-yous, another round of handshakes. Then the studio finally started emptying, lights dimming in sections while crew members packed cables and rolled carts toward the doors.

Ilya found Shane near the edge of the set with his phone in hand, typing something with the focus of a man composing a diplomatic incident.

"What’s with the face?" Ilya asked.

Shane looked up. "The realtor for the cottage land is being an ass. He still thinks I’m some inexperienced kid he can take for a ride."

Ilya’s mouth flattened. "Do you want me to call Yuna, or would that ruin the satisfaction of dealing with him yourself?"

That got a laugh out of Shane. "I think I would prefer to keep Mom out of it. Thanks though."

"Boring," Ilya said.

Shane slid his phone into his pocket. "You’re exhausting."

"Yes, but look how much enrichment I bring to your life."

Before Shane could answer, Yuna stepped up beside them, cool as ever. "Your flight options back to Boston are on your phones. I moved the earlier one because you two took forever wrapping up."

"You are a gift," Ilya told her.

"I know," Yuna said.

Then she turned to Shane. "Don’t thank me yet. Svetlana lands tomorrow morning and somebody still has to help Ilya move boxes into that lovely house of his."

"It is a very nice house," Ilya said.

"That’s not what I’m questioning," Yuna said. "I’m questioning whether either of you has enough sense to set up a kitchen properly without supervision."

Ilya looked briefly affronted, he was a grown man who knew how to keep house! Not that she would really know he supposed. Shane also gave his mother a quizzical look. His house was fine, she'd seen it!

But before he could protest, Yuna checked her watch and kept speaking. "You have twelve days before camp starts. Try not to waste them."

Then she squeezed Shane’s shoulder once, nodded at Ilya, and moved off to terrorize some poor production assistant.

Ilya watched her go. "For a woman with so little faith in our basic competence, I like her more every day."

"That’s because she bullies you correctly," Shane said.

"Maybe."

Shane’s chain had slipped slightly with movement, just enough for the ring to catch the light where it rested under his shirt.

Ilya looked away before the moment could turn soft on them.

"We could stop by the Kingfisher before the airport," he said instead. "See if Kip or Kyle are working yet."

Shane glanced back at him, immediately interested. "That would actually be kind of fun."

"Right?"

Then they both stopped.

Shane’s face changed first.

Ilya felt it hit him a split second later.

"We’re not old enough to drink in the States yet," they said at the same time.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Shane groaned. "Fuck sakes."

Ilya tipped his head back. "How much more must we endure?"

"We’re married and we can’t legally order a beer in New York."

"Humiliating," Ilya agreed.

Shane laughed, the sound warm and helpless in a way Ilya liked too much. "Come on. Let’s just get to the airport to go to Boston."

By the time they got to Boston, Shane had already spent enough odd days here that walking into Ilya’s house no longer felt new.

It was a bit smaller than the penthouse he'd had in Boston in their previous life. Three bedrooms, private yard, two-car garage, solid instead of flashy. Ilya’s taste was still all over it, obviously. Clean lines, dark wood floors, and a top of the line sound system.

What was new was the pile of boxes stacked beside the living room wall.

Fresh deliveries, still sealed. More DJ equipment, apparently ordered while they’d been bouncing around from city to city and left waiting here until Ilya had time to breathe long enough to open them.

Shane stopped there first.

"You bought more?"

Ilya set down a bag and came to stand beside him. "A controller, turn tables, a microphone, and better headphones."

"You already had headphones."

"Those were starter headphones. These are real."

Shane glanced at him. "If you say so."

"It is not my fault you have no ear for nuance."

Shane smiled and touched the edge of one of the unopened boxes. The whole thing was weirdly endearing. Ilya clearly meant to make space for it. He kept finding more pieces of this life and dragging them home.

"You’re accumulating gear like a dragon," he said.

"Yes."

"Not denying it?"

"Why would I deny something so obviously true?"

Shane just shook his head and started losing clothes as he made his way to the bedroom. Ilya followed very quickly.

-

The next morning, Svetlana arrived with two suitcases, one backpack, and the expression of a woman who had already been patient all day and was now done with that phase of her life.

She took one look at the front hall, then at Ilya, then at the stack of equipment by the living room wall.

"Oh," she said in Russian. "You live like this on purpose?"

"Hello to you too," Ilya said, taking one of her suitcases.

Shane reached for the other before she could protest.

Her eyes flicked to him, warm with recognition before strutting forward and kissed both his cheeks in greeting. "You I’m glad to see. Him, less so."

"Rude," Ilya said.

"Accurate," she said before giving him the same greeting.

Moving her in took the better part of the afternoon.

Not because she had that much stuff, but because every box opened some new discussion.

Where to put books.

Which room got what, and what still needed to be moved around.

What actually surprised Svetlana, though, was that the house was already laid out properly.

The kitchen was stocked. The pans matched. There were real groceries in the fridge (freshly stocked by his part-time housekeeper), spices in the cabinet, cleaning supplies under the sink, spare linens in the hall closet, and a labeled row of containers in the pantry that suggested Ilya had, at some point, fully committed to learning how to run a household like an adult.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen and looked around once, slowly.

"Huh," she said.

Ilya glanced up from where he was unpacking glasses. "What?"

"Nothing." She opened a cupboard, checked another, then looked back at him with narrowed eyes. "I just expected worse."

Shane laughed.

Ilya looked deeply offended. "Based on what?"

"Based on you," she said.

"I know how to keep house." Ilya rolled his eyes. Seriously was every woman in their lives destined to be surprised that they were functional adults? 

"Apparently."

That did not stop her from reorganizing part of the kitchen anyway, because she was still herself and because, as she informed them both, there was a difference between functional and sensible.

By dinnertime, two boxes of books were emptied, the guest room was half set, and Svetlana had already reorganized the tupperware.

Ilya watched this in offended silence until she held up a bottle from the back of the cupboard and said, "Why do you have three kinds of vinegar but only one good knife?"

Shane just snorted.

Ilya looked at him. "You are supposed to be on my side."

"I’m on the side of the person who’s entertaining me most," Shane said.

"Traitor."

Later, after they’d gotten Svetlana’s bedding sorted and argued over takeout, Shane followed Ilya downstairs to the basement level where he’d carved out his training space.

Weights. Matting. Mirrors. Sticks in a rack against one wall. A shooting tarp folded up near the far end. Enough equipment to make it clear that the endorsements and flights and dinners hadn’t replaced the actual point of any of this.

They’d been training through the whole month in fragments, and now, with less than two weeks left before camp, the work was tightening up.

More edge work. More sprint intervals. More stickhandling under fatigue until their hands got sloppy and they had to force them back into line.

By the end of it they were both dripping sweat.

Shane watched Ilya loop a resistance band around his thighs and said, "We need rules for training."

Ilya laughed. "No we do not."

"Yes we do."

"Because you are having impure athletic thoughts?"

Shane glared at him. "You’re having them too."

"Obviously. I have eyes."

Shane dragged his shirt over his face and muttered, "You’re a disaster."

Ilya smiled. "And yet you continue to find me inspiring."

Shane threw his towel at him.

Ilya caught it and laughed.

-

Camp started off strong.

Shane had made decent headway with the room last year without being an asshole about it, and the guys were responding in kind. He still liked camp, still liked the structure of it, the way everything got stripped back to work and repetition and who could actually keep up. But this year it felt easier to settle in. Less like he was trying to force his place and more like he’d already earned some of it.

That didn’t stop the weirdness entirely. He still knew some of these men better than he was supposed to. Not this version of them. But enough that he had to watch his words sometimes. It would probably be weird to tell Taylor to stop stressing about his new girlfriend because they would get married in a couple years and end up with three kids.

The room was louder after the first skate, guys drifting toward their stalls in clumps, some of the invitees still talking too quickly from nerves. Shane was toweling off the back of his neck when Hayden dropped into the stall beside him and elbowed him lightly.

"You still coming by tonight?" Hayden asked. "Jackie’s asked me to check with you three times already."

Shane glanced over. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. The girls’ll be pissed if you bail." Hayden grinned. "Ruby keeps asking for you now because you brought them that stupid stuffed penguin last time."

Shane laughed. "I hope she won't take it personally that I don't bring toys every time."

"Come over and tell her that, then. Around six."

Shane nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

A second later Shane realized how easy Hayden made this. Dinner at six. The girls wanted to see him. Bring dessert if he felt like it.

Before Shane could say anything else, Hayden jerked his chin toward the room’s entrance.

"You have any thoughts about the new defenseman? I looked up some of his AHL work, seems pretty good."

Shane turned.

JJ.

He hadn’t paid much attention to him the first time around at first. Just enough to know the numbers, the usage, the way he might fit into a pairing, how the team looked more balanced with him in the mix. Stats and technique, mostly. Useful information, nothing personal. Until JJ barged his own way into being one of his best friends.

So it was a little jarring to see him this young again.

Older than Shane by a year, but only now finally sticking full-time after the AHL grind. A little narrower than Shane remembered, not filled out yet in the way young men usually weren’t; more wiry than the wall he would become over the next few years. But he still had that bright, restless energy that hit a room before he was even fully in it.

He was saying something over his shoulder to the trainer, making the man laugh, then turning to answer a question from somebody else like he’d been there for months instead of freshly called up.

Shane had to school his expression fast.

First meeting.

Hayden was already up and moving. Shane followed a beat later.

"JJ, right?" Hayden said, sticking out a hand first. "Hayden. Welcome to the circus."

JJ laughed and shook it. "That supposed to reassure me, or are you just warning me in advance, calisse?"

"Both," Hayden said.

Hayden angled a thumb at Shane. "And this is Shane."

JJ shifted his bag higher and offered his hand right away. "Yeah, I know who Shane Hollander is. Hard not to, 'is face is everywhere, hein?"

"Unfortunately for me, most people do," Shane said.

JJ grinned, bright and immediate. "Guess I’m one of them too, then. Jean-Jacques, but everybody says JJ unless I’m in trouble avec ma mere."

Shane smiled, happy to hear his friend's voice again, the locker room had been a bit quiet without him.

"You sticking around you think?" Hayden asked.

JJ nodded once. "Lookin' like it."

They chatted for a few minutes, ostensibly getting to know each other before one of the trainers called JJ's name from across the room and he lifted a hand in acknowledgment without really losing the thread of the conversation.

"Duty calls," Hayden said. "Go impress somebody."

He headed off toward the trainers’ room, still talking before he’d made it halfway across, and Shane watched him go with the odd, disorienting feeling of a future memory clicking quietly into place.

Hayden bumped his shoulder again on the way back to their stalls. "Six o’clock," he said. "Don’t be late."

"Yeah, yeah."

"And bring dessert if you want to impress Jackie."

Shane snorted. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Hayden sat back down and started unlacing his skates. "New guy seems good."

"Yeah," Shane said, keeping his tone even. "He does."

Then he grabbed his towel and headed for the showers before he could accidentally let too much of that show.

-

That evening Shane brought dessert to Hayden and Jackie’s, got lightly mocked for taking the instruction so seriously, and got absorbed into family dinner with far less resistance than he probably should have. The twins were sticky, loud, fascinated by everything, and perfectly willing to treat him like he belonged there. Jackie approved of the dessert, Hayden approved of the fact that Shane showed up at all, and by the end of the night one of the girls had fallen asleep on him long enough for Jackie to coo and for Shane to pretend that didn’t affect him.

He texted Ilya from the car on his way out.

Shane: [Hayden’s kids are trying to adopt me.]

The reply came before he made it to the elevator.

Ilya: [congratulations on fatherhood]

Shane: [Shut up.]

Ilya: [no]

Then, a second later:

Ilya: [Svetlana says this is because you look trustworthy and i do not]

Shane: [She’s right.]

Ilya: [horrible betrayal in my own house]

That was how September went, more than anything else. Steady contact. Photos of the day to day and with less clothing. Camp complaints, travel schedules, clips from practice, the occasional glimpse of Ruby asleep on Hayden or another new piece of DJ equipment taking over Ilya’s kitchen table. The realtor finally caving in negotiations to Shane's unending satisfaction. They called when they could, texted when they couldn’t, and kept close without needing to make a production of it. It was enough. More than enough, most nights.

In Boston, Ilya sounded good. And it relieved Shane immensely.

Busy. Focused. Amused more often than not.

It was nice having Svetlana there. She made the house feel more lived in, and it kept him from missing Shane too too much. The DJ setup kept expanding too, as Ilya continued to dive into it.

Shane, privately, thought this was exactly what should be happening.

He wanted Ilya to keep gathering pieces of a life that belonged only to him.

He just also wanted to be there when he did it.

One night, toward the end of camp, Shane caught him in the middle of it.

The call picked up on the fourth ring, then shifted abruptly into video. For a second all Shane saw was ceiling, then a hand, then Ilya’s face as he propped the phone against something on the kitchen counter.

"You look terrible," Ilya said.

Shane, halfway out of one shirt and into another after having just gotten home from an evening skate, rolled his eyes. "Nice to see you too."

"No, I mean it affectionately. Like a man who has been persecuted by cardio."

Shane rolled his eyes, "Sure."

Ilya smirked and Shane wanted to both smack him and kiss him.

Behind him, the kitchen looked more lived in than it had in August, and through the open doorway Shane could see the DJ setup had multiplied again.

He pointed at it. "You bought more things."

Ilya followed his finger and looked offended by the accusation. "I bought one thing."

"That’s at least three things."

"It is one concept."

Shane laughed. "That’s not how money works."

"You are so negative about my artistic growth."

"You’re not an artist yet."

"Very hurtful. I will remember this when I am internationally respected."

"You’ll still be annoying."

"True."

Shane let it hang before offering up his real opinion, "I can't wait to hear what you create, Ilya."

Ilya beamed, "I'm sure you'll love it."

The ease still caught Shane off guard sometimes. They could go quiet, change subjects, end a call because somebody had an early skate, and nothing in him panicked anymore. He missed Ilya constantly. But it was a dull, manageable absence now instead of something he had to survive.

Svetlana moved through the background then, opening the fridge and pausing when she spotted Shane on the phone.

Svetlana glanced over from the fridge. "How’s my favourite Montreal hockey player?"

"Good. How’s school?" Shane asked.

She made a face and moved out of frame.

Shane laughed and asked Ilya, "How’s Boston?" 

Ilya leaned back against the counter, the phone catching him in profile for a second before he resettled. "Fine. Busy. Training is good. Camp is camp. My coach still makes that face like he personally invented suffering."

"Yeah, ours too."

"I am also doing some boring financial structuring things," Ilya added with the air of someone trying very hard to make the sentence sound accidental.

Shane looked at him more closely. "What kind of structuring things?"

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing dramatic. Just trying to offset some of the tax burden by donating to charity."

Shane’s expression shifted. "Oh. Yeah? Which one?"

"The ACLU," Ilya said.

"Why them?" Shane asked with a quirk of his head.

Ilya leaned back against the counter. "Civil rights. We both-" Ilya cut himself off not sure if Svetlana could hear and giving Shane a significant look before continuing. "Figured I might try helping more than just us."

Shane looked at him, and Ilya looked back.

Heavy. Knowing.

Then Shane exhaled through his nose. "Yeah," he said.

He still didn’t know exactly what Ilya was building, only that there was more thought in it than he was making visible. Lawyers. Accountants. He remembered him talking about an off shore account last year, probably an extension of that.

"Okay," Shane said finally and smiled.

Ilya’s eyes flicked back to his face, catching the choice and not commenting on it.

"How’s JJ settling in?" Ilya asked instead, lowering his voice just slightly. Svetlana wasn’t really paying attention, but still.

Shane smiled despite himself. "Good. Better than good, actually. He talks a lot and it's made the room feel closer already."

Ilya’s mouth curled. "Yes."

"Hayden likes him. The room likes him. He’s fitting fast without trying too hard."

"And personally?"

Shane caught that. The distinction.

"Personally, good," he said. "He’s still young enough to be a little chaotic, but he'll develop fast again. He doesn't mind my direction like some of the other guys do."

Ilya nodded once. "That sounds right."

"You worried?"

"Not worried," Ilya said. "Just checking."

Shane smiled. "He’s good."

He could hear the concern in Ilya’s voice. "Okay."

-

The season closed in fast after that.

Preseason games, cuts, final rosters, and then suddenly Boston was there on the calendar.

By then the Adidas/Reebok commercial and the interview clip had done exactly what they were supposed to do. Their rivalry was still front and center but it hadn't yet developed that edge to it like it had before. Shane really hoped they could keep walking that line.

The room in Montreal however, liked it a little too much.

“So,” Hayden said the morning of the game, leaning in Shane’s stall with his coffee, “what do we think the goal song is gonna be?”

Shane didn’t look up from taping his stick. “I have no idea.”

Hayden stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

JJ, lacing his skates two stalls down, snorted. “That’s worse.”

Shane looked over. “I know.”

“It’s the first game against Boston on their home ice,” Hayden said. “You’re telling me nobody warned you?”

Shane shook his head. “Nope. I’m just hoping it’s not too embarrassing.”

That got a laugh.

JJ shrugged. “Calisse, now it’s definitely gonna be embarrassing.”

That opened the floodgates.

A couple stalls down, someone immediately guessed Blue by Eiffel 65. Another asked if they were about to get hit with Cotton Eye Joe. Hayden said if it was Mambo No. 5 he was owed beers every time he had to hear it (no they were not getting the story out of him, thank you very much), and somebody behind Shane wanted to know if they were all about to get hounded by Who Let the Dogs Out.

Shane groaned thinking of Cotton Eyed Joe and the time Dykstra had forced them all to listen to it on repeat as he tried to show some rookies the dance. He would NOT be letting that happen again. "Fuck I hope not." Ilya wouldn't be that cruel would he?

“How bad could it be?” Hayden asked. "It's only for the next... four and a half months. No biggie!"

That got a laugh out of more people than Shane was comfortable with.

The Bears room, apparently, wasn’t much better.

Ilya texted him forty minutes before warmups.

Ilya: [Cliff and two others are harassing me. They are mad I won't tell them what song I picked]

Shane stared at the message, then smiled down at his phone.

Shane: [Good. Suffer.]

The reply came immediately.

Ilya: [they want hints]

Shane: [Are you giving them any?]

Ilya: [absolutely not]

Then, a beat later:

Ilya: [one of them guessed abba]

Shane actually laughed at that.

Shane: [That's not even that embarrassing.]

Ilya: [Exactly! Even you like abba]

That was infuriatingly true.

Warmups did nothing to improve the situation.

By now, most people had heard about the Calder bet. Maybe not the exact timeline of terms, but enough of the story to know that Ilya had won, Shane had lost, and somewhere in all of this there was a goal song waiting to happen.

That gave the whole building a weird undercurrent.

Boston obviously did not want Shane to score. Nobody in black and gold was eager to hand Montreal a goal on home ice in the first place, but they were excited to see what their star rookie had cooked up in his victory over Montreal's star rookie.

And that was the thrill of it. People wanted to know. The Bears bench wanted to know. The Montreal bench wanted to know. Half the damn city probably wanted to know, even if it meant their own team getting scored on.

It was a stupid, anticipatory sort of energy, half PR and half prank, and it sat over everything from the opening stretch of warmups onward.

Shane was having mixed feelings as well. On one hand, he got to see his husband in person again for the first time in a few weeks and it felt good to be in a real game again. But... this bet would haunt him wouldn't it?

The game started and lights were bright, the crowd louder. Every time Shane glanced across center he found Ilya already in motion, long strides turning into little flashes of aggression while the whole arena buzzed with the possibility that one goal might answer all their questions.

Once, coming off a loose puck near the boards, Ilya looked up at exactly the wrong moment and caught Shane watching.

His mouth curled.

He lifted his eyebrows once, almost imperceptibly, and snapped a shot clean past the Voyageur goalie’s shoulder.

1-0 for Boston. Show-off.

Shane looked away before he did something stupid like smile.

The game itself started hot and stayed there.

Boston pushed early, all pressure and crowd noise. Montreal answered with speed. Even that early in the season, both teams were going hard, because there was still the bet reveal sitting over everything and nobody wanted to be the one who blinked first.

The thrill of it settled into Shane.

He also spent the entirety of the first and second periods being acutely aware of where Ilya was.

Bench.

Circle.

Blue line.

Behind the net.

One shift midway through the second, they ended up shoulder to shoulder in the corner digging for a puck and Ilya muttered, low enough that only Shane could hear it, "You look tense."

Shane shoved back harder than necessary and came away with the puck.

"You look ugly," he shot back.

Ilya laughed.

Boston had already struck quickly in the first, which only made the whole stupid song situation hang over everything longer.

Montreal tied it late in the second on a rebound off a point shot that turned into a crease scramble and thirteen full seconds of total collapse in front of the net as five players from both teams ended up in a heap in front of the goalie. Shane got the secondary assist and smirked.

That felt better.

The third started level and ugly.

Shane loved that too.

Then, halfway through, it finally happened.

The play started in neutral ice with a bad Boston pass that landed just a little too far ahead of its target. Shane stepped into the lane, picked it off clean, and was already moving before the winger who’d thrown it had fully realized what he’d done.

One stride.

Two.

The defenseman backed in.

Shane cut slightly left, dragged the puck just enough to open the angle, and snapped it high glove side.

It beat the goalie clean.

The red light flared.

The crowd detonated.

And then, over the horn, came the first bright unmistakable notes of... Britney Spears.

♪ Mmm, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah ♪

Shane coasted half a stride before his brain caught up.

No.

No fucking way.

He turned toward the bench so fast he nearly caught an edge.

♪ Oops, I did it again, I played with your heart ♪

Hayden was doubled over laughing.

♪ Got lost in the game, oh, baby, baby ♪

JJ had both gloves pressed to his mouth like that was going to help.

♪ Oops, you think I'm in love, that I'm sent from abo-o-o-ve ♪

Fans behind them were actually pounding on the boards.

And across the ice, Ilya had gone completely still.

Not for long. Just long enough.

♪ I'm not that innocent ♪

Then he tilted his head back and laughed.

The bastard.

Shane skated straight for him. "ROZANOV YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

Not quite fast enough to look like real rage but more than fast enough to make the refs pay attention.

"You asshole," he snapped, grabbing Ilya's jersey as he tackled him full force into the boards. 

Ilya, because he apparently had no fear of God or his husband left anywhere in his body, went down like Shane had shot him.

He hit the ice with all the dignity of a startled goose and slid a couple feet on his ass; one hand pressed dramatically to his chest as Shane fell on top of him and his helmet flew off somewhere behind them.

The whistle blew.

The nearest ref’s arm went up immediately.

Shane bounced up over him as the refs arrived, furious and mortified but trying not to laugh, which was the worst possible combination as he really didn't quite know how to feel.

Ilya looked up at him from the ice, eyes bright with vicious delight.

"Domestic abuse," he muttered under his breath.

Shane made a strangled sound that was definitely not laughter and probably not any polite words either.

The ref got there first. "Hollander, two for roughing. Rozanov, two for embellishment. Go cool off in the box."

That only made it worse.

The crowd was losing its mind now, half cheering, half booing, the rest just there for the spectacle. Shane heard at least one cackling shriek from somewhere behind the Boston bench and knew, without looking, that half his teammates would never let him live this down.

Ilya got to his skates still shaking with laughter.

"You are an asshole," Shane said as they were herded toward the box.

"And yet," Ilya said pleasantly, stepping in beside him, "you are also in trouble."

They sat shoulder to shoulder with the short divider between them under the harsh little lights of the penalty box while the arena still buzzed with the aftermath.

For a second Shane kept his eyes on the ice, jaw locked, trying to preserve at least the appearance of righteous anger which mostly made him look like an angry kitten.

Beside him, Ilya was visibly vibrating with glee.

"Well," he said finally. "That was worth it."

Shane turned to stare at him. "Britney Spears? Really?"

"A classic."

"I hate you."

Ilya smiled broadly. "No you don’t."

Outside the glass, Hayden skated past on the Montreal side of the bin and pointed at them both with the sheer delight of a man who had just been given gossip for the next six months.

Shane dragged a hand over his face.

"This is never going away," he muttered.

"Correct," Ilya said. Then, softer, with that maddening warmth threaded right through the joke: "You should see your face, solnyshko."

Shane looked over, took in the impossible brightness of his eyes, the smugness, the affection he was somehow managing to tuck into public humiliation, and lost the fight entirely.

He started laughing too. He was still irritated but this was rather funny.

Across the ice, the puck dropped for four-on-four.

Beside him, Ilya grinned as Boston won the face off and his second line scored, tying it up just before they were released. 

Game on.

-

They were treated to one more rendition of Britney Spears that evening as Shane played like a man possessed to redeem his honour as the game went into overtime.

When Shane buried the winner, quick and vicious off a broken play near the circle, the horn went, the crowd groaned, and Britney Spears came screaming over the speakers for a second time.

The Montreal bench lost its mind. Even coach who hadn't been the most pleased at these antics despite the GM signing off on it gave Shane a grudging nod at the 3-2 win on Boston home ice. 

The Bruins bench was not much better. Cliff had to sit down and put a towel over his face as the rest of the team seemed to be having a collective identity crisis. Not sure the laugh or moan about the loss.

The locker room afterward was a riot.

Hayden nearly choked trying to retell the tackle. JJ kept humming Britney every time Shane looked in his direction. Somebody asked if they should get him a little pink warmup jersey for the next game, and Shane told them all to go fuck themselves with enough feeling that it only made the raucous laughter louder as he got several slaps on the back for also ensuring their win.

He lasted one beer with the team before splitting.

By the time he got to Ilya’s place, he felt the electric energy of the game through his limbs, still hearing that fucking song every time he blinked.

Ilya let him in, took one look at his face, and started smiling.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re still a bit mad.”

Shane shoved him back against the door and kissed him hard enough to make his head knock lightly against it.

“You tackled me,” Ilya said, already breathless.

“You deserved it.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, smiling wider. “Probably.”

That smile was a mistake.

Shane kissed it off him, then bit his way down Ilya’s throat while Ilya laughed once, low and helpless, and got his hands under Shane’s shirt.

“Britney Spears?” Shane muttered against his skin, echoing his earlier question but with more heat. “Really?”

“Again, you should have seen your face.”

“I did see my face. It replayed on the jumbotron like seven times!”

Ilya laughed again, and Shane bit him harder for that. Boston may have something to say about the marks he was leaving tomorrow. He hoped Ilya enjoyed it.

They made it to the bedroom in stages, clothes half-peeled off, still mouthing at each other, still rough with it. Shane pushed Ilya back onto the mattress, climbed over him, and took his cock in hand with enough intent that Ilya’s expression changed immediately.

There.

That was what Shane had wanted.

That little shift. The one where Ilya stopped looking so delighted with himself and started looking wrecked for it as Shane licked him up and down before grabbing the lube from the nightstand.

Shane sank down on him slowly, watching his face the whole way.

Ilya swore under his breath and grabbed hard at Shane’s hips. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “That’s what I thought.”

He kept it slow at first just to make it worse. Gave Ilya enough to want more, not enough to get it. Used his hands, his mouth, his weight. Rode him deep and deliberate until Ilya was the one losing rhythm, the one breathing too hard, the one cursing in Russian and trying not to beg.

“You like humiliating me on home ice?” Shane asked, rolling his hips once, slow enough to make Ilya’s whole body tense.

“Yes,” Ilya said instantly, then groaned when Shane did it again. “Yes, obviously.”

“Good.”

The next time Shane moved, it was harder.

After that it stopped being neat.

He stayed on top, but all the control in it came from the way he used his body. The pace he set. The way he kept dragging Ilya right up to the edge and holding him there with a hand on his throat, a hand on his wrist, a filthy little “not yet” breathed straight into his mouth.

By the second time Ilya was close, he was shaking for it.

“Shane,” he said, rough and wrecked and furious now. “Don’t be cruel.”

Shane leaned down until their foreheads touched and sank onto him again, deep enough to pull a broken sound out of him.

“Then stop being such an asshole in public.”

Ilya laughed at exactly the wrong moment, and Shane rode him through it, mean and steady, until laughter gave way to swearing and swearing gave way to something much less coherent.

When Shane finally let him come, it hit hard. Ilya went apart under him all at once, hands digging into Shane’s hips, face buried against his throat.

Shane followed a second after, still on top of him, biting down at the shoulder to keep quiet.

For a while afterward they just lay there, sweat-damp and wrecked, Shane still half sprawled over him. Both grateful that Svetlana was in the bedroom the furthest away down the hall.

Then, some minutes later, hoarse and not nearly as dignified as he would’ve liked, Shane said, “Fine. We’re doing another bet.”

Ilya laughed softly under him.

“I’m serious,” Shane said. “And I’m winning this one.”

That got Ilya to turn his head.

Entirely too pleased with himself. Still.

“We’ll see, kotik,” he said. “We’ll see.”

Chapter End Notes

Boston's locker room the next day:
Cliff: Rozy what the fuck happened to your neck?!
Ilya: I'm very inspiring in the sack Marly, what are you doing that's so boring?

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 16: Chapter 15

Chapter Summary

November 2011 - April 2012

Chapter Notes

I sat down and realised I didn't really have much plot till halfway through 2012 on my roadmap soooo here's something a little more experimental and exploratory. It still ended up longer than I meant ^_^"

From The Montreal Gazette, October 28, 2011

HOLLANDER AND ROZANOV GIVE THE LEAGUE ITS NEWEST OBSESSION

There are rivalries you inherit and rivalries you build. Barely into their second MLH seasons, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov seem intent on doing the latter at full speed.

Wednesday’s game in Boston already had enough natural heat, but Hollander’s third-period goal and the now-infamous aftermath pushed things somewhere louder. First came the music choice, a not-so-subtle dig that sent the Garden crowd into delighted hysterics and Hollander into a visible rage. Then came the scrum, Rozanov’s theatrical collapse, matching trips to the penalty box, and a two-minute stretch in which both stars were caught on camera looking far less furious than either side might have expected.

Boston tied the game 2-2 while both players were still in the box. Hollander came out of it flying. He scored the winner with under two minutes left and looked, for the remainder of the night, like a man avenged.

It made for great television. It also made something else clear: the league has found a pairing it can sell.

Hollander remains the easier star to package. Clean, disciplined, camera-ready, already sounding like a veteran in interviews, he gives Montreal exactly the kind of young face a franchise likes to build around. Rozanov came into the league as the more dangerous product and spent the start of last season proving it. Flashier, sharper-edged, less containable. The surprise has been how quickly his game has rounded out since. The Russian phenom still attacks with flair, but over the course of the year an unmistakable maturity has settled over him. He is choosing his moments, reading pressure, pulling back when the play demands patience, then striking exactly where a defense is weakest. The spectacle is still there. The judgment underneath it is what has elevated him.

And yet what made Wednesday linger was not simple hatred. Hollander was seen laughing once the two reached the penalty box, and by the time he buried the game-winner the whole exchange had taken on the feel of something stranger: part rivalry, part performance, part private joke nobody else was in on.

The obvious question now is whether Hollander lets it lie. Early returns suggest he may not. If Rozanov was willing to weaponize a goal song, few would be shocked to see Montreal’s young star answer with a bet of his own before the season is out.

The rivalry is young. The fascination around it is still very real.

-

November 2011

By November, the city had turned bright and dry. Sharp wind ran wound between the buildings and stripped more red and gold from the trees every day. Shane came out of practice with his hair damp at the temples and found Hayden at his stall, bent over one skate while one of the equipment guys finished fixing the other.

Hayden glanced up. “You look weird.”

Shane dropped onto the bench. “Sure.”

Hayden shrugged. “It’s true.”

Shane pulled off one skate, then the other, and stared at the floor for a second. Ilya left for a west coast road trip yesterday and he'd been toying with an idea. Maybe he could... host a barbeque?

He knew how to host people, more or less. He could work a grill. He could stock a fridge, buy too much food, stand over a barbecue with tongs in one hand and a beer in the other and churn out burgers and hot dogs.

That part was easy.

The hard part was arranging things.

Who got invited first? Would people bring wives or girlfriends or kids or assume they were not actually welcome? Would it look pathetic if he was the one trying to make plans? What if people came because nobody wanted to say no to the guy who led the team in scoring? What if no one showed up?

In their first life, Ilya had always done this part without seeming to even need to think about it.

He gathered people. He made noise. He turned a room loose. By the time the Centaurs had really become their Centaurs, Ilya could get half the team arranged in the blink of an eye.

Shane had never quite learned how he managed it.

He looked over at Hayden. “Hey. Do yo-” he cut himself off.

Thankfully, Hayden picked up the thread immediately. “What do you need?”

“I was thinking maybe I should have people over.”

“To your place?”

“Like for a barbecue maybe?” Shane said. “Or dinner. Something before the season gets too crazy?”

Hayden’s whole face lit up. “Fuck yeah, buddy.”

Shane blinked and rattled off his litany of concerns.

“No worries, seriously.” Hayden was already sitting up straighter, bright with the idea. “It’s easy. People love free food. Make it a come-if-you-want thing. Tell them family too. Jackie will totally help. We’ll get chips and those weird little grocery store veggie trays nobody actually seems to eat but slowly disappear until there's only broccoli left. It’ll be great.”

Shane stared at him.

Hayden kept going. “Guys bring wives, girlfriends, kids, buddies. Somebody always brings too much beer. You grill. Jackie makes sure nobody forgets anything important. Boom. Team-bonding.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Hayden gave him a look like this was obvious. “Buddy, it is easy. You put food in front of people and act like you want them there. The rest takes care of itself.”

Shane huffed a laugh before he could stop himself.

Hayden pointed at him immediately. “See? You’re in. This is happening.”

Shane leaned back against the wood of his stall and began to picture it.

Backyard. Smoke from the grill. People lounging on his patio and standing around. Kids running through the backyard. A few of the wives taking over the kitchen so they could gossip and make fun of the men as they inevitably filed through to grab things out of the fridge. Rookies a little unsure about what to do and a few vets kicking around a soccer ball, beer in hand, as they shot the shit about the state of the league.

They only thing missing for him was Ilya.

The first time around, Shane had kept that whole part of life at arm’s length. He had been too busy hiding, too busy being perfect, too busy making hockey into the one place nobody could question him. He had split himself clean down the middle and lived inside the hockey half as hard as he could.

He could see now how much distance he’d created without meaning to. He’d gone to work, played hockey, gone home, and somehow missed half the little things that made teammates into friends.

And later, on the Centaurs, he had watched Ilya take those small things and build them into a bridge instead of a wall, piece by piece. Watched him pull people together over shared drinks, quiet conversations, silly side bets and teasing, nights out, and birthday cakes with funny icing pictures. It had looked effortless because Ilya was good at making effort invisible.

