Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Homophobia, Misogyny, Halloween Costumes, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, POV Shane Hollander, Blow Jobs, Rimming, Anal Sex, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander, Creampie, Digital Art

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Feral’s October Shenanigans, Part 15 of Hollanov Smut

Collections:

Fics LunaK does not want to lose track of

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-14 Words: 9,874 Chapters: 1/1

have you really never thought that your words have a consequence?

Summary

He told his team he was gay because he trusted them.

For weeks, Shane has made excuses for every stare and every uncomfortable silence. He has swallowed his anger every time one of them treated him like a freak, has spent almost two months twisting himself into something smaller, trying to convince them that he is still the same man who has led this team for years.

In return, for his efforts, they did this.

They went to a store—or, worse, sat together online—and selected every fucked up piece of this costume. They found a women’s jersey with Ilya’s name on the back, bought fucking fishnets in his size, found a cheap set of bunny ears plus tail, grabbed those ridiculous shorts, then brought all of it here so they could laugh when Shane opened the bag.

Shane presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, refusing to cry in Miitty’s guest room. He's not going to give them that.

He wants Ilya.

Notes

for Day 14 of Sinful Desires, prompt Creampie

title from night at the opera by Emei

this fic deals with some topics that may be upsetting: homophobia & misogyny in the hockey world. It is understandably upsetting to some, even in fictional form, so please don't proceed if you don't feel up to it.

The poor reaction Shane's team has to his coming out is pretty relevant to this fic. Another aspect of this fic is a bit of a spoiler, so it is down in the end notes.

Coming out to the team was supposed to make Shane feel better.

He's spent the last two months of the off-season telling himself it will. The secrecy is making him sick, and while he can't tell them about Ilya—not yet, maybe not for years, maybe not until he's retired and living with Ilya in a remove part of Canada—he can at least stop lying about this one part of himself. These are his teammates, men he's bled for. Some of them have played beside him for nearly a decade. They have won two cups together, held each other up through injuries and losing streaks, and all the ugly shit that happens behind closed locker room doors.

The point is: he trusts them. Or he thinks he does, right up until the words leave his mouth.

“I’m gay,” Shane says, standing in the middle of the locker room before their second preseason game, trying very hard not to have a panic attack. “I’m not planning to make any kind of public announcement, so I’m trusting all of you to keep this in the room.”

For several seconds, no one says anything.

J.J. is the first to move, getting up from his stall and wrapping Shane into a crushing hug that lifts him halfway off his feet.

“Thank you for telling us,” J.J. says firmly, glaring over Shane’s shoulder at everyone else, like he's daring them to react in any way that isn't positively. “And obviously we don’t say anything .”

Hayden hugs him next, much more gently, his hand settling warm and solid against the back of Shane’s neck. “Proud of you, Cap.”

Miitka catches Shane’s eye from across the room and gives him one slow, solemn nod, before he goes back to one of his many complicated goalie rituals; Shane appreciates a good superstitious belief when it comes to hockey, but goalies are just weird about it.

The rest of the room stays silent a few moments longer before eventually coming back to life. There are murmured assurances and awkward shoulder claps. Comeau says, “Yeah, man, whatever,” with a tone that feels a little off to Shane, but not enough for him to feel the need to draw attention to it. No one says anything cruel; no one threatens him, or uses a slur, or tells him they can't share a room with him anymore.

It could have gone worse, Shane thinks, a little relieved. 

That thought becomes Shane’s new standard for everything that follows.

It could be worse when the room goes oddly quiet the first time he walks out of the shower without a towel around his waist. It could be worse when two of the younger guys glance at each other before one of them starts to change and the other keeps an eye on Shane, like they're scared he's going to take a peek. It could be worse when others start changing with their backs turned, like Shane hasn't seen their bare asses approximately six thousand times already.

It could be worse when a conversation about anything related to sex stops the moment Shane enters the room. It could be worse when Drapeau looks alarmed after Shane compliments his new suit, then spends the rest of the game refusing to make eye contact with Shane. It could be worse when somebody starts knocking before entering the showers, even when they can hear the water running and know perfectly well who's in there.

Nobody says anything openly homophobic; they just look at Shane sometimes, quick and wary, like he's suddenly become a different species overnight.

Shane fucking hates it.

Hayden notices too, already wary over the initial reaction. He waits until the others have left after practice one afternoon, then sits beside Shane and bumps their shoulders together.

“You doing okay?”

“Fine.”

“Dude.”

Shane pulls harder than necessary at the laces of his shoes. He doesn't want to complain about men who are technically making an effort, especially when he knows how much worse this could have been. He doesn't want to sound oversensitive or difficult or ungrateful. The last thing Shane wants to do is add oil to the already growing flames.

“They’re being weird,” he finally mutters.

“They’re being idiots.”

“They haven’t said anything.”

“They don’t have to,” Hayden sighs, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. “Give them a little time. If they’re still acting like idiots after that, J.J. and I will start knocking heads together.”

"Thanks," Shane responds half-heartedly, doing his best to offer his friend a smile.

J.J. is less subtle about his protective support; he catches Comeau watching Shane adjust his cup before a game, eyes narrowed like the perfectly normal actions are suspicious, and he loudly snaps, “Never seen a dick before, Gilbert?” loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

Comeau turns bright red at the question, an ugly scowl forming over his face.

Shane nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Jesus Christ, J.J.”

“What?” J.J. demands. “He was staring at your dick.”

“I was not!” Comeau hisses, eyes darting around as their teammates start to send him the same kind of looks he's been sending Shane. J.J.'s outburst does at least stop Comeau from looking at Shane in the locker room for almost a week. Unfortunately, it also means Shane has to spend that week wondering whether everyone is now thinking about how many dicks he has seen.

The answer is a lot, because locker rooms, but also Shane does his best to not look at anyone like that while everyone is naked and vulnerable. The one time he did, he got jerked off at, and then ended up in an almost decades long situationship turned relationship—which he is happy about, don't get him wrong-—so he's not exactly too keen on taking any subtle glances. Besides, the only dick he wants to stare longingly at belongs to Ilya; no one else compares.

God, Shane misses Ilya constantly.

He misses waking up beside him at the cottage, Ilya’s heavy arm draped over his waist and his face buried between Shane’s shoulder blades. He misses cooking breakfast while Ilya wanders around in nothing but Shane’s sweatpants, stealing food directly from the pan and complaining when it's turkey bacon and not 'the real stuff'. He misses the way Ilya filled every room of the cottage, loud and bright and warm, until Shane couldn't understand how the place ever felt complete without him.

Most of all, Shane misses the way he could breathe there.

He had told Ilya about his plan to come out to the team during one of their last mornings together. Ilya had gone very still, then pulled Shane against his chest and held him so tightly that Shane complained he was being crushed.

“You do not have to do this,” Ilya had murmured into his hair.

“I know.”

“If they are assholes, you tell me.”

Shane had smiled against his skin, warm and in love. “What are you going to do? Fight my entire team?”

“Yes.”

“Ilya.”

“Fine. Maybe only some, if they are assholes.”

Now, whenever they speak, Ilya asks how things are in Montreal. Shane tells him the truth in small, carefully selected pieces, always hesitating at getting to detailed with his descriptions. No one has told the press and no one has said anything explicitly hateful. J.J. and Hayden have been great and the season is starting well; there's really no reason to complain!

Ilya doesn't need to know about the looks or the lingering awkward silences. He doesn't need to know about the fear that creeps up on Shane every time he drives to the arena and sits in his car, dread building in his gut, the frightening certainty that one of his teammates must have blabbed by now, that they've talked to someone—a wife or girlfriend, a reporter, anyone—and that Shane is going to get out of his car and suddenly be swarmed with reporters. 

Shane lies awake at night with every worse case scenario flashing across his mind; he pictures being outed and then everyone watching him constantly, picking apart every interaction he has. He thinks about them noticing how often Ilya finds an excuse to speak to him at league events. They might go back through old footage and see every stare Shane had never successfully hidden, every smile Ilya had aimed at him when no one else was looking. 

Shane can endure his teammates acting like assholes, but he can't let their discomfort put Ilya in danger; that is the biggest fear that lingers in his mind, Russia looming over their entire relationship like a knife pressed tightly against his ribs.

So, Shane tries his hardest to fix what he has accidentally broken: he joins the team for drinks after wins even when he would rather go home and call his boyfriend, he laughs at bad jokes that border on offensive, and asks about their families with as much earnest enthusiasm as he can muster.  He refuses to react when Comeau stops himself halfway through saying something crude about a woman,  Shane carrying on as if nothing has changed, hoping they will eventually remember that nothing has, all while ignoring the building discomfort that seems to constantly be bubbling in his stomach.

By the middle of October, things are almost starting to feel normal again.

Then the topic of this years team Halloween party gets brought up; the same party that Shane has refused to dress up for since he started playing for the MLH.

“You have to come,” Comeau tells him after practice, a rare instance of the man willingly talking to Shane while half-dressed in the locker room. “Miitty is hosting this year.”

“I went last year.”

“You where there for thirty minutes and didn't even wear a costume.”

“I wore a jersey. I was a hockey player.”

“It isn't a costume if it's your actual job," Comeau scoffs. He refuses to leave the topic alone and, for the next five days, someone asks Shane about a costume every time he enters the room.

He says he doesn't need one, but that doesn't stop the team from sending suggestions to the group chat. When Shane says he doesn't have time to plan any elaborate costumes, Comeau says the team will get him something.

"I don't know," Shane replies when Comeau tells him his idea, feeling hesitant.

"Come on, Holly," Comeau says, a little smirk on his face. "It will be a surprise. You of all people need a little fun in your life." 

“Leave him alone,” J.J. says eventually. “He doesn’t like costumes.”

“It’s about team bonding,” Comeau insists.

“Bullying your captain into wearing some shitty costume is not team bonding,” Hayden pipes up, sending a small warning glare.

Shane should listen to Hayden and J.J.; every instinct he has tells him to decline the invitation and spend Halloween at home on his couch, calling Ilya and watching whatever terrible horror movie Ilya selects for the occasion. However, the room has been better lately. Taylor has started sitting beside him during video review again. One of the rookies asked Shane for restaurant recommendations without looking vaguely terrified. The team is laughing with him now instead of going silent whenever he walks into the room.

Maybe, Shane thinks to himself, this is just part of repairing what him coming out ruined. Maybe letting them choose his costume will prove Shane can still take a joke. Maybe they can all laugh, drink a few beers, and finally put the last two months behind them.

“Fine,” Shane says. “Get me a costume.”

Comeau grins. “You won’t regret it.”

Miitty’s house is already crowded when Shane arrives. Someone has hung fake cobwebs over every available surface, and orange lights flash in the front windows. Music pounds through the walls, loud enough that Shane can feel the bass under his shoes as he stands on the porch. It feels a bit more like a stereotypical rager than a team gathering and Shane feels incredibly out of place.

He's wearing his reeboks, jeans, and a black sweater under his overcoat, for lack of anything better to wear. He plans to put on whatever they bought, endure a few team photos just to prove he was there and could be a good sport, and then leave before midnight.

Miitty answers the door dressed like a pirate, complete with an eyepatch and an enormous plastic sword. He looks Shane over, giving him a little smile, before glancing over his shoulder at the gathered partygoers. “Comeau,” he calls.

Comeau appears dressed as a police officer. The costume is, if Shane's being honest, pretty hideous. He's wearing a cheap hat, poorly fitting pants, and a vest masquerading as a top. His handcuffs are fuzzy and a bright red. Shane keeps his less than charitable thoughts to himself.

“You showed up,” Comeau says, clapping him on the shoulder roughly as Shane meets him in Miitty's cramped foyer. “Guest room upstairs. Bag’s on the bed.”

“What did you get me?”

“You’ll see," Comeau says, a little smile on his face. "I think you'll really like it."

Shane hesitates at his words, his gaze searching Comeau's face for whatever is sending alarm bells ringing in the back of his head. Shane can't help but notice that there are several teammates watching them from the living room, their expressions expectant, and Shane feels another unpleasant twist low in his stomach.