Shane hadn't understood the value of it until it was too late.

Hayden nudged his knee with the toe of his socked foot. “Buddy. You good?”

Shane looked up. "Yeah, sorry."

Hayden grinned at him, open and eager as a dog with a tennis ball. “Tell me when and I’ll get Jackie on it. She’ll be so excited. She loves this shit.”

Shane gave Hayden a small smile.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” Hayden repeated.

“Okay.” Shane rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay. Sunday, we have an afternoon home game. Let's do it.”

Hayden slapped a hand against his own thigh like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Perfect. See? Easy.”

“It is not easy.”

“It is for me,” Hayden said cheerfully. “I’m not the one drafting the text.”

Shane grimaced. “You’re looking at it before I send it.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Hayden bent to grab his bag. “Otherwise, you’ll probably make it sound like attendance is being tracked.”

That got another smile out of Shane.

By the time they left the room, Hayden had already assigned Jackie sides duty, decided somebody needed to bring dessert, and suggested, with tremendous seriousness, that smokies were essential, preferably stuffed with cheese.

JJ, catching only the tail end of that as he came in from down the hall, had immediately gone, “Are we doing a barbecue?”

Hayden turned on him at once. “We’re doing an epic barbecue at Shane's.”

JJ lit up. “Ah ouin!?” Then, to Shane, with the kind of easy enthusiasm that would have been intimidating from almost anybody else, “Tell me what to bring.”

Shane had barely gotten the invitation out and already Hayden was recruiting.

He let them talk and get the word out. The news spread faster than he thought possible.

A few days later, the barbecue ended up easier than Shane expected and more useful than he had any right to hope.

Jackie did come in clutch and with enthusiasm as she and Hayden arrived early with four grocery bags, the twins and a case of beer. JJ showed up right behind them with ice, several bags of chips, a two-six of Haitian rhum, and a soccer ball he claimed was "for the kids" like he had not clearly just wanted an excuse to launch it across the yard later.

Half the team showed up in the first hour and most of the rest drifted in later with kids, partners, folding chairs, extra beer, bags of buns, somebody’s mother’s pasta salad, and the particular kind of chaos that only seems to arise when too many fit people and children congregate.

Shane grilled until his shirt smelled like smoke. He learned which of his teammates’ wives actually liked hockey and which ones merely tolerated it. He learned who had kids in skating lessons, who had a baby that still wasn’t sleeping through the night, Gagnon was trying to talk a nine-year-old out of becoming a goalie right next to Mitty who was trying to talk them into it. He also learned which of the younger guys loosened up the second they had a beer and a paper plate in hand, which ones hovered awkwardly until they were dragged into something, which ones lit up the second they had kids to kick a ball around with. He learned which guys got louder around their families and which ones got softer.

It was all information he should have had the first time.

Standing at the sink later, rinsing smoke and grease off his hands while Hayden and Jackie argued amiably in the other room about who had forgotten an extra pair of socks for the girls, Shane found himself thinking about Ilya.

Not for this. Not yet.

But maybe later. Maybe after a weekend afternoon game similar to this one, when everybody was already loose and tired, when the beer came out faster and nobody was in a hurry to get home. And... and maybe when they had beaten Boston to make sure the team was extra soft.

Maybe if they knew him like this first, in a backyard with a plate in his hand and somebody’s kid trying to climb into his lap, the sharp edges would go softer.

It was a small thing.

Shane knew better now than to underestimate small things.

-

Excerpt from sportsnet.ca, December 1, 2011

THE BET IS BACK ON. THIS TIME HOLLANDER AND ROZANOV ARE PLAYING FOR POINTS.

The MLH did not need extra help selling Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov this season, but apparently nobody told Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov that.

After October’s goal-song chaos in Boston, the league’s loudest rivalry has circled back on itself again, this time with a fresh wager attached. According to players on both sides doing a poor job of pretending otherwise, the bet is back on. The terms have changed. Instead of goals, Hollander and Rozanov are now measuring themselves against regular-season points.

Which, honestly, might be worse.

The new terms matter because both players are having ridiculous seasons already.

Hollander has been exactly what Montreal could have asked for and more annoying than the rest of the league would prefer. He is driving play, piling up points, and doing it with the kind of control that makes coaches sound smug and opponents sound tired. Just as notable is how quickly he seems to have settled into a personal style that already feels far removed from where he started a year ago. He can turn a defensive read into transition almost instantly, then flip again and attack with precision the second a lane opens.

Rozanov has been just as productive in a different key. The highlights are still there, but so is a sharper sense of timing. He is no longer just attacking because he can. He is choosing when to press, when to pull defenders out of shape, when to wait half a beat and make the whole ice open up. That may be the most interesting part of his season so far. Boston drafted flash and got plenty of it, but what is emerging now looks more deliberate, more complete, and maybe a little different from what they thought they were building around.

That is what makes the new bet so interesting. Goals flatter the finishers. Points reward the full sweep of a player’s season. Right now, both men have a strong case.

So yes, the rivalry is real. So is the fascination. And now, apparently, so is round two.

-

December 2011

Three weeks before christmas, Ilya came off the ice vibrating, scored two, chirped three different people in two languages, showered fast, and changed into black jeans and a dark v-neck sweater that looked as expensive as it felt. By the time he got to the front of the room, Cliff was already waiting by the door with a smile full of teeth, most of them real.

“You pick someplace good, Rozy?” Cliff asked.

Ilya looked offended. “I pick someplace excellent.”

“Sure, you did.”

Svetlana, who had appeared in the doorway like she had every right to be there, rolled her eyes. “You idiots done yet?”

Cliff pointed at her immediately. “See? She’s got the right idea.”

Ilya ignored both of them and reached for his coat. The music was promising at the venue tonight and he didn’t want to miss it. The first time around, he had picked clubs for the girls. This time he picked them for the set. For the sound. For the little thrill of hearing something good drop and trying to work out how he could do that too.

So, he had started dragging teammates out for that instead. The goal wasn’t to hook up or to be seen (though being recognized was happening more often anyway).  

Cliff shrugged into his jacket and gave Ilya a look. “You know, most guys your age try harder to look cool.”

Ilya grinned. “And I am succeeding, yes?”

“At one of those things.”

Svetlana smirked openly. Ilya pressed a hand to his chest.

“Cruel,” he said.

“Mm.” Cliff grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go, Rozy.”

That was the thing. They still came even if the places were less club-y and more rave-y.

Ilya had decided he wanted more music in his life, and now the room came with him. He picked the place. He set the tone. He hauled people into the same orbit and let the night do the rest.

Somebody from the back called, “Rozanov, if this place sucks I’m blaming you personally.”

Ilya did not even turn around. “If you have bad taste, that is not my problem.”

A chorus of complaints and laughter followed him out into the hallway.

Svetlana caught up beside him at the elevator. “ Ты знаешь, они думают, что ты это делаешь, потому что любишь внимание You know they think you do this because you like attention .”

Ilya hit the button. “ Я люблю внимание I do like attention .”

“ Да, но не такое Yeah, but not like this .”

He smiled without looking at her. “ Нет No .”

The elevator opened. They all crowded in.

By the end of the night, Ilya had somehow ended up parked beside the DJ booth with the woman running the set, leaning in to talk between transitions and watching the mixer instead of the girls out on the floor. He stayed there for most of the night, asking questions with enough focus that even Svetlana looked amused.

When they finally left, he had the DJ’s phone number in his pocket and a head full of techniques.

Svetlana glanced at him as they waited for the car. “Married life has really calmed you down.”

Ilya smiled to himself. “Shut up.”

Later, when he told Shane about it, Shane laughed so hard he had to put the phone down.

-

Hockey Twitter

December 3, 2011

@bearsgirl88
um. bench cam rozanov tonight?? excuse me?? #bears #MLH

@maddie_16
that man is a PROBLEM. [gif: woman fanning herself] #ilyarozanov #bears

@cassiehatesboston
@maddie_16 last year he was just pretty. now he looks like he might actually kill someone and tbh I'm *fans self* #sendhelp

@maddie_16
@cassiehatesboston R u switching teams?? #worthit

@puckheadmike
Rozanov’s breakaways are ridiculous. Hollander’s cleaner, but Rozanov closes on net like a MACHINE #MLH #bears

@SouthieSkates
They should sell hockey player sweat like they did for the gladiators [gif: Ilya gasping and drinking water at the same time] #bears #imjustsaying

@KT_Pens

@SouthieSkates sum1's horny on main lmao #yikes

@hockeyandheels
oh my GAWD that close-up on the bench. [gif: Ilya gasping and drinking water at the same time] #bears #ilyarozanov #steponme

@lindseyyy
Rozanov can look at the camera like that or he can play hockey. he should not get both #unfair 

@bearsblogger
If only the rest of the Bears could keep up with Rozanov #moveyoazz #bears

@ohheyitsmegs
brb becoming a bears fan for terrible reasons #MLH #bears

@habsboooo
annoying update: rozanov learned defense. #badnews #habs #bears

-

December 11th, 2011

Shane found out he had been turned into a body pillow when Ilya called him laughing too hard to speak.

Shane pulled his phone away from his ear and stared at it. “Are you dying?”

A breathless noise came back, suspiciously close to yes.

“Rozanov.”

“I sent it,” Ilya managed. “Look at message. Боже мой Oh my god .”

Shane opened the text.

Then he stopped walking in the middle of the hallway outside the Montreal gym.

“What,” he said flatly, “is that.”

On his screen was a stylized anime version of his own face, all giant eyes and exaggerated expression, stretched across what was unmistakably a body pillow. There were cherry blossoms mixed with skates and hockey sticks in the background. His jersey had been altered into something that was definitely not regulation. Somehow the artist had made him look even more annoyed than he felt was a true representation. "Do I really look like that?"

Ilya started laughing again.

Shane kept staring. “No.”

“Oh yes.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“There is more than one design. In one you also have cat ears with the grumpy face. It's adorable!”

Shane made a strangled sound.

“I am buying all of them.”

“You are not.”

“I am buying two of each. One for use, one for preservation.”

Shane leaned back against the cinderblock wall and closed his eyes. “Oh my God. Why?”

Ilya laughed. “Kotik, of course your Japanese hockey-fan anime nerds would turn you into an anime body pillow. They love you."

Shane opened one eye. “That is not the issue here.”

“It is a little the issue.”

“No, the issue,” Shane said, heat crawling all the way up his neck now, “is whether this has been happening the whole time and I just didn’t know about it.”

Ilya went silent for half a beat.

Then, delighted all over again, “Oh, that is so much better.” A beat. "Do you think they will do me too when we come out?"

That only made it worse.

"I'll buy you one if I find it!"

Shane should have hung up on him. Instead, he pulled the image up again and imagined it being anime Ilya instead. Hmmm. Worth considering.

"And how many are there?” he asked.

Ilya made a thoughtful noise that Shane regretted it instantly.

“Don’t answer that.”

“No,” Ilya said, still sounding delighted. “You look beautiful and deeply offended. Is perfect.”

Shane slid down the wall until he was half crouched against it, phone still in hand. “What did I ever do to deserve you?"

Ilya responded with maximum sap, "Looked at me with those freckles." Then, pleased in a completely different way, “Send me autograph when you get one.”

Shane just laughed and groaned, knowing there was no getting out of it now.

-

Christmas 2011

Christmas came fast that year.

The weeks leading into it blurred. Shane kept catching ice with the women’s team when he could, greedy for every extra edge and every different way of seeing the game. Ilya started learning what he could from the DJ in Boston, collecting tracks and questions and another kind of hunger. In between, they kept doing what they did best: piling up points, winning games, and feeding the league exactly the rivalry it wanted.

Svetlana flew back to Russia for the holidays, half regretful and half excited to see her family. Ilya was dodging his own, only having answered calls from his father and brother once each since the summer. Viktor encouraged him to do what made the most sense for him, if that was severely limiting contact, then so be it.

He went north with Shane to his parents’ cottage.

Yuna hugged Ilya at the door, and her spicy shampoo was a balm to his senses as he hugged her back. David handed him a mug spiced cider before he had even fully gotten his boots off. Shane watched all of it with a soft smile, eternally glad that his husband was once again back where he was supposed to be.

The whole visit felt easier this time without his previous trip to Russia hanging over him like a cloud. They ate good food and Shane's parent warmly welcomed Ilya to the family celebrations. Then, after dinner Yuna came back from the bedroom waving a sheet of paper.

“I almost forgot,” she said, grinning at Ilya. “Your lawyer sent an update.”

Ilya took it from her, eyes wide.

“It’s good,” Yuna said at once. “Nothing exciting yet. Just moving. They need one more document and then it should keep going.”

Shane watched Ilya read it, then read it again, his mouth doing that helpless little thing it did when he was trying not to feel too much all at once.

“See?” Yuna said, pleased with herself. “Useful mother.”

“You’re amazing,” Shane told her.

“Obviously.”

Later, after dinner, after cards and more wine and David insisting they stay one more night because the roads would still be there in the morning, Shane found Ilya standing on the porch in a borrowed wool sweater from David, smiling at nothing.

“You okay?” Shane asked.

Ilya looked out toward the lake. “Yes.”

This time he sounded like it.

Shane stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around him.

After a moment, Ilya said, amused, “Your mother put extra blankets in our room and my immigration paperwork under the tree.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Ilya turned his head just enough to smile. “I like her very much.”

Shane leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and looked out over the snow. “Good. She’s keeping you.”

It was only a few days, but they treasured them all the same.

-

Excerpt from The Ottawa Citizen, January 30, 2012

HOLLANDER, ROZANOV KEEP THE SHOW GOING AT ALL-STAR WEEKEND

The MLH brought Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov back to All-Star weekend this time in our own backyard; Ottawa was excited to have our hometown talent front and center! And, to nobody’s surprise, found another way to keep them on opposite sides.

This time it was the fantasy draft, which may have been random in the technical sense, but everyone knew where that was going.

Hollander and Rozanov have become two of the league’s best young attractions, and the league is not about to miss a chance to lean into that. So the cameras kept finding them, the teams kept playing along, and the crowd got what it wanted: one more weekend of the season’s loudest rivalry being sold at full volume.

Both were featured in the skills competition, and both ended up right where people expected them: together again but this time in the breakaway challenge. Hollander was technical about it, Rozanov showier, but neither looked especially interested in letting the other own the moment. The crowd got its show.

The more interesting question is what happens now that one of the season’s stranger side stories has run its course.

With the All-Star break marking the end of the wager between them, Boston fans will no longer hear Oops!... I Did It Again every time Hollander scores at the Garden. Depending on your point of view, that is either a relief or a loss.

There is a hockey angle to it too. The song seemed to get under Hollander’s skin early, but it also lit him up. He has played some of his best hockey in Boston since the bet began. Whether losing that edge helps him settle down or takes away a useful source of fuel is worth watching in the second half.

Rozanov may lose something too. He has enjoyed the game within the game as much as anyone, and there were nights it looked as if he could bait Hollander into raising his level just by looking at him. If that disappears, it will be worth seeing whether Hollander loses a spark, whether Rozanov loses a toy, or whether both simply keep producing the way they have all season.

And that production has been hard to ignore.

Hollander came out of the weekend with a narrow lead in the points race between them, though not by much. Rozanov has been closing ground for weeks, and with the gimmicks now temporarily out of the way, the race may get even better.

If the league is lucky, the next chapter will not need a soundtrack.

-

April 2012

February and March slipped by quickly. Shane and Ilya kept piling up points. The race between them tightened, loosened, then tightened again depending on the week and who had the softer schedule.

Outside of that, life kept moving anyway.

The cottage planning barreled ahead. Shane took point with the contractor, fielding calls, making decisions, and texting photos. Ilya kept weighing in from Boston or from whatever hotel he happened to be in.

His music… thing kept moving too. Slowly evolving as he learned more and more. He was thinking about starting a youtube channel and sharing some stuff, maybe get some feedback. He wasn’t sure yet.

He kept going out in Boston, kept asking questions, kept collecting tracks and names and little pieces of technique. He also kept avoiding the tapes with the kind of discipline Shane used to reserve for his nutrition plan. Some nights that meant distracting Svetlana from her coursework and dragging her into some half-frozen club line in stupid shoes. Other nights it meant roping half the Bears into following him to some basement venue because the set was supposed to be good and because, if he was moving, he did not have to think about them.

Shane, meanwhile, kept carving out time where he could.

Extra ice with the women’s team when schedules lined up. Skills work that made his hands ache in new ways as he kept practicing with a straighter and straighter blade. Having quiet conversations he would not have had the first time. None of it looked particularly important on its own, but Shane could see the pattern forming.

By the beginning of April, the season had narrowed into its last hard stretch before the playoffs. The final Montreal-Boston game of the year did not pass quietly.

Montreal won it 4-3 in overtime after losing the last game to Boston 2-1 in a shootout.

Rozanov had two points. Hollander had one, enough to keep his overall edge by the slimmest of margins with both teams still holding a few games in hand before the playoffs. The bet remained gloriously alive for the fans.

They spent most of the night circling each other through every camera angle the league could find, finishing checks a little harder than necessary, chirping on faceoff resets, and feeding Bell Center exactly what it wanted.

Afterward, the post-game interview only gave the media more to work with.

“It was a good game,” Shane said, tired and sweaty and trying very hard to stay boring. “Two good teams. That’s all.”

When the reporter asked if Boston brought something extra out of him, Shane glanced down, smiled despite himself, and said, “Sometimes.”

Across the hall, Ilya was no help at all.

“He was fine,” he said with a shrug that convinced nobody. “I was better.”

Back on the sports desk ten minutes later, the announcers looked delighted.

“You see that smile from Hollander?” one said. “That’s the most he’s given us in weeks.”

“And Rozanov, of course, went the other direction completely,” said the other. “One point lead, a few games left, and somehow the stupidest bet in hockey still has no winner.”

The next day, for once, there was a blessed day off.

Ilya stayed behind in Montreal.

-

TSN Postgame, April 15, 2012

“Before we go tonight, let’s look at the two kids everybody’s going to be sick of hearing about for the next ten years.”

The first clip they rolled was Shane.

A line-change play.

Shane stayed on the ice a beat longer than he should have, let the rest of his line get off clean, then caught the other team mid-change and hit the new unit coming over the boards with speed. Half a second later Montreal tipped the game's momentum and scored two goals in quick succession, saving them from overtime.

“Can you believe these two are only in their second season?” one analyst said, half laughing already.

“Honestly, no,” said the other. “You never see nerves in either of them. They skate like MLH veterans.”

They ran another clip. Shane driving through traffic, keeping his feet moving, getting the puck where it needed to go.

“He still makes everything look clean,” the first one said. “That’s what people always notice first. But what I like now is how many more guys he’s finding. Last year you mostly talked about his chemistry with Pike. This year it feels like he can play with half that roster.”

The screen switched to Ilya.

The first replay showed him slowing up on a rush, waiting just long enough for the play to open, then sliding the puck across for an easy chance.

“And with Rozanov, it’s almost the opposite story,” said the second analyst. “He can still make something out of nothing by himself. We know that. But he looks calmer this year. See his expression?.”

They rolled another clip. A teammate’s shot was sailing high and wide until Ilya got a piece of it out of the air and snapped it into the net.

“He’s reading it so well,” the first said. “Sometimes maybe too well for his own team. There are nights he sees the play a half-second before everybody else in on his line does.”

The host laughed. “That sounds frustrating.”

“For Boston, maybe,” the second analyst said. “For the rest of us, it’s great television.”

He looked back toward the monitor. “That’s the thing with both of them. Incredible steadiness out of these young men. If they weren’t so good, it would be arrogant.”

The first analyst chuckled, “Well arrogant might still fit whenever Rozanov speaks, that boy’s got a mouth on him.”

The laughed for a moment before the host leaned back in his chair. “So who takes the points race?”

Both analysts laughed.

“Hollander’s still got the edge,” one said.

“Barely,” said the other. “And that’s the fun of it. Hollander’s game is opening outward. Rozanov’s is tightening up. And neither one looks interested in slowing down.”

"And once again, both teams are in the playoffs," The host grinned at the camera. “Good luck to the rest of the league, then.”

-

Later that night.

They were in bed. It was late. Shane was half propped against the headboard with the sheets tangled at his waist, and Ilya was on his side beside him, loose and warm and nearly asleep listening to Shane's voice low and smooth.

Shane was regaling him about all the random little things they don't get into when they're on the road.

About the team. About the way things had started feeling easier. About how much better he knew some of the guys now than he had the first time they were this age. Tying it back to the barbecue back in the fall and how weirdly well it had gone once Hayden and Jackie took over half the logistics and JJ slotting right back into their friendship.

Ilya listened with one eye closed, smiling a little into the pillow.

“They like you,” he murmured.

Shane made a face. “Some of them.”

“More than before, I've never heard you mention so many names.”

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “Way more than before.”

That was true. The room had felt different this year. Enough that Shane noticed it every time somebody lingered by his stall a little longer than they used to, or gave him something real instead of the usual canned answer like some stupid silly about their kid or wife or brother or whatever.

It felt better. It also felt... Shane wasn't sure he could really put it into words.

Shane dragged a hand over his face. “It’s just...”

Ilya opened his eyes properly then at Shane's tone.

The tone that meant something had been ruminating in him for longer than he'd admit.

He rolled onto his back and looked at him. “What are you doing?”

Shane frowned. “Talking to my husband?”

“No.” Ilya’s voice stayed quiet. “What are you doing.”

Shane went still.

Ilya pushed himself up on one elbow. “You do not sound happy. Even when explaining how much more you are connecting with your team. What is wrong?”

Shane gave an aborted shake of his head.

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Shane...” Ilya studied him for another beat. “What is it?”

Shane looked away.

Ilya felt something tight and cold go through him all at once.

“Oh,” he said softly.

Shane’s head turned back.

“Oh, kotik.” Ilya sat up the rest of the way now. “This is why.”

Shane didn’t say anything.

Ilya looked at him, at the set of his mouth, at the way his shoulders had gone tense under the sheets. “The barbecue. Hayden. The women’s team. All of it.”

Still nothing.

Ilya’s stomach dropped anyway. “You’re trying to make them want to keep you.”

Shane’s expression tightened. “That’s not-”

“It is,” Ilya said, not harshly. Just immediately. “Not only that. But it is part of it.”

The room went quiet.

Outside, rain hit the windows over the rumble of a train going by just past the sound break. Somewhere in the building a pipe clicked.

When Shane finally spoke, his voice had gone flatter, more careful. “I keep thinking about all the things I missed last time. Not just with us.”

Ilya leaned back against the headboard and waited.

“My mom loves hockey,” Shane said, too fast now that he had started. “But there were always all these places where it made it clear who it was 'really' for. Who belonged in it properly and who was just... welcome near it, as long as they behaved. And I keep looking back at Montreal and the room and the fans and all of it, and I can’t stop thinking maybe if I had done more-”

“No.”

Shane turned his head.

Ilya was looking at him now, hard and immediate. “No. Don’t do that.”

Shane’s mouth tightened. “I’m not saying it was all my fault.”

“It was none of your fault.”

Shane had to look away.

Because that was the thing he could never quite reconcile in himself. Not after the way the Voyageurs had turned on him so fast the first time. Not after hearing, years later, all the gross theories about why. He was: too polished, too distant, too arrogant, too careful, too visible in the wrong ways. Too much like Yuna in the face and not enough like what they thought a captain should be; not white enough or straight enough to close rank around.

Further, there had been the simpler truth he had not understood until much later: hiding had made him good at distance. Hiding Ilya. Hiding the not-straight part of himself. Hiding every rough edge that might make people look too closely and judge him wanting. Add in the neurodivergence he would not have words for until years later and keeping people at arm’s length had started to feel less like a choice and more like 'just how he was'.

Nobody ever said all of it out loud. They did not have to.

“I know,” Shane said. His voice sounded tired and placating to his own ears. “I know that, logically; I know it shouldn’t have been on me. I know the situation was rotten. But I also know I didn’t have the bandwidth then to even recognize half of what was happening, never mind adjust to it."

Shane ran a hand through his hair, "I was drowning in the private side of my life. I was hiding you. I was hiding myself. I was spending so much energy trying to look fine that there wasn’t much left for anything else but the game in front of me.”

Ilya had gone very still.

Shane stared up at the ceiling now too. “And now I have words for more of it. I have tools I didn’t have then. I’m older, even if nobody else knows. I want to try showing up as my whole self this time. Or as much of it as I safely can.”

He swallowed and gazed right into Ilya's eyes, begging him to understand. “Not because there was something wrong with me before. There wasn’t. But because I’ve seen what happens when someone leads with kindness and doesn’t make himself smaller first. People open up. They get softer with themselves. Softer with each other. They step up. They protect what they love.”

His eyes traced over Ilya’s face. The sharp line of his cheekbones. His jaw. That absurdly straight nose no hockey player had any right to have.

He had learned this by watching him. Not just how to love him. How to lead. How to show up every day and make room for other people inside yourself. How to be there for your team even when you were hurting. How to stay soft without ever being weak.

He had seen what happened around Ilya, the way people opened up when they felt safe, the way they stood taller when they felt seen. He thought of every member of their Centaurs team, every member of their hockey school, and every moment that Ilya tied them together.

Shane wanted to try.

Because he had seen what one brave, loving person could change.

And because he could not imagine any life that did not lead him back to this man.

His laugh this time was brief and rough. “And if it works, then it’s just... more good in the world. More room. More air. So yeah. I want to try.”

For a long moment, Ilya said nothing.

Then, quiet and raw enough to hurt, “Just Shane. I don’t want to watch them hurt you again.”

Shane turned onto his side and shuffled down the bed so their heads were level. “I know.”

Ilya’s face in the dark was open, all concern and love and old anger layered together.

“But if I don’t do everything I can,” Shane said, “then I’ll never know if it was them or me. If I changed and it still wasn’t enough, fine. Then I know. Then there’s nothing else I could’ve done.”

Ilya closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them again, they were bright. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly. “It was never you.”

Shane laughed once, with no humor in it. “Maybe. But I need to know that for real this time.”

Ilya watched him for another long beat as his hand drew up to caress Shane's cheek.

Then he nodded, once. Slow. Concerned. Proud anyway.

“Okay, lyubov moya,” he murmured. “Okay.”

Ilya leaned in, pressed his forehead to Shane’s, and stayed there breathing the same air.

-

A week later a day after his last regular season game, Ilya came back from therapy, set his keys on the counter, and stood in the middle of his kitchen without turning on the lights.

The city moved outside in smear of April rain. The house was quiet as Svetlana had an exam tomorrow morning and was still at the university studying but there was still something calling to him that he couldn’t quite block out.

He crossed to the hall closet, opened it, and looked down at the box on the floor like he had almost every week since he'd gotten them almost a year ago.

The tapes were exactly where he had left them.

One corner of a label had peeled up. His mother’s handwriting still cut across the front of one in neat blue ink.

He stood there long enough for his neck to start aching.

Then he shut the door again.

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Shane: [Had dinner with the women’s team again. I think they’re trying to set me up with someone.]

Ten seconds later, another message.

Shane: [It’s humiliating. They all think I need help.]

Ilya leaned his head briefly against the closed closet door, smiling now in spite of everything.

Then he pushed away, went to turn on the lights, and kept moving.

The playoffs started next week. He could break down after.

Chapter End Notes

Sooo... a lot has been on their minds...

Side note: Is Hudson killing anyone else? My gay ass is having trouble concentrating at work *gestures at the chapter* but at least you guys benefit. Now I'm headed to the gym because my new secondary mission in life is to get fit enough that a dude will want to lick me as much as I want to lick them.... A guy can dream haha

Chapter 17: Chapter 16

Chapter Summary

May - July 2012

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay everyone. This chapter got away from me and suddenly I had over 10k in my doc with more to write. Oops. So, since I can do math I cut it in half. Voila:

The regular season ended in a blur.

By the time Montreal locked up home ice, everyone was buzzing at their newest shot at the cup. Practice got shorter and sharper. Media got more intrusive. Everyone talked about matchups and the city was starting to fill with Voyageurs logos. Flags, posters, peoples clothing. You could barely move without being aware that the team was in the playoffs.

Shane waited till after practice to bring it up.

Coach was halfway out of his whistle when Shane caught him by the bench.

"Got a minute?"

Coach Desjardins glanced over. "Make it quick."

"The Stars reached out to the team, right? About a summer camp?"

Coach’s face barely moved. "And?"

Shane leaned on the boards. Kept it easy.

"I’m interested. I’d be willing to do it if they want players involved. It doesn’t have to be a huge thing. Promo, maybe a little funding, a couple guys show up for a day. I was just wondering if you could run it up the chain that I’m interested."

"That’s not my department."

"I know. But if it comes from you, maybe somebody actually answers them this time."

That got him a look.

Coach tucked the clipboard under one arm. "You’re twenty years old, heading into your second postseason, and this is what you’re worried about?"

"Talking about it doesn't really take up much energy."

"It’s a distraction," Coach said, in the same patient tone people used when they thought they were being generous with someone younger than them.

Shane felt his jaw tighten. "It’s a couple emails and a logo."

"It’s not your lane, kid. You’ve had a hell of a year, but that doesn’t mean you need to start sticking your nose into every good idea that crosses your path."

Patronizing dismissal. Great.

Coach picked the clipboard back up.

"You want to help the game, help us win. After that, you can go play ambassador all summer if you want. Until then, focus on being a hockey player. Let the grown-ups handle the rest."

And then he was gone.

Shane stood there for a second, one hand still on the top of the boards.

Not your lane. Kid.

He wanted, briefly and sincerely, to put his stick through a wall.

Instead, he hauled off his gloves and headed for the locker room.

Hayden was half out of his gear by then, one skate still on. JJ was down the row stripping off his underlayers before heading for the showers.

Shane tossed his gloves into his stall a little harder than necessary. Fuck sakes, he was actually a thirty-seven year old man. He was much closer to Desjardins age of forty-five than his body currently showed. Not that he could tell anyone that but still. It was getting fucking annoying.

Hayden glanced over. "That looked productive."

"Coach said no."

"Shocking."

JJ looked up. "No to what?"

Shane sat, bent over one skate, then straightened again because he was too annoyed to focus.

"The Stars reached out about doing a camp together this summer. Girls’ program. Maybe some crossover stuff. Front office ignored them. I asked if Coach could push it along. He called me a kid and told me to stay in my own playground."

Hayden made a face. "That's shitty."

JJ looked up. "Maybe we can do it ourselves then? I'd be down."

Shane hummed before replying.

"Yeah... We could help out unofficially ourselves, I guess." Shane said, liking the idea. "Not through the team. Just us. Show up for a day if it works. Help them get eyes on it."

Hayden shrugged immediately. "Yeah, sure."

JJ nodded. "Send me the dates when you’ve got them. I'll tell a few more guys as well, see if they want to join."

That took some of the irritation out of Shane’s chest.

"Thanks."

Hayden snorted. "What, you thought I was gonna say no because the old men upstairs are scared of women’s hockey?"

"I thought you might at least pretend to be difficult."

"That’s for special occasions."

Later, when he got home, Shane dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and called Boston.

Ilya picked up on the third ring.

"Hey."

"Well, hello to you too," Ilya said. "You sound annoyed."

Shane laughed despite himself. "I am annoyed."

"What happened?"

"Coach said no to the Stars thing."

A beat.

Then, flatly: "Of course he did."

Shane walked into the kitchen and leaned on the counter. "Hayden and JJ are in anyway. Unofficially. You want in? I know it might be weird explaining your presence but..."

"Sure."

"You don’t need details?"

"I need only enough details to know where to be and who to irritate."

There was something about the way Ilya said things like that that tickled Shane. 

"Okay," Shane said. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too. It will be good to work with kids again. I've missed it."

A small pause followed. Publicly showing up together for this sort of thing was not nothing.

They’d talked about it enough by now, about image and timing and not being stupid, about seeming friendly without making people look too hard. There was a line somewhere. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe it was too much.

But they both wanted to do it. And neither of them had much patience for spending what little time they got in the same city apart on purpose.

Then, after a beat, Ilya asked, softer, "Are you nervous?"

"A bit."

"Good."

Shane huffed a laugh. "That’s not usually how people answer that."

"It is the correct answer. Means we are not being reckless."

He could hear the city faintly behind him on the line. Traffic, maybe. A door somewhere. Boston still around him.

"We’ll do it anyway," Ilya said.

Shane smiled a little. "Yeah."

"Unofficially," Ilya added. "And if anyone asks, we are being very friendly and civic-minded."

"We are very friendly and civic-minded."

"Obviously."

"And hot."

"That too," Ilya said. "But secondary."

Shane laughed.

"Okay," he said. "Then yeah. We’ll do it anyway."

"Good," Ilya said. "Because that was the correct answer too."

The playoffs hit like a fist.

Montreal’s first round went six ugly games against Tampa. Lots of jostling and checking. Lots of bad blood after whistles. Shane played harder than he had all year, the energy of the playoffs firing up the competition and pushing him. He stayed out that little bit longer to catch bad changes. Held pucks under pressure. Used all of the fancy footwork and extra skills he'd worked hard to learn over the season. By the time the Voyageurs closed the series out at home, the building sounded like it was trying to tear its own roof off.

Boston answered with force of its own.

Ilya was vicious in the postseason. Tighter game, smaller space, fast as hell, and more aggressive. He scored from impossible angles, turned half chances into goals, found loose pucks in scrums before anyone else even seemed to see them, and came off the ice after wins looking only mildly satisfied, which somehow made him even more infuriating.

Neither run ended in a Cup.

Both made the point.

Nobody was talking about either of them like cute rookies anymore.

By late June, the MLH Awards felt significantly less nerve wracking than the previous year, settling in as just another awards ceremony for the two of them after so many in their previous life. 

The awards this year were not a surprise as Shane took the Art Ross for the most points and Ilya took the Rocket for most goals. Both a mathematical certainty by the end of the regular season and thus, more importantly, Shane won the bet.

Which is probably why the league decided to be cute and have them present the Lady Byng award for most sportsmanlike behaviour. Again.  

Shane looked from the card in his hand to the teleprompter just offstage.

“I can’t believe they’re doing this this early,” he muttered. "Or at all. Again."

Beside him, Ilya adjusted one cuff. “They are funny.”

Shane rolled his eyes. "Hopefully it’s not as bad as last time," he muttered, and felt his stomach twist at that time so long ago. They'd never really talked about the six month dead zone between them after Sochi. What had really happened there. He added it to his mental list of things to talk about before 2014.

A stagehand gave them the two-minute warning.

Ilya glanced toward the screen. “Oh, this is terrible.”

“What?”

“They wrote jokes for us.”

Shane leaned just enough to catch the first few lines and had to press his mouth flat.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Mm,” Ilya said. “Mhmm really... uh hamming it up, yes?”

That was exactly what it was. Right there in clean white text. Media theatrics to play up their rivalry. Again.

Shane briefly wondered if the lockout would still happen, he'd heard things about the rumblings again this time but couldn't remember if they were worse or better than last time. Things must be a little desperate if they were doing this at this time no?

Then their names were announced, and they walked out together into a room primed for the bit.

Of course it was.

Shane smiled like he had nothing to be ashamed of. Ilya looked elegant and faintly put upon, which for him was basically a formalwear setting.

“Good evening,” Shane read, easy as anything. “We’re here to present the award for Most Sportsmanlike Player.”

There was a tiny pause.

Then Ilya, just as smooth, read his line. “Which, yes, the league assures us is intentional.”

The room laughed right on cue.

Shane didn’t even have to look at the teleprompter to know what came next.

“Apparently,” he read, “after a season of perfectly normal and respectful competition-”

“Very dignified!” Ilya cut in, the line almost certainly not his and sounding exactly like it.

Another laugh.

“-we were the natural choice to present this award.”

“Against all available evidence,” Ilya added.

That one was not in the script.

“It has been a big year,” Shane read on. “I won the Art Ross.”

“I won the Rocket,” Ilya said back, dry and polished this time.

“And I-“ Shane drew out the moment for a second as per the teleprompter, “-won the bet.”

That got exactly the reaction the league had very obviously wanted as people laughed and cheered.

Ilya turned toward him, scandalized in a way that was just a little too neat to be fully real. “Yes, and now apparently I have to spend the summer dreading your taste in music.”

Shane smiled. “I think the fans have a lot of faith in me.”

“The fans,” Ilya said, glancing once at the teleprompter and then back out, “have clearly never heard your playlists.”

The room laughed again.

Canned. Effective. Exactly what the league had paid for.

“Anyway,” he read, before they got too far off the rails, “in honour of sportsmanship, civility, and a truly inspiring example for the next generation—”

“Bold claim,” Ilya said.

That definitely was not scripted.

The laugh came quicker this time.

Shane unfolded the envelope. “The nominees are.”

They got through the rest of it with only minor damage.

"You’re a little salty aren't you?" Shane asked once they were once again back stage. "I get to pick your goal song now."

Ilya stopped dead and turned to look at him.

"What, TV static?" he said. "Everyone knows you don’t know music."

Shane laughed.

"Oh, I know enough."

The afterparty was exactly what those things always were with everyone milling around and either networking and/or getting drunk on that MLH dime.

Shane had just accepted a drink he didn’t overly want when he spotted Scott Hunter near one of the tall tables, looking like a man halfway attempting to escape a dreadfully boring conversation.

Scott caught sight of him and made excuses to walk in his direction.

"Hollander," Scott said, angling over with visible relief. "Thank God."

"That bad?"

"Sponsor rep cornered me for seven full minutes. I counted."

Svetlana drifted close, elegant as always, one hand around a champagne flute. Ilya followed close behind her looking decidedly delicious to Shane.

Scott lifted his glass toward Shane and then Ilya. "Congratulations, by the way for the two of you. Hell of a year."

"Thanks."

Svetlana smiled faintly into her drink.

"And you," Scott added to Ilya. "Rocket Richard. Not bad."

Ilya tipped his glass in acknowledgement. "Thank you. I know the younger generation is supposed to let the old men have their moments, but I thought I’d be selfish."

That got a laugh out of Scott.

"Jesus," Scott said.

"What?" Ilya asked mildly. "I was being respectful."

Scott snorted into his drink. "You never let up do you, Rozanov?"

Shane glanced between them and decided to interject before Ilya could get mouthier. "Scott, this is Svetlana. Svetlana, Scott Hunter."

Scott shifted automatically, setting his glass down long enough to offer his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Svetlana took it. "You too."

The conversation drifted the way those things did. Travel. Training. Sponsor obligations. Summer plans.

Scott glanced back at her. "So, you said you're doing school in Boston?"

That sharpened her immediately.

"Mm. Back in the fall. Russia for the summer," she said. 

"Business and stats, right?" Shane asked, as if he wasn’t sure.

"Yes."

Scott tipped his head. "And what are you going to do with that? Besides obviously intimidate everyone."

The boredom went out of her face all at once. "Hockey analyst." Her grin turned wolfish. 

"Most hockey people still treat the game like isolated events," she said. "Shot. Save. Goal. But it’s not. It’s a chain. Percentages stacking on top of each other. If a line enters with control more often, recovers more dumped pucks, forces failed exits, and turns a higher share of possessions into slot looks instead of perimeter shots, that shows up over time whether the points come right away or not. The interesting part is how the probabilities fit together. Which players raise the likelihood of the next good thing happening before anyone gets on the scoresheet."

Scott blinked at her.

Shane felt himself grin. "Svetlana is a hockey genius."

Ilya, beside her, looked smugly pleased with himself.

"You should see her fantasy hockey team," he said, taking a sip. "She beats everyone."

"Hey, we worked on that together!" Shane said.

Svetlana turned to him. "No. You’ve been saying, ‘that guy is good.’" She turned back to Scott. "Which is not quantifiable."

Scott laughed into his drink as Shane shook his head in exasperation.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "Are you building spreadsheets about us?"

"Not you personally," she said. Then, after a beat: "Yet."

That got a real laugh out of him.

"And what about you?" Scott asked Ilya. "You headed back to Russia too?"

Ilya shook his head. “No, Canada and Belgium. Then back to Canada.”

Scott frowned. “Belgium?”

Shane took a sip of his drink, already smiling a little. “Tomorrowland.”

Scott looked between them. “I’m sorry. What?”

For the first time all evening, Ilya looked genuinely offended. “You don’t know what Tomorrowland is?”

“No,” Scott said. “Should I?”

“It is one of the biggest music festivals in the world,” Svetlana said dryly.

Scott stared at her. Then at Ilya. “You’re going to a music festival.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, like this was an idiotic question. “Obviously.”

“In Belgium.”

“Yes.”

Scott looked at Shane for help and got none.

“You’re serious,” he said.

“Yeah, no. Fer sure.” Shane said.

Scott laughed once, disbelieving. “Jesus Christ. I thought you two were gonna say training, maybe a lake, maybe your families. Not… whatever the hell this is.”

“There will also be training,” Shane said.

“And a lake,” Ilya added.

Scott pointed at him. “That does not make the Belgium thing less weird.”

“It makes it better,” Ilya said. "You should live a little, old man."

Svetlana took another sip of champagne. “They went last year and came back talking about it like it was a religious event.”

Scott blinked. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“That’s alright,” Shane said. “I barely understood it when he started either.”

"You ended up liking it, and we will be in Canada afterwards." Ilya added. "Plenty of time for lake."

Scott’s mouth twitched as his gaze flicked between him and Shane for half a second too long, then back to Svetlana.

“Well,” he said lightly, “Canada’s got better weather anyway.”

Shane snorted and looked him straight in the eyes. “That is not what anyone says about Canada.”

Scott lifted one shoulder. “I’m choosing optimism.”

The conversation drifted after that, pulled away by other people, other congratulations, other half-interesting afterparty obligations. Someone caught Scott for a picture. Somebody else cornered Shane about sponsor appearances. Ilya ended up sitting at the edge of one of the lounge groupings with Svetlana’s purse in his lap while she disappeared toward the bathroom.

Eventually, the time the room started thinning out as ties had loosened, jackets came off, and the official part was finally over.

Shane had just gone back for the jacket he’d left slung over the back of a chair when Scott caught him near the exit with a, “Hey,” and a hand light at his elbow.

Shane turned.

Scott looked past him once, checking the room on instinct, then said, a little too lowly to be purely casual, “You and Rozanov got awfully friendly this year.”

Shane’s pulse kicked. The old reflex was still there, years of panic at being seen compressed into one sharp second.

Then he took a breath.

This was Scott.

Scott, who was so alone in this league it hurt to look at him sometimes. Scott, who was terrified of being outed and losing the only family he’d had since he was twelve. Scott, who was the whole reason Shane and Ilya had had the courage to try for real, once upon a time.

Safe person, Shane reminded himself.

Safe person.

“Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice even. “We did.”

Scott studied him for a second.

“That seems risky.”

The tone was light. His expression wasn’t.

Shane let the silence sit just long enough to make it clear he was answering the real question.

“You’d be amazed,” he said quietly, “what people overlook when they don’t want to know.”

Scott went very still.

Across the room, Ilya was helping Svetlana back into her seat, her purse still looped around one wrist. He wasn’t looking at them, which probably meant he was tracking every second.

Scott swallowed once. “Right.”

For a second Shane thought that might be all he could manage tonight.

Then Scott said, lower, “I’m not saying anything, obviously.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Shane reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, and caught one of the abandoned cocktail napkins off a nearby tray. He wrote quickly, then folded it once and handed it over.

Scott looked down at it. Then back up.

“My number,” Shane said. “If you ever want to talk properly.”

Scott looked both shocked and… grateful? And something else Shane couldn’t quite put a finger on.

Scott’s shoulders dropped a fraction before he folded the napkin small and tucked it into his pocket like it was something fragile.

“Okay,” he said.

Shane nodded once.

Then, because he knew better than to push, he added only, “You’re not alone, Scott.”

Scott looked at him for one long second.

Then he let out a breath through his nose and glanced toward the doors. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Shane said softly.

Scott nodded once, still not quite looking at him. “Goodnight, Hollander.”

“Night.”

He walked off a second later, shoulders still a little tight, but not as tight as before.

When Shane looked up, Ilya was watching him over the top of Svetlana’s shoulder with that small, unreadable expression he got whenever he was trying very hard not to show he cared about something.

Shane just tipped his chin once.

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

-

The cottage was finally starting to look like a home instead of a construction site.

Not quite done, there were still tools everywhere, sawdust strewn around the place and tile stacked in a corner waiting to be installed once the water was hooked up. 

But it was finally taking shape. The dock. The porch. The layout of the rooms. Windows in. Railings up. The old cottage and the new one overlapped a little in their heads, memory and reality sitting almost on top of each other. They’d kept broadly to the same shape because neither of them had wanted to lose what they’d loved about the first one, but they’d let themselves add a few things too. The biggest was a small studio for Ilya, tucked off to one side, and a built-in outdoor kitchen with a pizza oven and barbecue. The number of Centaurs who inevitably appeared anywhere there was a grill had made that one less of a luxury and more of a practical necessity, and it was easier to do it now than try to wedge it in later.  

Shane stood at the edge of the clearing with his hands on his hips and took it in.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Yeah."

Ilya came up beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"You’re pleased."

"Obviously, I missed our cottage."

"It is very… breezy."

"That’s your review?"

"I’m saving the sexy one for later. We will have to break in every room again."

Shane barked out a laugh and kept moving.

They walked the perimeter slowly. Shane pointed out things that had changed since the last visit. The firepit. The line of the porch. Where he wanted a bench. Where the hammock was going to go.

Ilya’s mouth curved. "You know," he said, looking around, "if you keep talking like this, I’m going to start thinking you want to play house with me."

Shane snorted. "Start?"

That got a real smile out of Ilya.

"Fair," he said.

Ilya let his gaze drift back over the porch, the dock, the open clearing down toward the lake.

“If they lock out this fall again like the first time,” he said, “at least this time we won’t waste it.”

Shane glanced at him. “You mean apart.”

Ilya hummed once.

Last time the lockout had scattered. Shane had stayed put and trained and filled the hours however he could. Ilya had gone back and played in the KHL for a while feeling like it was his duty, trying to appease his father.

Not that it had helped.

“This time will be better,” Shane said.

Ilya looked over at him. “So certain.”

Shane shrugged one shoulder. “We already know what we’re doing. We just don’t pull the trigger until they do.”

Ilya hummed in agreement, last time was filled with so much uncertainty but from what he'd been able to follow, this time was trending very similarly.

Shane continued his train of thought. “If there’s no lockout, fine. We stick to the schedule. Camp, media, all the usual bullshit.”

“And if there is?”

Shane looked back toward the cottage. “Then we stay in Montreal. Do more with the Stars. More clinics. More games. Community stuff. Expo matches if I can get enough guys to show up.”

Ilya’s mouth softened.

Shane glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ilya said. “I just like when you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“When you get passionate about things and your captain voice comes out.”

Colour bloomed on Shane's cheeks as he looked back toward the house before Ilya could watch him react too closely. “You’ll join.”

It wasn’t really a question.

“As much as possible,” Ilya said. “I am not going back to Russia for months to skate for men I don’t like this time.”

Ilya grabbed his hand and pulled him closer.

“Good,” Shane said as he nosed his cheek lightly feathering a kiss with the word.

Ilya leaned into him lightly. “You’ll make it good,” he said between a kiss. “You always do.”

Shane huffed a laugh, a little too soft. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“It is praise,” Ilya said. “Try to keep up.”

Then Ilya kissed the tip of his nose and that dragged a smile out of Shane despite himself.

“Ridiculous.”

“Fine,” Ilya said. “Then while you charm half of Montreal into building a better hockey culture, I assume there will still be time for me to become a famous underground music star.”

“No.”

Ilya sighed. “Heartless.”

They drifted again towards the hammock trees which stood off to one side of the clearing, thick-trunked and sturdy, looking out toward the lake through a thin stand of birch.

Shane put a hand on the bark of the nearer tree and pointed at the other.

"This one and that one there are close enough together."

Ilya looked at the tree. Then at Shane. Then at the pile of tools abandoned near the porch.

"Wait here."

"That’s never promising."

"No."

He disappeared and came back with a chisel and hammer, both of which looked wrong in his hands. Shane wasn't sure if he'd ever seen tools in Ilya's hands before and it happening now was a little disconcerting. 

Shane stared. "No."

"Yes."

"Ilya."

"Shane."

"You cannot vandalize my-"

"Our," Ilya corrected.

Shane stopped. "Our."

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

Then he turned to the trunk and pressed the chisel into the bark with ridiculous concentration.

"What are you doing?"

"Recording history."

"That is not what history is."

The first line went in crooked. The second one wasn’t much better. By the time Shane got close enough to really object, there was already a lopsided heart carved into the bark with their initials and a year jammed inside it.

            _        _
          /  \     /  \
        /     \   /     \
      /          v        \
     |       S + I        |
     \      2008       /
       \        -        /
         \              /
           \          /
             \      /
               \  /

Ilya looked at, satisfied. 2008 - , their story was just like that, unfinished. But here, the tree would record it for them at least. Okay 2008 might be a little early but he had wanted to claim as much time with his husband as he could.

It was perfect.

Shane laughed helplessly. "Oh my God."

Ilya handed him the hammer like this had been a collaborative project all along. "You’re welcome."

"You’re twelve."

"You love it."

He did.

Annoyingly, hopelessly in love.

Shane set the hammer down on a stump before either of them lost a finger and looked back toward the cottage.

The porch.

The dock.

The stupid heart on the tree.

The whole thing sitting there in the late-afternoon light like it had been waiting for them.

And before he could stop himself, he said, "I think I made the first one for you too."

Ilya went still.

Shane rubbed the back of his neck.

“The first cottage,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I always told myself it was my place. My refuge. Somewhere I could go when I was tired of everybody looking at me.”

He glanced back toward the house.

“But I think...” He stopped, then tried again. “I think part of it was for you too. I just didn’t know that’s what I was doing. It was the one place I could have those feelings about you and not feel watched for it.”

For a second Ilya didn’t say anything.

Then he stepped closer, close enough that Shane could see the flecks of gold in his eyes right before he captured his mouth in a long slow kiss.

"This," Ilya said softly against his mouth, "I like better."

Shane hummed back low in his throat before kissing back firmly but just as slow, letting his tongue venture out and lick into Ilya's open mouth. 

They kissed for another moment before breaking apart. Ilya then glanced past him toward the cottage.

"Not something you made for me before either of us knew what the hell we were doing," he said. "This one. Ours. From the start."

"Yeah," he said.

Ilya’s mouth tipped faintly. "A place to relax from everyone until we decide to come out but not a prison either. Then, when we’re ready, we can let people in on purpose."

Shane huffed a laugh to cover it. "Wow. Look at you."

"I contain multitudes."

Shane laughed and grabbed his hand to go back inside, "Come on, we need to finalize paint colours before we leave."

Ilya didn't protest as he'd pulled towards the cottage but looks back one final time at their initials carved in the tree. 

-

Back in Montreal that evening, Shane found the VCR and the tapes where he’d left them on the counter. Ilya had decided the time was now to finally watch one.

He’d been avoiding them for months. Viktor had pointed that out more than once, in that infuriatingly patient way of his. Not pushing exactly, just refusing to let Ilya dress it up as something else. The tapes themselves were not dangerous, he’d said. It was the waiting. The outsized space in took up in your mind when you let it fester for too long.

Ilya still wasn’t sure he agreed. Or maybe he did agree and had simply resented hearing it from someone else.

Because the problem had never really been the tapes themselves. It was what they contained. His mother alive. His brother before everything curdled. Possibly evidence that those years had once held ordinary warmth in them, little scraps of it, enough that he had spent half his adult life flattening them down that sometimes even he wasn't sure what was real. Or worse, that they’d never existed and he’d made it all up.

And then there was the extra strangeness of it now, of being grown and gone and dragged backwards into his own life with all of that grief still sitting in him unchanged.

So. Fine.

The time was now.

Shane and Ilya stood side by side looking at the stack of tapes before Ilya reached and picked up the top tape.

Mama + Boys 1995 (summer).

His thumb moved once over the label.

"Okay," he said.

Shane took the tape from him gently and inserted it into the VCR. The machine complained, because of course it did, and Shane had to smack and blow in it once and swear at it twice before it finally gave in. Shane quickly retreated to the couch with Ilya.

Then the tape rolled.

Static first.

A flicker.

Then summer.

A garden. Bright and green and neatly kept. Flowerbeds trimmed and orderly. Irina on a blanket in the grass with little Ilya in front of her.

He was so small Shane’s brain rejected it for a second.

Round-cheeked and hair so blonde it was nearly white. Serious in the way very small kids could be, all concentration picking apart a flower he'd grabbed.

Irina clapped her hands and sang something soft and lilting that Shane didn’t understand.

Little Ilya stared at her. Then copied her.

Once.

Again.

Beside Shane, Ilya said quietly, almost absently, "Ladushki."

Onscreen, Irina repeated the rhythm and little Ilya lit up the second he got it right, delighted in a way so pure it hurt to look at.

At the edge of the frame, an older boy kicked a ball against the step with the bored indignation of an eight-year-old who was no longer interested in baby games.

Alexei.

Lean, all elbows and knees. Dark hair, sharp gaze, but lacking the cruelty that would come with age.

Every few seconds he looked over despite himself.

Irina reached out without looking and caught him by the wrist on his next pass.

Alexei protested immediately.

Ilya made a sound beside Shane. Half laugh, half breath.

Irina ignored the protest completely and tugged until he stumbled closer. Little Ilya, thrilled by this development, lost the game entirely in favour of grabbing at his brother.

Alexei rolled his eyes so hard Shane could feel the force of it across time.

Then Irina hauled both boys in against her and stood.

"Jesus," Shane murmured before he could stop himself.

"She was strong," Ilya said.

Irina spun once.

Twice.

The camera jolted with the laughter of whoever was filming. Both boys were laughing now, even Alexei. Little Ilya’s shrieks went high and wild over everything. Irina laughed too, head tipped back, sunlight catching in her hair that was the same colour as Ilya's now was.

For a few seconds the whole frame was just motion and summer and noise.

Then she set them down, fixed something about Alexei’s shirt, kissed the top of his and little Ilya’s head, and the tape rolled on into more garden and voices and ordinary life.

Beside Shane, Ilya had gone completely still as he drank in the sights and sounds of his mother.

Ilya kept the tape going, enraptured. Let Irina’s voice fill the room as she chased the boys around onscreen and spoke over her shoulder at whoever was holding the camera.

It was her voice that hit him the most.

Then how young she was, barely older than he was now in this body and far younger than he had been before they’d come back.

Oh fuck, he realized slowly that he had not really remembered her voice until it came back all at once through the recording.

Light and brisk and alive. Teasing Alexei. Praising him. Calling little Ilya back when he wandered too far. Talking to whoever was behind the camera like she had all the time in the world. Like the sadness and depression hadn’t touched her yet. Before..

He had remembered her in flashes for so long that he’d forgotten a person could sound complete.

Hands. Hair. Perfume. A kiss to his forehead. Warmth of her arms holding him.

And now suddenly here she was, not as grief, not as a memory from a traumatized little boy, not as the last time he saw her; lifeless in her bed, but as herself.

Onscreen, whoever was filming said something Shane couldn’t make out. Irina laughed and turned toward the camera.

Then she crouched and caught little Ilya gently by both shoulders, steering him back into frame.

“ Скажи пока Say goodbye.”

Little Ilya blinked up at her, then at the camera.

Irina glanced over her shoulder. “ Алексей! Иди сюда, попрощайся. Alexei! Come here, say goodbye.”

At the edge of the frame, Alexei made an offended noise and bolted in the opposite direction.

Irina laughed again, unsurprised, and gave up on him immediately.

“ Ну ладно Alright then.”

Then she looked back down at little Ilya and smiled, bright and easy and so familiar it made something in Ilya’s chest split clean through.

Little Ilya, delighted by having a job, lifted one tiny hand and waved wildly at the camera.

“ Пока! Bye!”

Irina waved too, smiling just as big.

“ Пока, пока. Bye, bye. ”

And then the frame jolted, the garden skewed sideways for a second, and the tape ran out into static.

For a few seconds neither of them moved.

The room filled with that flat, empty hiss and the abrupt absence of her felt worse for how alive she had been a second before.

When Shane finally looked over, Ilya was crying without making a sound. Just tears running steadily down his face like he hadn’t noticed them yet.

Shane didn’t say anything.

He just shifted closer and pulled him in.

Ilya went without resistance, folding in against him while the static kept hissing through the room.

When Ilya finally drew a steadier breath, he scrubbed once at his face and let out a short, embarrassed laugh that didn’t sound much like one.

“I forgot her voice,” he said quietly.

Shane tightened his arm around him.

“Oh?” he questioned lightly.

Ilya swallowed. “Or I thought I remembered it. But I didn’t. Not really.”

The static went on hissing.

“Well,” Shane said softly. “You’ve got it now.”

That pulled another breath out of Ilya. Not quite a laugh this time.

“Yeah,” he said.

He didn’t pull away right away.

Shane didn’t make him.

-

As if summoned, the call came the next afternoon.

Shane knew who it was from the look on Ilya’s face before he even saw the number on the screen.

He didn’t leave. Just moved farther down the hall, close enough to be there, far enough to give it some semblance of privacy if Ilya wanted.

Ilya answered in Russian.

"Да?"

Alexei launched straight in. Loud enough that even from down the hall Shane could hear the shape of the anger, if not the words.

Ilya leaned one shoulder against the wall.

" Не начинай Don’t start." 

That did nothing.

Alexei kept going, voice sharp and fast and needling, the familiar rhythm of complaint turning quickly toward demand.

Ilya shut his eyes for a second and began walking back and forth in the kitchen.

" Я уже всё сказал. Денги приходят. Этого достаточно I already told you. The money is coming. That is enough." 

Apparently, Alexei disagreed.

His voice jumped again, louder now, and Ilya’s expression flattened by degrees.

" Нет. Я не приеду только потому, что он решил злиться No. I am not coming just because he decided to be angry." 

More raised volume. More pushing.

Then Ilya went very still.

" Дай ему трубку Put him on the phone." 

When he spoke again, his voice was lower and flat. " Нет, Алексей. Не передавай. Дай ему трубку No, Alexei. Don’t pass it on. Put him on the phone." 

A beat.

Then another voice came on. Older. Rougher. No less angry for being slower.

Ilya’s face did not change.

" Здравствуйте, отец Hello, Father." 

Whatever came back flattened Ilya’s expression.

Ilya listened without interrupting this time. Let his father spend himself. Let him say whatever he had clearly decided needed saying.

When he finally answered, he did it in the same even tone.

" Я не приеду I am not coming." 

His father snapped something back.

" Нет. Слушайте внимательно No. Listen carefully." 

From the other end came another burst of angry Russian, lower this time but no less forceful.

Ilya opened his eyes and stared at the wall across from him. His eyes roved over the kitchen sink, the dishes to large or delicate for the dishwasher drying on the rack beside as he listened.

" Я отправляю деньги. Регулярно. Это всё, что я дам I send money. Regularly. That is all I will give." 

His father cut in again.

This time Ilya spoke over him.

" Я не приеду домой. Не сейчас. Не потом. Хватит I am not coming home. Not now. Not later. Enough." 

Silence.

Ilya said it once in English too, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"I am not coming home."

His father said something final and ugly.

Ilya’s expression did not move.

" Тогда злитесь Then be angry." 

And then, after the smallest pause:

" До свидания Goodbye."

He hung up.

For a second he just stood there with the phone still in his hand as he leaned on the counter with his hands and hung his head.

Then he let out a long breath and looked up to find Shane watching from the doorway.

"My father," he said.

"I guessed."

"He is angry I am not visiting."

"Clearly."

That got the faintest huff of laughter out of him.

"Alexei thought he could wear me down first," Ilya said after a moment. "Then he decided my father would do better. More money. Always more money. Even after last year."

"Can they?"

"No."

No hesitation. None at all.

Shane nodded once.

"Okay."

Ilya looked down at the dark screen of the phone. "They have what I will give. That is enough."

Shane crossed the over then and stopped close enough to touch.

"You don’t have to sell it to me."

"I know." Ilya sighed again and let his head fall to Shane's shoulder whose hand immediately found it's way into his curls. 

For a minute neither of them said anything.

Then, quieter, Ilya said, "Sometimes I think we should just stop waiting."

Shane’s hand stilled for half a beat in his hair.

"For after the Olympics," Ilya said. "For all of it."

He lifted his head just enough to look at the dark kitchen instead of Shane. "If we came out now, neither of us goes safely. I know. But some days I think maybe fine. Maybe I say fuck it. Fuck the team. Fuck Russia. Fuck him." He glanced once toward the phone still in his hand. "Let them keep it all."

Shane didn’t rush to answer.

Ilya let out a short breath through his nose and went quiet again, still looking at the dark kitchen instead of Shane. The phone was still in his hand.

Shane didn’t try to fill it.

After a moment he said, very quietly, “You don’t have to do it again if you don’t want to.”

That got Ilya to look at him.

“The team. The Olympics. Any of it,” Shane said. “I’ll back whatever you choose. If you want to stick to the plan, we stick to it. If you decide tomorrow you’re done giving them one more chance to take from you, then we deal with that too.”

Shane brushed his fingers once through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You don’t owe them proof,” he said. “Not to your father. Not to Russia. Not to anybody.”

For a second Ilya didn’t say anything.

Then he leaned back into Shane’s hand a little, like the movement had happened without him deciding to make it.

“I know,” he said.

Shane held his gaze. “Good.”

A beat passed.

Then Shane added, “If you do change your mind, though, I’d appreciate some warning before you light the Olympic team on fire.”

That dragged a breath of laughter out of Ilya.

“You’ll be the first to know, Kotik.”

But then his smiled screwed up a little at the edges, “I will talk to Viktor about this, I think.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Shane said and then stepped back and tugged him towards the living room. "Come on. We leave for Belgium in a few days, then when we get back we’ve got the camp for a week before all the ad stuff starts again."

"And until then?" he asked, refocusing and taking in his smiling husband.

Shane shrugged. "I was thinking we waste what’s left of July irresponsibly."

Ilya looked at him for a second, then his gaze turned hungry.

"I like that plan," he said.

Then he caught the hem of his own shirt and pulled it over his head as he started toward the bedroom.

Shane laughed and followed, already undoing the buttons down his linen shirt.

"Subtle," he said.

Ilya glanced back over one shoulder. "I am tired of subtle."

That, Shane thought, was fair.

Chapter End Notes

On the bright side, the next chapter is mostly written so it won't take as long!
Next up: Hockey Camp

Chapter 18: Chapter 17

Chapter Summary

August 2012

Chapter Notes

Whoops, this was supposed to be faster but I accidentally got into actual hockey while researching and the Habs have been fraying my nerves in the playoffs. Also work has been crazy :/

A few days after Belgium, Shane’s phone buzzed where he’d left it on the bench beside the weights.

He reached for it automatically, still breathing a little hard, and frowned at the screen.

New York area code.

That narrowed the field pretty fast.

Across the room, Ilya looked up from where he was toweling off and immediately clocked his face. Shane’s basement had long since stopped being a basement and crossed fully into a fully kitted out home gym, racks and plates with rubber flooring and one especially beefy cable machine on one side with an open area with cork floors for yoga on the other.

“Who?” Ilya asked.

Shane just shook his head and answered the call. “Hello?”

A beat.

Then, stiffly, “Uh. Hi.”

Scott.

His voice nervous and tentative, not at all the confident tone they knew so well from before. Shane internally wondered how many times Scott had tried to make this call over the past several weeks since the awards.

Shane dropped onto the bench and kept his voice easy. “Scott. Hey.”

Another pause.

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No. You’re good.”

That seemed to help, if only a little.

Scott exhaled quietly through the line. “Okay.”

And then, after just enough silence to make it obvious he was trying to decide how to start:

“You said to call.”

Shane smiled despite himself. “Yeah.”

“I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

“That's okay, you don't need to.”

“...Right,” Scott said. “Okay.”

He still sounded wound tight. Not panicked exactly. Just careful in a way that made Shane’s chest ache a little.

“I’m not…” Scott started, then stopped. “I’m not freaking out.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “You sure?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

Shane let that sit for a second. Didn’t push.

Then Scott asked, more carefully than anything else he’d said so far, “So what exactly was that, at the awards?”

Finally. Shane leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear.

“The point,” he said slowly, “was that you weren’t supposed to think it was just you.”

Nothing on the other end for a second.

Then Scott exhaled. Not quite a laugh.

“That’s still kind of insane to hear out loud.”

“Get used to it.”

This time Scott did laugh, just a little.

“You’re eerily calm about all this.”

“You expect me to be more nervous.” Shane replied, and sure that was exactly what he would have been his first time around. Terrified. But he wasn’t that scared kid anymore. 

Scott muttered, “Most people would be.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane said.

The silence that time didn't feel quite so charged before Scott asked, “How could you tell?”

Shane’s chest tightened. Scott wasn’t really asking out of curiosity. He was scared he’d been obvious without knowing it. He’d told them once, years later, that this had been his worst fear after they were outed. Hearing it in his voice now was different.

Shane glanced up.

Ilya had stopped toweling off and was watching the phone now.

“You mind if I put you on speaker?” Shane asked. “Ilya’s here.”

The pause this time was longer.

Then, cautiously, “Okay.”

Shane hit the button and set the phone down on the bench between them.

For a second nobody said anything.

Then Ilya said, “Hello, Scott.” He dragged out the ‘S’ and overpronounced the ‘t’ with an obnoxious pop.

Scott sounded faintly horrified. “Oh my god.”

That dragged a grin out of Shane. “You agreed,” he said.

“I did not ask for a panel.”

“You’re getting one anyway,” Ilya said.

Scott made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so stressed out.

Then, because apparently he’d already committed and was too far in to retreat now, he asked again, “Seriously. How could you tell?”

Ilya didn’t answer right away.

He looked down at the phone like he could somehow see Scott through it.

Then he said, flatly, “Because I know what I’m looking at.”

Scott was silent.

Shane rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“That is not helpful,” he said.

“It is true.”

Scott let out a breath through the line. “That’s... not exactly reassuring.”

This time Shane answered first.

“You weren’t obvious,” he said. “Not like that. Ilya has insane gaydar. Most people don’t know what they’re looking at. And not to people who don’t want to know.”

Ilya nodded once. “This also.”

Scott was quiet for another second.

Then: “So basically I’m only obvious to other gay people.”

“Sometimes,” Ilya said. “To ones who’ve been closeted themselves mainly.”

At the same time, Shane said, “Not really. Ilya’s just a freak.”

Scott's responding laugh sounded a touch strained.

Ilya rolled his eyes.

“And even then,” Shane added, “only if they’re paying very good attention.”

Scott exhaled again, slower this time.

“Okay,” he said, “You’re both incredibly annoying.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said.

Scott's exhale was a shade closer to a laugh this time.

A few beats passed.

Then Scott asked, “You in Montreal all August?”

“Most of it.”

Shane hesitated only a second.

“We're helping with a girls’ camp with the Stars next week,” he said. “You’d be welcome if you wanted to come by.”

Scott was quiet for long enough that Shane thought maybe he’d pushed too fast.

Then:

“I’m away that week.”

Shane kept his voice neutral. “Okay.”

“Already booked,” Scott said, then sounded annoyed at himself for saying more than he meant to.

“You don’t have to explain.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “Maybe another time.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Another time.”

“Okay,” Scott said.

And after a beat:

“Thanks. For not making this too weird.”

Shane smiled and locked eyes with Ilya who couldn’t help himself. “Give me time.”

Scott snorted.

“I’ll call when I’m back,” he said.

“Okay.”

The line clicked dead a second later.

For a second neither Shane nor Ilya moved.

Then Ilya said, “That went well, I think.”

Shane looked over at him. “Me too.”

--

Shane entered the rink with a mix of trepidation and excitement while also balancing a box of camp shirts in one arm and a coffee in the other. He was late to the start as he had been assigned to pick up the shirts, so he was walking into a scene already ripe with chaos.

Ilya had arrived nearly thirty minutes previous and was somewhere in the depths of the rink, but Shane noticed Hayden and JJ right away, standing awkwardly about ten feet from the sign-up table with their skate bags.

This would be the first time his lives intersected for an extended amount, and he was reeeaaallllly hoping it would go well. Please Irina, have your son be not too much of an asshole to Hayden today. He prayed to his mother-in-law, mostly joking. Hayden and Ilya had ended up in a decently copacetic friendship after their rocky start but would always chirp each other relentlessly much to Shane’s extended exasperation.

With a huff, Shane set down the box next to the table and nodded at Marie-Anne Gervais manning the station before joining the two other Voyageurs.

“Morning, is Rozanov here yet?” he asked, pretending he didn’t know and hoping to address the elephant in the room right away.

Hayden took a sip of his own coffee and gestured towards the ice. “He’s on the ice already, dude was laced up when we got here.”