Shane almost opens his mouth to back out, to give some shitty excuse, then he spots J.J. in kitchen, the defenseman giving him an enthusiastic wave. He's wearing a vampire cape, his mouth smeared with fake blood. Hayden stands right beside him in a cheap Superman costume—talking to Jackie, who is wearing a much more flattering Wonder Woman costume—and both of them smile when they make eye contact with Shane.

This is supposed to help, Shane reminds himself, nodding at Comeau and heading to the stairs. He's being a good captain and teammate, a good friend even, by letting his team pick his costume. He needs to show them that his sexuality isn't going to get in the way of his ability to be one of the guys. 

The guest room is up the stairs and at the end of the hall. Shane opens the door, flicking on the overhead light, and is greeted by a plain black shopping bag sitting in the middle of the neatly made bed, tissue paper spilling out the top. Shane closes the door behind him and pulls off his coat, setting it down on the bed.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out the tissue paper, swallowing when his hand finds the familiar mesh texture of a hockey jersey.

The first thing he sees is pink.

It's not a subtle pink, either. The jersey is mostly white, but the pink accents are almost fluorescent in nature. It's a cropped jersey with a deep V, clearly made for a woman, and the Boston Raiders' alternate logo is stretched across the front in pink and white.

Shane doesn't need to turn it around to know whose name is on the back; he does it anyway.

ROZANOV

For a second, Shane’s heart stops, before it plummets down and lands somewhere near his feet. 

There are more clothes in the bag: black booty shorts—so small Shane initially thinks they might be underwear—fishnet leggings, a headband with fluffy white rabbit ears, and at the very bottom of the bag is a matching clip-on bunny tail.

Shane stands over the bed and stares at it all, something numb slowly overtaking him.

He understands the joke. Of course, he understands it: Shane is gay, which means he isn't a real man, so they've given him a costume based on the title they love to deride woman with. He's Rozanov’s rival, and he's supposed to hate him, so they made sure to pick out Ilya’s jersey. Put the two together and Shane Hollander is a puck bunny for the man he is supposed to despise.

It's misogynistic, homophobic, and deliberately humiliating. It is also so horribly, accidentally close to some twisted version of the truth that Shane feels sick.

Someone downstairs shouts loud enough that it travels over the music and reaches Shane, jolting him. He flinches and looks toward the door, half expecting Comeau to burst in with a camera, a cruel smile spread across his face. His hands are shaking.

He told his team he was gay because he trusted them.

For weeks, Shane has made excuses for every stare and every uncomfortable silence. He has swallowed his anger every time one of them treated him like a freak, has spent almost two months twisting himself into something smaller, trying to convince them that he is still the same man who has led this team for years.

In return, for his efforts, they did this.

They went to a store—or, worse, sat together online—and selected every fucked up piece of this costume. They found a women’s jersey with Ilya’s name on the back, bought fucking fishnets in his size, found a cheap set of bunny ears plus tail, grabbed those ridiculous shorts, then brought all of it here so they could laugh when Shane opened the bag.

Shane presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, refusing to cry in Miitty’s guest room. He's not going to give them that.

He wants Ilya.

The need is so sudden and fierce it nearly breaks him. Shane wants to call him and hear his voice, wants Ilya to tell him that Montreal doesn't deserve him, and threaten to fight everyone responsible. He wants to be back at the cottage, where Ilya had looked at him like loving Shane was the simplest thing in the world, and the real world hadn't yet had time to punch it's way back into their conscious minds. 

For the first time since Montreal drafted him, Shane thinks, I can’t stay here.

The thought terrifies him; Montreal is his team. He is their captain and he's built his entire adult life around this city and this organization. The very idea of wearing another team's jersey has always felt impossible.

Now, it fells like the impossible thing is walking back into that locker room every day and waiting to discover what they'll do next. Because if they're willing to do this, they will definitely do something else. Maybe that's what they want; maybe every look and silence has been their way of telling him that there is no longer a place for him here. If that's true, Shane is done begging them to reconsider.

He lowers his hands and looks at the costume again.

Then he begins to undress.

The jersey is tight across his shoulders and chest, but Shane manages to drag it down with some effort. The neckline exposes an indecent amount of his upper chest, and the hem stops several inches above where any reasonable jersey should. 

The fishnets take three attempts for Shane to wrangle them on, his second attempt nearly tearing them when trying to get them over his calves, but eventually he manages to pull them into place. The booty shorts barely cover his ass, clinging obscenely and leaving most of his thighs bare.

He clips the tail to the waistband of his shorts, situated just above the curve of his ass. He puts the ears on his head and walks calmly to the full length mirror situated against one of the guest bedroom walls. 

For just a single moment, he looks at himself in the mirror and nearly loses his nerve.

He honestly expects to look ridiculous. Instead, Shane can't help the way his eyebrows raise in surprise, his head tilting a little at the picture he makes. He actually looks kind of good? The white and pink jersey is bright against his skin and the shorts emphasizing every hour he has spent in the gym. The costume is meant to be humiliating, is supposed to make him look weak and feminine, but there is nothing weak about the body reflected in the mirror.

There is nothing shameful about wanting Ilya, either.

Shane straightens his spine. He rolls his shoulders back and lifts his chin, the same way he does before walking out onto the ice, thousands of fans screaming his name.

If his team wants a show, if they need Shane to put on a performance, Shane will be sure to give them one.

He shoves his clothes into the bag before grabbing it and opening the bedroom door, the music filtering in once more. Shane walks toward the staircase and Shane can feel how each step makes the little white tail bounce against the back of his shorts, pulling at the hem. A man Shane doesn't recognize comes out of the bathroom, sees him, and walks directly into the wall.

Shane doesn't blink and he doesn't dare stop, walking past the gaping stranger with an odd sort of calm overtaking him.

By the time he reaches the bottom stairs, people have taken note of his reappearance and are already turning to look. Several conversations end abruptly, shock spreading across the room. Whoever is manning the music stops it cold, the only sound left being the murmuring of the team and anyone they saw fit to bring to this disastrous get together. 

Comeau stands near the fireplace with his beer halfway to his mouth, his eyes huge as he stares at Shane. Drapeau and Gagnon stand beside him, both looking equally stunned, although Shane can't quite tell whether it's because he actually had the balls to put the costume on, or because it maybe doesn't look quite as funny as they expected.