JJ looked past Shane toward the rink and made a face. “C'est vrai. Kinda weird he’s here, no?”

Hayden snorted. “Yeah, seriously. How the hell did you manage that, Hollzy?”

Shane leaned around the corner to get a better look at the rink only to find Ilya looking back. Ilya gave him a wink and began skating to the entrance, likely to join them.

Shane leaned back and looked around again for the Stars' coach, pretending he was too distracted to hear Hayden. “I think he’s getting off. Have either of you found Pauline yet?”

As they were both answering in the negative, Ilya popped around the corner still in skates and towering over all but JJ. “Hello, Voyageurs! So glad you finally showed up!”

Shane cut in before his teammates could respond. “Oh stuff it, Rozy, I know you just missed me.” And then he smirked. SMIRKED.

Both Hayden and JJ burst out laughing while Ilya actually blushed. Shane had never called him Rozy and him doing it in this situation, in front of Hayden and JJ no less, did funny things to him.

“Christ Hollander, ты заставляешь меня хотеть тебя поцеловать You’re making me want to kiss you. .”

“What?” Hayden asked, obviously not understanding the Russian.

“Nothing, Pike,” Ilya diverted and continued with more authority. “Pauline wants your skates on and we’ll join her at center ice. We start in ten minutes. We can gossip later.”

That turned out to be optimistic.

The first twenty minutes disappeared into registration stragglers, missing mouthguards and skate guards, a girl in tears because her skate lace had snapped in the parking lot, and Pauline Bouchard (who ended up being a brunette lady in her mid forties with a crooked smile and sharp green eyes) trying to run three different conversations at once trying to get everything lined up.

Shane and JJ defaulted into French with the organizers without even thinking about it, which helped. Hayden muddled through in bad French while Ilya slid into the kind of rink French that he'd learned over the years from their Irina foundation camps. It wasn't remotely conversational but contained enough hockey vocabulary to effectively give feedback.

The girls were mostly between seven and twelve, old enough to be thrilled and young enough not to bother hiding it for long. The first few were shy about talking to the boys. That lasted maybe five minutes. After that it was mostly nerves turning into chatter and loud exuberance.

Shane got shoved into a passing station with JJ. Hayden was conscripted into shooting drills. Ilya was given edgework.

Because of Shane’s fairly extensive history of seeing how Ilya worked with kids, he was unsurprised by how popular he became at the girls’ camp.

He didn’t baby them. He was exacting, a little bossy, and clearly expected them to listen the first time; but he liked kids, and he liked making them laugh, and somehow he could do that without the drill turning to shit. A girl nailed a turn and he’d flash her a grin. Somebody got chirpy and he’d gasp at her like she’d mortally offended him. "Encore," when he wanted it again. "Genoux." "Poids ici." "Better."

It wasn’t graceful, but it worked, and the girls were obsessed with him.

By the second water break there was a cluster of girls following him around like ducklings.

“This is getting out of hand,” Hayden muttered when he drifted past Shane’s station for a water bottle. “You think he was Justin Bieber or something with they way they’re fawning all over him.”

“That sounds like a them problem,” Shane said, trying not to grin.

JJ snorted. “No, no, c’est our problem now. He’ll be unbearable.”

Across the ice, as if summoned by the insult, Ilya looked up in time to catch all three of them staring at him. He smirked and then crouched to say something to one of the younger girls, who immediately beamed like she’d just been knighted.

“Christ,” Hayden muttered. “He did not need that ego boost.”

The girls worked hard, though. That was the thing that got Shane more than the hero worship. Once the nerves burned off, they were all in. Serious. Sweating through drills, asking questions, trying again and again when something didn’t click right away. A few were already really good. Most were just hungry for it, which mattered just as much at that age.

However, Ilya wasn’t alone in the fawning. Every now and then one would circle back to ask for a signature on a practice jersey from one of them or skate by too fast and blurt out some half-terrified compliment before fleeing. One of the smaller girls with darker skin and braids told JJ in solemn French that he was her favourite player and she wanted to play defense like him and her brother.

“Calisse,” he said, one hand over his chest. “That is it. I am done. She killed me. Elle est trop cute!”

Hayden cooed but also almost dropped a bucket of pucks when a stray stick slid in front of him.

They called the lunch break halfway through, and the whole rink exploded at once.

Girls swarmed toward the benches in noisy little clusters. Coaches reset cones. Somebody dragged out a cooler of popsicles. Shane ended up by the boards with bad arena coffee in one hand, Hayden beside him, and two Stars players leaning against the glass while they caught their breath.

A minute later JJ wandered over, and after him came Ilya, curls a little damp at the temples and flushed from the ice.

One of the women, Alyssa Mercier, dark braid down her back and a visor tan line still faint at her forehead, nodded toward him. “He’s terrifying.”

Hayden snorted. “That checks out.”

“No, I mean it as a compliment. The girls are eating it up.”

The other player, Jordan McKay, laughed. “Maya’s already decided she’s switching her favourite hockey team permanently because he told her her crossover was aggressive.”

“That is an insane reason to pick a favourite team,” Shane said.

“She’s twelve,” the Alyssa said. “Aggressive is basically a marriage proposal.”

That got him laughing properly. "Hear that, Rozanov? You might need to watch out."

Ilya, taking a bottle from the crate, looked quite smug. “It was a very good crossover.”

Hayden pointed at him. “See? This is what we’re dealing with.”

The conversation drifted, the way hockey conversations always did, from drills to teams to schedules.

Alyssa said, “I’ve got labs three days a week once classes start again, which is annoying because our practice ice is usually after nine.”

JJ blinked. “Labs? Like, actual school labs?”

She looked at him. “Yeah. Kinesiology.”

Hayden frowned. “Wait. You’re still in school?”

“Most of us are,” the other woman said.

JJ’s whole face shifted. “While playing? For real?”

That got both women laughing.

“Well, we’re definitely not living off this,” the braided one said.

“I do physio reception three mornings a week,” Jordan said. “Kat works at a pharmacy. Quite a few more of the girls are in university. One’s doing her master’s.”

Hayden stared at them. “That’s insane.”

“It’s Tuesday,” one of them said shrugging. “It’s not that insane.”

“No, I mean that is actually insane,” Hayden said. “You’ve got a league. You should be getting paid enough not to sprint from practice to a class or something.”

JJ was still looking between them like maybe he thought they were joking and just hadn’t gotten to the punchline yet.

Ilya unscrewed his bottle and said nothing.

Shane caught Ilya’s eye. They already knew how much women’s hockey ran on stolen time, extra labour, and people loving it enough to keep going anyway.

Shane looked back at the Stars players. “That’s such bullshit.”

Alyssa tipped her head. “Yeah.”

Ilya took a drink, then said, flatly, “It is.”

Before they split, Hayden, still looking half offended on their behalf, said, “Okay, sorry, but what exactly is the point of a league if you all still have to work elsewhere?”

That got a real laugh out of all three women.

“You tell us,” One of them said.

The rest of the week fell into a rhythm after that as each man found their groove with the girls.

And, to Shane’s quiet satisfaction, he’d managed to pull in a few more Voyageurs for cameo appearances over the course of the week too as they found time in their summer schedules. Not enough to make it feel like a team initiative, exactly, and not enough to let management off the hook in his own head, but enough that the girls started treating it like a game of its own whenever a new player walked through the rink doors. The current Captain, Adam Poirier, dropped by with his eight-year-old daughter and caused quite the commotion on day three and Shane was internally quite pleased about it.

By Thursday, Pauline had stopped looking pleasantly surprised and started looking impressed.

And Ilya, to Shane’s reluctant admiration and pride, became a full camp menace.

He had no business being that effective with kids while speaking maybe twenty useful words of French, but there he was anyway, somehow communicating almost entirely through body language, tone, and expression. One girl skated up to Shane on the third day and informed him, to both his amusement and dismay, that Ilya was the coolest coach out of all of them.

But Shane had just laughed, more fond than offended. His husband was amazing with kids and he'd had to focus so hard not to let his heart eyes leak through. He may or may not have succeeded at all times but neither JJ or Hayden had brought it up so he'd take the win.

By the final day, everybody was tired but in very good spirits all around.

That was when the week’s planned finale finally arrived.

The exhibition game had been on the schedule from day one, which was why all four of the boys had shown up with full gear instead of just camp basics. Mitty had also dropped in that day, cleaner and more understated than Shane would have expected from their goalie and promptly made himself extremely popular by working with the baby crabs in the morning to their unending admiration. By that point the girls had already been getting progressively more feral about the game every afternoon.

“Exhibition game,” Pauline announced anyway, clapping her hands once to get the last group of girls in around center. “Stars against the very generous men who have been terrorizing you all week. Four on four. Keep it friendly. Try not to injure anybody important.”

The girls erupted instantly.

Hayden pointed at her theatrically. “No, absolutely not. This is a setup.”

“Yes,” Pauline said cheerfully. “Obviously.”

As if the day still needed more chaos, somebody from one of the local papers had also gotten wind of it. A reporter and photographer had turned up half an hour earlier to do a quick community feature, and before the teams could get sorted properly, Shane, JJ, Hayden, and Mitty got dragged to the boards for a few questions and one extremely staged photo while Ilya stayed back not wanting to distract from the Montreal story.

The reporter, a woman in her thirties with a notebook already half full, smiled up at them. “So what made you guys say yes to this?”

Shane answered first because somebody had to and because he was the one who’d instigated everything. “It’s a good camp. Good turnout. The Stars asked, and we wanted to come help out.”

JJ nodded. “And the girls work hard as hell. Makes it easy to say yes.”

Hayden, leaning on his stick, gestured toward the far end where a handful of campers were still taking warm-up shots at an empty net. “Also they’ve been bullying us all week, so I feel like the paper should print that.”

The reporter followed his gesture automatically, maybe looking for Ilya too, but only finding Pauline and a few of the older girls chatting while waiting for their turn.

Mitty, who had somehow managed to get several hearts and stars drawn onto his leg pads, added, “I spent the morning with the little goalies and now I have at least six new best friends, so clearly I had no choice.”

That got a laugh.

“And the Stars?” she asked instead. “What should people know?”

Shane answered first. “That people should actually come watch them. This is a great group of talented women who really know how to play.”

JJ picked it up right away. “No, for real. They’ve got girls here all week because these players showed up and put the work in. People talk like women’s hockey is some nice idea, but it’s right here. It’s good hockey.”

Hayden nodded. “And if anybody watching this ends up at a Stars game because of today, that’s kind of the point, no?”

Mitty added, “Their goalie’s already taught me a thing or two as well! Hope I can return the favour.”

That made one of the Stars players cheer from the bench.

“Print that,” she called.

“I might,” the reporter said.

With Mitty there, they didn’t need to borrow a goalie after all and the rosters got cobbled together in about thirty seconds after that. All five boys on one side, and Stars on the other for some 4 on 4 action.

Then Ilya came back out in a borrowed Voyageurs jersey that looked a little jarring to say the least.

Hayden squinted at him. “Is that a Hollander jersey?”

JJ barked out a laugh. “Tabarnak. It is.”

Shane looked up and immediately had to bite the inside of his cheek.

The nameplate on the back did, in fact, read HOLLANDER 24.

Ilya, who looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone in another man’s jersey, lifted one shoulder. “I gave mine away.”

“Convenient,” Hayden said.

“One of the girls wanted it,” Ilya said. Then, after a beat: “I am weak in the face of admiration.”

JJ looked between him and Shane, grin widening by the second. “You couldn’t find literally any other jersey in this whole building?”

Ilya glanced down at himself like this was all very unfortunate. “Apparently not.”

“That’s disgusting,” Hayden said.

Shane still hadn’t trusted himself to speak.

Ilya caught his eye for half a second and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Then Pauline clapped once and yelled for everybody to get moving, which was probably for the best.

Jackie turned up halfway through the chaos with the twins holding both hands and another little girl from the team trailing after her with a bag of snacks. The girls squealed when they saw her like she was another celebrity entirely, which honestly she kind of was for bringing extra snacks.

“You picked a good day,” Shane called as he skated past the bench.

Jackie smiled. “I heard there was going to be public humiliation. Didn’t want to miss it.”

Ruby was in Jackie’s arms kicking one sneakered foot against her hip and trying to wriggle down already. Jade, beside her, had twisted fully around to stare at the rink with intense, immediate interest as her dad skated around and waved.

Ilya came gliding over toward the bench, all swagger right up until Ruby spotted Hayden and shouted for him, both hands already reaching.

Hayden veered over with immediate, practiced instinct and scooped Ruby up over the boards the second Jackie passed her across. Ruby latched onto his jersey and started chattering at him at full speed like she had been saving it up.

“There,” Jackie said. “One crisis handled.”

From beside them Jade made an offended noise and lifted both arms, not remotely interested in being left out.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Shane said.

Jackie looked over at Ilya and, with the ease of someone who had long since decided giant hockey players were acceptable toddler furniture, handed Jade over the boards to him instead.

“There you go,” she said. “Since you look underoccupied.”

Ilya caught Jade automatically against his chest, one huge hand spanning across her whole back while she immediately grabbed at the laces on his jersey like she’d found something critically important. His whole face changed in the quiet, startling way it always did around children.

Soft and utterly enamoured. If Shane had ovaries, they would have probably started ovulating at this point.

“Hello to you too, zayka Rabbit ,” he said as Jade patted at his shoulder and then very seriously inspected one eyebrow.

Jackie watched him for a second, looked over at Shane, and gave him a very... knowing smile.

“He’s ridiculous,” Shane said, trying to deflect.

“Mmhm,” Jackie said.

Then Pauline’s whistle went, the girls got reluctantly handed back, and the game started.

It went exactly how every sane person should have expected.

The first period belonged to the camp girls.

That was probably for the best. It let them all get one clean shot at victory before the actual Stars players took their turn.

The boys were obviously holding back on the camp girls. Nobody was scrumming violently in the corners or wiring full-strength shots through traffic. They were playing just hard enough to make the girls earn it and just soft enough not to be assholes about it.

Which, as it turned out, only made the girls dig in harder.

Every loose puck became a challenge. Every rush turned into a little burst of righteous determination. The second Hayden got a bit too confident carrying through the middle, one of the eleven-year-olds stripped him clean and fed the puck across for a quick shot.

“This is humiliating!” Hayden shouted while laughing.

From the bench, Jackie shouted back, “Skate harder, Pike!”

JJ was doing slightly better, mostly because he’d committed fully to being passed by children with dignity, but even he got caught flat-footed twice by a little right winger with quick hands and an even more impressive release.

“Calisse,” he said, coasting back after the second goal. “She’s ten. Why is she doing this to me?”

“Because you are slow,” Ilya called, not sounding sympathetic at all.

The bench lost it.

Then Pauline blew the whistle, the girls came off in a rush of laughter and flushed faces, and the Stars players hopped the boards for the second period.

That was when things got worse.

The Stars came over the boards grinning and chirping, calling things out to each other.

Their patience with the boys was gone. They were there to skate them into the ground.

And unlike the first period, the boys could not hide behind the built-in excuse of playing against kids.

One of the Stars players burned Ilya wide so cleanly he actually tripped and ended up sliding several feet through the zone.

The spectators erupted with laughter as he was splayed out on the ice.

Hayden got caught reaching for a pokecheck he absolutely would have followed with shoulder check in a real game and instead watched his mark slip neatly around him.

"Oh, come on," he said, half laughing, half offended.

JJ held up a little better for about thirty seconds, right until one of the Stars forwards cut inside on him and forced him to turn harder than he’d expected.

"Tabarnak," he muttered. "Okay. That is annoying."

It took them all of five minutes to realize what Shane had already known.

This wasn’t a stripped-down version of the game for the Stars. It was just their game.

No checking. No fighting. No leaning on size when you got in trouble. Just edges and hands and timing and reading the play fast enough to stay ahead of it.

For Shane, that was funny. He had been doing ad-hoc practices with these women for nearly two years now and he’d already been thoroughly schooled.

For the others, at least at first, it was a surprise.

Shane, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.

There was something about watching his teammates and husband have that exact moment of surprised recalibration that was objectively one of the funniest things that had happened to him in months.

Hayden had scored once after getting skated around incessantly and he celebrated by pointing directly at Jackie, who clapped and encouraged the twins to cheer from the stands.

By the end of the second mini-period, everybody was half dead and laughing too hard to hide it.

The Stars won.

Obviously.

Ilya bent over with both hands on his knees and announced to the world, “Okay, no. That was rude.”

“Skill issue,” one of the older girls told him instantly.

JJ put a hand over his heart. “That is so rude. Also true, but rude.”

Jackie was grinning on the bench, shaking her head as Jade started laughing too despite having no idea what was going on. Ruby, beside her, was hopping up and down, excited to see everyone skating back their way.

Ilya skated over to the bench, breathing hard and grinning in that bright, loose way Shane only got to see in moments he wasn’t guarding.

Jackie held out a hand for a high five. “How’s your dignity?”

“Adjusted,” Ilya said. “I had not realized how much I enjoy cheating with physicality.”

“Serves you right,” she said.

When the camp girls finally peeled off toward parents and rides and summer plans and last-minute autograph chaos, the building went quiet and echoey.

The Stars players collapsed against the boards in small groups, tired and flushed and still chirping the boys for getting embarrassed in public. Hayden took it good naturedly as he began to help pack up. JJ, to his credit, was laughing now too as he joined. Mitty peeled off not long after, apologizing over his shoulder that he had dinner plans and a wife waiting for him.

The group spilled into the park adjacent to the rink and someone placed a Pizza Pizza order, which Shane intercepted and paid for before Pauline could notice. Everyone settled onto the grass with vending machine drinks and the collective sigh that only comes from a long day of physical exertion.

That was when the talk slid, inevitably, toward the other big hockey question of the summer.

The Players’ Association.

The league.

The very stupid game of economic chicken everybody was pretending was still just posturing.

“You think they’re actually gonna reach a deal before we have to go back to camp?” Hayden asked around a mouthful of pizza.

JJ made a face. “They have to, no?”

Shane kept his expression neutral by force.

Across from him, Ilya was having exactly the same problem and hiding it exactly as badly.

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “They’re saying all the usual things.”

“That means absolutely nothing,” Ilya said.

Hayden shrugged. “Yeah, well. I guess we’ll see.”

JJ made a face. “Same bullshit every time.”

Shane bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Kat, halfway through a carton of fries, looked up and said, “If they cancel games over rich people fighting about percentages, I’m going to become even more unbearable than usual. Just so everyone’s prepared.”

“That seems fair,” Hayden said.

JJ made a face. “Honestly, if they lock us out over numbers, they should be embarrassed.”

Then Alyssa said, quieter now, “If they blow up the season over this, I might lose my mind. There’s already so little room for women’s hockey in the conversation. Then they stop the men’s game and somehow it’s even worse for us. You’d think it would result in more visibility for the women’s league but I highly doubt it.”

Nobody had a quick answer to that.

Not a good one, anyway.

Shane looked down at his plate.

Ilya looked at the girls running around the playground in camp shirts, still flushed and loud and happy from the week as their mothers sat at a nearby bench, watching.

And for one second the whole thing sat there plain as day: What got funded, what got protected, what got talked about like it mattered. And what people expected to just survive on love and side jobs and spare time.

“Well,” Hayden said at last, with a stubborn look, “for what it’s worth, if they lock us out, I’m coming back here to work on skills. The ladies really know what they're doing.”

"Yeah losers!" One of the Stars yelled in response.

That got the room laughing hard enough to break the mood.

“Good,” Pauline said. “We need a weak link.”

“You’re all dead to me,” Hayden said, which only made Jackie laugh harder as Ruby stumbled and fell into his lap.

Later, when the last of the pizza boxes had been cleared and the Stars players were heading out in clumps with gear slung over their shoulders, Shane found Ilya by the bench door, both of them sticky with dried sweat and a little sunburned at the backs of their necks.

“Worth it?” Shane asked.

Ilya looked back toward the ice, now mostly dark again.

“Obviously,” he said.

Then, after a beat: “Your coach is an idiot.”

Shane laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Ilya nudged his shoulder with one of his own as he stood, casual as anything. “Good. You have a good thing going on here.”

JJ’s voice rang out from across the room before Shane could answer.

“Hey! You two want to go for a beer?”

Shane looked up.

JJ had one hand on his bag and the other shoved in his pocket, expression easy in that way of his that made almost everything sound like a reasonable idea.

Before either of them could answer, Hayden leaned around the doorway behind him. “Not me. I’m going home with Jackie. Dad duty calls.”

From behind him, Jackie said, “Damn straight.”

Hayden gave her a thumbs up without turning around. “Next time guys.”

JJ looked back at them and Hayden trotted off. “So? Beer?”

Ilya bent to pick up his bag.

Shane reached for his own.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “We can do that.”

A couple hours later, after the beer had turned into two and the conversation had drifted from hockey to nothing important and back again, they ended up outside the bar in the heavy August dark.

JJ stood with one hand in his pocket and looked from Shane to Ilya like he was still making up his mind about something.

Then he nodded once.

“You know what, Rozanov?” he said. “You’re not a bad guy.”

Ilya looked almost offended by the phrasing. “High praise.”

“It is,” JJ said. “Don’t make me take it back.”

As they walked in opposite directions Shane asked a question that was on his mind, "Will that article show you in it?"

Ilya glanced over, "No. I had a conversation with them."

"Probably for the best right now."

--

From Le Journal de Montréal, August 2012

Voyageurs stars draw attention to Montreal Stars youth camp, but where was the team?

By Friday afternoon, the girls at the Montreal Stars summer camp had stopped trying to play it cool.

They crowded the glass between drills, chased autographs on practice jerseys, and threw themselves into every station with even more energy once the Voyageurs Shane Hollander, JJ Boizeau, Hayden Pike, and goaltender Mitty joined them on the ice.

The final-day exhibition game, planned in advance as part of the camp week, drew enough extra spectators that parents were lining the boards and a few local fans filtered in once word spread that the men would be playing. The result was exactly what should be expected when professional women and highly motivated young girls are given a chance to embarrass a few cooperative MLH players in public: a lot of laughter, some bruised pride, and a reminder that the hockey in question was very good.

More important than the comedy, however, was the visibility.

“This is a good camp. Good turnout,” Hollander said before the exhibition game. “The Stars asked, and we wanted to come help out.”

Boizeau, who spent most of the week working passing and puck control stations, was even more direct.

“For real, people should come watch them,” he said. “You see the turnout here because these players showed up and put the work in. People talk like women’s hockey is some abstract nice idea, but it’s right here. It’s good hockey.”

Pike, who may have been the day’s most enthusiastic victim, pointed to the larger issue.

“If anybody comes to a Stars game because of this, that’s kind of the point,” he said. Later, after learning more about the realities of the women’s side, he added: “It means a lot to me, honestly. I’ve got twin girls at home. You want this stuff to exist and be visible and actually be supported. Full credit to Shane, though. He’s the one who pushed to make this happen.”

Mitty, who spent part of the week working with the young goalie hopefuls and drew his own devoted following in the process, framed it more simply.

“They love the game,” he said. “That part’s easy to recognize. Once you see that, showing up isn’t complicated.”

That support mattered to Stars head coach Pauline Bouchard, who did not hide how unusual it was to have active men’s pros show up, stay engaged all week, and treat the event so seriously.

“The girls noticed,” Bouchard said. “They notice who comes, who stays, who takes them seriously. And our players notice too. It means something when men with that kind of profile are willing to lend their time and say publicly that this hockey deserves attention.”

Bouchard was also clear that attention is not the same thing as structural support.

“It’s wonderful that the players came,” she said. “But let’s ask the obvious question too. Why did this happen because individual players wanted to help, instead of because the organization wanted to be involved from the start?”

That question hung over the event a little more sharply by week’s end.

Hollander, Boizeau, Miitka, and Pike all came in a personal capacity. The Voyageurs themselves did not formally sponsor the camp, despite the obvious promotional upside and despite the fact that the event took place in their own market. The players wore no team branding beyond what they arrived in. There was no formal club presence beyond the men themselves. For an organization happy to market youth outreach and community values, the absence was noticeable.

That absence became even harder to ignore once camp conversations turned, as hockey conversations often do, toward money.

Several Stars players spoke openly about balancing the team with university programs, lab schedules, reception work, pharmacy shifts, and other jobs. No one spoke with self-pity just tired determination of doing what they had to do to play the sport they love.

The women were matter-of-fact. The men, with the exception of Hollander, looked genuinely surprised. It was later shared that Hollander had been quietly joining the Stars for skills-focused practices on and off for nearly two years. He said he valued the extra drilling and attention to detail, and that the women’s game, with its emphasis on skating, puck movement, and clean execution, had been deeply influential on his own development. 

The camp itself ended on a high note: a lively 4-on-4 exhibition, a park-side pizza gathering, and a lot of tired, happy children sporting camp shirts. If the goal was to build goodwill and interest, the week succeeded.

It also highlighted something less flattering.

The Voyageurs’ players understood immediately what the Stars could offer. Their fans likely would too.

The question now is whether the organization will catch up.

--

Yuna came to Montreal three days later with a leather folio, fat with statements and ideas for her hockey sons.

Shane and Ilya were already set up at the table when she arrived, laptops open, a printed calendar between them, and a neat stack of financial summaries off to one side.

Yuna took one look at the spread and smiled.

“Oh good,” she said, setting her bag down. “You came ready. I was hoping not to have to bully either of you before noon.”

Shane got up to hug her first. “Nice to see you too, Mom.”

She kissed his cheek and cupped his face for half a second, warm and quick and very much his mother before she turned to Ilya too, arms opening a little in invitation.

He got up at once and let her hug him before kissing her cheek too.

Yuna laughed softly. “Well. You’re both in good moods. That’s encouraging.”

“The camp was a success,” Ilya said.

Yuna’s smile sharpened a little. “I gathered that.”

Shane huffed a laugh.

Yuna took her seat, accepted the coffee Shane slid in front of her, and opened the folio.

“Right,” she said. “August. Let’s make sure neither of you accidentally commits to being in three places at once.”

They worked through the rest of the month first. The remaining Adidas and Reebok obligations. The watch event. A charity dinner. A couple of press stops. Which appearances mattered, which ones could be shortened, which ones were useful, and which ones only existed so sponsors could feel attended to.

Yuna handled the pages briskly, asking good questions and making fast notes. Shane and Ilya came ready and had already pulled most things together. Timelines, rough coordination.

By the time they were done with the calendar portion, the weeks leading up to training camp looked pinned down and manageable.

Then she closed that section of the folio and looked at both of them over the rim of her coffee.

“Good,” she said. “Now we can talk about what comes after this season. Your new contracts.”

Shane leaned back a little eyeing his mother and wondering how this conversation would go, last time he'd been rather unconcerned but now... “That sounds ominous.”

“It is not ominous,” Yuna said. “But it does warrant strategic thinking. Your entry-level contracts are done after this season. I would prefer not to let either of you wander into your next negotiation pretending that’s something to deal with in the spring.”

Ilya folded his arms loosely. “You think we’re behind.”

“I think,” Yuna said, “that the next people negotiating on your behalf need to understand more than salary.”

Shane and Ilya exchanged another quick look.

Yuna caught that one too. “What?”

Shane set his mug down. “We already know what we want to do.”

“Do tell.”

“Four years,” Shane said. “Bridge deals. For both of us.”

Yuna’s expression turned troubled in a way that made Shane sit up a little straighter.

“Four,” she repeated.

“Gets us to free agency as fast as possible,” Ilya said.

“Yes,” Yuna said. “I understand the arithmetic.”

A beat.

Then: “You are both very young to be planning your exits before you’ve properly arrived.”

That tracked about as well as Shane had expected.

He glanced at Ilya once, then back at his mother. “It’s not like that.”

“No?”

Shane exhaled. “We want options. That’s all. We don’t want to get locked into eight years somewhere just because that’s what good team boys are supposed to do.”

Yuna was quiet for a moment.

Shane knew how seriously she took loyalty. Teams, cities, building something and meaning it.

“When I raised you,” she said carefully, “I did not imagine I was raising a man who would get drafted by the Voyageurs and then start planning how not to stay. You’ve been working toward being a Voyageur since you were little.”

That one stung.

Shane opened his mouth, but Ilya got there first.

“We are planning how to choose,” he said.

Yuna looked at him.

His voice stayed level. “That is different.”

The room went quiet for a second.

Then Shane said, more softly, “We want to end up on the same team. Maybe... maybe in four years Ilya can sign with Montreal, maybe we team up as a pair and try elsewhere. But we need to keep the option open and not tied up in an eight-year contract.”

Yuna’s gaze moved between them.

“Well,” she said at last, “when you put it that way, it becomes more difficult to object on principle.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly.

Yuna noticed and pointed a finger at him. “Do not look smug. I still think four-year bridges are aggressive and might make your teams nervous.”

“They are supposed to be,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, I gathered that.”

She sat back a little and shook her head once, half at them and half at herself.

“I do understand it,” she said. “Wanting to be together is not a small thing. Wanting the right to choose where is not a small thing either.”

“But,” she added, because of course she did, “if you are both serious about doing it this way, then I am even more certain your next contracts cannot be handled by anybody ordinary.”

That made him and Ilya exchange another quick look.

Yuna saw it immediately.

“Ah,” she said. “Good. I am bringing value here.”

“You always do, mom,” Shane said.

“And don't forget it! But we’ll park that for a movement. I want to confirm endorsement strategy first,” Yuna flipped a page. “We’ll keep it simple. You’re happy enough with the current endorsements. You’ve got more ideas for where you want your branding to go next season. Fine. We can come back to specifics once there’s a little more room to move.”

Both of them nodded.

Then Shane said, quieter, “At some point… later, not now… we want to start a foundation. In Irina’s name.”

Yuna looked up.

Ilya’s expression had gone still in that way it did when something mattered.

Shane went on, a little more carefully now. “Not immediately. We know that. But eventually. Something built around youth hockey, access, support, mental health, community stuff. The parts that actually help.”

Ilya picked it up from there, voice even. “Camps. Ice time. Equipment. Maybe travel help later. Maybe scholarships, if it gets big enough. We know it would take time.”

Yuna was quiet for a second as she looked between them. “You’re serious.”

“We are,” Shane said.

This time when Yuna nodded, there was more thought in it. “Then I can start looking into what that would actually take. Structure. Governance. Timing. The boring parts. But I’ll need more from you than ‘community stuff.’”

“Fair,” he agreed readily. “We can do that.”

Yuna’s expression softened. “Good. Then when you’re ready, I’ll help.”

Then Shane added, “And if the league is stupid enough to lock everyone out, I want to do more local stuff here. Expo games. Community events. Skills clinics. More with the Stars, obviously. I don’t want to just sit around waiting for rich men to stop being children.”

Yuna’s smile sharpened. “That, unfortunately, is a very good instinct.”

Then, only then, did she reach for the article.

It had been folded into the back of the folio the whole time.

Yuna slid it onto the table.

“This,” she said, “was excellent.”

Shane’s shoulders loosened slightly. “What's the catch?”

“It is mostly a compliment,” she said. “Which should not stop you from taking the warning attached.”

Ilya leaned an elbow on the table and looked down at the page.

Yuna tapped the pull quote from Pauline first, then the last few paragraphs.

“You came off very well,” she said. “Thoughtful. Committed. Local. The Stars came off very well. The Voyageurs organization came off…”

She lifted one shoulder.

“Absent,” Shane said.

“Yes.”

He took a sip of coffee. “True, though.”

“Yes,” Yuna said again. “Which is why they may not enjoy seeing it put that plainly in their own market.”

She let it settle for a beat, then moved on.

“The article also affects your PR strategy,” she said. “Because now there is a clearer version of you in circulation. Especially you, Shane.”

He frowned. “How?”

“You are no longer just exciting and talented and marketable,” Yuna said. “You are beginning to look principled. Leader material. Whether management likes that or not is one question. Whether sponsors do is another.”

Across from him, Ilya said nothing, but his eyes stayed on the article a second too long.

Yuna hummed and pulled over the second stack of papers for perusal.

Portfolio summaries where Yuna started with Shane.

At first, her expression barely changed. She turned pages. Made a note. Asked one or two questions about timing and tax treatment and the financing structure on one of the properties. Shane answered easily enough.

Then she hit the real estate section and stopped.

“I was aware,” she said slowly, “that you had bought an investment property.”

Shane said nothing.

Yuna looked up.

“You did not tell me it was forty-eight units.”

Across the table, Ilya looked suddenly very interested in his coffee again.

Shane lifted one shoulder. “It cashflows.”

Yuna stared at him for a full second.

“That is not the point.”

“It is sort of the whole point.”

“Shane.”

He grinned, a little helplessly. “It was a good buy.”

Yuna looked back down at the page still in moderate disbelief. 

“That,” she said at last, “is not a rental property. That is a small empire.”

That got a laugh out of Ilya.

Yuna cut him a look and moved to his section.

The room got quieter after that.

There was way more structure than she’d expected. Different accounts. Different vehicles. At least one LLC.

She turned another page. Then another. And Ilya began being very thankful he'd left out the statements about his account located in Luxembourg. And another numbered company in the British Virgin Islands. She... didn't need to know. 

Then she looked up at him.

“You already set all this up?”

Ilya barely looked bothered. “Accountant. Lawyer. Immigration counsel here, which you knew about. It seemed stupid not to.”

Yuna’s eyebrows lifted. “From the start?”

“More or less.”

“And Shane?”

Ilya gestured toward him. “Canadian counterparts. We got his side organized too.”

Shane tried and failed to look innocent.

Yuna sat back a little, studying both of them.

“Well,” she said at last. “That is impressively grown-up.”

Ilya smiled faintly. “How flattering.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Yuna said. “I’m being sincere.”

She looked between them once, long enough that Shane had the odd sensation of being professionally assessed by his own mother.

Then she said, “This is excellent.”

“Very on top of things,” she added.

That got another laugh out of Ilya.

Yuna pointed a pen at him. “You are both ahead of where you should be. Shane in a way that reassures me. You in a way that makes me want more paperwork.”

“I have paperwork.”

“I am sure you do.”

She looked back down at the summaries and shook her head once, not disapproving so much as recalibrating in real time.

“Fine,” she said. “Good. Better than good, actually. Which means I am even more certain your next contracts cannot be handled like ordinary second contracts.”

She reached into the folio once more and pulled out a business card.

“I want you both to meet someone.”

Shane took the card first.

Farrah Jalali

For half a second, he and Ilya just looked at each other.

Not long enough for Yuna to notice anything more than interest, but long enough that a whole future lifetime seemed to flicker quietly between them.

Well.

That was one hell of a coincidence.