J.J. comes out of the kitchen, a confused frown on his face, and freezes. “Oh, fuck no.”

Hayden quickly appears behind him, his smile disappearing just as quickly. Jackie is on his arm and her face looks furious on his behalf, though her hand closes around Hayden's forearm before he can move toward Shane.

Shane imagines Jackie knows him well enough to tell by the look on his face that, as much as he would appreciate it, he isn't currently looking for any of his friends to step in on his behalf; not before he gets all that has been building inside of him out, anyway.

Shane leaves the bag at the foot of the stairs before walking to the center of the living room and crossing his arms, deliberately shifting his weight to cock his hip in a move that's deliberately flamboyant in a way Shane hasn't ever really been. He sneers a little as more and more party goers watch him with open mouthed surprise, several WAGS peaking out from where they had gathered after leaving their partners to their teammates.

“What?” Shane asks. “You don’t like my costume?” No one answers him. “You were all pretty excited about it before,” Shane says, looking directly at Comeau, “so go ahead. Laugh.”

Comeau lowers his beer. “Hollander, it was just supposed to be—”

“Funny?”

“It’s Halloween.”

“Then explain the joke.”

Comeau glances around as if someone else might rescue him; no one does. Not a single other teammate, not even the ones most disdainful toward Shane's sexuality, speak up in support.

“It’s just—you know. The jersey, because you hate Rozanov, and the bunny thing—”

“Yes, Gilbert. I understand what a puck bunny is,” Shane interrupts calmly, his voice steady. “What I want you to explain is why dressing the gay guy like a—and I'm quoting you here—'easy whore' was supposed to be funny.”

Comeau’s mouth opens, then closes, at a loss for words as Shane stares him down. His wife, also dressed as a police officer, makes an outraged noise, her eyes narrowing. Shane is more than aware that Comeau's wife has had words for her husband and his bad habit of picking up woman on the road; he feels no guilt at adding to her ire.

“Or was it the part where you put me in the jersey of the man I’m supposed to hate?” Shane continues. “Was I supposed to be angry? Embarrassed? Were you hoping I’d refuse to come downstairs so you could all stand around congratulating yourselves for finally making me uncomfortable enough to leave?”

“That’s not what this is,” Taylor says from behind him, his voice shaking a little as he speaks up.

“Then what the fuck is it?” Shane asks, not bothering to turn and look at him, eyes glued to a quickly paling Comeau.

The room goes silent once more, no one daring to meet Shane's eyes or face his building anger.

Shane can feel his pulse everywhere; his face is burning and his hands are shaking where they're tucked against him. He's grateful for his own foresight: they don't get to know how much this really hurts or how shaken he is by what they've managed to break inside of him. 

“I have spent my entire career giving everything I have to this team. I have played hurt. I have played sick. I have taken hits that put me in the hospital, and I came back early because you needed me. I helped bring this city two Cups, and I have never asked any of you for anything except that you show up and do your fucking jobs.”

Several of the men in the room flinch at his words, the family and friends they brought looking awkward and horrified in equal measure. This has become a public spectacle, just like they wanted, only Shane doesn't plan on being the one utterly humiliated. 

“I came out because I trusted you,” Shane says, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. The accidental hint of vulnerability just makes him angrier. “I trusted you not to tell anyone. I trusted you not to make it weird. And for almost two months, half of you have been looking at me like I’m going to jump you in the shower.”

“We don’t think that,” Comeau says weakly, a grimace on his face.

“Bullshit. Do you think I haven’t noticed? You stop talking when I walk into the room. You move away from me on the bench. Some of you suddenly can’t change your fucking clothes unless my back is turned," Shane spits at him, finally turning so he can look at each teammate gathered in the room. J.J. and Hayden look pissed on his behalf, but it's not enough to keep the animosity from spilling out of him. 

“I'm gay; get over it. I'm not attracted to any of your ugly asses, so get that out of your heads. I didn't ask you to understand anything about my personal life, and I sure as hell didn't give you permission to turn it into a team joke.” Shane finishes his little spin of forced eye contact, meeting every pair of eyes that are glued to him. He wants them to see him. He wants them to remember exactly who they've been treating like a pariah.

“I am your captain,” he says, before tilting his head and sneering. “At least, for now.”

J.J. goes completely still in the kitchen doorway, the fake blood around his mouth making his suddenly furious expression look genuinely murderous. Hayden and Jackie are both scowling at the rest of the room, just as protective of him as he is of them.

“If this is your way of telling me you don’t want me here anymore, congratulations,” Shane says. “Message received. But don’t you dare pretend it was harmless. You knew exactly what you were trying to do. You wanted to humiliate me, and the only thing you’ve accomplished is proving that I was an idiot to trust you.”

“Shane,” Hayden says quietly, finally piping up.

Shane can't look at him. If he does, he might break, and he refuses to do that in front of the rest of them.

“I’m still the same player I was before I told you. I’m still the same captain. I’m still the man who has spent nearly a decade carrying as much of this team as I possibly fucking could," Shane says, swallowing harshly around the lump in his throat. “So suck it up. Get over it. And if you can’t, have the balls to say so to my face instead of pulling shit like this.”

“Yes,” J.J. says loudly. “Every fucking word of that. Say it loud and proud so I know exactly what I'm punching you for.”

Hayden pulls away from Jackie and steps forward, his gaze moving across the room with open disgust. “Who bought this?” No one answers, so Hayden tries again, his ton even harsher. “Who knew about it?”

“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” J.J. says when no one speaks up. “Look at him. He looks incredible.”

A startled, almost hysterical laugh rises in Shane’s throat. He chokes it back before it can escape.

“That’s not the point, J.J.,” Hayden says, a little exasperated.

“I know, but he does.”

“He does,” Jackie agrees grimly. A few other WAGS murmur their agreement, their guilty husbands grimacing in response.

Shane turns back to the foot of the stairs where he left the bag of clothes, grabbing it as calmly as he can manage. Hayden says his name again, but Shane shakes his head as he pulls his overcoat out and slips it on over the too-small outfit. “I need to go,” he says, his composure finally starting to crumble.