“Canadian-based,” Yuna said. “Sharp. Good with endorsements. Better with leverage. She understands that contracts are not just salary if you are smart enough to build around them.”

Ilya held out his hand. Shane passed the card across.

Yuna’s mouth curved slightly. “I think she may be a better fit for what comes next than what either of you currently has.”

Shane turned that over in his head, doing his best not to look nearly as pleased as he suddenly was. “For both of us?”

“Yes,” Yuna said. “At minimum, I want both of you in the room to lay it out. Given your situation, it’s best if she knows what’s at stake for both of your careers.  Whether she ultimately handles you the same way is a separate question. But no.” She glanced again at the portfolio papers. “I do not think either of you should keep pretending this is simple.”

Ilya looked down at the card for a long second, mouth just barely threatening to turn.

Then he said, “You have good instincts.”

Yuna smiled into her coffee. “I know.”

That got Shane's lip twitching into a smile before he could help himself and he covered it with another sip of his coffee.

By the time she left two hours later, they had the rest of August mapped out, a tentative meeting with Farrah pencilled in for early fall, and a much clearer sense that whatever they were doing was no longer a game only the two of them understood.

Yuna paused at the door on her way out and looked back once more.

“You are both much too young to be this financially competent.” she said half disbelieving half impressed.

Then she got up and gave Shane a tight hug, kissed his cheek, and turned to Ilya with her arms already open.

He stood a little too quickly.

Yuna hugged him just as tightly.

“If I don’t see you again before you go,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, “then I’ll see you at your games in Ottawa when the season starts.”

Ilya nodded once.

Yuna looked between both of them, warm and entirely matter-of-fact. “I love you boys. Try not to make my job too interesting.”

Then she left.

Shane waited until the car door had closed and the engine started before looking over at Ilya.

“Well,” he said.

Ilya was still holding Farrah’s card between two fingers.

For a second he didn’t answer.

Then he looked down and laughed once under his breath, but a twist marred his face.

Shane’s face softened. “Hey.”

Ilya rubbed a hand once over his mouth. “I’m fine.”

Shane stepped in closer. “First time,” he said quietly.

Ilya looked at him. It was the first time Yuna had included him in her goodbye ‘love you’ since they came back. 

“She said it again,” he said.

Shane smiled too, “Yeah.”

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of Ilya’s mouth.

On the table between them, the article still sat folded open to the line about the organization catching up.

Ilya’s eyes caught on it for just a second too long.

Yuna had been right. The Voyageurs would not like it; organizations were touchy things. Embarrass them publicly and they got… squirrelly.

He reached for his phone.

Shane looked up. “What are you doing?”

Ilya was already scrolling. “Administrative work.”

“Are you ever going to tell me?”

Ilya didn't answer as he stepped toward the windows while the call connected.

When someone picked up, he spoke quietly and efficiently.

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to increase the donation amount.”

He listened.

Then: “Double it.”

A pause.

“Yes. Effective immediately.”

He gave the necessary information, thanked the woman on the other end, and hung up.

Behind him, Shane said, “Well?”

Ilya slid the phone back into his pocket and turned around.

“Not yet,” he said.

Shane studied him for half a second, then nodded once.

“Okay.”

Ilya crossed the room and caught the back of Shane’s neck, tugging him in until their foreheads knocked lightly together.

“What was that for?” Shane asked, smiling already.

“For trusting me enough not to push.”

“I know it’s nothing that would jeopardize us.”

“Yes.”

Shane’s hands settled at his waist. “You planning to tell me later?”

Ilya considered it.

Then, because he was not actually made of stone and very soft indeed for Shane, he said, “Probably.”

Shane smiled and kissed his nose, “I'll take probably.”

Chapter End Notes

Someone mentioned that they wished I would do a chapter with the Stars and I realized I was definitely missing that. So I hope you liked them! A few may reoccur in future chapters.

Thanks again for all of the reviews! I read each one even if I don't respond and each time they make my day!

Chapter 19: Chapter 18

Chapter Summary

September 2012

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay, works has gone crazy and I'm also renovating a bathroom and being stressed out by the Habs. Happy reading!

September 10th, 2012

MLH Announces Lockout After CBA Talks Break Down

The Major League Hockey season ground to a halt Wednesday morning after negotiations between league owners and the Players’ Association failed to produce a new collective bargaining agreement ahead of training camp.

In a statement released just after 9 a.m., Commissioner Crowell called the decision “a necessary step to secure the long-term health of the league,” while the Players’ Association described the move as “deeply disappointing and entirely avoidable.”

Training camps scheduled to open this week have been suspended indefinitely.

Around the league, players were left in limbo, with some expected to return home, some exploring overseas options, and others waiting for word on whether talks might resume in the coming days.

No timetable has been provided for a resolution. More to come as the story unfolds.

Shane’s phone buzzed against the table just as the server set down his sandwich.

He looked at the banner alert, then at the article underneath it, and then had to very carefully keep his face arranged into something neutral and disappointed instead of what he actually was, which was smug vindication. Some things were canon events apparently.

Across from him, Yuna caught the shift anyway.

“That doesn’t look good,” she said.

David was already pulling his own phone out. “Oh, looks like they went for the nuclear option.”

Shane unlocked his screen under the table.

Ilya: Well?

Shane huffed once through his nose before typing back.

Shane: Officially locked out. Again.

The reply came almost immediately.

Ilya: That’s terrible. I am devastated.

Shane bit the inside of his cheek so he would not smile into his coffee in front of his parents like a psychopath.

Shane: I'm so sure.

Ilya: I am acting with great sincerity from Boston.

Shane: You’re probably grinning.

Ilya: Only a little.

David made a low irritated sound as he skimmed the article on his own screen. “Wow. I can't believe these guys.”

Yuna set her phone down and looked at Shane more carefully. “So. What now?”

That was apparently all it took.

Shane set his own phone face down beside his plate, leaned back in his chair, and went straight into contingency mode so quickly that even he could feel how suspicious it probably looked.

“Well,” he said, “if they’re going to drag this out, I should probably start setting some things up.”

Yuna’s brows lifted. “Already?”

He shrugged, reaching automatically for the pickle he had no real intention of eating. “There’s no point waiting around doing nothing.”

“Shane,” David said, still reading, “this happened ten seconds ago.”

“Yeah, and I kind of had a feeling this might happen, so I’ve been thinking a little about what to do if it did.”

Yuna tilted her head. “Oh?”

Shane kept his voice even. “Nothing insane. Just… stuff. Skates. Training. Maybe some local things if this drags. Something to keep everybody on top of their game so we can come back swinging.”

“Are you sure this isn't a little premature?” she asked. “We don’t know how long it’ll last.”

Shane took a sip of coffee to help manage his amusement. Last time it had been Yuna to launch into contingency planning... roughly a week after the announcement when the first section of cancelled games had been announced. It was fun beating her to the punch.

“Maybe,” he said. “But if it starts up again, then we have a perfectly good excuse to cancel.”

David snorted once.

Yuna looked at him for another second, then nodded once. “Alright. That’s not crazy.”

His phone buzzed again.

Ilya: Tell your mother I support proactive scheduling.

Shane glanced down at it.

Yuna’s mouth twitched. “Is that Ilya?”

“Who else?”

David snorted. “Tell him he’s right, unfortunately.” He folded his phone onto the table and looked back at Shane. “What do you need?”

That got out of him faster than he would’ve preferred.

“Contacts,” Shane said. “Rink access, maybe. Training. If I want to do anything with girls’ hockey or the Stars or local camps. Mom could you help me organize some stuff? Ice time and such?”

Yuna was already nodding. “That I can help with.”

“Good,” David said. “Keep moving forward. I'm sure this won't last too long.”

Shane’s phone buzzed one more time.

Ilya: Am I allowed to come and be a house husband full time now?

Shane typed back under the table.

Shane: You were going to do that anyway.

Ilya: Correct.

Shane smiled despite himself.

Yuna caught it and pointed at him with half her sandwich. “Whatever you’re planning, give me at least twelve hours before it turns into a production.”

“No promises,” Shane said.

A week later saw the Montreal Voyageurs gathered in Chris Charbonneau’s basement since Adam Poirier’s wife had apparently taken one look at the number of large, restless hockey players threatening to take over her house and said absolutely not.

With the team locked out of its training facilities and the rumour mill going completely insane, somebody had needed to get everyone in one place and figure out some sort of a plan. Shane had called Adam that morning and suggested they get the team together before everybody scattered, and Adam had agreed fast enough that Shane figured he must have been thinking the same thing.

So when the conversation started circling the same useless options for the fourth time—Europe, waiting, drinking, more waiting—Shane sat forward in his chair, clapped his hands once, and said, “Alright, boys. Everything’s cancelled for the next couple weeks and we’re all sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, so how about we do something about it?”

The sentence was a bit louder and more direct than he usually was and it snapped them to attention faster than he might have expected.

“Like what?” someone asked.

“Not fucking the dog like you Svennie,” Hayden said from somewhere to Shane’s left.

A couple guys laughed.

Shane ignored all of them.

“The Stars have training camp this week and the next couple weeks,” he said. “Their season is still gearing up unlike ours. What if we joined them?”

There was a short pause while everyone collectively processed that sentence.

Then one of the veterans said, “You want us to go train with the women’s team?”

There were a couple derisive laughs, but there were less than there could have been… or expected, Shane privately thought. Before Shane could answer, JJ spoke up from the arm of a couch. “They were fun at the camp.”

That got a couple of nods.

“Yeah,” Mitty added from the back, stretching his legs out farther into the room. “Their goalie was talking shit at me before I even got my mask on. I respect that.”

Hayden snorted. “That was Sabrina. She does not fear God or man.”

A few more guys laughed but with humour this time.

Then Shane said, “So boys, yes. I think practicing with the women's team would be good for us.”

That returned the attention to him and he kept going before he lost it again.

“They see the ice differently than we do. There’s less contact, so you have to be surer and faster with your puck handling. If you’re lazy, they will make you pay for it. We’ve got time. We’ve got ice. We may as well come out of this better.”

“Optimistic,” someone said. “You think this is over in a month?”

Shane shrugged. “Maybe, who knows. But I think if we use this time right, we come back faster, sharper, and ready to steamroll the whole fucking league.”

His intensity straightened a few spines but one of the younger guys slouched lower in his chair. “Oh, are you gonna show us your tricks, Hollzy?”

"I'll show you whatever you want,” Shane said.

That broke the room enough for the questions to start landing in earnest. Availability. Gear. Whether the Stars had actually agreed to this or whether Shane still had to ask them.

“Pauline agreed,” Shane said. “As long as we’re not dicks.”

Adam, from the far side of the room, said, “Reasonable ask. I'm in.”

That was the final piece that kicked the room into gear. If the current captain said it well...

And suddenly Shane wanted to bite something.

Adam was thirty-seven. That was how old he actually was too, even if nobody in the room could see it. Adam looked like what he was: established, settled, carrying the authority and respect of the team. Shane, meanwhile, still looked twenty-one.

It was getting really fucking old being the kid again.

He’d kept his head down on the team for the most part, same as he had the first time through. Easier that way. Simpler. But damn, he missed being the one people listened to without thinking twice. He had been trying to loosen up more this time, show up a little more as himself, on and off the ice both, but that took time, especially when you started this young. And the stupid part was he couldn’t even blame them. He’d been the same way before they came back. Hell, Haas had seemed like such a baby then, and here he was now, the exact same age he’d been when Shane first met him. And when you're north of thirty, everyone below twenty-five still seemed like a kid.

There was very little that could bridge that gulf of perception. The effect of authority presented itself in real time: At Adam’s agreement, guys started buying in. Then asking practical questions.

But then, the questions mostly started coming to Shane.

He answered them.

He already had the ice time, timing, likely turnout, and half the Stars side worked out in his head. And as he kept answering, he started to catch the thread. They were still a little shaky about following his lead outright, Adam’s voice still carried more instant weight but they were listening. They were willing to hear him out and acknowledge that he knew what he was talking about; that he saw the game well and that when he had a read there was usually something there.

And if that kept building, if he kept being right, kept showing up, kept doing more than just being the best player in the room, then maybe that gap would narrow.

The first time, they’d given him the captaincy because of what he could do on the ice and he’d had to grow into the rest of it afterward. This time, maybe it would go the other way. Maybe this time he already knew how to lead, and all he had to do was make them see it.

By the end of the meeting, Adam was the only one still sitting.

Shane looked over.

Adam said, “You’d been working on that.”

Shane shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “A little.”

Adam huffed once through his nose. Not quite a laugh. “Mm.”

There wasn’t anything sarcastic in it.

“You coming?” Shane asked.

Adam pushed himself up and rolled one shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “Might as well let the Stars embarrass me too.”

The first day was messy.

Which, in fairness, Shane had expected.

The Voyageurs came out loud and loose and a little too pleased with themselves, like this was still something they could laugh through if they kept the mood stupid enough. A couple of them started chirping before they had even properly stepped onto the ice. JJ joined in on instinct. Mitty, already in his pads, leaned on his stick and encouraged the worst of it from the crease.

The Stars looked them over and did not seem especially impressed.

Pauline let the noise go for maybe ninety seconds.

Then she blew her whistle so hard half the men actually flinched.

“Alright,” she barked. “You can get it out of your system right now, or you can do it while skating. I do not care which. But if I have to listen to this all morning and none of you can keep up, I’m going to start naming names.”

That shut most of them up.

Adam, beside Shane, added in a much calmer voice, “Take it seriously.”

Shane looked around at the room and felt the same stab of irritation as before. Adam barely had to say anything. He looked the part. He sounded the part. The room gave it to him.

Same mental age, Shane thought.

Not the same effect.

So he clapped his hands once and said, “Come on. We asked for this. Don’t fuck it up for us.”

That finally got them moving in the right direction.

The work started simple but rapidly accelerated.

The Stars pressed them just like they had during the summer, taking most of the guys who hadn't attended by surprise. They moved the puck faster in tight space, made cleaner little support plays, and punished lazy hands immediately. If a Montreal guy reached instead of moving his feet, the puck was gone. If he decided too early where the play was going, one of the women changed the angle and made him look stupid.

Then the Voyageurs started pushing back.

Once they quit fooling around and actually skated, their speed showed up hard. Their closes were faster. They covered more ice. And even without full contact, size still mattered when they got their sticks and hips in the right places. Suddenly the women had less room and less time, and they had to move the puck earlier or get pinned.

They settled into the rhythm pretty quickly. The Stars kept forcing them to be cleaner. The Voyageurs kept forcing the women to make plays under heavier pressure than they usually saw. Every few reps one side would win cleanly, then the other would answer right back.

Mitty was also laid bare. Jordan McKay pulled the puck across the front of the crease, he bit on the first fake, lost the angle, and had to sprawl half across his net to keep from getting made into a story.

From the line, JJ laughed loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Oh, fuck you,” Mitty snapped, pushing himself back upright.

Jordan skated backward grinning. “That was gentle.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

That got a better laugh than the earlier posturing had.

Good.

A few reps later, Charron got a stick into a lane, turned the puck back the other way, and suddenly the women were dealing with what Montreal’s speed looked like when it actually arrived on time. One hard cut, one quick outlet, and Hayden blew through the middle so fast that Nadia had no chance at getting the puck off his stick.

“Okay,” Jordan said from the next line. “That was rude.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Hayden shot back.

Pauline only blew the whistle and pointed at the next group. “Again.”

That became the rhythm of the day. The Stars punished sloppy puck touches, loose spacing, and lazy reads. The Voyageurs pushed the pace, closed harder, and forced the women to make faster decisions under a level of pressure they did not usually get in their own practices.

Then Alyssa Mercier dismantled three different entries in a row from Hayden without changing her expression once. He came around the next rep with more speed and far more attitude, tried to cut inside on her, and ended up stripped so cleanly Shane actually winced in sympathy.

“Alyssa,” Hayden said, scandalized, as she moved the puck away.

She only looked over one shoulder. “Yes?”

"You need to take me out to dinner before undressing me like that. What would my wife say?"

JJ sputtered as he skated by.

“Support your puck carrier,” Pauline snapped from the boards.

“He was trying,” JJ called.

“Then he should try better.”

A little later, when Camille tried to drive wide on Svensson, he got enough body on her shoulder to steer her off the clean lane without taking her out of the drill, and she had to throw the puck behind the net instead of walking it to the front.

She circled back grinning anyway. “Alright. You people are irritating.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to Svennie in weeks,” Mitty said.

By the end of the first session, the Voyageurs were breathing harder and talking less.

But the women were talking more.

Pointing things out to each other. Adjusting routes. Talking through where the pressure was coming from and how early they had to move the puck if they wanted to beat it clean.

That was more like it.

-

Shane got there early the next day and found Adam already taping his stick in the stands.

Mitty was down by the glass talking with Sabrina Ouellet through the crack in the door while she adjusted her mask.

“You flinch too much with your glove,” she told him.

Mitty looked offended. “You’ve known me for six minutes.”

“And?”

JJ, passing behind them, laughed and said, “She’s got you.”

“Everyone here makes so much fun of the poor goalie.” Mitty muttered.

On the far side, JJ ended up beside Jordan during one of the flow drills and, to his immense amusement, immediately discovered that she could chirp at his exact speed.

“That was late,” she told him after he missed a touch and had to circle back.

“That pass was behind me.”

“That sounds like a skill issue.”

JJ laughed, delighted. “You always this friendly?”

“Only with pretty boys who can’t handle a simple read.”

Mitty, hearing that from over his shoulder, whipped around so fast he nearly tripped over his own skates.

“Oh, wow J,” he said. "She's got your number."

JJ kept grinning but shook his head.

By the third block, the room had settled and the bullshit was mostly gone. The Stars stopped humoring them. The Voyageurs stopped trying to be funny. They pushed each other harder, got cleaner, and by the end nobody was joking about going easy anymore.

Good.

Then the side door banged open on day three.

Every head turned.

Ilya Rozanov sauntered in, mirrored sunglasses glinting and cap backwards chewing on a piece of gum looking for all the world like he owned the place.

“Well,” he said taking in the mix of skaters as every pair of eyes were levelled in his direction. “This is already better than Boston.”

Silence.

Then uproar.

“What the fuck?”

“Why is he here?”

“No, seriously, what the fuck?”

Mitty leaned both arms over the crossbar of his net and said, with enormous feeling, “Absolutely not.”

JJ laughed and let out a sound "Seriousment?" while Hayden's face fell into his hands. "How did I think we could get through this without Rozanov?"

Shane just shook his head. Typical.

Ilya dropped his bag on the bench with a heavy thud and spread his hands. “What? Hollander told me you were all being very brave. Practicing with the women.” He nodded magnanimously at Pauline and the ladies, triggering a chorus of amused derision.

“I did not,” Shane said.

“No,” Ilya agreed. “But I know you well enough by now, don't you think?” He gestured around, “Also, apparently the women here are bullying you, so naturally I had to see it.”

His smirk was indecent and made Shane just a little hot under the collar and he grimaced to try not to let on. This might be a tad more dangerous than he anticipated.

Jordan, from the next line over, barked out a laugh.

“Oh, we missed you,” she called.

JJ turned toward her at once. “You would.”

She only smiled.

One of the younger Voyageurs frowned at Ilya. “You seriously came all the way here for this?”

Ilya turned slowly and fixed him with a look. “No. I came all the way here for the culture.”

That got an actual snort out of Adam.

Shane did not miss it.

Pauline, meanwhile, did not look remotely impressed.

“Rozanov,” she called.

Ilya put a hand to his chest. “Coach.”

“Are you skating?”

“Obviously.”

“Then shut up and get dressed.”

A few more of the Stars laughed openly this time. A few of the Voyageurs did too, mostly because seeing anybody talk to Ilya like that in person was apparently as funny as it deserved to be.

Ilya only grinned wider. “You wound me.”

“Move.”

He moved.

Fast.

And that was more or less that.

Once Ilya was there, the whole thing settled into a rhythm over the next week and a half of the Stars’ training camp. The Voyageurs worked hard, got back into fighting shape, and learned a few things they would not have picked up in their own room. They got cleaner with the puck, sharper in small spaces, and harder to fool when the play changed quickly. The Stars, in turn, got better at making plays under heavier pressure and using their bodies earlier before Montreal could close the gap on them.

It also stopped feeling strange.

JJ and Jordan never really stopped chirping each other. Mitty got into a running feud with Sabrina that was basically flirting with extra steps. Hayden took every clean strip from Alyssa as a personal insult (at home he also told Jackie about every single one and she just told him to toughen up, or so Shane kept hearing). And Ilya, once everybody got over the initial what the fuck of him being there, fit into the whole thing with surprising ease.

By the end of it, everybody was loose, sharper, and taking the work seriously. More importantly, they kept coming back. 

That was the part Adam noticed.

When the last session finally broke, he skated over to Shane with a towel around his neck and looked out across the ice at the Stars peeling away, JJ still talking to Jordan by the benches, Mitty lingering near Sabrina, and the rest of the room still buzzing.

“You were right,” Adam said.

Shane shrugged, because he did not trust himself with anything else. “Extra practice like this does everyone good.”

Adam’s mouth twitched.

“Wasn’t the hockey part I was thinking about.”

Shane frowned. “What part, then?”

Adam hitched the towel higher on the back of his neck and looked out over the ice again.

“That this is what the team needed,” he said, gesturing broadly to the guys in good spirits and interacting with each other and the ladies on level footing.

Shane followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

He hesitated, then added, “I’ve got some ideas for what we can keep doing now that camp’s over. Drills. Skating. Strategy and set plays..." He trailed off as he knew this was getting dangerously into coaching territory and wasn't sure how that would come across.

Adam looked over at him, assessing. "Oh yeah?"

Shane lifted a shoulder. “And I might have a lead on setting up an exhibition game or two. Keep everybody moving. Keep us ready for when the league gets it's act together.”

That got Adam quiet for a second.

“Hm,” he said.

Shane glanced over. “What?”

Adam looked back out at the ice. “You really think we might be able to run for the Cup this year?”

Shane stared at him for a second.

Then he looked back at the room. At the guys still hanging around instead of bolting for the door. At the shape of something starting to form.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

Adam nodded once, like he was filing that away somewhere important.

Then he skated off before Shane could answer anything else.

“Pee!”

“Daaaaddyyyyyy, peeeeeeease!”

“Noooooow!”

The screaming hit all at once from the backseat just as Hayden changed lanes on the highway, and judging by the pitch of it, this may no longer a negotiable situation.

Jackie twisted around so fast her seatbelt locked against her shoulder.

Both girls were red-cheeked, squirming, and on the verge of open revolt. Brunch with two toddlers and three of her friends from university had run a little long, but the girls had been good about it right up until the drive home. In true toddler fashion, the girls had eaten half a pancake each, stolen fruit off three adult plates, dropped blueberries on the floor, and then, even after both being taken to the washroom at the restaurant before leaving they suddenly really needed the potty NOW.

“We’re almost home,” Hayden said automatically from the driver’s seat.

This was a mistake.

“No!”

“Now!”

“Need potty now!”

Jackie twisted halfway around in her seat to look at them. Both girls were even more alarmingly distressed than a moment ago.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Hayden muttered as his eyes darted back and forth through the Montreal Sunday traffic, thinking hard to come up with a solution.

He patted at his jacket pocket, then the console, then swore. “I dropped my phone.”

“Where?”

“By my feet.”

“Can you get it?”

He gave her a look that strongly suggested he enjoyed remaining alive. “Not on the highway, Jackie.”

Ruby kicked the back of his seat. “Daddy, pee!”

“I know, baby.”

Jackie looked out through the windshield, mentally scanning distances. Their house was across the bridge and at least fifteen minutes away while Shane's was the next offramp. That decided it. Shane’s was closer.

And it was Sunday. No practice. No team obligations. Hayden had said that morning Shane was probably just home.

“Go to Shane’s,” she said.

Hayden glanced over. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She looked back at the girls. “Okay, babies. Change of plans. We are making an emergency stop at Uncle Shane's.”

That bought them maybe twenty seconds of peace.

Then Jade started chanting, “Pee pee pee pee pee,” like sheer repetition might open a bathroom by force of will.

Hayden took the off-ramp a little faster than Jackie loved, but not fast enough to comment on while one of their daughters was making increasingly desperate noises in the back.

By the time they pulled into Shane’s driveway, both girls were squirming incessantly in their car seats.

Hayden threw the car into park. “Go, go, go.”

Jackie was already halfway out the door.

She yanked Ruby free while Hayden got Jade and they hurried up the walk with two frantic toddlers and no warning whatsoever.

Hayden knocked once, then again, louder.

“Shane! Open up! We have a bathroom emergency!”

Inside the house, Ilya froze with one hand on the coffee tin.

He looked toward the front hall.

Another round of pounding hit the door.

“Daddy, please!”

“Right now!”

Ilya closed his eyes for half a second.

From the second floor, he could hear the shower still running.

Shane, still in the shower and nowhere near decent yet. Not with how late they had slept in, not with the state Ilya had left him in before he'd dragged himself up to start the coffee. Either way, not fast enough.

The pounding came again, harder this time, and underneath it the sharp panicked edge in the girls’ voices tugged hard enough at Ilya’s heart that pretending nobody was home stopped being an option.

“ Ебать Fuck ,” Ilya muttered to the empty kitchen.

He was going to catch hell for this. Fine.

He could live with that.

He could not make the girls piss themselves on the porch.

So he went to the door and opened it.

And there was Hayden and Jackie Pike with both girls in full crisis mode.

Ilya was barefoot, shirtless, and only awake in the most technical sense of the word.

Jackie stopped so hard Ruby nearly walked out of her grip.

For one unbelievable second, nobody said anything.

Then Jade made a strangled sound of misery and grabbed at Hayden’s leg. "Daddyyyyyyy!" she whined.

Jackie snapped back into motion first.

“Bathroom,” she said.

Ilya stepped aside immediately. “Right. Yes. There.” He pointed down the hall.

Jackie did not wait for a second invitation. She scooped Ruby higher, caught Jade by the wrist, and disappeared with both girls into the downstairs bathroom.

She got one onto the toilet and, because there was simply no time for dignity anymore, stripped the bottoms off and planted the other in the empty tub just in case.

Out in the hall, Hayden was still standing there.

Ilya just stared at him. Hayden stared right back. For once Ilya didn't have a good quip to lob at the man, this was a delicate moment for Hayden and Shane's friendship and he didn't want to stress it more than was already happening. 

Well, maybe one comment. 

"Do you need a minute or are you enjoying the show?" 

Then Hayden’s eyes flicked once, fast and involuntary, over Ilya’s throat, his chest, the marks on his neck before the words sank in and he started spluttering.

Before he could properly retort, the sound of the shower cutting off came from upstairs.

A moment later Shane came down, shirtless and damp from the shower, hair still wet, looking only slightly more put together than Ilya was. "Hey, what's with the noise? I thought I hear-..."

He made it three steps into the hall before he saw Hayden by the door and stopped dead, all colour draining from his face.

For one suspended second, nobody said anything.

Then Hayden looked from Shane to Ilya and back again.

The matching marks did the rest.

On Ilya’s neck. On Shane’s shoulder. Along one side of Shane’s ribs where the sweatpants he’d thrown on rode low around his hips and did absolutely nothing useful.

Hayden’s expression changed in stages.

Confusion.

Recognition.

A kind of horrified clarity.

“Oh my god,” Hayden blurted. “Were you having a threesome? Is there a girl upstairs?”

Shane made a strangled sound.

Hayden’s eyes went wide and excited. “Oh my god, you dogs. How did this happen? Did Rozanov put you up to this? There's a girl upstairs isn't there? More than one? That’s crazy.”

He was whispering harshly now, getting more animated by the second while Shane turned steadily redder.

Ilya was half cracking up by then and Shane couldn't take it anymore.

“Fuck, Hayds, no,” Shane hissed. “There’s no girl.”

Ilya laughed and shook his head. “Y-you think Shane could-?” He couldn't finish his sentence for the laughing.

A beat passed. "Then what...?" Hayden looked from Shane to Ilya and back again, and the real answer finally caught up with him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he burst out, eyes wide.

Shane flinched.

Hayden pointed helplessly between the two of them. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Ilya lifted both hands a little but addressed Shane. “In my defense, the girls were having a bathroom emergency and I was not going to leave them out there.”

Shane just deflated and nodded, because yes, he would have done the exact same thing.

Hayden just stared harder, sounding like a man watching his own thoughts reorganize in real time. “That explains some things.”

From inside the bathroom, Jackie raised her voice over a toddler argument and running water. “I am going to need a minute before I come back out there, so get it together.”

Ilya chuckled. “We should listen to your wife,” he said, and pushed off the wall. “I’ll get shirts.”

He extended a hand to cup Shane's face lightly, rubbing a soothing thumb over one cheek before he headed upstairs, leaving Shane standing there with Hayden.

For a second neither of them said anything.

Shane rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “So.”

Hayden stared at him. “So?”

Shane opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Hayden let out one short, disbelieving laugh and looked toward the ceiling like maybe a better version of this conversation might be hidden up there somewhere. “I came here because my kids had to pee.”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“And instead I find you half naked with Rozanov.”

“Also yeah.”

Another beat.

Hayden looked back at him, still startled more than anything else. “This is not where I thought my day was going.”

“No,” Shane said. “Mine neither.”

That got a snort out of Hayden despite himself.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “I mean, clearly yours was going better than mine until about thirty seconds ago.”

Shane closed his eyes briefly. “Please don’t.”

“I’m trying,” Hayden said. “I’m just—” He cut himself off and shook his head once. “Jesus, Hollzy.”

By the time Ilya came back downstairs with two shirts slung over one shoulder, Jackie was coming out of the bathroom with both girls in hand, luckily both dry thanks to Jackie's quick thinking and Shane's very stocked bathroom.

Ilya tossed one shirt at Shane, pulled the other over his own head, and glanced between Jackie and Hayden trying to get a read on the situation before jumping in.

The immediate shock had burned off a little by then. Hayden still looked faintly queasy while Shane looked resigned.

Jackie meanwhile took one look at all three men and said, “Well. I assume we’re having a conversation.”

Shane blew out a breath.

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably a good idea.”

The girls, thankfully, were easy to redirect.

Shane disappeared for a minute and came back with the emergency coloring books he kept shoved in a kitchen drawer for reasons that now felt humiliatingly obvious, a dented tin full of crayons, a small plastic box of toys from somewhere, and a Tangled DVD.

“Living room,” Jackie told the girls.

Jade took the coloring book like she’d personally won something while Ruby went straight for the toy box. The movie started up softly in the background while they settled on the rug in front of the television, bouncing between crayons, toys, and occasional twinlish commentary.

By the time the adults ended up around Shane’s dining table, the first wave of awkwardness had passed as Shane and Ilya supplied drinks.

Hayden sat down carefully. Jackie took the chair beside him. Shane sat across from them, tense. Ilya leaned back in his chair, awake now, shirt on, and far too calm.

Jackie folded her hands on the table.

She had half convinced herself over the last year that she was imagining it. Apparently she had not been. She felt giddy and wiggled a little in her seat.

“Alright,” she said. “Before we get into whatever the hell this is. So… you’re…? Gay?”

“I’m bisexual,” Ilya said, matter-of-factly and not unlike he had at several points in their past life. 

Shane glanced at him, then back at Hayden and Jackie. “Yeah, I'm gay.”

Ilya snorted, “So gay.”

Jackie blinked once.

“Okay,” she said. “Great. Good. Lovely. Now how long for this?” She gestured broadly between the two of them. 

Shane opened his mouth, closed it again, and hesitated.

“A while,” he said finally.

Hayden stared at him. “That is not a number.”

“No,” Ilya said. “It is not.”

Hayden snapped his head toward him. “You are not helping.”

“I rarely do.”

Jackie kicked Ilya lightly under the table before Hayden could.

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. “Since our first Prospect Cup.”

Hayden stared at him. “Jesus Christ.”

Jackie made the same sound under her breath a second later.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Christmas 2008.”

Hayden just kept staring.

“Eighteen,” he said.

“About that,” Shane said.

“Jesus Christ,” Hayden said again.

Then he looked at Ilya. “You have been on this bullshit since you were eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” Ilya said smugly, only technically lying.

Hayden pointed at him. “That is not better.”

“It is technically more impressive.”

“Hayden, stop.” Jackie admonished.

He kept staring at Shane, then at Ilya, then back again.

“Holy shit,” he said, with feeling this time. “You have been sneaking around with Rozanov since you were kids.”

Ilya lifted a shoulder. “Sneaking is such an ugly word.”

“What word would you prefer?” Jackie asked.

Ilya glanced at Shane. “Committed.”

That shut Jackie up for half a beat.

Hayden made a sound like he had too many reactions trying to happen at once. “No, because I just—” He cut himself off and looked back toward the living room where one of the girls had started singing along badly to something on screen. Then he dropped his voice. “You two? Seriously?”

Shane’s face changed to something soft like it often did when he thought about their relationship and he internally lamented that he couldn't tell his best friend that he'd been gone on this man for damn near twenty years. But he could claim just about five at this point, he would claim them.

“Yeah,” he said.

Ilya looked at him again, then back at Hayden. “Yeah.”

Before long, Jackie looked between them. “Does anyone else know?”

Shane hesitated. “My parents.” He glanced at Ilya, then added, “And we got married last July, so. They definitely know.”

“It was very nice.” Ilya chimed in, “Very exclusive guest list.”

“Married,” Hayden repeated, obviously having shorted out after Shane's answer and missing Ilya's completely. 

“Yes.”

“You’ve been married,” Jackie said. "For over a year." The sentence came out so shocked that even she wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

Ilya lifted a shoulder. “The word still means the same thing not matter how many times you say it, Pikes.”

Hayden stared at both of them. “Jesus Christ.”

“And they’re just… okay?”

“They’re better than okay,” Shane said.

Hayden slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a second. “Holy Shit.” Hayden was truly running out of expletives at this point.

From the living room, Jade yelled, “Ruby stole my yellow!”

“Share,” Jackie called automatically.

There was a muttered toddler negotiation. A new song started in the movie.

Then Jackie looked back at Shane and said, much more softly, “Are you okay?”

That made him blink.

“What?”

“With this,” she said, making a small motion between him and Ilya. “I see you weren’t exactly ready to tell us.”

A laugh caught in Shane’s throat and died there.

“No,” he admitted. “Not like this.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I was going to tell you. Soon, actually. Just not with your kids pounding on the door while Ilya answered it half naked.”

Hayden snorted once despite himself.

Shane glanced toward the hall, then back at them. “But he was right to open it. If the girls needed in, they needed in. I would’ve done the same thing.”