“I’ll come with you,” Hayden says immediately, turning towards the front of the hall, most likely to go grab his own coat.

“No. Stay,” Shane insists, forcing himself to meet his eyes. “Please.”

Hayden hesitates before nodding, his jaw tight. He settles back at Jackie's side, his face grim. “We’re talking tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

J.J. crosses the room and throws his arms around Shane, pulling his cape with him until Shane is wrapped tightly in it. He hugs him carefully, like he's scared Shane might fall apart if he squeezes too hard. “You look magnificent,” J.J. whispers fiercely, “and I'm going to make them all suffer.”

“Please don’t kill anyone.”

“I make no promises.”

Shane pulls away before the pressure behind his eyes can turn into tears. He walks out with his head high, the rabbit ears still perched on his head and the fluffy tail bouncing beneath his coat. He makes it all the way to his car before he starts violently shaking.

The drive home passes in a blur of red lights and clenched teeth. Shane keeps both hands locked around the steering wheel, breathing slowly through his nose every time his vision threatens to cloud. He thinks about calling his parents, but they'll worry, and the thought of dealing with his mom's brand of overprotective retribution at this exact moment makes him shudder. 

For a fleeting moment, he thinks about calling Ilya. That thought leaves an even bigger pit in his stomach; if Shane hears his voice now, he'll fall apart, and there's an ocean of highway and border crossings between them. Ilya can't hold him through the phone and it would just distress his boyfriend unnecessarily.

Shane parks in his designated spot and sits in his car for several minutes. The ears brush the roof whenever he moves his head, an abrupt reminder as to what he's currently wearing under his coat. He catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror and lets out one long, broken laugh.

His phone buzzes in his coat pocket.

Lily: how is party?

Shane stares at the message, his chest tight. He lies, because what else is he supposed to do?

Shane: It's fine.

Three dots appear immediately, Ilya clearly waiting eagerly for his replies.

Lily: Did you get a boring costume?

Shane locks his phone without answering. He can't explain everything that went down through text. He needs to get upstairs, take the costume off, and decide whether he's angry enough to call Ilya or ashamed enough to pretend nothing happened.

By the time he reaches his apartment, exhaustion has settled heavily over him. His anger is still there, but it has hollowed him out, leaving him cold and shaky beneath it. Shane digs his keys out from his coat pocket and unlocks the door, immediately shedding his coat before his mind catching up to the fact that his apartment is already lit up. For one disorienting second, Shane thinks he must have left the lights on.

Then something moves in the living room.

Ilya rises from Shane’s couch, looking devastatingly handsome in a simple muscle shirt and black sweats. His curls are rumpled, most likely from the surprise travel. Shane catches sight of his overnight bag tucked beside the coffee table, and an unopened can of Coke sitting on a drink coaster right above it. The sight of him is so impossible and so desperately wanted that Shane can only stand in the doorway and stare.

Ilya grins at him, clearly pleased at Shane's reaction. “Surprise!”

Shane’s heart gives one enormous, painful thud, overwhelmed by the seesaw of emotions he's experienced in the last hour. 

Ilya takes two steps toward him before he finally seems to register what Shane is wearing. He stops so abruptly that his whole body jerks, his jaw dropping. His gaze travels from the white rabbit ears to the white and pink Raiders jersey, dropping to the strip of exposed stomach above the shorts, then continuing down Shane’s fishnet-covered legs. Shane turns to shut the door, and the movement exposes the ROZANOV across his shoulders, and the fluffy white tail clipped above his ass.

When he faces Ilya again, his boyfriend looks like someone has struck him over the head.

“Ilya,” Shane says.

Ilya doesn't answer immediately, his eyes are fixed on Shane’s shorts. He licks his lips and moves to say something, but no sound comes out.

Under any other circumstances, Shane might enjoy this. He does genuinely think he looks pretty good like this. He might have even turned around again or bent over to take off his shoes just to see what happened. Tonight, the heat in Ilya’s stare only makes humiliation crawl back beneath his skin, a heavy reminder of what his team actually intended for him to feel while wearing their stupid costume.

“I’m sorry,” Shane blurts.

That gets Ilya’s attention, his gaze snapping up to Shane’s face. “Why are you sorry?”

“This wasn’t—I didn’t buy it,” Shane confesses, folding his arms over the Raiders logo, wishing he had taken the fucking ears off in the car. “The team got it for me. They told me they’d pick my costume, and I thought it was supposed to be a team bonding thing.”

Ilya’s expression changes. The dazed lust doesn't disappear exactly, but something sharp and dangerous rises beneath it. “They gave you this?”

“It was supposed to be a joke. Because I came out, and it’s a women’s jersey, and—,” Shane’s voice catches, cracking a little, "and because it’s yours.”

Ilya crosses the remaining distance between them, his hands settling on Shane’s arms, warm and careful. He searches Shane’s face, concern clear. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did you hit someone?”

“What? No!”

“Do you want me to hit someone?”

A laugh escapes Shane before he can stop it. It sounds dangerously close to a sob, and Ilya immediately pulls him forward into a tight embrace. Shane goes without resistance, burying his face against Ilya’s neck and breathing him in, his arms locking around Ilya’s waist. Ilya holds him tightly, one hand spreading across his back while the other cups the base of his skull beneath the rabbit ear headband.

“I missed you,” Shane whispers, sniffing a little.

“I missed you too, солнышко.”

“I’m so fucking angry.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think I can stay here.”

Ilya tenses at Shane's confession, pulling away slightly to force their eyes to meet. His frown deepens, something like devastation flickering across his face. He eventually nods, leaning forward to press a kiss to Shane’s temple, pulling him close once more.

“Okay,” he says. “Then we change the plan.”

Shane lifts his head. “What?”

“Boston, Ottawa, Montreal. All of it. We make a new plan,” Ilya replies, his jaw tightening as he studies him. “You can not stay somewhere that makes you feel like this. We will talk about everything tonight.”

The simple certainty in his voice nearly undoes Shane. Ilya has crossed the border to surprise him, and within two minutes of learning Shane might need to leave Montreal, he's prepared to rearrange their entire future around him.

Shane loves him so much it hurts.

Ilya strokes both hands down Shane’s back. One of them encounters the fluffy tail and freezes. His fingers ghost over it slightly, his eyes losing focus a little as he tugs at it.

“Ilya?”

“I am very worried about you,” Ilya says gravely.

“I know.”

“And I am very sorry your team did this.”

“Thank you," Shane says, a little smile on his face. He can see where is boyfriend is heading and it makes his chest feel warm and bubbly.

“We need to have a serious conversation about Montreal and our plan.”

“Yeah.”

Ilya’s gaze drops to the neckline of the jersey. It travels lower, lingering on Shane’s bare thighs and the black fishnets stretched over them. His pupils are enormous.

“I think all the blood in my body has gone to my dick.”

Despite everything, Shane laughs. It bursts out of him wet and helpless, and Ilya’s expression softens with such naked love that Shane has to grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. The humiliation he felt has been temporarily wiped away in the face of Ilya's genuine care for him, so now all Shane can think about is how good he actually looks in his costume and how much it is clearly turning Ilya on.

Ilya kisses him back hungrily, one hand gripping Shane’s hip while the other cups his face; every awful thought he had on the drive home finally slips away. When Ilya pulls away, both of them are breathing hard.

“I am very sorry,” Ilya repeats, "and I would love to talk about this more later. But right now, I need to suck your dick.” Then he drops to his knees and pulls Shane’s shorts and fishnet leggings down in one fell swoop.

Shane gasps, his half hard cock exposed to the air. His breathing hitches as Ilya groans at the sight of him, his boyfriend leaning forward to nose as his exposed cock. He licks at Shane's abs and happy trail for a moment before dragging his tongue down, licking and nipping just to the side of his cock and down his exposed leg. Shane can't help the breathy little moan that leaves him when Ilya's cheek and curls brush against his hardening erection.

Ilya finally uses his hand to grasp at Shane, but instead of giving him a few strokes, he instead holds Shane's dick to the side and starts licking at his sack instead, popping his balls into his mouth to suck on them. Shane's head falls back a little at the sensation, his hips twitching slightly at the little slurping noises Ilya makes. The suction feels incredible, his cock twitching and filling until he fully hard within Ilya's loos grasp.

"You taste so good, солнышко," Ilya mumbles, pulling away from his balls to trail a long lick up his shaft, his hand cradling Shane's dick. "You look so good in my jersey, like you belong to me."

Shane whimpers a little when Ilya squeezes his cock and simultaneously slips the tip of his cock into his mouth, sucking on the sensitive head with weak pulls. Ilya's mouth is so warm and wet, his lips working around Shane's cock as he takes him further into his mouth, a groan leaving him when Shane's cock spurts a little pre-cum onto his eager tongue.

He pulls off of Shane's cock with a slurp, a little trail of saliva connecting his mouth with Shane's shiny cock. He grasps his dick properly and starts to slowly jerk Shane off, his eyes burning with lust as he stares up at Shane. "So pretty, зайчик," Ilya coos, kissing the tip of his dick before pulling away and standing. 

Shane attaches himself to Ilya's mouth without much preamble, sucking on his tongue as he rolls his hips against Ilya's clothed erection. His boyfriend bites at his lips, a growl building in his chest when Shane's own hand runs teasingly down his back before squeezing one of his ass cheeks. 

"Over the couch," Ilya grunts when he pulls away, man handling Shane until he's leaning over the arm of his couch. His dick is free from the leggings and shorts, but his ass is still within the confines of the fishnet leggings. Ilya practically moans at the sight, grabbing at Shane's ass and massaging it roughly. Shane shakes his ass a little, a grin on his face when Ilya curses above him, his hand coming down to give Shane a light smack.

Shane is ready for Ilya to pull the fishnets off after he's helps Shane step out of the shorts, but he's instead left gaping as Ilya drips the leggings and proceeds to rip a hole in the them, a chuckle leaving him when Shane gasps.

"You are so beautiful, зайчик," Ilya mutters as he leans over Shane, trailing small kisses down his back. "Wearing my name on your back where it belongs." He continues to murmur praise into Shane's flushed skin, his hands wandering until he's pulling Shane's cheeks apart and diving head first in between them. Ilya licks a stripe over his hole, humming in pleasure as Shane pushes back a little, chasing the feeling. 

He sets forward to eating Shane out like his life depends on it, his talented tongue licking and mouth sucking at Shane's quivering hole. Shane slowly dissolves into a mess at the pleasure, hitched moans leaving him as his cock starts to leak where it's trapped against the couch. He hears Ilya unzipping his bag and isn't surprised when a slick finger probes him along with Ilya's tongue, his boyfriend working his finger into Shane's body with confident strokes.

Shane's nails dig into his couch when Ilya pulls out and then pushes back in with two fingers, the digits brushing his prostate and making Shane drool a little. "Ilya," Shane moans, shaking his ass a little. "Come on, please." He actually probably needs a bit more to be truly stretched for Ilya's dick, but the idea of Ilya fucking into him when he's just on the verge of not ready, with the burn and stretch of being stuffed full, has his cock weeping and his eyes burning. 

Ilya hums as he scissors his fingers slightly, finally pulling his mouth away from sucking at Shane's rim to stand behind him. "Condom?" he grunts as he pulls his lube slick fingers out.

"Hm, no," Shane mutters after a second of thought, shifting his stance so he's presenting his ass for Ilya's pleasure. He also adjusts his arms so he can brace himself; he'd rather not face plant when Ilya inevitably fucks the thoughts out of his head. 

"They do not know what they have," Ilya says, surprising Shane. It isn't the usual dirty talk Shane loves, but rather a genuine sounding compliment. Shane opens his mouth to say something, but Ilya is suddenly sliding his cock inside of him and his brain stops functioning. He was right that he probably needed another finger, but the stretch of him has Shane's eyes rolling back, his cock twitching at the feeling of being taken.

"You are so brave, люби́мый," Ilya says as he presses in, steadily splitting Shane open on his cock. Shane doesn't know if he's gasping at the stretch or the words, his chest tight as he struggles to breathe under the intense emotions he's feeling. 