That finally got a real smile out of Jackie.

“Thank you.”

Hayden looked at him for another long second. Then at Ilya and a decision seemed to harden in his eyes.

“You make him happy?” he asked, voice low and serious.

Ilya leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. For once he did not seem remotely interested in being clever.

“Yes,” he said, simply.

Hayden held his gaze for a beat longer as his eyes searched Ilya's face, then nodded once.

“Okay,” he said.

Shane looked at him. “Okay?”

Hayden shrugged, a little helplessly. “Yeah. Okay.” He paused. “You are still both insane. But Shane, since I met you, you've been like a brother to me and so good with the girls and Jackie. I just want you to be happy too.”

Shane looked down for a second, then back up as a smile found his lips. “Thanks.”

Hayden rubbed a hand over his face and let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Still cannot believe this is how I found out.”

They all dissolved into laughter.

Finally, Jackie looked at him, then at Shane, then at Ilya, and shook her head. “No, because that part is still insane. He opens the door looking like that, and honestly, I did not realize Shane had that in him.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

Shane made a strangled noise and put his head in one hand.

Hayden, finally, laughed.

Hard enough that he had to lean forward onto his elbows.

“Oh my god,” he said. “It was a really bad hickey.”

“I know,” Shane said into his palm.

“Like, catastrophic.”

“I know.”

“That’s on you,” Jackie told Ilya.

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “You did not see what I did to his—”

“Jesus Christ, Ilya,” Shane cut in, going bright red.

Jackie barked out a laugh.

Hayden made a strangled noise into one hand.

Ilya looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Fine,” he said. “Fair.”

The girls started giggling at something in the movie and cut through the remaining tension.

Hayden sat back again and looked at Shane, not laughing now but not shaken in the same way either.

“You could’ve told me,” he said.

Shane's face tightened, “I know.”

Hayden rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I get why you didn’t. I just…” He blew out a breath. “You could’ve told me.”

Shane looked down at the table for a second, then back up. “I was planning on it, believe me. But also it's kinda hard to just bring up you know?”

Jackie reached over and squeezed Hayden’s wrist once before he could spiral into trying to explain himself badly.

Then she looked at both of them and said, “What do you need from us?”

Shane and Ilya looked at each other, this was actually going remarkably well. 

Shane answered first.

“Mostly just…” He exhaled. “Don’t make it weird?”

Hayden snorted. “A little late for that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He sobered. “Yeah. Okay. We can do that.”

Jackie nodded. “And discretion, obviously.”

Shane nodded too. “Yeah. Obviously.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I am going to tell the team. Eventually. Just... not right now.”

Hayden looked at him and his face tightened a little. “Because guys can still be assholes about it.”

Shane made a small helpless gesture. “Yeah. And hockey can still be pretty fucking homophobic, and this is not exactly making me feel great about the controlled rollout I had in mind.”

That got a short laugh out of Jackie.

Shane huffed once and kept going. “I don’t know how they’d react. I think it would probably be fine. Mostly. But ‘probably’ and ‘I just got caught half naked with Rozanov because your daughters had to pee’ are not the same thing.”

Hayden snorted.

Ilya bristled just a little, “He is trying to do this the right way.”

“Fair,” Jackie said.

From the living room, Ruby appeared in the doorway holding up a page covered almost entirely in orange. “Look!”

All four adults turned automatically.

Shane smiled first. Hayden right after him.

“Very pretty, bug,” Hayden said.

Satisfied, Ruby vanished again.

When the room settled, Jackie looked back at Shane and said, “We’re okay.”

He blinked at her.

She held his gaze. “You heard me.”

Hayden nodded too, slower, but just as sure once he got there. “Yeah. We’re good and we're here for you guys. I can't imagine keeping Jackie a secret like you've had to do, man. That's crazy.”

Shane blinked rapidly for a second and Ilya squeezed his hand once in support.

“See?” he said lightly. “We are very charming when cornered.”

Hayden looked down at their joined hands, then back up.

“Jesus,” he said, still somewhat in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly.

Jackie leaned back in her chair and exhaled. “Alright. Good. Then next time either of you is about to get caught like complete idiots, maybe aim for a version that involves slightly more clothing.”

That got the laugh she’d been angling for.

Even Shane.

Especially Shane.

The movie rolled on softly in the next room. The girls argued about crayons. Hayden was still shaking his head a little every time he looked up and found Ilya sitting in Shane’s dining chair like that made any sense at all.

Then Shane cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, looking mostly at Hayden and then at Jackie too. “The cottage is finally done. We’re doing Thanksgiving there next weekend.”

Jackie blinked. “Already?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah. Mom and Dad will be there. They’re staying at their place next door. And I’m pretty sure the girls would love it. We can make giant leaf piles for them.”

From the living room, as if on cue, one of the twins shrieked happily at something Rapunzel was doing.

Hayden snorted.

Shane smiled a little. “Come up with us. Seriously.”

Hayden and Jackie exchanged a look.

“Yeah, I mean we were thinking of just something quiet at home since we didn't know how long the lockout would last.” Hayden said. “We technically could go home to one of our parents' this year, but with the girls?” He shook his head. “No.”

Jackie snorted. “The thought alone is exhausting.”

“Imagine Ruby on a five-hour plane ride,” Hayden said.

“Good Lord,” Jackie winced.

Shane spread his hands. “There you go. Problem solved.”

Jackie laughed.

Hayden looked toward the living room, then back at Shane. “Your parents are okay with... all this?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “They are.”

Ilya, who had gone a little soft around the mouth again, said, “And Svetlana will be there too.”

Hayden frowned. “Who’s Svetlana?”

“My best friend,” Ilya said. “She lives with me in Boston. She knows. She is terrifyingly competent and will like your wife.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes,” Ilya said. “She will also like picking on Hayden. Me. Shane. The list goes on.”

Hayden barked out a laugh.

Then he looked at Jackie again, and whatever passed between them settled quickly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright. We’re in.”

Jackie nodded. “The girls will love it.”

Shane’s shoulders loosened all over again as he tipped his back and rolled his gaze over Ilya beside him who caught eyes. So pretty and blue and just for him, reminding him why they’re doing this. Again.

“Good,” he said.

Chapter End Notes

Anyone see that coming? ;)

Chapter 20: Chapter 19

Chapter Summary

October - November 2012

Chapter Notes

Sorry this took so long, I had house guests for the past 6 weeks and work was nuts plus the last half of this chapter just did not want to behave. I did my best but sorry if it's clunky. I also realised I was walking myself into a plot hole in 2014 and ended up writing an entire companion piece from a few different POV's to get it straight. The companion chapter will be released when it's relevant to the story, you WILL know *cackles*

October 5^th, 2012

The arrivals board showed Svetlana’s flight had landed ten minutes ago.

Shane glanced toward the terminal doors again before catching himself.

“Relax,” Ilya said.

“I’m relaxed.”

“You checked three times.”

“I checked twice.”

Ilya looked unimpressed.

The passenger pickup lane was busy enough that nobody paid much attention to the black SUV parked along the curb. Exactly the way Shane liked it. There were families loading suitcases, taxis inching forward, someone arguing into a phone near the sliding doors. A hockey player in a ball cap and a hoodie could disappear here if he kept his head down and didn’t do anything to draw attention. At least in 2012.

Ilya, unfortunately, looked like Ilya even when he was trying not to so he was sitting low with his seat tilted back to block the view of his face out the window… Just in case.

A few minutes later, the terminal doors opened and Svetlana emerged pulling a suitcase behind her.

She looked around for a few minutes before spotting them when Ilya waved at her and made her way in their direction. Ilya swiftly popped out to take her suitcase and greet her with a hug.

“You survived midterms,” he said.

“Barely.”

“Good.”

“That’s all I get?”

“Congratulations, you are even more smarter than me.”

Svetlana laughed and kissed his cheek before hopping in the back.

Shane watched them for another second before turning back toward the wheel and pulled back into traffic once everyone was buckled in.

The drive to the cottage passed comfortably.

Svetlana spent most of it talking about classes, professors, and a statistics project she was trying to untangle. Shane asked questions where he could and listened when the conversation moved past anything he could pretend to understand. University had never been his path, but he liked hearing her talk about it. Perhaps in a different life, he and Ilya could have met there and had a hell of a time in the dorms.

A smile tugged at his mouth and remembered just how tightly he was wound when he was really eighteen or nineteen... yeah Ilya would have had fun with that in the dorms. Stairwells... He shook his head at Ilya's raised eyebrow and refocused on the road and Svetlana's voice.

Eventually, she used hockey as an example.

That gave Shane an opening for something he had been considering for a while.

He knew the sport. He knew patterns. He knew the conclusions the league would stumble toward years later as the analytics of the sport developed, even if the math between here and there belonged to people like Svetlana. He knew how possession and territorial pressure mattered. Some players controlled a game without touching the scoresheet, and some players collected points while everyone around them did the heavier work.

He could not build the model.

But he could guide to where his analytical instincts lay.

So, he nudged carefully, one hockey question at a time. If a shot missed the net but came from sustained pressure, should that be measured as a factor? If it happened repeatedly? In a certain timeframe? If a line kept forcing play back into the offensive zone, how would she show that? If a player made every teammate’s numbers better, what would she need to separate his impact from theirs? How would you prove the player was driving instead of simply benefitting from good linemates? Was chemistry quantifiable?

Ilya side eyed him and smirked at several points, recalling the stack of hockey analytics books Shane had had on his bedside table in their future past. His husband was incorrigible.

At first, Svetlana answered him like she was humouring a dumb hockey player.

Then her eyes narrowed and she grabbed out a notebook and started writing something. She flipped back a page, crossed something out, and started rewriting her own example with the kind of focus Shane recognized from film sessions and faceoff drills.

By the time they reached the intersection of the highway heading to the cottage, she had started muttering about variables and causal links and how much video she was going to have to watch and rewatch.

Shane smiled.

Beside him, Ilya looked up from his phone.

One glance.

An eyebrow.

Really?

Shane kept his eyes on the road.

What?

Another look.

You’re doing it again.

Doing what?

The eyebrow somehow became even more skeptical.

You know exactly what.

Shane offered his most innocent expression.

From the back seat, Svetlana was busy filling another page.

Neither of them said a word.

A few seconds later, Ilya shook his head and returned to his phone.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Finally, they turned off the main road and there it was.

The cottage stood bright in the afternoon light, highlighted by the glorious riot of reds, yellows, and evergreens all around it. A cool breeze blew in from across the lake, scattering leaves over the lawn. They were blessedly dry, perfect for the twins to play in once they arrived.

Shane and Ilya had spent the previous weekend getting the place ready and finished the last touches over the past week. Now all that was missing were the people, and the food sitting in the coolers in the back of the SUV.

Shane parked in the gravel drive and sat for half a second with both hands on the wheel, looking at the cottage through the windshield and it felt like another piece had settled into place. 

Ilya glanced over. “You are admiring our kingdom?”

“Our kingdom has a lot of leaves.”

“Think of the children. We are generous hosts.”

From the back seat, Svetlana leaned forward to look past them. “Wow. This is gorgeous.”

Shane smiled before he could stop himself. “Yeah. It turned out pretty good.”

Ilya made a soft, offended sound. “Pretty good?”

“It’s very nice.”

“Very nice,” Ilya repeated. “He says this about our kingdom.”

Svetlana laughed and got out of the car.

They showed her around first.

Here was the kitchen, open enough that people could talk while someone cooked. Here was the living room with the fireplace David had been rather enthusiastic about when he and Yuna came out the previous weekend. Here was the porch with the view of the lake, where Yuna had stood for several minutes gazing out the windows and asking Shane how he’d picked the layout.

Here was the main-floor hallway, where Shane had made sure the guest room across from theirs was ready for Svetlana.

She paused in the doorway.

“This is mine?”

“All yours,” Shane said.

She looked past him into the room. It was spacious and warm. A queen bed, a dresser, a lamp, extra blankets folded at the foot. The window looked toward the trees instead of the lake, but it got morning light.

Svetlana stepped inside and set her suitcase beside the dresser.

“You put me beside your room,” she said.

Ilya leaned against the hall wall. “Yes. In case you get scared of Canadian wilderness.”

“It is trees, Ilya.”

“Dangerous trees.”

“It is Canada,” Shane said. “There are also bears.”

Svetlana looked at him.

Ilya nodded solemnly. “Many bears.”

“They have no regard for property lines,” Shane said.

She rolled her eyes, but Shane caught the way her hand moved over the folded blankets. Lightly. Almost careful.

“The Pikes are taking the basement,” Shane said. “There’s more space down there for the girls. Less chance of them launching themselves down the stairs before anyone has coffee.”

“Smart,” Svetlana said.

“I have moments.”

Ilya snorted.

Shane ignored him and led her back out toward the kitchen. “My parents are staying at their place down the road, but they’ll be here during the day for the most part.”

“Your father is cooking?”

“Can't keep him out of the kitchen,” Shane said. “Mom’s bringing dessert and wine.”

“Good,” Svetlana said. “She has better taste than both of you.”

Ilya looked offended. “I have excellent taste.”

“You have leopard print in your wardrobe,” she said.

Shane looked insulted. “He looks great in leopard print.”

“Your taste is also in question here. You deserve each other.”

Ilya made a wounded noise and turned back to the grocery bags and Shane chuckled.

Shane glanced at the counter. “Jackie said she’d help with sides when they get here, but we picked up most of what we need on the way.”

Svetlana glanced at the bags. “You said they are twins?”

“Yeah,” Shane said and continued talking about dinner. “Burgers tonight, easy stuff tomorrow, the big dinner on Sunday.”

“Good.”

Ilya leaned closer to Svetlana, stage-whispering, “He has three lists.”

“Four,” Shane said.

Svetlana nodded like this confirmed several things. “That sounds right.”

She smiled, small and private, then turned to look around the living room again.

For a few minutes, the cottage was a bit too quiet until Ilya set something jazzy playing over the built-in speaker. Svetlana tried helping Shane unpack the food but got shooed away with a glass of wine and pointed in the direction of the kitchen stools. She was a guest! Sit! Ilya stocked the beer in the drinks fridge, unpacked some cleaning supplies to under the sink, and moved through the kitchen perfectly dodging Shane's movements. Shane filled the fridge, then the cupboards before beginning prep for their dinner that evening so there would be less to do once the horde arrived.

Once the kitchen was under control, Ilya went outside to chop more firewood.

Then Yuna and David arrived with wine, dessert, and a full s’mores kit.

Yuna hugged Svetlana first, warm and immediate.

“There you are,” she said. “I was starting to think school had swallowed you whole.”

“Almost,” Svetlana said, and for once her smile came easily. “I'm surviving.”

“Good. Come eat too much food and forget about it.”

David kissed her cheek in greeting, then set the dessert on the counter while Yuna handed Shane the wine.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remembered marshmallows,” she said.

Shane looked into the bag and lit up. “Oh my god, yes. S’mores.”

Ilya turned from the fridge, eyebrows lifting. “Ah. Good idea. I also did not think of this.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Yuna said.

David lifted a bundle of old metal roasting sticks from under one arm. “I found these in the garage too.”

Shane stared at them. “We still have those?”

“Well,” David started and looked pointedly at his wife. “We had three, but someone left hers in the fire too long when you were twelve.”

Yuna looked comically scandalized. “I did no such thing.”

David looked at her with a smile and raised eyebrow.

She took off her jacket and chuckled. “Fine. I did exactly that.” 

The Pikes arrived half an hour later and destroyed the quiet completely.

There were bags by the door, tiny boots kicked sideways on the mat, Ruby shrieking with delight because Ilya had crouched down and made the mistake of saying hello at eye level. Jade clung to Jackie’s collar with one hand and stared at Shane like she was deciding whether he was trustworthy enough to tolerate.

It was also Svetlana’s first time seeing Hayden Pike anywhere other than on a screen.

Hayden looked at her, then at Ilya, then seemed to remember himself. “Hi. I'm Hayden.”

“Svetlana,” she said, taking his offered hand.

Jackie shifted Jade higher on her hip and smiled. “Jackie. Sorry, we’re usually less of a travelling circus.”

“But,” Svetlana said, looking at the bags, the children, and Hayden trying to keep Ruby from escaping back outside. “They are such an adorable circus.”

Jackie laughed and stepped farther inside, took one look at the kitchen, and said, “Okay, what do you need?”

“I’m fine,” Shane said.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine. I asked what you need.”

Shane looked from her to Jade, then toward the living room where Ilya was already on the floor with Ruby and Hayden was trying to stop a duffel bag from tipping over.

“Honestly? Drop Jade with those two and sit down for five minutes,” Shane said. “You got everyone here. That’s work enough for today.”

Jackie blinked at him.

Then her expression softened in a way that made Shane look away before it got too pointed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Svetlana’s at the counter. You two can supervise and judge my cooking.”

“Oh,” Jackie said, shifting Jade higher on her hip. “That I can do.”

Ilya, having heard Shane, grabbed Jade and dropped back onto the rug with Ruby, who immediately climbed halfway over his thigh with the grim determination of a mountaineer.

Jackie plopped herself exactly where Shane had told her to go: on one of the stools at the counter, a glass of wine in front of her, and Svetlana beside her with the posture of someone very interested in the events unfolding around them.

Shane moved around the kitchen, getting the last of dinner ready while the grill heated outside. Burgers were easy enough, but feeding two toddlers in addition to their parents, himself, Ilya, his parents, and Svetlana still made for a lot of food and prep. Plain patties for the girls. Cheese on the side. Buns separate with a few raw veggies on the side.

Jackie watched him set a plate aside. “Is that for the girls?”

“Yeah. I followed your instructions. Am I missing anything?”

Jackie paused, then looked toward the living room and called in a sing-song voice. “He listens better than you do!”

Hayden, sitting on the rug with Jade balanced against his chest, looked up. “Oi! I know what they eat.”

“Might I remind you of the mustard debacle last month?”

“Hey, I cleaned that up!”

“There's still a stain on the ceiling.”

Ilya, sprawled nearby with Ruby trying to climb over his leg, looked down at her gravely. “You have a terrible father.”

Ruby beamed at him.

Hayden pointed an offended look at Ilya. “Don't tell her that!”

“Should I lie to her?”

Svetlana’s eyes moved from Hayden to Jackie to the twins and back again. “You are very outnumbered.”

“Constantly,” Hayden said.

Svetlana and Jackie laughed at his expense.

Yuna wandered over from the table, where she’d been setting out napkins, and leaned her hip against the counter beside them, grabbing another of the wine glasses and filling it for herself.

“You say that now,” she told Svetlana. “Wait until they discover the leaves.”

“The leaves?” Svetlana asked.

“They’re dry,” Shane said from the cutting board. “It would be irresponsible not to throw children into them.”

Jackie laughed. “Ruby’s going to lose her mind.”

For a few minutes, the kitchen and living room settled into an easy rhythm. Shane finished slicing tomatoes and onions while Yuna and Jackie talked about the drive, the girls, and Monday dinner. Svetlana listened more than she spoke, but every so often she asked a question that made Jackie brighten and answer in detail. The twins’ routines. Their current favourite foods. If they had a twin language or they ever lost track of which was which.

As they kept chatting, Ilya stood, lifting Ruby off his leg and depositing her carefully beside David, who had settled onto the floor with the kind of grandparental confidence that made both girls immediately interested in him.

“Come, I help with bags,” Ilya said.

Hayden blinked up at him. “You don’t have to.”

“You have children. You are already carrying too many things.”

“Fair enough.”

David picked up one of Ruby’s blocks and stacked it on top of another. Jade immediately knocked it over.

“Oh,” David said, delighted. “That’s how it is?”

Jade stared him down.

Ilya grinned and followed Hayden toward the entryway, leaving David in the living room with both girls and a pile of blocks rapidly becoming a demolition site.

Svetlana watched Ilya disappear down the stairs with one of the Pike duffels in hand.

Then she looked back at Shane and quirked an eyebrow.

Shane pretended not to notice and reached for the tray of burger toppings, the heat in his face was from the sun, surely.

“Can someone grab the plates?” he asked.

Yuna was already moving.

By the time they sat down for dinner, the sky outside had gone pewter-dark over the lake. The fire was steady in the living room, though the evening was still mild enough that Shane grilled outside. The twins were in high chairs, both demolishing their way through burger buns and the rest of their plates. Svetlana sat between Ilya and David with Hayden and Jackie across from him, both looking more relaxed than they had when they first arrived.

The table was full of food, conversation, and Ilya’s knee pressed against his under the table.

Shane looked over.

Ilya did not make a joke. He just looked at him, warm and a little knowing, drinking in the moment and comparing to how long something like this had taken in their first life.

Shane nudged him back, smiling.

-

The next afternoon, the leaves became exactly what Shane had hoped they would be.

Hayden and Ilya had started out pretending they were only raking them into a pile for Ruby and Jade. That lasted about four minutes. By the time Shane carried coffee out to the deck, Ilya had leaves in his hair, Ruby was shrieking from his back, and Hayden was rebuilding the pile Jade had just flattened with her whole body.

David had tried to help for a while, then gave up any pretense of productivity and sat on the edge of the deck with both girls’ mittens stuffed into his coat pocket.

“They don’t need the mittens?” Shane asked.

“They informed me they were unnecessary,” David said.

“They’re two.”

“Yes,” David said. “Very firm negotiators.”

On the deck, Yuna laughed into her mug. Jackie was wrapped in one of the throw blankets from the living room, her feet tucked beneath her on the chair. Svetlana sat beside her with a mug of tea and the expression of someone watching a documentary on an unfamiliar but compelling species. She wasn't sure if she'd ever seen Ilya this free and happy.

Ilya scooped Ruby off his back, rolled sideways into the leaves, and came up with a triumphant handful of red maple leaves that he dropped over her head like confetti.

Ruby screamed with joy.

Jade stared at him for one long, considering second, then threw herself at his legs making him fall over with a shout.

“He’s good with them,” Jackie said.

Shane looked down into his coffee. “Yeah.”

“So is Hayden,” Yuna said, warm and amused.

“Hayden is their father,” Jackie said. “He gets less credit.”

From the lawn, Hayden called, “I heard that.”

“You were meant to,” Jackie called back.

Svetlana’s mouth twitched.

Shane leaned against the deck railing and watched Ilya let both girls shove leaves into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked ridiculous. Happy, too. Bright in a way Shane still sometimes had trouble looking at directly.

Jackie was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, carefully casual, “Do you and Ilya ever talk about kids?”

Shane took a slow drink of coffee.

Yuna looked at him, attentive in the way he knew she would be listening carefully. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “One day.”

Jackie nodded, giving him room.

“Not anytime soon,” Shane added. “I mean... We’re twenty-one. We’re still on ELCs. Our schedules are insane, and obtaining a baby is kind of hard when there are two men involved.”

Yuna made a small sound into her mug, somewhere between startled and amused.

“What?” Shane asked.

“Obtaining a baby,” she repeated.

Svetlana looked toward the lawn, where Ilya was now holding Jade by the ankles and dipping her into the pile of leaves, letting out uncontrollable giggles. “That is how you would phrase it.”

“It’s accurate,” Shane said. “Adoption, surrogacy, donors, lawyers. Countries. Paperwork. It's a lot.”

“Yeah,” Jackie said softly. “I guess it would be.”

“So yeah,” Shane said, trying to keep it light. “One day. We’ll figure it out in a few years at the soonest. Right now we’re mostly trying to figure out where we’re allowed to live without causing an international hockey incident.”

The ladies laughed, though there wasn’t much funny about the logistics. 

On the lawn, Ilya looked up as if he’d felt the conversation turn toward him. A leaf stuck out of his hair. Ruby was clinging to his arm with both hands.

“What?” he called.

“Nothing,” Shane called back.

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Suspicious.”

Jade threw leaves at his face.

The deck dissolved into laughter, and Shane let it carry.

Jackie smiled into her coffee. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be good at it.”

Shane huffed. “You say that like I wouldn’t immediately panic.”

“Oh, you would,” Jackie said. “But all good parents panic. It’s basically the job.”

Svetlana tilted her head. “Ilya would be impossible.”

“Also true,” Shane said.

“He would buy too many things,” Svetlana continued. “And teach them to chirp before they can read.”

Yuna laughed. “That does sound like him.”

Shane smiled despite himself. “He’ll be terrible.”

From the lawn, Ilya called, “I heard terrible.”

“You were meant to,” Shane called back.

Ilya pointed at him, then immediately got tackled by Ruby, which ruined whatever threat he had been preparing.

Yuna was still smiling, but Shane caught the way her gaze lingered on him for a moment after everyone else looked back toward the yard.

He knew that look. It was the same one she got when she was turning a problem around in her hands, checking it from every angle before she said anything out loud.

Shane looked away first, back toward Ilya and the girls and the bright scatter of leaves across the lawn and imagined them with their own kids.

October 15^th, 2012

The league notice came through on a gray Monday morning in mid October three days after their first meeting with Farrah.

All MLH games canceled through New Year’s.

Shane read the email once, then again, then turned his laptop toward Ilya, who was sitting barefoot at the other end of the kitchen table with coffee and half a grapefruit humming some tune Shane couldn't quite recognize.

Ilya scanned the notice and looked back up.

“All right,” he said. “Plan is go time.”

Shane laughed under his breath. “That’s one way to put it.”

“How else would I put it?”

The original plan had been simple enough. One exhibition game. Voyageurs against the Stars, with the proceeds split between the women’s team and local hockey access programs. The Voyageurs needed something more competitive than informal skates, the Stars needed money and visibility, and Montreal fans were bored enough by the lockout to buy tickets for anything that involved competitive hockey and players they recognized.

One game.

That was before Adam had been looped in and asked, in the most deceptively calm voice imaginable, why they were stopping at one.

That was before the league canceled the calendar through New Year’s.

And that was before Yuna came by that afternoon, took one look at Shane’s notebook, his laptop, and the sticky notes creeping across half the table and said, very mildly, “What’s the plan?”

Shane sat back in his chair. “Stars and Voyageurs. One weekend, maybe two if turnout’s good. Charity game. Keep everyone sharp.”

Yuna held out her hand.

He gave her the notebook.

She flipped through three pages, then looked at the laptop, then at him. “What do you have already?”

“Three rink options. A rough budget. A sponsor list. Pauline said the Stars would be in. Adam likes it so we’ve gotten most of the team interested already.”

“Mm.”

Ilya, from where he had drifted over to the counter, said, “He also has an extremely ugly spreadsheet.”

“It color-codes the travel.”

“That is why it is ugly. I think you should get check for colour blindness.”

Shane glared instead of responding.

“And now the league has handed all of you six empty weeks and no adult supervision.” Yuna continued teasingly.

“We have you,” Shane said.

Yuna’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Unlucky for you, I do still have a day job though. Buuut....”

She pulled out a chair and sat down.

“All right,” she said. “The planning stays outside team channels? No coaches, no club staff, no one who can make this a labor issue. Players recruit players. Women’s teams coordinate through their own people. I can handle venues and sponsors with whoever the women trust on their side. You can answer questions when I ask them. How does that sound?”

Shane looked at Ilya.

Ilya lifted his coffee. “I am deeply enjoying this.”

“Sounds good,” Shane said.

Yuna pointed at him. “And if this moves beyond Montreal, the women are not rearranging their whole lives because locked-out men suddenly discovered free time.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. Make sure your teammates also know.”

“That’s fair.”

It turned out Ottawa was easy.

Ottawa’s men were bored, competitive, and apparently perfectly willing to call anything a training event if it let them hit the ice with a purpose. Their women’s side was interested almost as quickly once Pauline and Marie-Anne started making calls and the phrase real money came up.

New York took longer.

That was how Shane ended up standing by the living room window with his phone to his ear while Ilya pretended not to listen from the couch.

Scott picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hollander.”

“Hunter.”

A pause.

Not awkward, exactly. Careful.

“What’s up?” Scott asked.

Shane leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Lockout training thing.”

Scott huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “That’s a vague pitch.”

“We started thinking about one charity exhibition in Montreal. Voyageurs and the Stars. Keep guys in fighting shape, raise money, etcetera. But with the lockout dragging... well we have a slightly bigger idea in mind.”

“How much bigger?”

“Round robin. Mixed rosters for some of it. Women’s teams from a few cities. Enough to be worth the trip hopefully.”

Scott was quiet for a beat. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s involved?”

“Montreal, obviously. Ottawa’s interested. The Stars. Their contacts in Toronto, Ottawa, maybe New York and Boston? We’re working out the details.”

“Physical?”

“Controlled. Nobody’s trying to blow a knee in a charity setup.”

Scott made a low considering noise. “And this is actually organized?”

From the couch, Ilya called, “Hurry up Hunter! I want to kick your ass in front of the women's team!”

Scott’s pause this time came with a smile tucked into it. Shane could hear it.

“Rozanov there?”

“Yes,” Shane said.

“Of course he is.”

Ilya raised his voice a little. “If you come, bring players who can skate. We already have enough dead weight.”

Scott laughed outright then, short and surprised.

“All right,” he said. “That your sales pitch?”

“No,” Shane said. “My sales pitch is that it’s useful. Your team won't be nearly as rusty when the league gets it's shit together.”

“Send me the details,” Scott said finally. “I’ll have a look. I'll see who's left in town and might be interested.”

“Fair.”

“And Hollander?”

“Yeah?”

Scott paused again, not long enough to be dramatic. “Thanks for calling.”

Then he hung up before Shane could make it weird.

Ilya looked up from the couch. “He is coming?”

“I think so.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s exactly what he thinks about us, I’m pretty sure.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. Then a beat, "It's a shame he hasn't met Kip yet."

Shane didn't really know how to respond to that.

October 27^th, 2012

The first Montreal weekend felt more under control than Shane had expected, and for the limited amount of advertising they had managed on short notice, the turnout was pretty good too. The whole thing still had a rushed, improvisational edge around the edges, but it was clearly an event.

By the time Shane got to the rink Saturday morning, there were donation tables near the entrance, a local radio setup tucked off to one side, Stars merchandise on folding tables near the concourse, and a line at the ticket desk long enough to make him stop dead in the lobby.

Across the room, Yuna stood beside Marie-Anne Gervais with a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other, listening to a volunteer talk too fast while Marie-Anne wrote something down and pointed three different people in three different directions without looking at them.

Shane watched for maybe three seconds before Marie-Anne noticed him.

She strode over.

“Your mother,” she said, “is a force.”

Shane looked toward Yuna again and smiled. “Yeah.”

“She can come back whenever she wants.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Tell her like you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Barely.

The stands were fuller than he had expected for the first day. Not packed, but full enough to hum. He recognized some of the kids from the summer camp in the lower bowl, bundled up in bright hats and homemade signs, loud already.

Then Scott showed up with the Admirals and the stands really started buzzing.

No one expected the full roster but he did manage to scrape together just enough bodies to float two forward lines, a pair of defence, and Eric in net. Carter Vaughan was there on Scott’s wing like he always was, Greg Huff came with the same seasoned calm Shane remembered from Team Canada camps, and the rest were just enough to make New York look prepared instead of casual.

Scott found Shane by the boards during warmup.

“Well,” he said, glancing around the rink. “You weren’t lying.”

“I try not to, actually.” Shane lied.

Scott looked toward the stands. “That must be exhausting for you.”

“It’s a burden.”

Scott smiled a little, then watched one of the Stars defenders step neatly around a Voyageurs winger who had gotten too casual at the blue line. “Who’s setting the rosters?”

“Currently everyone. That’s the problem.”

“Fun problem?”

Shane gave him a flat look. 

Scott took a slower look around after that. At the women’s teams. At the donation tables. At Yuna directing traffic like she had been born into it. At the pace of the warmup, which had gone from light charity skate to something more structured in under ten minutes.

Then he nodded once, mostly to himself.

Interesting.

The format got cleaned up before puck drop.

They had managed to secure a two-rink complex for the weekend, enough ice to keep the schedule moving without too much standing around. Five teams total. Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto on the women’s side. Two men’s teams built out of the Voyageurs, Ottawa, New York, Cliff, and Ilya.

The women kept their own benches and their own structure.

The men got no coaches.

That was the handicap.

Adam took one look at the men milling around the benches and dumped one team on Shane and the other on Scott. He wanted to see how they managed with fewer guardrails and additional responsibility, the young New York captain and his own team’s star. They both gave him startled looks but rolled with it. In fact, Hollander immediately began looking like he was running complex equations behind his eyes and he gave himself a pat on the back. This should be interesting.

Seeing Ottawa’s men there did something odd to both Shane and Ilya too. Most of that room belonged to a future that did not exist yet with practically no familiar faces, but one of the defencemen was there, much much younger and both of them knew he would still be in the room years later when they got to Ottawa. Shane caught Ilya having the same moment from across the bench and looked away first.

After that, the full round robin did most of the work for them.

Everybody played everybody once across the weekend, which meant the crowd got everything: women against women, men against men, and the thrill of seeing locked-out NHL stars line up across from their female counterparts. The women’s teams had rhythm from the first whistle. The men, deprived of coaches and left to organize themselves on the fly, took half a game to remember that line changes, pairings, and special teams did not materialize out of thin air. The crowd loved that almost as much as the hockey.

And the hockey was good. Better than it had any right to be for something assembled on short notice. Ottawa’s men got invested almost immediately with what seemed to be an easy camaraderie between them. JJ shouted in triumphant French every time the Stars got one over on the men. Scott started talking shit like he had been waiting all fall for an excuse. Nadia Desrosiers fleeced Shane through traffic for a goal that got a bigger reaction than some real regular-season games he’d played.

Cliff seemed both bewildered and like he was having the time of his life. Ilya had apparently sold him on a weekend of partying with an offhand 'bring your gear, we might train a little', then dropped him straight into a mini competition and spent the rest of the weekend goading him into giving a shit. Cliff took it like a champ but told Ilya that he owed him one.

By the end of the weekend, the Stars’ merch table had sold out of multiple sizes, the donation buckets had been emptied more than once, and Scott had stopped looking like he was merely processing and started making calls on and off the ice.

Shane caught Scott flipping into command on the other bench faster than he had expected and was mostly unsurprised. Even young as he was at the moment, Scott had walked into a thrown-together team of Admirals, Ottawa players, Cliff, and whoever else had gotten swept into his orbit, and somehow got them moving in the same direction.

However, the feeling of being observed remained.

Adam was absolutely testing him.

Shane had known it the second one of the men’s benches got dumped in his lap, and he was not about to fail because Adam had decided to get creative in the middle of a charity weekend. Also, Ilya was on his team. That alone made failure feel unacceptable.