"Number one player in the entire league," Ilya teases him as he slowly pulls out, his bare cock dragging deliciously inside of Shane's body. "You are the best, люби́мый, and they don't deserve you. They are nothing without your talent and drive; your unrelenting resolve." Each compliment is accompanied by a thrust, leaving Shane shaking and overwhelmed.

"You are strong, my Shane, and they are weak," Ilya practically purrs, angling his hips just right to hit Shane's prostate in an unrelenting roll of his hips. Shane's cock twitches and drools beneath him, his face turning red as Ilya's thrusts speed up, his hips meeting Shane's ass with a resounding smack. 

"They do not know that you are both a little bunny slut and leagues better than them," Ilya says, leaning over to whisper the words into Shane's ear, his sweaty chest burning hot against Shane's back. "My pretty slut, so tight around my cock. My bunny wearing my jersey, showing off who he belongs to."

Shane can't quite pinpoint what does it; Ilya calling him a slut has always been something that has shamefully turned him on. Especially when he refers to Shane as his slut. It might be the mixed feelings he's had since putting on the outfit, the way his brain is mixing up feeling a little sexy in the outfit while also feeling humiliated, that really gets him off. He isn't ready to unpack all of that; instead, he shakes as he comes untouched, his balls tight and throbbing as his cock jerks harshly where it's trapped between him and the couch.

Ilya's hips stutter at the feeling of Shane's ass milking his cock, a groan and whimper leaving him as he thrusts deeply into Shane and comes hard enough that Shane's can feel his dick twitching inside of him.

They pant together for a moment before Ilya starts to slowly pull out, a soothing hand rubbing Shane's lower back. Shane stays bent over as Ilya gathers some of the cum leaking out of him and then fingers it back inside, a pleased hum leaving Shane at the sensation. Ilya eventually pulls away to grab some tissues from the box located on the table and gently wipes at the mess he's left of Shane's hole.

Eventually, Ilya pulls him off the couch and pulls him into his arms, the comfort a soothing balm to the nerves that have slowly returned to Shane as his brain comes back online. The bottle of lube Ilya must have grabbed from his bag has been knocked over and is leaking slightly. His couch is covered in his cum and he's standing in a wrinkled jersey and ripped fishnets, but Shane is too emotionally exhausted to really feel the discomfort of it all. 

Shane would usually be horrified by the mess not only on his furniture, but on his skin; he would usually be wiping down the couch and checking the upholstery for stains, Ilya chirping him even as he helps Shane clean up their mess. Tonight, however, he can barely keep his eyes open. 

“Come,” Ilya says softly, taking Shane's hand and guiding him away from the couch. Shane’s legs feel unsteady, his ass a little sore, and Ilya immediately loops an arm around his waist, holding him close as he guides him down the hall. There is no teasing about Shane needing help walking, which is how Shane knows Ilya is still worried about him.

“We should clean up,” Shane mumbles, even though he doesn't really want to.

“Tomorrow.”

“The couch—”

“Will survive.”

Shane lets his head fall against Ilya’s shoulder, giving in easily. He pulls away briefly when they manage to climb the stairs and make it to his bedroom, peeling off what remains of the costume, dropping the shredded fishnets and jersey onto the floor. He lost his ears at some point because when he reaches for them, they are no where to be found.

He doesn't even bother to suggest showering. Under any other circumstances, the feeling of sweat and dried come on his skin would drive him insane. He would insist that they both rinse off and brush their teeth before getting anywhere near the bed. Tonight, Shane climbs under the covers naked and holds one side of the sheets up for Ilya.

Ilya strips quickly and joins him. He turns off the bedside lamp, then immediately folds himself around Shane, one leg sliding between his and an arm settling across his stomach. After a moment of shifting, Ilya lowers his head onto Shane’s chest.

The apartment falls silent, leaving Shane to stare up at his dark ceiling. He runs his fingers through Ilya’s curls, gently separating strands that have become tangled. Ilya traces idle shapes against Shane’s ribs, his touch light and soothing.

For several minutes, neither of them speaks.

Shane should be asleep. His body is heavy and pleasantly sore, while his thoughts have finally stopped racing fast enough to make his head ache. With Ilya warm against him, he feels safer than he has since he opened the bag in Miitty’s guest room.

Yet, he can't stop thinking about what he said at the party.

At least for now.

The words had come from somewhere angry and wounded, but even now, they don't feel like a lie. Shane has always imagined that he would retire in Montreal. He's pictured his number hanging from the rafters and his last game played in the same uniform as his first.

Tonight is the first time he has allowed himself to picture leaving. The thought still hurts, but it doesn't feel impossible like it once did.

Shane’s fingers slow in Ilya’s hair. “Can I ask you something?”

Ilya presses a kiss over his heart, humming at the question. “Anything.”

Shane takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. He almost loses his nerve, because saying what he's wondering out loud will make it real in a way Shane doesn't know if he's ready to confront. “What if it was me?”

Ilya lifts his head and, even in the dark, Shane can feel his eyes on him. “What if what was you?”

“What if I was the one who left?”

Ilya pushes himself up onto one elbow, the bed shifting under his weight. “Left Montreal?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, Ilya says nothing. Shane’s chest tightens beneath the weight of his unseen stare, and he stays looking toward the ceiling rather than risk seeing any doubt on his face, even through the dark.

Their plan has revolved around Ilya leaving Boston. He'll finish his contract and sign with Ottawa, close enough that they can see each other without boarding a plane or inventing shaky excuses. Shane has never questioned which of them should move because Ilya had been the one to suggest a Canadian team, but Boston is Ilya’s team. Ilya has given it as much of his career as Shane has given Montreal, and Shane has always treated his leaving as the obvious solution once it had been suggested.

“I know we talked about Ottawa for you,” Shane says, “but maybe we could both try to go there.”

Ilya inhales sharply.

“Or I could go somewhere closer to Boston,” Shane continues before he can be interrupted. “It doesn’t have to be Ottawa. It could be anywhere that makes this easier. Somewhere we could drive to each other, maybe. I know your passport is still an issue—”

“Shane.”

“I still have a full season left on my contract after this one, but that doesn’t mean I have to play it in Montreal. I have a no-trade clause, so they can’t send me somewhere I don’t want to go. If I asked for a trade and gave them a list of teams I would accept, maybe we could negotiate something.”