Ilya kept catching it through the noise. The way Shane’s teammates turned toward him without thinking, waited for him to sort the lines or make the next call. Pride rose warm and sharp in Ilya’s chest.

And somehow, being here together was easy.

Even their best years in Ottawa had carried a low hum of vigilance underneath them. Who was watching. What someone might say. What came next.

He didn’t feel it now.

They had a mission now and they were executing it. Even more than that, they knew something they had not known before: whatever happened, they would survive it. Sure, things would not always go their way. That had never been the promise, but they would be okay.

And in the meantime, by God, they were living.

Across the bench, Shane sucked in a breath, squared himself, and started barking orders.

The response was immediate.

Ilya smiled to himself.

They were not ready.

November 3^rd, 2012

The first time Ilya convinced him to go out during the lockout, Shane started yawning before they had even left home.

“You know it’s almost two in the morning,” he said, pulling a toque over his hair.

“Yes but that’s why we had a nap, kotik.”

“And the person you want to see doesn’t start until three.”

“Yes.”

“And this place apparently stays open until ten in the morning.”

Ilya paused with one arm in his coat. “We do not have to stay until ten.”

“That wasn’t reassuring.”

“You will like it.”

Shane looked at him. Ilya had spent most of dinner talking about the club’s sound system, the DJ playing that night, and an interview he had found in which someone described the dance floor as acoustically perfect. He had tried to sound casual about all of it and failed comprehensively.

Shane sighed and reached for his gloves. “I’m coming.”

“I know.”

“Because you’re excited.”

“I am always exciting.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Ilya grinned and pulled him from the house before he could reconsider.

Montreal’s music scene was incredible. Ilya had barely scraped the surface during their first life and he was increasingly pleased with what he was finding this time around.

Ilya grinned as he pulled Shane from a disinterested taxi and onto Sainte-Catherine where, during the summer, pink balls stretched as a canopy along the street. It was now late autumn, but the vibe of the Gay Village never quite let go of its whimsy. He had one hand hooked briefly around Shane’s wrist before he remembered where they were and let go. Here was potentially the worst place to get recognized but the hour and time of year significantly reduced the hazard.

As they walked towards the venue, their breath showed under the streetlights. Shane had a toque pulled low and his shoulders hunched inside his coat, trying to look smaller than he was. He failed beautifully.

The place Ilya had found was behind a door with no sign and a bouncer all in black. Inside, they had to go up a flight of stairs to coat check where the bass began thrumming through the concrete.

They made it through the entry way and Shane stopped just inside.

“It’s called Stereo!” Ilya leaned close enough to be heard. “One of the best clubs for sound in the world!”

Shane smiled at the look of delight on his face and inserted his ear plugs, he had known of course that this would be an event. Ilya grabbed his hand and pulled him through the entry with it’s seating and up another set of stairs to the main dancefloor.

Shane looked around, taking it in. The crowd was thrumming and decently dense, dark with lasers and strobe lights making it hard to identify anyone, even famous hockey players standing somewhat awkwardly close to the entrance.

That was what he loved. The movement of the crowd. The instant communication between DJ and each person on the dancefloor, build and release, tension and answer. Hockey had it too, but hockey was watched. Measured. Owned by men in suits and fans with opinions and coaches with whistles.

This was different.

Here, everyone was focused on either themselves or their partner and the music. The ebb and flow and movement.

Shane looked at him, face lit blue and violet in the low light. “You really like this.”

Ilya shrugged, suddenly too aware of himself. “Yes.”

“No, I mean...” Shane looked toward the DJ booth, then back. “You really like this.”

Ilya shoved his hands into his pockets. “Is music.”

Shane smiled faintly. “Great explanation.”

“I am poet.”

“You’re something.”

Ilya caught Shane’s hand again and pulled him deeper into the room, weaving between bodies until they reached the middle of the crowd near the back. The divide was almost comically obvious from there. The straighter crowd had collected to the left of the DJ booth. To the right, the men were packed closer together and had apparently agreed that shirts were optional.

Shane looked from one side to the other, then raised his eyebrows at Ilya.

Ilya leaned into his ear. “Very organized.”

Shane’s laugh disappeared into the music. Some of the tension stayed in his shoulders, though, and his gaze made another quick pass through the room.

“No phones,” Ilya told him, keeping his mouth close to Shane’s ear. “No cameras. Strict rule.”

Shane looked at him.

“They throw you out,” Ilya added. “Maybe kill you. I did not read fine print.”

That earned him another laugh, softer this time. Shane’s shoulders loosened as he looked around again. Everyone nearby was focused on the DJ, the lights, or each other. No one had spared them more than a passing glance.

They still had to think about it. Even here. Even after getting the impossible gift of another chance, they had somehow circled back to measuring every touch and checking every face.

Ilya hated it.

Then another shirtless man pushed past without looking at either of them, and Shane leaned close enough to say, “I think we’re overdressed.”

“Give it time.”

Shane elbowed him, but he was smiling now.

They let the crowd close around them. They couldn’t dance the way they might have alone, but they could stay near each other without pretending the distance was accidental. Shane began moving with the beat, restrained at first, while Ilya let the music work through him until he stopped thinking about where to put his hands or who might be watching.

Halfway through the set, Shane leaned in.

“You could do this.”

Ilya looked at him.

“Not like... tomorrow,” Shane said. “But you could learn.”

“I am busy being hockey genius.”

“You can be two kinds of genius.”

Ilya laughed, surprised and too fond. “You want me to be DJ?”

“I want you to have things that are yours.” Shane paused.

The words slipped into the space between tracks, quiet enough that Ilya almost missed them over the roar and ear plugs.

He looked away first.

That was annoying. Shane kept doing that. Saying things like they were simple, like wanting Ilya to have more life was as obvious as wanting him to have water.

Ilya watched the DJ bend over the mixer, one hand hovering over the controls.

“I have you,” he said.

Shane’s expression changed.

Ilya regretted it immediately. The words were true, but they felt too large for a room full of strangers and bass and lights that made Shane look painfully young.

“You should have more than me,” Shane said.

Ilya swallowed.

The beat dropped and the room surged around them.

Shane looked toward the DJ booth. “I listened to some of your mixes.”

Ilya turned back to him. “What?”

“I may have found your SoundCloud account.”

“You never told me this.”

“I was being covert.”

“You were spying on my art?”

“They had a good beat to run to.”

Ilya stared at him for a moment before leaning close to his ear. “What do you know? You have terrible taste in music.”

“I know what keeps me from getting bored on a treadmill.”

“This is not endorsement.”

“It’s the best you’re getting.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes. “You listen to same five sad white men with guitars.”

“That’s not true.”

“Sometimes there is woman.”

Shane bit back a smile. “You’re being a snob.”

“I am artist.”

“You barely started.”

“You are cruel husband.”

“Careful. We’ve had enough accidental marriage reveals this month.”

Ilya laughed and bit his lip hard against the urge to kiss him.

November 11^th, 2012

The first Montreal weekend worked so well that they did the easiest possible thing and ran it back the following weekend.

That second weekend was the real problem.

The turnout had grown. The donation buckets filled faster. Fans were asking where the next games would be before the last ones had even ended. By Sunday evening, what had started as a lockout diversion had become something people expected to continue.

Which was how Shane found himself half a chair back from the kitchen table, laptop balanced on his knees while everyone else argued over what exactly they had created.

Yuna sat at the head of the table with three pages of notes in front of her. Beside her sat Pauline and Marie-Anne. Scott joined from New York over speakerphone. Ottawa's captain and the managers of the Ottawa and Toronto women's teams filled the rest of the call.

David wandered quietly through the kitchen, replenishing drinks whenever a glass emptied and staying well clear of the discussion.

Finally Scott sighed into the speaker.

“Well,” he said. “That escalated quickly.”

“No kidding,” Ottawa's captain muttered.

Marie-Anne folded her arms.

“I have one concern before we all get carried away.”

The room settled.

She looked around the table.

“The women have jobs. Classes. Families. Some of them are burning vacation time just to be here.”

Nobody interrupted.

“We are not turning this into a travelling circus where the women follow a bunch of locked-out NHL players around because they've suddenly discovered free weekends.”

“Agreed,” Yuna said immediately.

Pauline nodded.

“So what's fair?” she asked.

“For starters,” Marie-Anne said, “if this keeps growing, it stops being Montreal's event.”

Shane looked up.

“The first two weekends made sense,” she continued. “But if Toronto and Ottawa are committing too, they deserve home weekends. Their communities should benefit from this as much as ours.”

Scott made a thoughtful sound over the speaker.

“That also spreads the travel.”

“And the workload,” one of the Ottawa organizers added.

Yuna tapped her pen against the table once.

“I think that's exactly right.”

She flipped to another page.

“Toronto can host one weekend. Ottawa can host one. Montreal opens because that's where this started.”

“And the finale?” Adam asked.

Yuna's eyes flicked toward Shane for barely half a second.

Then back to the table.

“We may have gotten lucky.”

She slid a sheet of paper toward Marie-Anne.

“Colisée de Laval has availability for the final weekend.”

Silence.

Pauline blinked.

“Actually?”

“So it appears.”

Scott laughed.

“Lucky.”

“Extremely,” Yuna agreed without missing a beat.

Across the table Adam looked at Shane.

Shane looked studiously at his laptop.

Adam's mouth twitched.

He didn't say a word.

“All right,” Ottawa's captain said. “If we're each hosting, we can handle our own local logistics.”

“The men too,” Scott said. “I'll keep wrangling New York. They've stopped treating this like a charity skate.”

“I noticed,” Adam said dryly.

“The women coordinate through their own organizations,” Marie-Anne added. “The men coordinate through theirs. We share the schedule and the venue costs.”

Heads nodded around the table.

The details after that blurred together.

Budgets.

Hotels.

Travel.

Officials.

Volunteers.

Signage.

Shane answered the occasional question when one landed in his lap, but mostly he watched the project slip further from his hands.

Somewhere between hotels, travel, officials and volunteers, Shane realized he’d mostly stopped talking.

The thing was running without him.

Good.

When the meeting finally wound down and the calls disconnected one by one, Yuna closed her notebook with a tired sigh.

David appeared beside her without a word and exchanged her empty wine glass for a full one.

She smiled up at him before taking a sip.

Across the room, Ilya lifted one arm off the couch where he'd spent the last hour pretending not to listen.

“So,” he said.

Yuna looked over.

“Still a good problem?”

She looked around the kitchen.

The scribbled schedules.

The empty bowls.

The blocked-off weekends stretching toward Christmas.

Then she smiled.

“For now.”

Chapter End Notes

The next chapter should be faster, the majority has been floating about in my mind for a while so I hope I can get in translated to page quickly.

Chapter 21: Chapter 20

Chapter Summary

December 2012

Chapter Notes

I tried to get this out before I took vacation (along with a digital vacation) but I failed (I did manage to hand write several scenes for the next chapter while floating on the lake though!). Also shout out to everyone in BC, the smoke was horrific at times but everyone seemed to be banding together. We saw a cabin go up in flames across the lake from us and so many boats converged to help put out the fire before the trees could catch + many people called fire services to report it. No bystander effect here! Also thank you Mexico, Australia, and New Zealand for helping with the fires! We all see you and appreciate it.

December 16^th, 2012

Shane was dripping with sweat and ready to strip off his outer layers when two reporters caught him in the tunnel during the first intermission of the last day of their hockey charity extravaganza.

The communications volunteer stepped between him and the dressing-room door. “Five minutes.”

Shane pulled off one glove with his teeth. “You said that yesterday.”

“And you gave us eleven.”

“They had follow-up questions.”

“They always have follow-up questions.”

Shane grinned and passed his gloves to a waiting equipment assistant. The interview was worth another few minutes in damp gear.

The television reporter waited beneath a camera light beside the rink entrance. A second reporter stood nearby with a recorder and notebook, apparently prepared to take whatever time remained.

“We’re here with Montreal Voyageurs forward Shane Hollander during the final weekend of a five-week exhibition circuit that has travelled through Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto.” The reporter turned toward him. “Shane, did you ever imagine the event would become this successful?”

“We hoped people would come,” Shane said. “I don’t think any of us expected this.”

A cheer rolled through the concrete corridor from the rink. Shane glanced back automatically, though the angle gave him no view of the skills show on the ice.

“Every weekend has been bigger than the one before it,” he continued. “We’ve raised far more money than we projected, the games have been competitive, and people are coming back every weekend.” He gestured around, "And look at where we are, we sold out the Colisee."

“What do you think that tells us?”

“That people love hockey. No matter who plays it.”

The answer came easily. Shane had spent weeks watching people act surprised by something that now seemed obvious.

“People want good hockey,” he said. “The women have been playing in front of crowds that were too small for years, but that doesn’t mean nobody wants to watch them. It means people need to know when and where they can. They need promotion. They need games that are easy to get to. Once we gave them that, the audience showed up.”

“And the men?”

“We’ve gotten a lot out of this too.”

The reporter raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue.

“It’s been some of the best training we could’ve had during the lockout. Different linemates, different systems, players we don’t usually get to work with. The women play a fast, technical game, and they’ve exposed habits some of us can usually get away with.”

“Such as?”

Shane smiled. “I’m not giving Boston free scouting.”

The crew laughed.

“We’re all going back better,” he added. “I think Montreal is going back as a better team. The community side matters too, obviously, but nobody is doing the women a favour by playing with them. They belong here, and the hockey has proved it.”

“What has impressed you most?”

Shane considered the question.

“The players and support staff who kept saying yes.”

“To what?”

“Everything.”

He began counting on his fingers.

“One weekend became two. Then Ottawa wanted to host. Then Toronto. We needed more games, more volunteers, more officials, more transportation. People kept taking on work they hadn’t expected and weren’t getting paid for because they could see what this was becoming.”

He glanced toward the concourse above the tunnel. Several children were crowded along the railing in a mix of men’s and women’s jerseys, craning their necks for a view of the interview.

“And the kids,” Shane added. “That’s probably the best part.”

“What about them?”

“They don’t divide it up the way adults do. They watch someone score a great goal or make a huge save, and that’s their favourite player now.”

He pointed toward a boy at the railing wearing a Montreal jersey with BELLEROSE spelled across the back in strips of white tape.

“Five weeks ago, most of them only knew the MLH players. Now they’re showing up with signs for the women, arguing over their favourite defenders, asking them for autographs. They just needed the chance to see them.”

“What surprised you most personally?”

“How easy it’s all felt.”

The reporter studied him.

“The first weekend, everyone was looking around like they weren’t sure what this was supposed to be,” Shane explained. “By Ottawa, families knew the schedule before they arrived. People had favourite players. They knew where to park. By Toronto, we had kids asking whether we were doing it again next year.”

“And are you?”

Shane laughed but with a touch of melancholy. “I wish but it’s unlikely that we’ll have another opportunity like this with the lockout.”

The volunteer beside the camera nodded firmly.

The reporter smiled. “Everyone we’ve spoken to has pointed toward you when we’ve asked how this came together. They’ve called you the organizer, the driving force, and, in one case, the mastermind. How did you manage to make all of this happen?”

Shane shook his head before she had finished with a flush of red staining the freckles across his nose.

“I didn’t.”

“That seems to contradict every other interview we’ve done.”

“I had ideas,” he conceded. “Ideas are the easy part.”

“Booking arenas in three cities doesn’t sound easy.”

“My mom handled most of the things that required actual competence.”

That earned another laugh, but Shane continued before the focus could settle back onto him.

“Yuna Hollander. She coordinated sponsors, venues, volunteers, and about a thousand details I didn’t know existed. The women’s coaches already knew how to run events with limited resources, so they kept us from wasting time and money. Their players promoted everything constantly. The volunteers have been working very generous hours.”

He shifted the credit outward with the same instinct he used to move the puck away from pressure.

“Scott Hunter took charge of his group before we even had the full plan. Ottawa’s captain did the same there. Once we moved into other cities, they handled their logistics and helped us get local support. Adam’s been making calls. The coaches have shared contacts. The players kept agreeing to travel.”

“But you were the one who brought everyone together.”

“I asked,” Shane said. “They’re the ones who said yes.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It wasn’t simple. It was a group effort.”

The second reporter had been waiting beside the camera with increasing impatience. He lifted his recorder before the first could ask another question.

“To further your role; everyone keeps saying you were also behind the benches making adjustments, setting lines, and calling plays.”

Shane turned toward him.

The reporter continued, “For such a young player, that’s an impressive amount of strategic responsibility. Where does that side of your game come from? Was there a coach who taught you to look at hockey that way?”

There it was again.

For such a young player.

Shane had already lived another seventeen years. He had captained teams, studied thousands of hours of film, played through changes in tactics across more than a decade, and spent the past five weeks managing players whose careers he remembered in intimate detail.

He could hardly explain any of that.

Still, the question itself interested him. Strategy was much easier to discuss than his age.

“No one coach,” Shane said. “I pay attention.”

“To what?”

“Everything.”

The reporter’s eyebrows rose. “You may need to narrow that down.”

Shane smiled.

“Do you want the short answer or the real one?”

“The real one.”

Behind them, the communications volunteer quietly lowered her hand from two fingers to one.

Then Shane started talking.

The reporter’s expression shifted within the first thirty seconds as the answer expanded from positioning into spacing, player tendencies, line construction, transition, defensive pressure, and the dozens of tiny cues Shane used to predict where a play was going before it got there. He spoke quickly, occasionally doubling back when he realized the reporter had lost him, then finding another way to explain it.

The reporter stopped asking questions for a while.

Shane barely noticed.

By the time he finally ran out of steam, the volunteer had given up on the five-minute limit entirely and the reporter was staring at him with the slightly stunned expression of someone who accidentally started drinking from the firehose as he was instead given an unexpected tour through the machinery of his brain.

The reporter’s article went up the following morning, mostly focused on the charity circuit. A shorter section about Hollander’s unusually detailed view of the game drew some attention and bounced through a few hockey blogs, forums, and coaching circles. The outlet posted the full interview as well.

Years later, people would come back to it and hear something very different from what most had heard in December 2012.

December 16^th - Evening

The whirlwind that was the intercity hockey festival culminated in a holiday party of epic proportions at Adam’s house with everyone invited who could make it. By the time Shane reached Adam’s house, his hair was still damp, but from the shower this time instead of sweat, and his body had begun registering every minute he had spent on the ice.

He could hear the party from three doors down.

Children shrieked somewhere inside. Someone was laughing loud enough to carry through the front door. Christmas lights had been wound around the porch railing and every downstairs window glowed against the early darkness. Cars filled the (ample) driveway and lined both sides of the street.

Ilya popped out of a taxi behind him.

They had arrived separately because they had developed the habit of making sensible choices whenever they were likely to be observed, though the effect was slightly undermined when Ilya climbed out carrying three bottles of Russian vodka and wearing a red and black plaid Vancouver 2010 toque Shane had had stuffed in his closet.

Shane looked at it.

Ilya rolled his eyes up as if trying to see the top of his own head, then back at him.

“What?”

“That’s mine.”

“Maybe.”

Shane smiled and shook his head, but the front door opened before Shane could answer.

One of Adam’s younger children launched himself onto the porch wearing an over sized hockey helmet and carrying a miniature stick. “They’re here!”

That announcement produced enough noise from inside to suggest they had brought the Stanley Cup rather than several bottles of alcohol and a tray of food Yuna had insisted Shane take with him.

Adam’s wife, Heather, appeared behind their son, caught him by the back of his pyjamas before he could reach the icy steps, and smiled at Shane.

“Get inside before he recruits you for another game.”

Shane sighed and let the boy down easy, “I have played enough hockey today.”

The boy looked personally offended.

Ilya stepped past Shane, elbowing him and Shane squeaked. “I will play.”

The boy shrieked in delight, seized Ilya’s hand and pulled him into the house.

Heather watched them disappear. “Is he always like that?”

“He loves kids.” Shane laughed.

She took the tray from Shane. “Then he’s in trouble here.”

The house was full enough that Shane had to stop inside the entrance and work out where to put himself.

Players occupied most of the living room. Volunteers and coaches had spilled into the dining room and kitchen. The women’s teams had arrived in clusters, bringing partners, roommates, siblings, and anyone else who had helped keep the past five weeks running. Wet boots crowded the entryway. Coats covered the banister. Someone had dragged two dining chairs into the living room and children had claimed the staircase as seating despite repeated warnings from passing adults.

The Christmas tree stood in one corner under a collection of decorations that had clearly accumulated over years rather than been selected to match. Paper snowflakes covered the windows. A row of hockey skates hung from the mantle among stockings, family photographs, and what appeared to be a clay reindeer with only three legs.

Ruby and Jade were in the middle of everything. Ruby charged between adult legs carrying a foam puck in both hands while Jade pursued her with a miniature stick, both giggling at a frequency that cut cleanly through every conversation in the house.

Hayden appeared from the kitchen just in time to intercept Ruby before she collided with Pauline Bouchard.

“Sorry,” he said, scooping her up.

Ruby immediately threw the puck over his shoulder.

Jade changed direction and chased it beneath the dining table.

Jackie watched from the sofa with the weary calm of someone who had already accepted that retrieving either child would only encourage them. She held a stemless glass filled with something pale and fizzy, garnished with a wedge of lime. When Jordan McKay offered to top it up from the bottle of wine beside her, Jackie shook her head and pointed instead toward a bottle of sparkling water on the coffee table.

Jordan McKay spotted Shane from the kitchen and lifted her beer.

“There he is. The ‘mastermind’.”

Shane groaned.

The name had survived the interview and spread through the building before the final skills event had ended.

“I hate all of you.”

“You thanked us on television,” Kat Bellerose called from -very close- beside her.

“I take it back.”

“You can’t. We have it recorded.”

Shane pushed farther into the room, accepting a series of shoulder claps, congratulations, and was entirely unused to this kind of acknowledgement. They had surpassed even Yuna’s revised estimate.

The gate proceeds, donations, local sponsorships, auction items, and concession sales had added up to enough money to cover the women’s travel costs and leave a substantial amount for youth hockey programs in all three cities. Two sponsors had already asked whether they intended to repeat the circuit the following year. A television producer wanted to discuss broadcasting more women’s games.

He passed JJ and Nadia standing dangerously close to a hanging sprig of mistletoe and arguing fervently about… saltfish(?) on his way to the dining room and deftly avoided being dragged into whatever was happening there.

He found his mother in the dining room with Pauline Bouchard and Marie-Anne Gervais, all three crowded around a laptop despite the party continuing around them.

“No,” Shane said as soon as he saw the spreadsheet.

Yuna looked up. “No what?”

“No work.”

“We’re checking one number.”

Pauline angled the screen away from him. “Go drink something.”

“I’m serious.”

“So are we.”

Marie-Anne pointed toward the kitchen without looking up. “There’s beer.”

“You’re all impossible.”

Yuna smiled and reached up to touch his cheek. “You did well today.”

“We did well.”

“Yes,” she said, conceding the correction without much effort. “We did.”

Shane leaned down and kissed her temple before leaving them to their alleged single number.

Someone had set up cookie decorating at the dining table, though calling it an organized activity gave too much credit to the children smearing icing over everything they could reach. Adam’s oldest son sat at one end beside two of the women players, piping careful white lines across a gingerbread skate while they discussed music.

He was thirteen, quieter than the younger children and currently wearing a knitted sweater with tiny reindeer across the chest. Earlier, Shane had seen him help his mother carry food from the kitchen, then patiently show one of his sisters how to keep the icing bag from exploding out the top.

Now he was explaining why the music at hockey games was terrible.

“You can’t use the same twelve songs forever,” he said. “And why is it always Thunderstruck? That song in ancient!”

Marina Costa nodded gravely. “Finally, someone brave enough to say it.”

“You could change the songs depending on who scores.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It isn’t. You make a playlist for every player.”

Ilya appeared at the boy’s shoulder as though summoned.

“This is excellent idea.”

Shane stopped beside him. “Absolutely not.”

Adam’s son looked between them. “Why?”

“Because he’ll abuse it.”

“I will improve it,” Ilya corrected.

“You made me skate to Britney Spears in front of several thousand people.”

The boy lit up. “That was you?”

Ilya placed a hand over his heart. “My finest work.”

Shane pointed at him. “I’m still getting you back for that. Stay away from the sound system.”

“I make no promises.”

Someone called Ilya from the living room. He went willingly, taking Adam’s younger son and his plastic hockey stick with him.

The teenager watched him go. “He’s cool.”

“He’s a menace.”

“Both can be true,” Marina said.

Shane left before she could recruit Adam’s son into helping Ilya plan further crimes.

He found Scott near the dining-room window with Carter Vaughan, Eric Bennett, and a woman Shane didn’t recognize and it took him a moment longer than it should have to place her.

He had a vague memory, Eric (or maybe Scott?) mentioning, years ago, that he’d been married before. He wondered if this was her and had confirmed in short order.

“Shane,” Eric said, noticing his look. “This is Holly; my wife.”

“Right,” Shane said quickly. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

For a split second, the room felt slightly out of sync, but pushed the feeling down before anyone could read it on his face.

Scott looked more relaxed than he had at the beginning of the evening. Carter was teasing him about something Shane had missed, and Eric kept interrupting with corrections that made the story steadily less flattering but more hilarious.

They chatted for a few more moments when Ilya appeared between them, sliding an arm across Shane’s shoulders with the easy carelessness of someone who had spent the afternoon doing the same thing to half the players in the building… If you ignored the tiny circle Ilya rubbed into the back of his shoulder out of sight of the group.

“There you are,” he said. “Child wants rematch.”

“Which child?”

“All of them.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I promised you would be goalie.”

Shane turned his head. “Why?”

“Because you are a very bad catcher.”

Carter nearly choked on his beer and Shane’s eye twitched. Ilya’s English has gotten dangerously good if that was the innuendo he thought it was.

Ilya removed his arm from Shane’s shoulders and turned to Scott. “Also, your men are trying to steal vodka.”

“My men?”

“Admirals. Very criminal organization.”

Eric raised his bottle. “You left it unattended.”

“It was on kitchen counter.”

“Exactly.”

Ilya walked away with Carter, Eric, and Holly following him to investigate the alleged theft (i.e. get more drinks). Scott remained beside Shane.

“That was subtle,” Scott said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure.”

Shane looked across the room. Carter was arguing with Ilya over a bottle while Eric opened the freezer in search of ice. Both looked completely at ease.

“Your boys are good people,” Shane said with a slightly leading tone but didn’t expand.

Scott followed his gaze.

After a moment, he nodded.

The evening flowed as the children tired and the adults grew louder. Someone put on music. Pauline started a card game at the dining table and accused David of cheating within the first hand. The youngest children abandoned mini-stick hockey in favour of climbing over whichever players were foolish enough to sit on the floor.

Jade had finally surrendered to exhaustion and fallen asleep sprawled across Hayden’s chest, one small fist tangled in his shirt. Ruby remained awake through stubbornness alone, curled against Jackie’s side with heavy eyes while Jackie made conversation with a few of the hockey partners around her.

JJ and Nadia had migrated away from the mistletoe but not from each other. They now occupied the end of the sofa, leaning over a phone and sharing a pair of earbuds. Their shoulders remained pressed together long after the clip appeared to end.

Shane let himself enjoy it.

Five weeks earlier, most of the people in the house had been strangers divided by teams, leagues, and cities. Now Jordan was teaching one of Adam’s daughters a dance beside the Christmas tree. Carter and Hayden were shit talking the San Francisco team. Two Ottawa players had snagged Yuna to discuss doing a larger women’s event the following year. Ilya sat cross-legged on the floor with a child on his shoulders, loudly insisting he had been framed after a foam puck hit a lamp.

The lockout would end.

Soon, Shane suspected.

They would return to separate cities, hostile schedules, management demands, and all the quiet compromises of their regular lives.

Tonight, everyone was here.

“Shane.”

He looked toward Adam, who stood near the kitchen carrying an empty cardboard beer case.

“Can you help me with the drinks?”

“Sure.”

Shane followed him through the kitchen, and into the garage where enough beer to found a bar was stacked against one wall.

The cooler garage air struck the sweat that had dried beneath Shane’s shirt during the party and made him realise just how hot it had gotten inside despite Heather opening the kitchen window.

Several unopened cases sat stacked inside the garage.

Adam handed one to Shane and picked up another. “These need to cool down.”

“You didn’t put them outside earlier?”

“I did. These monsters drank the first load already.”

They carried several of the cases to the snowbank beside the door to the deck off the kitchen.

Adam tore open the first box and began planting bottles into the snow. Shane opened the second and added cans between them, pressing each deep enough that the snow held it upright.

Within minutes, the bank bristled with brown bottles, silver cans, and brightly coloured labels.

Shane stepped back to inspect it.

“It looks like a porcupine.”

Adam pushed another bottle into the snow. “Nature’s cooler.”

“One of the kids is going to find a beer in April.”

Adam laughed, “As long as they don’t drink it.”

Shane crouched beside him and continued unloading the case.

Music and laughter filtered through the kitchen door behind them, softened by the glass. Ruby appeared briefly at the window in Jackie’s arms, pressed both palms against it, then vanished again.

For a while, Adam said nothing.

The silence stretched long enough that Shane looked over.

Adam was dressed in the sweater and jeans, though the sleeves had been shoved up his forearms. Grey showed more clearly at his temples beneath the deck light than he remembered from the first time around.

Shane knew his retirement was coming.

He had known since returning to this body that Adam’s last season was close. The “old” Voyageurs captain retired at the end of this coming season after the lockout. The first time, Shane had accepted the change with the self-absorption of a young player who assumed the room would simply continue around him, wanting the ‘C’ of course but it was more a status symbol back then.

This time seems to be going differently, he mused.

Adam pressed the another can into the snow and sat back on his heels.

Shane’s hands slowed. Did their little hockey festival aggravate something?

“Your old injury?”

“Mostly. Hip too.”

“Have you talked to the trainers?”

Adam gave him a look.

“Right. Stupid question.”

“I’ve been thinking about the end of the season.”

The party continued behind them. Someone shouted Ilya’s name, followed by a crash and a burst of laughter.

Shane set a bottle carefully into the snow and swallowed hard.

“You’re retiring.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“You’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

Adam glanced at him. “Yeah.”

Shane knew better than to tell him how long.

“End of this season?” he asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Adam rubbed a hand over his jaw. “That was the original plan. But new information has come to play.”

“You could still play.”

“I know.”

Adam’s voice held no self-pity. He sounded tired and practical, like a man trying to choose the right time to leave before the choice was made for him.

“That isn’t the part I’ve been worried about,” he said.

“What is?”

“The team.”

Shane waited.

“I’ve been captain a long time. You start thinking everything falls apart if you’re not there to hold it together.”

“You’ve held it together.”

“Sometimes.”

“More than sometimes.”

Adam smiled faintly. “The lockout changed my mind.”

“About retiring?”

“About the room.”

Shane looked through the kitchen window.

Hayden had taken Ilya’s place on the floor with the children. Ilya now stood beside Scott, waving both hands while telling a story. Yuna had finally abandoned the laptop. Players, families, coaches, and volunteers filled every visible part of the house.

Adam followed his gaze.

“You did all this.”

“We did.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Adam straightened and leaned back against the deck railing. “Other people did the work. You made them believe it was worth doing. Got it started.”

Shane looked down at the case between them.

“That’s still a group effort.”

“Everything is a group effort. Somebody still has to get the group moving.”

Shane picked up another bottle to give his hands something to do.

“The guys listen to you,” Adam continued. “More than you realize.”

“They listen to you.”

“They should. I’m the captain.”

His tone made Shane look up sharply.

Adam met his eyes.

“When I’m done, I think you should be.”

The bottle slipped slightly in Shane’s hand as his eyes widened. He caught it before it could fall to the deck.

“What?”

“I think you should wear the C.”

For several seconds, Shane could hear every separate sound from inside the house; glasses touching, children laughing, and the low pulse of music. Behind it when he focused, he could just make out Ilya’s voice through the noise.

He had imagined becoming captain again.

He had thought about what he would change if the opportunity came. The kind of room he wanted to build. The people he could protect. The example he might set before everything became harder.

He had expected more time.

“You’re twenty-one,” Adam said. “I know.”

Shane almost laughed.

“That isn’t what I was going to say.”

“What were you going to say?”

Shane’s eyes darted back and forth, mentally calculating the differences between this timeline and the last. “I don’t know.”

Adam nodded, accepting the answer.

“Look, you’re a mature kid. Far more so than anyone would have expected when we drafted you, even at second overall.” Adam half joked, “Management doesn’t know I’m talking to you. I haven’t made a decision, and I’m not promising you anything. I wanted to know whether you’d consider it before I started pushing.”

Shane stared through the window again.

Ilya had turned toward the yard.

Their eyes met through the glass.

Ilya’s expression changed immediately, the laughter fading as he took in Shane’s face. He started toward the kitchen door.

Shane shook his head once.

Ilya stopped.

He stayed where he was, watching.

“I need to think,” Shane said.

“I figured.”

“I want it.”

The admission came more quickly than Shane intended.

Adam’s mouth curved.

“I thought you might.”

“But I need to think.”

“Then think.”

“About all of it.”

“I’m not asking for an answer tonight.”

Adam bent to lift the empty cases. Shane reached for the other two automatically and also snagged a couple bottles that had been in the snowbank already, he definitely needed another drink at this point. Without saying more, they turned toward the kitchen door.

Before Adam opened it, he paused.

“You already do half the job, Shane.”

Shane looked at him.

Adam nodded toward the house.

“You might as well think about whether you’re ready for the rest.”

He opened the door, and warmth, music, and noise rushed back over them.

Ilya was still watching from across the kitchen.

Shane stepped inside carrying the beer and the sudden weight of a future he hadn’t expected for another ten months.

December 18^th, 2012

Viktor glanced down at his notes. “You said you watched another tape.”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“The label said New Year 2000.”

“Did you remember that night?”

Ilya considered the question.

“I remembered New Year.”

“That particular one?”

“No.”

He remembered the holidays as a collection of repeated details. Mandarins in bowls throughout the apartment. Olivier salad. Coloured lights reflected in the windows. The television playing too loudly while his mother prepared food. He could not have separated 1999 from any of the years around it.

“I knew how it would look before I watched,” he said. “But I didn’t remember the day.”

“What stood out?”

“My mother.”

Viktor waited.

“She was younger than I remembered. Early thirties, probably.” Ilya looked toward the dark window beside Shane’s desk. “She talked constantly. She sang while she worked. Badly.”

“Did you remember her doing that?”

“No.”

“What did you remember?”

“Her reading to me. Sitting beside my bed. Being tired.”

The mother in his memories had been gentle and quiet. She moved carefully through rooms and listened whenever the front door opened. The woman on the tape teased Alexei about his hair, argued with the television, and laughed loudly whenever eight-year-old Ilya missed the plastic net he had built from dining chairs.

“I had forgotten her laugh,” he said.

“What was it like?”

“Big. Her whole body moved.”

“And seeing that affected you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya rubbed his thumb along the edge of the desk.

“Because I remembered her sadness. I did not remember just how lively she was… before.”

Viktor nodded. “Anything else?”

“Alexei.”

“What about him?”

“He was twelve. I remembered him as older.”

In Ilya’s childhood memories, Alexei had always seemed nearly grown. He went places alone, understood adult conversations, and knew how to do everything Ilya wanted to learn.

On the tape, he had been a boy with hair hanging in his eyes, trying to look bored whenever the camera turned toward him.

“He was already becoming difficult,” Ilya said. “He complained about everything. My mother told him to help and he sighed as though she had destroyed his life.”

“That sounds twelve.”

“Yes.”

Ilya smiled briefly.

“He was jealous too, I think.”

“Of you?”

“Hockey.”

Ilya had spent part of the tape shooting a rubber ball between two chairs. His mother praised every attempt. Alexei insisted the goals didn’t count because nobody was defending.

“Did you remember that?”

“No. I remembered playing hockey in the apartment. I remembered Alexei teaching me things sometimes. I did not remember why he joined.”

“Why did he?”

“My mother said I was getting good.”

“And then?”

“He showed me he could do it better.”

“How did you respond?”

“I thought he was incredible.”

The answer still embarrassed him slightly.

At eight, he had followed Alexei through the apartment and demanded his attention before every shot. He had interpreted corrections as proof that his brother knew everything. Any jealousy had passed entirely over his head.

“You idolized him,” Viktor said.

“Yes.”

“How was it to see that?”

“I didn’t like it.”

“Because of what happened later?”

“Because it is easier to remember him as always cruel.”

Alexei on the tape had been surly and competitive. But he had also adjusted Ilya’s grip, defended the chair-net, and kept playing long after declaring the game childish.

It both was and wasn’t hard to see where one version of his brother bled into the other.

“What about your father that night?” Viktor asked.

Ilya went still.

“The door.”

“His arrival?”

“The sound of the lock.”

That memory had survived clearly. It existed without a date or surrounding scene, a sound his body recognized before his mind supplied an explanation.

“What did the tape show you?”

“He came home shortly before midnight. He complained about snow on the stairs. He asked why the television was quiet.”

“Was he angry?”

“Not exactly.”

“What happened?”

“Everyone changed.”

Ilya had remembered the apprehension. The tape showed its mechanics.

His mother lowered her voice. Alexei stopped slouching and sat properly after disassembling the chair-net. Ilya carried his hockey stick out of the hallway without being asked. Nobody discussed it. They simply made themselves quieter and easier to approve of.

“Did you remember doing that?” Viktor asked.

“No. I remembered that we had to be careful around him. I did not remember learning how.”

“What was it like to see?”

Ilya looked down at his hands.

“It made me trust myself more.”

“In what way?”

“Sometimes I wondered if I made him worse in my memories. I was small. Alexei always said I exaggerated.”

“And now?”

“The tape showed that nobody needed him to yell.”

Viktor let the silence continue for several seconds.

“You said trusting yourself more. Did it do anything else?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“It made everything more complicated.”

The childhood Ilya remembered had been organised around his father’s anger, his mother’s sadness, and Alexei’s eventual cruelty. The tape contained those beginnings, but it also contained Irina laughing and Alexei kneeling beside him to correct his hands.

“I remembered how the house felt,” Ilya said. “I did not remember us being happy inside it.”

“Does one cancel the other?”

“No.”

“Can they both belong to the same childhood?”

“I suppose.”

Viktor’s expression softened. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am working on it.”

“What did you do when the tape ended?”

“Nothing. I sat on the floor.”

“Was Shane there?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Did he know what you were watching?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him afterward?”

“No. He brought tea and sat behind me.”

“Was that what you wanted?”

Ilya thought about Shane leaving the connecting door open, close enough to reach without entering until invited.

“Yes.”

“You allowed him to see that you were affected.”

“He already knew.”

“That isn’t quite the same thing.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes at the screen.

“You always try to make ordinary things important.”

“Sometimes ordinary things are important.”

Ilya reached for the water beside the laptop.

“Perhaps your next hobby should be meditation.”

Viktor smiled. “Speaking of hobbies, how is the music going?”

December 19^th, 2012

The envelope arrived three days after the party.

Ilya noticed the Government of Canada mark before Shane had finished sorting through the mail.

“Give me that.”

Shane looked down at the envelope in his hand, then passed it across the kitchen island.

It was addressed directly to Ilya. Just his name beneath the bilingual government letterhead.

Shane abandoned the rest of the mail.

“Open it.”

“I was planning to.”

“You’re staring at it.”

“I am appreciating the moment.”

“You can appreciate it after you open it.”

Ilya slid his thumb beneath the flap.

The card was fixed to a folded sheet inside. He saw his photograph first, then his name beneath the words PERMANENT RESIDENT and RÉSIDENT PERMANENT.

For several seconds, he forgot Shane was standing beside him.

The card he remembered receiving in 2023 had looked different. Cleaner. More modern. This one belonged to an older design, though it was new to Ilya. Pale maple leaves crossed the background in fine lines. A small goose sat near one corner, half-hidden among the security pattern. His face appeared twice, once in the main photograph and again as a tiny image inside the transparent window.

He tilted the card beneath the kitchen light.

The details shifted across its surface.

His name remained still.

Ilya Rozanov.

Permanent resident.

“This is it,” Shane said quietly.

Ilya turned the card over, then back again.

“Yes.” His voice was a croaked whisper and he felt a stinging in his eyes.

“You have it.” Shane was a master of stating the obvious as usual.

“I can see this.”

“No more waiting.”

“No.”

In their first life, he had not held this card until 2023.

He had been thirty-two. They had already spent more than a decade arranging their lives around borders, contracts, schedules, and the knowledge that Canada belonged to Shane in a way it did not yet belong to him.

Now he was twenty-one.

“Eleven years,” Ilya said.

Shane understood immediately.

“Yeah.”

Ilya ran his thumb over the edge of the card.

He had spent so long thinking of the future as something they were trying to recover. The card in his hand felt like a giant leap instead of a small step in that direction.

“I thought it would feel the same,” he said.

“As last time?”

“Yes.”

“Does it?”

Ilya looked at the maple leaves again.

“No.”

Shane’s eyes had gone bright.

Ilya smiled at him and accused him of what he himself was feeling. “You are going to cry.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re making the face.”

“What face?”

“Very emotional Canadian face.”

Shane took the card carefully from his hand and set it flat on the counter.

Then he grabbed Ilya around the waist and lifted him, spinning.

Ilya laughed, startled enough that his arms locked around Shane’s shoulders.

“Careful, idiot.”

Shane kissed him before putting him down.

The kiss was clumsy from both of them smiling. Ilya caught Shane’s face between his hands and kissed him again, slower this time.

When they separated, Shane rested their foreheads together.

“You’re here,” he said.

“I was already here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Ilya did.

He kissed Shane once more, then reached around him for the card.

“I put it somewhere safe.”

Shane laughed and pulled him against his shoulder again.

They stayed that way until the smell from the stove reached them.

Ilya lifted his head. “Eggs.”

“Shit.”

Shane released him and lunged for the burner. Smoke curled from the edges of the pan.

“You ruined breakfast.”

“I didn’t cook it.”

“You caused celebration.”

“You got permanent residency.”

“Yes.” Ilya studied the card again. “This is true.”

They called Svetlana first.

She answered on Skype with her hair twisted into a loose knot and a statistics textbook open in front of her.

“You are interrupting regression analysis,” she said.

Ilya held the card up to the camera.

Svetlana leaned closer.

Her mouth fell open.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Already?”

“Already.”

“Let me see.”

“I am showing you.”

“The camera is terrible. Move it closer.”

Ilya held it directly in front of the webcam.

“Not that close. Now it is only your nose.”

“This is government photograph. They chose nose.”

She laughed, then covered her mouth with one hand.

“You got it.”

“I did.”

Svetlana’s expression softened as she looked at him through the screen.

“You have somewhere that’s yours now.”

Ilya glanced at Shane.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

Svetlana made him show her both sides of the card and demanded that he read the accompanying letter out loud. She congratulated them one final time, then warned them to call Yuna before she discovered Svetlana had known first.

Yuna answered on the second ring.

“We got it,” Shane said.

“Got what?”

Ilya held the card in front of the phone.

Yuna went silent.

Then she began crying.

“I told you,” Ilya said towards Shane.

“I’m happy,” she protested.

“You are still crying.”

David appeared beside her with his reading glasses pushed onto his forehead.

“Is that the card?” he asked.

Ilya brought it closer to the camera again.

David smiled.

“Congratulations, Ilya.”

“Thank you.”

Yuna took the phone back from him. “Come for dinner.”

“We were there two nights ago,” Shane said.

“Come again.”

Ilya looked at Shane.

Shane nodded.

“We’ll be there,” Ilya said.

“And bring the card.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see it properly.”

Ilya glanced down at the small goose, the maple leaves, and his own younger face.

“Fine,” he said. “But you cannot keep it.”

Yuna laughed through the remnants of her tears.

“I promise.”

After they hung up, Ilya remained on the sofa, turning the card beneath the light.

His thumb passed over the maple leaves, then his photograph, then his name. He looked faintly astonished every time he reached the words beneath it.

Permanent resident.

Shane had seen him receive the newer version of the card in their first life. They were publicly together, settled in Ottawa, and so accustomed to arranging their lives around one another that the card had felt like the final correction to paperwork that had lagged years behind reality.

This was different.

“We did it,” Shane said.

Ilya looked up. “Mostly lawyers did it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

Shane leaned back against the arm of the couch.

The card was small enough to disappear inside Ilya’s wallet, but it changed everything. Boston could trade him. Hockey could stop. Their careers could send them in directions neither of them had planned. Canada would still be available to him. The lingering fear of potentially getting shipped back to Russia evaporated.

Not someday. Not after retirement, or after coming out, or once hockey finally stopped dictating where they were allowed to live.

Now.

“I want to be captain,” Shane said.

Ilya’s attention shifted fully to him.

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“You have been thinking so loudly I hear it from other rooms.”

“I don’t think loudly.”

“You made lists.”

Shane frowned. “You read those?”

“One said Captain at top.”

“It was facedown.”

“Yes.”

Shane waited.

Ilya offered no further defence.

“I want it,” Shane repeated. “I think I could move the needle, culturally.”

“You would.”

Shane had spent the days since Adam’s party turning the offer over from every direction. He had thought about the interviews, the practices, and the players who had begun coming to him with questions without seeming to notice they were doing it. He had thought about what he could change if the organization gave him enough leeway.

He wanted younger players to know that asking for help wouldn’t make them weak. He wanted the team to stop treating cruelty as proof of toughness. He wanted players’ wives and children to feel welcome around the team. He wanted the connections they had built during the lockout to survive once the season resumed.

He wanted the C because he knew what he would do with it.

“I need to tell Adam I’m gay,” Shane said.

Ilya went still, though he didn’t look surprised.

“Before he speaks to management?”

“Yeah.”

“You think he will react badly?”

“I don’t know.”

That remained the frightening part. Shane knew Adam. He respected him. He also remembered too many men he had trusted becoming strangers the moment they learned the truth.

The fear was as real as his previous life. It simply wasn’t making the decision for him this time.

“I don’t want to take another step forward while hiding it,” Shane said. “Not this one.”

Ilya set the card carefully on the coffee table.

“You do not have to tell him about me.”

“I know.”

“Or marriage.”

“I know. That’s yours too.”

“Good.”

Shane rested his elbows on his knees.

“I’m asking him to trust me with the room. I should trust him with something real too.”

Ilya studied him. “This is different from warning him.”

“Yeah.”

Shane wasn’t giving Adam an opportunity to withdraw his recommendation before Shane became embarrassing. He was deciding what kind of relationship he wanted with the man who might help make him captain.

He wanted it to begin with trust.

“Adam thinks I can lead these guys,” Shane said. “Part of leading is deciding what you expect from people.”

“What do you expect from him?”

“That he’ll listen. That he’ll think about it seriously. That he’ll keep it private.”

“And accept you?”

“Yes.” Shane responded with a tentative confidence. 

“I think he can,” he continued, “Maybe I’m wrong. But people rise to expectations sometimes. You have to give them the chance.”

Ilya leaned back, considering that.

“You are very optimistic today.”

“Look at the card.”

Ilya did.

“We weren’t supposed to have this for another eleven years,” Shane continued. “We weren’t supposed to have most of what we have now. We got it because we stopped accepting that the old way was the only way things could happen.”

“That sounds dangerously inspiring.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Shane looked at the card too.

They had returned to the past with knowledge of everything that could hurt them. It would have been easy to spend their second life avoiding those injuries. They could hide better, plan more carefully, and wait until no one could threaten what they had built.

But that would still leave fear making every decision.

“I don’t want our whole plan to be getting so good at hiding that nobody can touch us,” Shane said. “I want us to have the life we should’ve had.”

Ilya’s expression softened.

“And captaincy is part of this?”

“It could be.”

Shane pictured himself wearing the C again, a season earlier than he had in their first life. He pictured winning in it. Speaking with it. Making the room better before anyone knew why that mattered so much to him.

“I can be gay and be captain,” he said. “I can tell people who I am and still kick everyone’s ass at hockey. Those things don’t conflict unless we let other people decide they do.”

Ilya’s smile appeared slowly.

“This is very attractive speech.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Still.”

Shane bumped their knees together.

“I’m not coming out publicly tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“I’m not telling the whole room.”

“I know.”

“But Adam is asking me to step up. I’m going to.”

Ilya nodded once.

“Then tell him.”

“You’re okay with it?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“I do not like risk.”

“Neither do I.”

“No. You pretend to be sensible, then decide to change entire hockey culture before breakfast.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is little bit what you are doing.”

Shane smiled.

Ilya reached across the space between them and rested his hand on the back of Shane’s neck.

“I am scared for you,” he said.

“I know.”

“But I am proud also.”

The words caught Shane off guard.

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s fingers moved slowly through the short hair at his nape.

They stayed that way for a moment.

“When will you call him?” Ilya asked.

“Now, probably.”

Ilya’s hand stopped. “Now?”

“If I wait, I’ll find sixteen reasons to delay.”

“You already found sixteen.”

“Twenty-three.”

“This is why you need lists.”

Shane sat upright and picked up his phone.

Adam answered after several rings.

“Hey, Shane.”

“Hey. Are you free tomorrow?”

A short pause followed.

“Sure. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you said at the party.”

“All right.”

“Could you come by? I want to talk about it properly.”

“Your place?”

“Yeah.”

They settled on late morning.

When Shane ended the call, Ilya had picked up his card again.

“He is coming?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Good.”

Shane set his phone on the table.

His stomach had already tightened, but beneath the nerves was something steadier.

He had made the decision.

Ilya examined him over the edge of the card. “You look like you might vomit.”

“I might.”

“I will stay upstairs.”

“You don’t have to hide.”

“I am not hiding. I am giving privacy while remaining available for violence.”

“No violence.”

“Depends on Adam.”

Shane gave him a look.

Ilya held up one hand. “I expect him to rise to occasion.”

Despite himself, Shane laughed.

December 20^th, 2012

“I’m gay.”

The words left Shane before he could find a better opening.

Across the dining table, Adam stopped with his coffee halfway to his mouth.

Shane tightened both hands around his own mug. They had been sitting there for nearly ten minutes, talking around the captaincy while Shane’s coffee cooled between his palms.

Adam lowered his mug carefully.

“All right.”

Shane had prepared for surprise, questions, or the quick insistence that it didn’t matter before Adam had decided whether it did.

The calm answer wrong-footed him.

“I wanted you to know before you spoke to management.”

Adam’s eyes stayed on him.

“Do they know?”

“No.”

“The team?”

“Hayden does. Nobody else on the team.”

Adam nodded slowly. “Are you planning to tell them?”

“Yes.”

That answer drew a more visible reaction than Shane’s first admission.

Adam leaned back in his chair. “When?”

“If this happens.”

“If you become captain.”

“Before I accept it.” His eyes dart back and forth, “I… want their blessing, so to speak. You can’t lead people without their consent.”

Adam looked at him for several seconds.

Shane resisted the urge to explain faster. He had spent the previous night deciding exactly what he meant. Now he needed to give Adam enough room to understand it.

“I want the captaincy,” Shane said. “I think I could be good at it.”

“I think so too.”

“But I’m not taking the C and asking the team to follow someone they don’t actually know.”

Adam’s brow furrowed. “You think they need to know everything about your private life?”

“No. They don’t need details. But this isn’t a small detail, and I don’t want to spend every day deciding whether somebody is getting too close to figuring it out. How long do you think you could hide your wife for?”

The room would notice eventually. Captains travelled with teammates, hosted parties, attended family events, and carried more responsibility outside the rink. Shane could hide Ilya’s identity. He could not keep building a life around the team while pretending he had no life to hide.

More importantly, he no longer wanted to.

“If I’m going to ask them to trust me,” Shane said, “I want to trust them too.”

Adam glanced down at his coffee.

“You’re talking about coming out to the whole room before management announces anything.”

“Yes.”

“And asking for their support.”

“Their buy-in,” Shane corrected. “I don’t want the title if the room doesn’t want me leading it.”

“That isn’t usually how captaincy works.”

“Maybe it should.”

Adam’s mouth pulled briefly to one side. “You’ve thought this through.”

“More than you know.”

“Does your family know?”

“Yes.”

“Hayden took it well?”

“He did.”

“That’s one player.”

“He's a good friend.”

Adam drummed his thumb once against his mug.

“What happens if some of them don’t take it well?”

Shane’s stomach tightened. This was the part he couldn’t solve in advance.

“I listen to what they have to say.”

“Even if it’s ugly?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“It depends.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“There isn’t one plan for every possible reaction.”

Shane leaned forward.

“Some guys might need time. Some might be awkward and ask stupid questions. I can work with that. If someone thinks I shouldn’t be captain because I’m gay, then we need to know that before management announces anything.”

Adam’s gaze sharpened. “And if enough of them feel that way?”

“Then I don’t take it and we have an awkward situation.”

The answer hurt to say, but Shane meant it.

He wanted to lead the room, not have management pin a letter to his sweater while half his teammates quietly rejected him. Authority without trust would make the role useless for everything he wanted to accomplish.

Adam studied him. “You’d walk away from the captaincy.”

“If the room can’t follow me.”

“You think they get to decide whether you’re qualified?”

“No. My hockey decides whether I’m qualified. The way I treat them decides whether I’ve earned their trust.” Shane paused. “But I can’t force people to let me lead them.”

Adam picked up his coffee, took a drink, and set it down again.

“Do you think they’ll say yes?”

“I hope most of them will.”

“Why?”

“Because they already know me.”

Shane knew that sounded contradictory. Adam’s raised eyebrow confirmed it.

“They don’t know this,” Shane said. “But, they know everything that matters about how I play and how I treat them. They know I show up. They know I care whether they succeed. Learning I’m gay shouldn’t erase that.”

“Shouldn’t,” Adam repeated.

“No.”

“But it might for some of them.”

“Yes.”

Shane held his gaze.

He wasn’t going to pretend optimism made him ignorant. He remembered the first timeline. He remembered silence, distance, and men he had known for years suddenly treating every past interaction as suspect.

This room was different because he had been different inside it.

He had given them the chance to know him before asking them to reconsider who they thought he was. But he wouldn't let this grow into some ugly thing. He had hidden it before because he was scared and ashamed of himself and his desires, this time; he was neither. And he refused to act like it. 

“I think people usually meet the expectations that are set for them,” Shane said, thinking about the bevy of leadership books he had read in in previous life and this one in his fixation to figure out what went wrong. “Not everyone. But most.”

“And you want to set that expectation before you’re even captain.”

“I want us to set it.”

Adam’s expression shifted.

“You’d still be captain when I told them,” Shane continued. “Hayden would be there. If you both make it clear that I’m still me and this isn’t up for debate, most of the room will take their cue from that.”

“That sounds like you’ve assigned me a job.”

“I’m asking whether you’d do it.”

Adam looked toward the living room, though the house was quiet beyond the dining table.

“And if I said the room isn’t ready?”

Shane swallowed.

“Then I’d ask whether you meant they need help getting ready or whether you think we shouldn’t try.”

Adam returned his gaze to him.

“That’s an important distinction.”

“Yes.”

“Which answer do you think I’m going to give?”

“I don’t know. That’s why you’re here.”

Adam sat back again.

For the first time since Shane’s admission, he looked less surprised than troubled. Not repulsed. He wasn't great at reading people or situations but Shane thought he would recognize that.

“Some of them won’t know what to say,” Adam said.

“I know.”

“One or two will probably say something they can’t take back.”

“I know.”

“There are guys in that room who have never questioned any of the shit they’ve heard or repeated.”

“I know.”

“And you still think it’s worth doing.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because somebody has to be first.”

The answer came more sharply than Shane intended.

He loosened his grip around the mug.

“I know what happens when everyone waits for something become safe on its own,” he said. “It doesn’t. Safety is written in blood.” He recalled the documentaries, the books, the words of Fabian when he'd had questions about the community he had spent so long avoiding. "Maybe, it's my turn."

Adam was quiet.

Shane heard a faint floorboard upstairs. Ilya was keeping his promise to stay out of the conversation, though apparently not far from it.

“I’m not trying to turn the team into activists,” Shane continued. “I want to play hockey. I want us to win. I want to be able to do that without lying to the guys I’m supposed to lead.”

“You think telling them makes the team stronger?”

“I think trust does.”

“And you believe they’ll trust you more afterward.”

“Eventually.”

Adam gave a faint huff of laughter. “That’s honest.”

“It could be uncomfortable for a while.”

“It will be.”

“Probably.”

Adam rubbed a hand over his jaw and sighed, sinking lower in the chair.

“My oldest son,” he said.

Shane went still.

Adam looked down at his hands.

“I think… he might be gay.”

The sentence came slowly, each word handled before Adam let it go.

“Has he told you?”

“No.”

“Does he know you think that?”

“No.”

Adam shook his head.

“I might be wrong. He’s thirteen. Maybe I’m reading too much into things.”

Shane waited rather than asking what Adam considered evidence. Whatever had led him there mattered less than what he did with the possibility.

“I’ve never said it out loud before,” Adam said.

Shane stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I keep thinking about what his life would be like, if he had shown even an ounce of an interest in hockey.” He let out a gruff laugh, "I used to be upset he didn't seem to take after me but once the... gay signs, I guess you could say, started showing up; I was relieved. He wouldn't have to deal with all that shit in the locker room."

Adam looked toward the stairs, the ceiling, anywhere other than Shane.

“I’ve heard things in hockey rooms that I wouldn’t want him hearing,” he said. “I’ve laughed at some of them. Let worse things go because they weren’t worth turning into a fight.”

Shane didn’t absolve him.

Adam’s discomfort belonged to him.

“I always told myself guys didn’t mean anything by it,” Adam continued. “Most of them probably didn’t. I’m not sure that makes it better.”

“It doesn’t really.”

Adam nodded once, accepting the answer.

“If my son walked into our room now,” he said, “I don’t know if I’d call it safe for him.”

“Neither would I.”

Adam looked up sharply.

Shane held his gaze.

“But I think it could be,” he said.

“You really believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Because of you?”

“Because of all of us.”

Shane thought of Hayden, who had learned the truth and adjusted without withdrawing. He thought of the players who had followed him into unfamiliar practices, worked beside the women’s teams, brought their families to events, and begun treating the wider community around hockey as something worth their attention.

They hadn’t become different men overnight, but they had shown they were capable of becoming better ones.

“The room has already changed during the lockout,” Shane said. “Guys listen more. They know each other’s families. They followed us into something most of them thought was weird, and now most of them want to do it again next year.”

“That’s different from learning their captain is gay.”

“Yes. It’s harder.”

Adam’s mouth tightened.

“But I don’t think they’re incapable of it,” Shane said. “Do you?”

Adam took his time answering.

“No.”

Shane kept still through the wave of relief that one word invoked.

“I think some of them will struggle,” Adam continued. “I think you’ll learn a few things about people you won’t enjoy knowing.”

“I expect that.”

“I think management could panic.”

“I expect that too.”

“And I think once the team knows, you lose control of where the information goes.”

That was the risk Shane feared most. A teammate could tell a wife, agent, friend, or reporter. The secret could spread before Shane and Ilya were prepared to manage it publicly. But then he thought about that brand new permanent resident card sitting in Ilya's wallet and pressed on.

“I know.”

Adam watched him. “Does the other person involved know you’re planning this?”

Shane’s pulse jumped.

“I’m not telling the team who he is.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Yes,” Shane said. “He knows.”

Adam absorbed the pronoun without reacting visibly.

“And he’s okay with it?”

“He’s nervous. So am I.”

“That makes more sense.”

Shane almost smiled.

Adam looked down at his coffee again.

“Is it worth it?” Shane asked.

Adam’s eyes returned to him.

“From your perspective,” Shane clarified. “Knowing the room. Knowing management. Is it worth trying, or am I asking for something they can’t give me?”

Adam stayed quiet long enough that Shane heard the refrigerator cycle off in the kitchen.

“I think the room can do it,” Adam said finally.

Shane released a slow breath.

“I’m not saying every guy will be happy immediately. I’m not promising nobody talks. But the centre of that room will be with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hayden will be. I will be. There are enough guys who respect you or me, and enough who care more about winning than who you go home to.” Adam paused. “Once the strongest voices make their position clear, most of the others will follow.”

“And the ones who don’t?”

“We deal with them.”

The certainty in Adam’s voice startled Shane.

“You’d do that?”

“If I’m asking you to take responsibility for the room, I can take responsibility for what I’m handing you.”

Shane’s throat tightened.

Adam leaned forward, forearms resting on the table.

“I thought you should be captain because the guys already follow you,” he said. “This doesn’t change that. It tells me you’ve thought harder about what leadership costs than I realized.”

“So you still think I should do it.”

“I think it’s worth trying.”

Adam’s gaze held his.

“But if we do this, we don’t improvise it in the room. We decide who needs to know first. We make sure the captaincy is settled before anything else. Then we give the team time without management standing over them.”

Shane nodded, his mind already moving through the logistics.

“And you let me speak first,” Adam said.

“Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to walk into that room and prove from the first second that you’re still worth following.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can.”

Adam’s tone left no room for argument.

“That isn’t the same as making you do it alone.”

Shane looked down at his cooling coffee.

“All right.”

“We’ll need Hayden.”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe one other player before the room.”

Shane immediately thought of JJ. “I know who.”

“Good.”

Adam sat back.

“For what it’s worth, I think most of them will surprise you in the right direction.”

Shane smiled faintly. “Most?”

“I’ve captained hockey players for a long time. I’m not promising miracles.”

“That’s fair.”

“But yes,” Adam said, reaching for his coffee. “I think they’ll choose you.” 

“And if management decides they don’t like how we handled it?”

“We kick ass at hockey,” Shane said.

Adam’s grin appeared.

“That was going to be my answer.”

Adam took a drink, grimaced at the cold coffee, and set it aside.

“One more question.”

Shane braced himself.

“Is he upstairs?”

A floorboard creaked directly above them.

Shane closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Adam laughed.

“He’s giving us privacy.”

“Very quietly.”

“He worries.”

“I gathered.”

Adam’s expression sobered.

“Does he treat you well?”

Shane looked toward the ceiling.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Adam pushed his chair back and stood.

Shane remained seated, still absorbing the fact that Adam had not merely accepted the plan. He had joined it.

At the doorway, Adam paused.

“I meant what I said at the party,” he told him. “The room already looks to you.”

Shane looked up.

“Now we make sure they know who they’re choosing.”

Both of their phones chimed at the same time.

Adam frowned, pulling his from his pocket. Shane reached for his on the table.

They read in silence for a moment.

“Talks back on track,” Adam said slowly. “Meetings scheduled right after Christmas.”

“Anticipated return early January,” Shane added.

They looked at each other.

“Well,” Adam said.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “That got real super fast.”

Adam huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess we don’t have much time to figure this out.”

“No,” Shane said. “We don’t.”

Adam quickly said his goodbyes and as the front door closed, Shane addressed the second floor.

“You can come down,” Shane called.

Ilya’s voice travelled through the ceiling.

“I was not listening.”

“Adam knew you were there.”

A brief silence followed.

“Then he is very perceptive captain.”

Chapter End Notes

A note on Shane's approach: I've said it before that I identify a lot with Shane's character and this is how I approached my own coming out at work; I got my legal ducks in a row and then told the company from the top down in order to manage reactions and expectations. Is this something everyone can do, or is safe for them to do? No. But when it was me, it felt like how I had to do it and how I feel like Shane, as a fully formed confident adult, would also approach it if given the chance again. You desperately want the people around you to accept you and treat it like it's something that doesn't matter (because who you love or what your gender is really shouldn't) and this was my solution to obtaining that outcome, for better or worse. YMMV.

Until next time, thanks for reading!

Chapter 22: Chapter 21

Chapter Summary

January - February 2013

Chapter Notes

I wrote most of this during my vacation and plotted out till July 2013 in excruciating detail so hopefully these chapters come faster. I'm also semi-unable to focus at work because I feel like I'm finally getting to where I want to go with this :D

In other news, I've decided to participate in Kinktober this year, as an extra bonus; I'm going to make all of the scenes canon compliant with this fic and some scenes may have plot easter eggs and more insight into what's going through Shane and Ilya's heads that I don't have time for in the main fic. Annnnd of course all of the raunchy scenes that would break the flow, but I know we're all freaks here and y'all deserve the spice haha. They WILL NOT be in chronological order and may tease some plot developments but not spoil them completely, I promise. But read at your own risk if you want no spoilers at all.

Lastly, I have surgery next week and I'm hoping to spend all of my recovery time writing this fic and pre-writing for kinktober so we (hopefully) don't have any delay with either. I've never had so much muse in my life omg.

January 4th, 2013

The Voyageurs’ room looked like somebody had kicked an anthill.

Equipment bags crowded the floor. Trainers moved between stalls with armfuls of gear. Half the team seemed to be talking at once, everyone louder than necessary with increased camaraderie injected by the extended circuit of fundraisers that had kept most of them up each other’s asses through the lockout. Now the room had the keyed-up release of everyone finally getting back to what they were actually here for.

He’d missed the smell, which was probably evidence of brain damage -or maybe just the ozone deodorizer they used. He’d missed the sound of guys yelling across the room and trainers telling them to get the fuck out of the way. He had missed all of it.

They had forty-eight games to play and barely enough time to remember what an actual NHL schedule felt like before they were going to be thrown into one.

He was halfway through JJ’s story about landing a date with Nadia from the Stars when Adam caught his eye from across the room and tipped his head toward the hall.

Shane followed.

“What’s up?”

Adam waited until the door swung shut behind them.

“I met with Coach and the GM on Wednesday.”

Shane leaned back against the wall. “Okay.”

“I told them.”

That narrowed things down very little considering the number of conversations Shane and Adam had packed into the last few weeks.

Adam apparently saw that on his face.

“Retirement.”

“Oh.”

There it was. Shane had known this was coming. Adam had raised the possibility before Christmas, but hearing the words spoken aloud here in the hall felt different. Final.

“This season?” Shane asked.

“This season.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Adam said it easily enough that Shane believed him but still felt a little queasy about it.

“And I told them I’m giving up the C now.”

Shane straightened.

“Now?”

“I’m still playing.”

“I know you’re still playing. That’s why I’m confused.”

Adam gave him a patient look.

“I’ve worn it long enough. Whoever gets it next shouldn’t be figuring the job out after I’m gone. Better I’m standing beside him when he fucks something up.”

“Very comforting.”

“I thought so.”

Shane folded his arms.

Adam’s mouth twitched.

“And I recommended you. Officially.”

Shane went still.

They had only finished having this conversation themselves a couple of weeks ago.

Adam had come to his house thinking Shane might someday replace him. Shane had told him the one thing Adam needed to know before staking his name on that recommendation.

Adam had gone home to think about it. Apparently he had.

“And?” Shane asked.

“They agree.”

His stomach dropped anyway, which was ridiculous. He wanted this. He had told Adam he wanted it.

Still.

“They agree?”

“Coach does. GM does.”

“Jesus.”

Adam laughed quietly.

“I told them you needed to talk to the room first.”

“How much time?”

“I said we needed a little.”

“Specifically?”

“I figured a couple weeks.”

Shane exhaled. A couple weeks. He could work with that.

The season could start. Everyone could remember how to play together again. He could have the conversation without Adam’s retirement announcement and the end of the lockout and a dozen other things landing on them at the same time.

More importantly, Shane could decide what the hell he was going to say.

He had read books. Studies. Leadership research. Articles about changing organizational culture. More than one truly terrible academic paper about masculinity in elite sports. None had supplied a particularly useful chapter titled How to Tell Twenty Hockey Players You’re Gay Without Making It Fucking Weird.

“And they agreed?”

A look crossed Adam’s face as he seemed to replay the meeting in his head, “I thought they did.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “That’s… reassuring.”

Adam shrugged one shoulder, “I’m sure it was nothing. I’m just saying, they’ve been a little strange since we’ve been allowed contact.”

That was true. The lockout tournament had shamed the organization into a partnership with the Stars, and management had spent the couple weeks announcing every development like it was their idea all along.

Shane was happy to let them take the credit, but the tension was obvious.

“They’ll get over it,” Adam said.

“They’re the ones getting good press.”

“They prefer good press they planned.”

Shane snorted. Fair.

Adam squeezed the back of his neck once, hard enough to make Shane duck away.

“You ready?”

“For hockey? Fuck yes.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Shane looked back toward the room.

“No.”

Adam nodded.

“Good.”

Shane frowned at him.

“What?”

“You’d worry me if you were.”

Before Shane could tell him exactly where he could put that wisdom, somebody inside shouted for them to hurry the fuck up.

Adam opened the door.

“Come on, future Captain.”

“Do not call me that yet.”

Adam glanced back at him, “Sure, kid.”

—

Adam waited until nearly everyone was dressed before he stood.

It took longer than it should have to get the room quiet. Someone threw a roll of sock tape at someone else. JJ was still talking. The equipment manager swore at all of them.

Eventually, Adam whistled.

“Shut up.”

That worked.

He stood in the middle of the room with his hands hooked at his hips.