Ilya is still beside him, his breathing uneven as he silently listens to Shane's idea.

“I haven’t looked at cap space or rosters yet,” Shane admits. “I don’t know who could take my contract, and obviously Ottawa would need room for both of us. It might not work, but maybe I could call my agent. Quietly.”

“You have thought about all this already?”

“Mostly in the car.”

“The party was, what, twenty minutes away?”

“I think quickly.”

Ilya makes a faint, strangled sound. Shane can't tell whether it's supposed to be a laugh.

“I’m not saying I’ll demand a trade tomorrow,” Shane says. “I know tonight was awful, and I’m angry. I shouldn’t make a decision this big when I’m angry.”

“No,” Ilya agrees quietly. “You should not.”

“But I could start thinking about it.”

“Yes.”

“And if it still feels like the right thing after I’ve calmed down,” Shane swallows. “Would you want that?”

Ilya is silent for several long moments, Shane’s uncertainty growing with every second of silence. He had assumed Ilya would be happy about the possibility of living closer, but being close is not the same as playing together. Maybe Ilya doesn't want Shane playing with him. Maybe Ottawa was supposed to give them enough distance to keep their careers separate.

Maybe Ilya had wanted one thing in his life that didn't have to bend around Shane Hollander.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Shane says quickly his voice small. “I know we’ve never talked about being on the same team. It might be too complicated, especially while we’re still hiding. And you might want Ottawa to be yours.”

“What?”

“Your team. Your fresh start.”

Before Shane can understand what is happening, Ilya is turning the bedside lamp back on and twisting in the bed, surging forward and kissing him.

It's not the lazy, sleepy kiss Shane expects. Ilya cups the back of his neck and kisses him with desperate intensity, his mouth hot and demanding against Shane’s. Shane makes a startled sound, then grabs Ilya’s shoulders and kisses him back just as fiercely.

Ilya presses closer until Shane is flat on his back beneath him. Their legs tangle under the covers, and Shane slides one hand into Ilya’s curls while the other grips his waist. The kiss leaves him breathless, his heart hammering all over again.

When Ilya finally pulls away, his eyes are shining. “Я тебя люблю,” Ilya says. Shane’s breath catches, his own eyes starting to water a little. “I love you so much,” Ilya says, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek. “You stupid, beautiful man.”

“Why am I stupid?”

“You think I would not want to play with you.”

“I didn’t want to assume!”

“I have imagined this so many times,” Ilya replies, his voice wavering, and he blinks rapidly before lowering his forehead against Shane’s. “Same team. I would get to see you every day and no one would think it is strange for us to be in the same place.”

Shane’s throat tightens at the idea, suddenly craving it with a desperate fervor. “You imagined that?”

“Of course,” Ilya says, laughing wetly. “You think the only thing I dream about is living two hours away from you? I want to wake up with you. I want to win the Cup with you.”

Shane closes his eyes and lets the want build in his chest: Ilya beside him in the locker room, wearing the same colors, both of their names printed across the backs of jerseys that belong side by side. Ilya leaning over the boards while Shane takes a face-off, chirping his opponent from the bench with visible delight.

“I don’t want you to have to lose Montreal,” Ilya says after a moment of silence, his voice growing more solemn in nature.

“I don’t know if I’ve already lost it,” Shane admits, reaching forward to hold Ilya's hand in his own. He plays idly with his boyfriend's fingers, a small frown creasing his brow. “Maybe tomorrow they’ll apologize. Maybe it’ll get better.”

“Maybe.”

“But I keep thinking about how hard I’ve been trying to make them comfortable,” Shane says, shame pricking at him, although he knows it shouldn't. “I came out, and then I spent two months pretending I didn’t notice them treating me differently because I was afraid they’d decide I was the problem.”

“You were not the problem; you were never the problem.”

“I know,” Shane responds, not quite ready to meet Ilya's imploring gaze once more. “I think I know.”

Ilya kisses his forehead, his hand squeezing Shane's, encouraging him to continue. 

“I don’t want to leave just because of one shitty prank,” Shane says, “but it isn’t only the prank. It’s everything before it too. And if they really don’t want me there, I’m not going to spend the next two seasons begging them to remember what I’ve done for the team.”

“You should not have to beg anyone.”

Shane laughs a little, letting Ilya guide him so he is laying down once more. He watches Ilya turn the lamp off for the second time that night, his body far more relaxed than it was the first time. He lets out a little sigh when Ilya settles his head on Shane's chest, the sound muffled against Ilya’s curls. The pressure inside his chest loosens a little more as they settle.

“I’m serious about considering it,” Shane says in the dark, taking the opportunity to start lightly grazing his hand up and down Ilya's bare back.

“I believe you.”

“And I’m not only saying it because I’m upset.”

“I believe that too.”

Shane buries his fingers in the curls tickling his nose, his eyes starting to droop. “If Ottawa couldn’t take both of us, would you stay in Boston?”

Ilya hums, seemingly considering the questions, before answering, “If there was a team close enough for you, maybe. Or I go somewhere close to you. We will look at everything.”

“Together?”

“Of course.”

The answer comes so easily that Shane feels silly for asking. He adjusts his position and slides down slightly, pressing his face into Ilya's soft hair, breathing in the familiar scent of him.

Ilya let's his body relax even further into Shane, his weight a heavy comfort. “We do not have to decide tonight,” Ilya murmurs. “Tomorrow you will talk to Pike and Boiziau. You will see what stupid team says. Then, when you are ready, we look at contracts and teams and all those boring numbers you love.”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t love them.”

“Hmm, I think they are my direct competition for your love.”

“Impossible; I've never loved anything as much as I love you," Shane says into the dark, his voice barely above a whisper. Ilya says nothing in response, simply sniffing slightly and then clinging even tighter to Shane. 

Shane hears his phone ringing faintly from somewhere in the living room, probably Hayden checking whether he made it home safely, or maybe even J.J. updating him on his promised campaign of suffering. He'll answer them in the morning.

Tonight, Ilya is in his arms, and that's all Shane needs to finally fall into a peaceful sleep.